The Last Six Months on Facebook and Twitter

It has been close to six months since my last post. In fact, the last time I posted was the last time I vomited after watching re-runs of "The View." Now, the whole world has changed. I would like some credit for not going after Tom Brady, yet. I want some credit that I have kept Dippy on a leash. Wait a minute, Dippy has been out of control in rural Virginia. The magical book that I have conceptualized in my head in the same way that Lindsey Lohan conceptualizes being sober is lost in my head. It has been crowded out by all the junk of every day life. So, to answer your question, the book has not even started. Not one word. So far, it's a book with a soundtrack and chapters without a single word. This is a metaphor for my life in the last six months. Every time I feel like things seem to be settling into a boring normalcy things begin to change drastically and I react to it like a gerbil reacts to flashing lights.

It has been my goal over the last six months to at least communicate with the world via using the popular social media of our time. Namely, Facebook and Twitter. I have used them as vehicles exclusively to send out bitterness and venom to the world. I initially intended on pushing the envelope as far as it could go. Instead, I have more than likely torn the envelope into pieces and fed them to my shark. Yes, the shark that I keep in my swimming pool out back. The shark is really hungry and feeding him pieces of paper really isn't enough. The SPCA visited recently because there were calls from the neighbors that I had not fed him enough. So as a result, I feed the shark copies of Nabokov novels and road kill, both of which are of equal value in today's world.

Recently, I have had many complaints about my use of language. I am from the George Carlin school of writing and expression. I like using the seven words that apparently can't be said on TV. But, they can be said on HBO which is really not TV. I'm so confused. Nonetheless, Dippy and I talk about how we should express ourselves. Our dilemma stems from the fact that Facebook and Twitter are two different forums. Facebook posts can only be read by people whom are our "friends." Actually, this is not exactly true. It's easy to hack into Facebook. However, I am getting distracted. Facebook readers of my posts are a select group. A small audience. An exclusive audience of those who have been invited or whom I have accepted their invitations. For the most part, they have read or ignored my penchant for destroying the envelope. Most understand the joke. They understand that I am often not serious. Some do not. They take what I say literally. They take what I say in the same way that a dog has sex with a piano leg. Let me be frank. Most of my posts are intended for humor and some shock value. Dippy is my alter ego. Dippy "says" and "does" things that people mostly just think about. Not just what I think about, but it does come from my head.

Then there is Twitter. I have been kicked off Twitter at least twice for alleged spamming. I plead the fifth on that. Like OJ, I am out to find the real killer. The real spam artist. Wait, OJ is in prison having sex with with the wrong end of a shampoo bottle. OK. Wrong example. Twitter is awesome because the posts go out everywhere. Anyone can read them and respond. Anyone. That has been the most fun. However, Twitter inexplicably is limited to 120 characters a shot. Now, that's just f---ked. I can understand if posts were limited to 160 characters like text messages. But, 120. Why? I have never gotten a real answer to that question and no one at Twitter will ever talk to me. They just send me strange vague messages that need to be interpreted by someone at the United Nations. So they are absolutely no help. So I struggle to be smart in 120 characters. Facebook allows well over 400. Needless to say, I need more than 1,200 characters to be smarter than Meg Whitman or any of the Tea Party candidates. With 120, it's a puzzle. It's a challenge. However, I get it done at the cost of the poor Facebook readers that have to read only 120 characters. Sorry, I just don't have time to put out two different posts and send love letters to Sarah Palin and Gisele. However, I love Twitter because anyone can read it and respond. It was very helpful on my trip to Gettysburg, PA and someone responded to my interest in Ed's Elephant Museum and Candy Shop, which, by the way, is incredibly creepy especially when you look at the billboards on US 30 and the fact that it burned down a few months ago. I was bitterly disappointed that I could not go to the museum and then call the people at the show "Criminal Minds." So Twitter is wonderful because someone in Gettysburg gave me the 411 or the 911 or whatever about Ed. Though I am still convinced that he is in prison or on the run. So there you have it, Twitter and Facebook.

