When it comes to drinking beers.

And I want to change that. Or at least, build up my resistance a bit more. To that end, I’m going to be drinking two or three Natty Boh’s a night for the forseeable future.

I’m on my first can and, frankly, I feel fucking buzzed.

(I’m gonna finish this one off and go to bed).

He’s dead.

Phones ringing off the hook, pizzas falling off the oven, and some random phone-answering tard brain is trying to help a customer on the phone located the number for a store near Route One. While everyone else stops to find phone-lists and narrow down the search parameter, I tell phone-tard to tell the customer the number for the nearest corporate store, “…but give the area code as 411.” Phone-tard looks at my blankly, and I sigh and go back to work. If you’ve gotta explain it …

Later, Greg told me a similar story. Taking down pager numbers years ago he recorded one of his driver’s pager numbers as area-code 911. He said he didn’t but I think he did it deliberately. One night, a manager needed to get ahold of that driver and dialed the pager number, apparently telling the emergency operator who demanded to know what the emergency was, “I’m sorry, apparently I’m a fucking moron,” and hung up.

Julie wrote me, “I came across this today and I thought of you:”

So, either I’m Dick Cheney, or I like shooting people, or I like possessing the body of a Lego minifig to shoot other Lego minifigs? I’m confused.

Speaking of neat things people named Julie have e-mailed me, she sent me to this guy’s site, and to the story of Luke’s employment challenged cousin Kenny.