STORY TIME

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I lived in a big, shiny, beautiful metropolis known to it's many inhabitants as simply Atlanta.
Has a more perfect name for a city ever been concocted?
And no, Tomorrowland doesn't count, as it is a not a real city, but a false moniker invented by a warped, demented mind, just like SeaTac.

It was between the time of my 10th and 11th birthdays and my family lived in a very spacious two story duplex. Connecting the two different floors was a very steep and extremely wide staircase, which will undoubtedly play a significant role in the upcoming tale, because it has been bolded.

A quick background into my familial unit. At the time, I had two little sisters, a Mom, and a Dad.
My sister's names were Julie, who has since dropped the "e" in favor of the more extreme "Juli", and Claire, who has more tattoos than all of The Habit combined (3), and is currently seeing a young man named Pal. Wait, let me just check the spelling on that...yep, Pal.

My father's name is Lawrence, and my mother's name was Joanne. Interestingly enough, she also has since dropped her "e" , but she decided to replace it with an "a", I guess to sound more professional, or maybe she was just trying to show up Juli. You know how women can get.

This story takes place in the summer of what must have been '87 or '88, I could figure out which one it was, but who has that kind of time? We'll just pick one at random and say '87.

So it was the summer of '88 (changed my mind) and my sisters and I were mired in the listless middle days of the golden season, when you had been out of school for just long enough to not be excited about being out of school. Both my parents worked during the day and all I had to look forward to was afternoon cartoons. So that left my sisters and I the whole day until three o'clock to fill with some sort of diversionary activity designed to alleviate the crushing boredom, and I'll be damned if we didn't come up with some doozies.

Doozy: informal something outstanding or unique of it's kind. (The Oxford American College Dictionary)

One day we went into the woods and found an old tree house that we decided, in our infinite wisdom, to fix up. We made plans, designed a rudimentary set of blueprints for reference, and made our way to a construction site down the road, to liberate some wood from the carpenter's oppressive regime. We were successful in our campaign, and we took our haul back into the woods to begin work on

The Reconstruction Project.

Only we never did it.
We never even started.
That wood's probably still laying there.
In the exact same place that it was when Julie was chasing fireflies in the darkening afternoon, and Claire was busy dabbling her feet in the creek, and probably in the same place it was in when I was stepping from board to board on the ground to avoid The Lava.
I was rather enjoying my little game, (as I always do when I'm winning) and then I noticed that one particular board was having trouble being persuaded to come off the bottom of my shoe. It was a very peculiar feeling, and naturally I looked down to see if I could find the problem.

I found the problem.
It was about six inches long.
It was made of metal.
And it was protruding from the top of my right foot.

The pain didn't really kick in until I saw the blood start to bubble up like the stigmata from around the thick black nail that was sticking out of the board, and that's when I began to feel a certain degree of panic start to settle in. I put my other foot on the board and started to pull up with my right leg in an attempt to extricate myself from this unholy union of flesh and steel.

That's when I discovered that the nail was going to hurt a lot more on the way out than it did on the way in.

And so ended The Reconstruction Project.

But never fear, The Nail Incident did not slow us down for long, and it was only about a week later that we invented a game that I knew would be the next big sports craze to sweep the nation, bigger even, than our beloved four-square.
The name of this game was Dog-Jumping.
It involved three players, (naturally) and a dog, (more naturally) and the act of jumping (duh).

It was all going swimmingly, and I was up by like seventy-five points, depending on whom you talk to, when I went for the big one.
The Irish Setter.

There were many dogs in our neighborhood, but none as feared and mean spirited as The Setter.
I think it's actual name was Lucy, but for the purpose of this narrative, we will use The Setter, because in our opinion The Setter sounds scarier.

It was lying in it's yard, facing away from me, when I began my approach. I ran swiftly, and stayed low to the ground, As I grew nearer, I knew that it was going to take all the strength my legs possessed to clear this bohemoth. I gathered myself, and lept!

And I cleared it.

But as it turned out, I jumped too far.
I landed awkwardly and stumbled forward and fell to the ground using my hands to slow my fall.

And that's when it happened. The second time in ten days that I was impaled by something.

Only this time, the material in question was not steel, it was glass.

And in the meantime, there was a very large, very red, very angry dog, who had just been punked in it's own front yard, baring it's teeth and barking, five feet away from me.




TO BE CONTINUED
(We haven't even gotten to the staircase yet)

CAN I GET A WITNESS FROM THE CONGREGATION?


Aww yes, welcome back, my brothers and sisters.
Welcome back to the home of the truth.
To the place where everyone is welcome and no soul is ever turned away.
To the center of all that is right, all that is real, all that is fundamentally correct.

My brothers, my sisters, the time has come.

A time I knew would come, but prayed would not.
It is time that we discuss something.
And before I say this, know that I am not one of those kind of people.
But still, as strange as this may sound coming from me, I am forced to admit this unfortunate fact to the entire world;

That fucking Oven Mitt from Arby's is one funny motherfucker.

Can I get an "Amen"?

Anyone?

No?

Fine, church is over, go eat.