I offer no apologies for what I have written in the last six months (or not written). I have apologized for my other actions in the last three years. I have few regrets for what has happened. Mainly because it's these actions and their consequences that have led me to where I am now. However, people have been hurt by some of my actions. That is what I am sorry for. It has never been my intention to hurt anyone in any way, but life has a rule: When emotions are involved, people will get hurt. That is what has happened and I offer my apologies to those who have been hurt in the process. My writing is now a reflection of the last six months, the last three years. Because of it I will continue to deal with the envelope in what I write. It may be brutal. It may not be pleasant. It is real and it is raw. That is what life IS. On this blog and on Twitter and Facebook I will focus the spot light in a satirical way on life and love as catharsis. Why? Because do you really want me to actually act like Dippy? No. Probably not.

Random Ranting on Tiger, Russia, and Baseball

On today, the first day of the Tiger Woods Invitational Fun Fest, otherwise known as the Masters I have some random ideas that are not cogent enough to put into an essay. I also have taken so many supplements that I have ADHD. So there is no way I could have the patience to write 3,000 words about any one subject.

* I need to again make my push to have the Washington Nationals be moved back to Montreal where they came from. They are a terrible team and will always be a terrible team if they are forced to stay in Washington, which is one of the worst sports cities in the world. They have no fans. More Phillies fans have shown up for the first two home games of the season than any Nats fans (by a 5:1 margin) I think Budapest is a better sports city (killer soccer team and roving gangs of communists). I will continue to refer to the Nationals as the Expos until they move back to Canada...or move to Vegas.

* Speaking of Vegas, I am still in support of moving an NBA team to Las Vegas. I believe that it is the absolute perfect city to have a NBA team in this era. The All-Star Weekend in Vegas a few years ago was one the greatest Vegas sports weekends ever. Huge gambling on non-sensible things. Guns being displayed at every strip club and poker table. Multiple unplanned pregnancies of Vegas natives. It had everything you could ever want. So why not have it year round? Add Jordan to run the team into the ground. Have a washed up Rasheed Wallace and Allen Iverson as starters. Add Artest, Shaq, Stephen Jackson, and Gilbert Arenas (and his arms cache) to the mix and David Stern will have to quit running the NBA because he would have so many ulcers that all he could consume is Ensure and Slimfast.

* I know the Houston Astros are not a good baseball team, but watch out for the San Francisco Giants. They have some stellar pitching and just enough offense to contend with the Rockies and Dodgers in their division. This will hold until Lincecum throws his arm out in September or gets caught with Barry Zito driving around San Francisco with about 200 pounds of weed. Dippy would be so proud. By the way, Zito is also pitching better. His fastball is up to 87 and 88 as opposed to 82. His ball placement is significantly better (and he's smoking more pot than usual).

* Dippy is now completely out of control. I don't know if he can make it to his seasonal job at the Wyndham. He's being chased by Russian mobsters with AK-47s. I have no idea where he is an really what kind of trouble that he has gotten into. he was supposed to be interviewing West Virginia basketball coach Huggy Bear, but he couldn't make it to Indy. His girlfriend got involuntarily hospitalized in Virginia for trying to pull out all of her eight seven piercings and then decided to call the mayor of her town to ask him where his 15 year old daughter was at 2:37 in the morning. Not good at all. Dippy sent a text message about some sort of seven foot rabbit with an AK-47. This clearly means that he is also dropping acid. His whole Russian bride pyramid scheme was outrageous and brilliant, but Dippy went Tony Montana "Scarface" crazy and now some guy named Vladimir is chasing him down.

* In regards to Russia, their war on terrorism continues against the Islamic militants in and around Chechnya. Early last week, two female homicide bombers blew themselves up on subway trains in Moscow. The subway in Moscow is used by several million people on a daily basis. Think New York City and you should get the idea. One of the homicide bombers was the 17 year old widow of a killed Chechnya militant leader. Though female homicide bombers do not have the after-life perks of their male counterparts (though some suggest that a woman would be reunited with her husband in the after-life though this is not widely accepted) this marks further deepening of the war on the part of militants. Female bombers have struck in Russia before (at parks and festivals), but not on crowded subways. Until now. They are unlikely to stop and the Russian authorities will act just brutally enough against the Chechens to continue the tic for tac bloodshed. Furthermore, the Russian government may be OK with this in the short term. Vladimir Putin wants to get his Stalin on by "crushing" the terrorists into the ground. He did everything but bang his shoe on the podium. Putin is on the Russian roster as the prime minister, which really means that he is the President. Meanwhile the figure head President is Dimitry Medvedev who is the puppet of Putin until the next election. Putin will run as President again and will run on a campaign of fear (just like Bush, Rove, and the GOP here in the US) stating that only his father-like leadership can lead Russia to victory over the "animals" from the Caucasus Mountains. Putin has been accused of having the FSB (the Russian version of the FBI/CIA) blow up apartment complexes in Moscow and blaming the attacks on the Chechens. Lest anyone forget that Putin was a staunch Stalinist Communist and also a KGB head before politics. So stunts like this are not out of the question. So the new attacks fall right into his future plans perfectly (maybe a little too perfectly). The Russian culture is one built on paranoia. Fear of outsiders. Fear of Fascists. Fear of capitalists. Fear of themselves. Fear of their fellow neighbors. Fear of the KGB. Fear of famine. Fear of George Bush. Fear of Spider-Man. Sorry, I made the last two up. I think. This paranoia had led to the continuation of Russians desire to have a father-like saviour that leads the populace against whatever the current threat is. It worked against the Poles, Mongols, Finns, Americans, and Germans (twice). It has worked for close to two decades now with the Chechens. This allowance for a single authoritative leader allows the populace to ignore the fact that basic freedoms are vastly reduced such as independent press, public demonstrations, political choice, and freedom to shop at the Gap. OK, I may have made that last one up again. The Russian government tells the population that they are taking control and freedom from them in order to protect them and to actually give them freedom (i.e. freedom from threats). Remember, George Bush II (President Asterisk) tried to pull the same stunts in 2001 and got away with it for at least four years (just long enough to get him re-elected) As a result, the new wave of terrorism by "Black Widows" brings on a newer edge of fear into the mix. This plays into Putin's hands. He will say that the country now "needs" him to take over. They need him to make things right again. The population will have no choice but, to listen and respond (because in the background any and all opposition will be crushed and labeled as "sympathizers") with their votes. The violence will continue in the Caucasus and in Russia's largest cities. Just what Putin wants.

* I wasn't going to do it. I was not going to watch our favorite psychopath Tiger Woods hit his first competition golf ball in Georgia. However, as the clock struck 1:40 pm EST I switched from watching Dippy's favorite baseball team, the L.A. Dodgers, to the Masters. I was one of 400 million people who did the same thing. The crowd was 400 deep along the fairways, greens, and at the tee. They gave him a loud ovation as he was introduced. Clearly, Tiger "looked" like he was moved by the response. In all likelihood, he cared less about the crowd's response (except for his need to give him unconditional positive regard) than the hummer he was going to get on the "19th Hole" after the round. I was unmoved by the crowds response. It is clear that all they care about is golf (not necessarily a bad thing if we all are to move on). The first tee shot landed in the fairway. The crowd cheered. It all seemed back to normal. But, its not. Everything has changed. Images have been made, broken, and remade. Nike launched a new ad featuring Tiger's fake sullen face and his deceased father's voice admonishing and questioning him (totally out of context). This is the new image of Tiger. It is the image of feeling sorry for Tiger. For empathizing with Tiger. It's classic advertising. And it will work...even though it really shouldn't. I just hope that not everyone will be as fooled as I think they will be. I am certainly not. There is nothing to empathize about Tiger. He is not like anyone of us. There is no way we can even imagine what it is like in his shoes. He is on a totally different plane. He is richer than 99.9% of us. He plays "a game" for a living. That means that he is on another level (not higher or lower) than 99.999992% of us. How can we empathize with that? Dippy the Pirate Bear is more real than Tiger's new image can ever be and he is an emo kid in a bear costume. You know who I empathize with? Any player that has to be paired with Tiger during the tournament. Those people are going to deal with 400 times more distractions than they are used to and it will hurt their chances. Tiger is not going to contend this weekend, but as long as he makes the cut that will all the TV networks and Nike will care about. If I have to see the new Nike ad anymore I am going to throw my TV out of the eighth floor of a college dorm in Richmond after setting it on fire.

The Exclusive Tiger Woods-Dippy The Pirate Bear Interview

Dippy was able to get an exclusive no-holds barred interview with Tiger Woods. Tiger granted fifteen whole minutes to this interview and allowed Dippy to ask any question that he wanted. The interview was held in room 108 of the Moon Lite motel just outside of Florence, South Carolina, which is a place where you can pay by the hour.

Dippy: So you are coming back for the Masters. Do you think you can win?

Tiger: Of course, I haven't had sex in two hours. I can do anything. I am amped up now. All I need is some Vicodin and a few women in the hotel after the first round and I am ready to go.

Dippy: Women in the hotel?

Tiger: Of course. I can't expect to win the damn thing without an "outlet." That is what my therapist told me.

Dippy: I don't think that your therapist would suggest that type of outlet.

Tiger: Fuck it. What does she know anyways?

Dippy: She?

Tiger: Of course. I am not gay.

Dippy: That's probably debatable isn't it. You're a sex addict, right? It shouldn't matter who blows you, right?

Tiger: Umm. You got a point. But let me put the record straight. I am not gay. I have not had sex with a man, yet. I will keep my options open, however, just in case. I had affairs. All of them were with women. I have not had sex with a man or an animal. Just women. All types of women. Round women. Flat women. Tall ones.

Dippy: Sorry to interrupt, but do you need a tissue?

Tiger: Am I?

Dippy: You're salivating.

Tiger: No, I'm fine. Where was I?

Dippy: You were talking about the women you have had sex with outside your marriage.

Tiger: That's right. I did little women. Like three feet tall. Really tall women. Asian women. German women. Women from Detroit.

Dippy: Yikes, that's low.

Tiger: No lower than women from Wal-Mart.

Dippy: Good point. Do you really think that you can win the Masters?

Tiger: Of course, I can win. Who do you think you're talking to. I am the best golfer in the world. That slime ball Lefty can't beat me. No one can beat me if I am at my best. The crowd wants me to win. The network wants me to win. I'm sure that I can win. I will eat chips and salsa out of Cink's skull. Better yet, I will smoke weed out of Keith Richard's skull. I will win. Everyone will love me again. Everything will be forgiven.

Dippy: How have you disrespected the game?

Tiger: I really haven't. I just said that because I got caught. Everyone here on the Tour has done exactly what I did. I mean Ernie Els once had fourteen women in one night, drank about 12 shots of Jager, and snorted cocaine off Al Roker's head. And this was all in one night. One night. John Daly is the poster boy for stupid stuff, but he keeps getting busted. Look at him. He's a total train wreck. And look at me. See these guns? I can do five hundred push ups in three minutes.

Dippy: So you have disrespected the game?

Tiger: No. I haven't. I'll tell you who has. Tom Watson.

Dippy: Tom Watson?

Tiger: Yep. That guy took a whole ton of HGH in the three months before the British Open last year. The only reason why he fell apart was because he was up all night drinking beer and playing my game on the Wii.

Dippy: Do you have any proof of this?

Tiger: Tiger Woods doesn't need any proof. Tiger Woods is Tiger Woods.

Dippy: But, that is a really huge accusation against a legend of the game.

Tiger: Like Tiger Woods said. Tiger Woods doesn't need any proof. Tiger Woods knows these things.

Dippy: Have you used HGH or steroids?

Tiger: Tiger doesn't need steroids. Tiger doesn't need HGH. Tiger goes all natural.

Dippy: Like when you're having sex?

Tiger: Tiger doesn't like that smart ass question. Tiger Woods should probably punch you in your bear face. How about them apples?

Dippy: Look Eldrick. I am not afraid of you. I can ask you any question I want. You can't censor me like you censor all of the golf beat writers that you have made scared that you won't grant them access.

Tiger: No one calls me Eldrick. Call me Tiger. Tiger says that you call me Tiger. You got that you emo vampire kid.

Dippy: So how do you think the fans will react to you when you walk the 18th hole at Augusta?

Tiger: They will cheer me as always. All these lemmings care about out there is that I am out there sweating my black ass off chasing that stupid white ball around. That is all they care about. They don't care about me. They don;t care about Tiger. They didn't care about Tiger Woods knees and broken leg. All they wanted was to see me hit that white ball all over the place. That is it. So they will cheer me. They better cheer me.

Dippy: Or what?

Tiger: I will go after them with an eight iron. I will sleep with their wives and cook on their grill. Boo-Ya!!!!

Dippy: You sound like you have disdain for the fans out there.

Tiger: They are slaves. Just like me.

Dippy: How can you refer to yourself as a slave? You play a game. It is not even a sport. You are not an athlete. You play a country club game and you make four billion million dollars doing it?

Tiger: What color is Tiger?

Dippy: What do you mean?

Tiger: What color am I?

Dippy: You're mixed. You are not any color.

Tiger: No. You are wrong. Tiger is black.

Dippy: Whatever you say, Eldrick.

Tiger: I told you. You never call Tiger by that name. Tiger says that you call Tiger by his right name. Tiger. That is my name. Next time you call me Eldrick Tiger is going to beat the stuffing out of you.

Dippy: Funny, Eldrick.

Tiger: I'm warning you.

Dippy: Eldrick.

Tiger: That's fucking it. You stupid bear.

(Sound of table being pushed over. Glasses breaking. Random screaming. Sounds of automatic gun fire)

My Day Off: Talking Michael Jordan and NCAA Brackets

I have decided to chronicle one of my few days off. It is a magical thing:

8:02 am: Rolled out of bed. Walked aimlessly around the house looking for shadows on the wall. Instead, I found trash all over the downstairs den and every light on. I suspect a crazy person has broken into the house and trashed the den and left behind bottles of lemonade and cracker wrappers. Then I remember that I live with a teenager and I get off the phone with the police.

8:10 am: Today is a work out rest day.

8:11 am: Today is a work out rest day. Did I just think that?

8:15 am: Put a load of laundry into the washing machine. This was done after a search and destroy mission into above mentioned teenagers room looking for jeans. I was lucky and found several pairs that obviously had been worn because they were (a) on the floor and (b) they were inside out. With my luck, however, if I do wash them then that will mean that they don't fit anymore and I just wasted half the day dealing with them. Also considering calling the EPA because the teenager's room should be reclassified as a "major pollutant." Only the EPA now can save the poor wild life in the room from breeding and their offspring ending up with three eyes and two sets of genitals.

8:34 am: Since the NCAA tournament starts tomorrow, I start working on brackets. I turn on the TV to listen to experts make predictions sure to go wrong. I have listened to Vegas insiders, former college basketball players, Dippy, and other degenerate gamblers. All have totally different advice. So much so that my head is about to explode. I have completed a total of 11 brackets so far. Dippy has three. I have no chance at winning, so say my father who has been running smack since I agreed to feed my sports degenerate addiction of filling out silly brackets in the name of competition. It is official I am a complete sports degenerate. I am out of control.

9:35 am: Move laundry from washer into dryer.

9:37 am: Got cat off kitchen counter.

9:38 am: Got cat off kitchen counter.

9:41 am: Got cat off the toilet.

9:43 am: Cat trying to climb the wall chasing light reflected off my watch.

9:44 am: Call doctor's office where I have an afternoon appointment to confirm time. I am on hold for five minutes. I am listening to Berlin's "Take My Breath Away" on the phone while waiting. I find this ridiculously ironic. I put the phone on speaker and dream of when I was 14 when this song came out and how much of a humorless geek I was then. Then I realize that now - nothing has changed. I now become depressed. Good thing I'm going to the doctor, right?

9:56 am: Fill out NCAA Woman's tournament bracket. Insert joke here. I can't help it. Is there one for the NIT? How about the NIT Woman's? I found that I lost my chance at picking the Division II and III tournaments. Damn! But, I could submit picks for the NCAA hockey tournament. Pondering....

9:57 am: Pondering...

10:01 am: Maybe I should read something. Though I am not sure which book to read. Do I pick the one about professional basketball? Or the novel that starts off with a plot line that it is the day after a major nuclear exchange? Or a heady book about about how talent is simply not enough? Or a book about the history of communism? This whole going to the doctor thing makes good sense.

10:11 am: Took work call.

10:17 am: I have decided that the iPod touch is one of the greatest and most dangerous inventions ever. Ever.

10:31 am: Decided to read the book about professional basketball. It is obviously a lighter read than any of the other choices, but more advanced than reading a book entitled: "Lucky Lisa Goes To The Strip Club," which is Patrick Ewing's and Pac-Man Jones' favorite book.

10:38 am: Oh, shit. I just saw a walking meat loaf walk into the kitchen and go to the cat food bowl and start munching away. Oh, wait. It's one of the cats. I really should stop drinking diet orange soda.

10:49 am: Got cat away from trying to drink the diet orange soda. There must be something about this soda. It's a store brand soda which means it was made by migrant workers in a plant in South Carolina and shipped to the store in a beat up '77 Ford pick-up with 786,836 miles on it. So what is the big deal?

10:57 am: Started to listen to music while reading. I'm sure my mix of moody, depressing, and joyful songs will give me the strength to clean cat boxes later. Or maybe I need a few stiff shots of this diet orange soda. I wonder how my bracket is doing?

11:00 am: Listening to Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box." I often wonder what would've happened if Cobain had not tried to eat a shotgun in 1994. Would he have been as revered and romanticized if he was still alive? His death, along with many others, turned him into a saint-like status that was not well deserved. If alive, would he be running around to odd places, balding, smoking bad cigarettes, and playing "Smells Like Teen Spirit" at the airport Holiday Inn in Sacramento? Probably.

11:14 am: Somehow in this mix, Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer" is playing, which is an ode to Mike Tyson.

11:15 am: Sorry, I just made that last one up. It's actually an ode to Leon Spinks.

11:25 am: Can someone please explain the fascination that cats have for chewing, licking, eating, and consuming plastic. They can't seem to help it. It's like inhalants for cats or something. What are they getting out of it?

11:47 am: Time to check the laundry in the dryer. In the last twenty minutes I have taken the cat away from plastic six hundred times. I have stared at my BlackBerry three hundred times. I have also contemplated as to why Radiohead has not had a stronger career arc than they have.
I have also drank enough diet orange soda to be high on whatever the migrant workers in South Carolina put in it. Probably cat nip.

12:06 pm: Just found out that the NBA has approved unanimously the sale of the Charlotte Bobcats to Michael Jordan. I can't say enough how this is such a horrible idea. Jordan, in his playing days, was arguably the best player to ever put on a uniform. He changed everything about professional basketball. His suspension...er...retirement to play baseball after a likely gambling scandal should have been the first clue that you don't want this guy as an owner. This guy is so bored that he places bets on everything. He gambles hundreds and thousands at a time on golf, HORSE, flips on trampolines, and who the finalists will be on American Idol. This guy probably has gambled his wives and children away several times. How likely do you think it is that he puts money down on whether the Bobcats beat or cover the spread? There will be a huge gambling scandal involving point shaving of Bobcat games in a few years. I'm willing to bet on that. Jordan, by far, had the worst Hall of Fame speech ever. His speech made Wilt look humble. Jordan has had more waitresses than Wilt and Tiger combined. Who knows how many Bobcat cheerleaders he has harassed. And you want this guy to be an owner? It's bad enough we have Mark Cuban, the Russian billionaire dude, and the Stalinists that run the Atlanta Hawks, but Jordan? This team will be more like the Clippers than the Lakers under his rule by the head of a nine iron. The NBA is going straight into an oblivion that they may not be able to pull out of. It's similar to Julia Roberts starting to swing from a stripper pole and doing movies that you can only see after 1 am on Cinemax. The only way I would support this move is if he moves the team to Las Vegas.

12:28 pm: I still can't get over the Jordan ownership idea. The Bobcats would have been better off being sold to the Jacksons. It just doesn't make any sense. It's sad to see another Charlotte basketball team completely be destroyed - though there isn't much to destroy. Have they made the play-offs? Ever?

12:50 pm: Got primo parking space at the doctor's office. Hope I don't get run over by another bus when I cross the street. That happened last time. Boy, it hurt. But, not as bad as the Bobcats will be hurting once MJ takes over completely. He'll be erecting statues of himself in front of the arena and will re-name the arena: Michael Jordan Arena. He'll have another statue on the main concourse with him putting money down on a black jack table with an airline stewardess on his arm. There will be pictures of him everywhere. And Big Brother TV's everywhere so he can watch everything that is happening so that he can send cryptic e-mails criticizing his players for not putting their cups on properly. Jordan will become the Al "Crypt Keeper" Davis of the NBA. Believe me it will be a disaster. The ball lottery for the lottery picks of the next draft will be hilarious. Whoever he picks he'll break them so badly that they have to go play for another team just to get their game back.

1:30 pm: Took work call.

1:33 pm: Out of the doctor's office. Got my lecture on transcendental meditation and cholesterol levels. Fascinating and deep. Very profound. I'm relatively healthy despite everything. Despite my virtual insanity and hopeless adherence to routine I am well enough to get hit by a bus.

1:44 pm: Let me ask this question. You have a college aged son or daughter. They are doing OK or better in school. He or she tells you that they are going on spring break in Mexico. Do you think that this is a good idea? It sure makes a whole lot of sense to travel with a bunch of friends to a country that has roughly 500 murders daily over a drug war that is obviously a lost cause so they can get loaded everyday and party on the beach. Trying to go from one patio to another patio on the 17th floor of a hotel in Panama City Beach, Florida makes more sense. I might have to pull my son or daughter out of school if they had a plan that involved going to Mexico. If you want Mexico go to any of the 9 million Mexican restaurants there are around the country. Dysentery, drunk college students, and drug wars don't mix well.

2:10 pm: My father keeps sending me e-mails stating that I have no chance at winning the NCAA bracket pool. He has run more smack than Mexican drug cartels through the border. He's probably right, but one has to be able to back up all that smack. Really. Otherwise you're Mike Tyson or any random MMA fighter who has lost more than they have won.

3:15 pm: They have arrested someone in connection to the death of Corey Haim. Somewhere Corey Feldman must be smiling - maybe only a little bit though.

3:17 pm: A baseball manager doing coke. Really? No way. Couldn't have predicted that one.

3:21 pm: More work calls. I give up.

What Tiger Woods Should Have Said

It has been an awfully long time hasn't it? We survived the holiday season and massive snowstorms. I have not seen my yard in three months (not that it looked that great to begin with this time of year). I listen and watched the Tiger Woods statement and several people asked me for my comments. I had many. Then I thought about it. There was a whole different statement that Tiger should have made. So I have taken the liberty of re-writing the Tiger Woods statement:

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It has been several months since I attacked a tree with a SUV after downing four doses of NyQuil after Elin found out that I was cheating on her. You have only seen me coming in and out of a rehab for sexual addiction in some horrible place in Mississippi. Let me be the first to tell you that I am not a sexual addict. I am not an addict of any type. What I am is....and I learned this in therapy in a cottage somewhere...a anti-social personality. Yes, an anti-social. I'm sure you morons think that anti-social personality means that I don't associate with people. It does not mean that at all. What it does mean is that I am glib. I am charming when I want to be. I am totally irresponsible. I have no respect for laws or norms. I am shallow. I have no affect. I am criminally versatile. I have poor impulse control. I have no anger control. I manipulate everyone and everything. I also live a parasitic lifestyle. Yes, I am a parasite. I use everyone. In fact, I am using all of you right now. I am using you to try to get back in your good graces. I am using you to get back some of my $100 million endorsement deals. I am using you because...you know what?...because I can. I have been doing it for years. I am a control freak. I use the media to get what I want. I use women to get what I want. I even use steroids that Roger Clemens trainer shot me in the ass with. I live off the life blood of others. I manipulate everything to suit my carnal desires and then some. I have used Elin to make myself look better. I use my kids to make it look like I am a decent dad. I am using my dead dad just for sympathy sake. You all don't understand. I make $5 trillion fucking a year. I don't think I am entitled. I know I AM entitled. I am entitled to whatever the hell I want. Whenever I want it. That's right....King Kong has nothing on me.

Now let's talk about the women. I know that I cheated. Everyone knew I cheated on the Tour. They all cheat on the Tour. They even cheat on the golf course. Anyone seen Vijay Singh lately? John Daly got it all right. He doesn't even try to cover it up. So I have cheated with Hooters girls, hookers, porn stars, psych patients, crazy people, dope dealers, and a Perkins waitress. So it's all there. I chase skirts. Who doesn't? JFK did it. Clinton did it. I'm damn sure Obama is doing it right now. So what's the deal? Everyone seems to be making fun of the fact that I did a Perkins waitress. I will tell you that she was the best of all of them. She cooked me some chicken fingers one time and ate them off my man package. That was awesome. There is not a lap dance I will refuse. Even if the stripper has been doing meth for the last three months straight trying to pay her way through school. It doesn't matter. I am the VIP room.

So I know that all of you are expecting an apology. You know what? I'm not giving you one. The only person I need to apologize is not you all. It's not even to Elin. Though have said that I am sorry to her and...I kind of meant it...sort of...but really the only person I need to apologize to is me. It's me for getting caught in the first place. There is no point in apologizing to anyone else. I don't really mean it anyways.

Everyone wants to know when I am coming back to play golf. That's really all what anyone cares about anyways. You all don't care about me. You don't care about my fake family. You don't care about my children who will grow up to be just like me. No, you don't care. All you care about is when I'm going to bust up my knees to hit a stupid little white ball around a golf course that would have never let anyone who looks like me play on it 50 years ago. So let me say this. I will play fucking golf whenever I feel like it...or whenever all my endorsement money runs out. Whichever comes first. That's all. I'm out."