In related news, my boy Spirit is fixing to rip that bitch-ass Opportunity a new data port.
I don't know if you've heard, but that nilla is back in action, and he's not going to take it anymore! All of you suckas that jumped on the O-P-P's bandwagon better recognize!
We got Spirit, yes we do!
We got Spirit, how bout you?

What's wrong bitches? Is it possibly the fact you can't respond with a clever chant because nothing rhymes with opportunity? Boy, did you pick the wrong horse. You bet your money on a bob-tail nag, and this somebody bet on The Bay.

In still other news, the votes are in, and the M.V.P. for the month of January is one Lucas Samuel Thayer.
He came.
He saw.
He learned choreography.

And as if that wasn't enough, even though he just arrived in sunny SoCal, he has decided to forgo the requisite year of inactivity to "adjust to life in L.A.".
He looked this diabolical city straight in the eye and pretty much just said,

"No, I'll just kick ass now, thanks."

Nice work, Luke. Keep it up.

In other news, I would like to announce that we are mired in a movie slump right now, and it's kinda getting me down. I can remember vividly the excitement I felt waiting for Return Of The King and before that (gulp) Matrix Revolutions and I don't feel any of that now. What do we have to look forward to?
The Jesus movie with the Lethal Weapon guy? No thanks.
The Meg Ryan/Omar Epps boxing epic? Please.
Win a date with Crap McCraperson? Pass.

At this point, I'm supremely uninterested in anything showing at our huge, overpriced, commercial-showing movie houses.

Tell you what, just wake me up when "Radio" hits DVD.

Better yet, don't.

Tonight my comedy group has the meeting to decide which sketches go to The Show, and which sketches are stuck in Everett playing for the Aquasox.

By the way, that is how they spell it. But I don't know why.

Try as I might, I can't support the practice of replacing the conventional and fully functional "cks" with the more extreme and faintly 90's smelling "x". It's something fifth grade boys do when they're being lazy, as in;

"Dude, this class sux!"

Yes, son. This class does suck. But maybe if you spent a little more time looking at your books than at the Hustler your friends found in the woods, you'd actually make something of your pathetic life.

Kids, you just gotta know how to talk to 'em.

HI, THANKS FOR WAITING. HAVE YOU HAD TIME TO DECIDE?

First off, my apologies for the time off between blog entries. I'd like to say that it will never happen again, but I won't. Because it will.

But at least this time I have a good excuse. I was writing sketches.

OK, it's not a good excuse, but it is an excuse, and I'm using it.

You see, my sketch group The Habit is doing a new show next month, and we all decided to come to our meeting on Sunday with at least 3 new sketches each.
You may find this difficult to believe, but I haven't always been the bastion of literary excellence that you all know and tolerate.
No, there was a time when I would write one sketch a year and consider it a job well done. That time has passed.
I can say that with some confidence, because yesterday morning, when I was 3 sketches short of where I needed to be for our six o'clock meeting, I figured it out.
That is to say, I have a rough idea of what it's like to actually do the work that I've been telling people that I do for the last seven years. Quite fulfilling. Now I know why Jeff is so pompous and cocksure all the time. To be fair, he has every right to love himself and treat everyone around him like filth, because hey, he signs the checks.
Not to infer that we are actually getting paid for all of this, but if we did, I think it's safe to say, that Jeff, whether he needed to or not, would write his name on my check.

He's that good.

Anyway, back to me. I wrote my 3 sketches, using my time-tested "just throw some shit together so I don't get in trouble" method and I came upon a startling realization.

They were awesome.

They were pretty good.

They were fair.

And Jeff wrote half of the good one.

But still, I worked in my Mars Rover joke, and it went over quite well at the meeting.

Ah, the meeting. We concluded that we would take a few days to ruminate on the various undertakings, before meeting again on Thursday, which incidentally was named for the Norse God of Thunder, to decide which of all of these opi (opuses?) would be deemed good enough to use in our production.

Here comes the tricky part. The actual picking of the sketches. We have foolishly chosen democracy as our model for solving problems like these, unless of course if there is a tie, in which case it becomes a sketch-tatorship.

But here's my problem. When we reassemble three days from now, there is only one rule we must adhere to in regard to the pieces we have submitted.

We cannot vote for our own sketches.

Now what do I do? Trust these simpletons to recognize the genius inherent in my collective works? Half of them don't even realize they've just been insulted.

What sick, twisted mind conceived of this ghastly unethical system? More importantly, what reality TV show did he steal it from?

I guess we'll never know.
Unless I call and ask him.
Which I won't.
Because I don't want to play his little games.

In other news, I apologized to my mother and she assured me that if I kept my nose clean and played my cards right, then she would strongly consider the option to not stop loving me. Whew.

Thanks America, you've been great.


EDITOR'S NOTE: Just to clear up any confusion, the plural form of opus is, in fact, opuses. And also, America has been great, just not recently.
(Zing! Take that, land of my birth!)

AND WE'RE BACK.

I just got through reading all of the blogs and I gotta say it again.
Mark is hilarious.

Completely unrelatedly, this morning I got into a fight.

With, of all people, my mom.

And the worst part about it is, I won.

It all started when I received an email from Moveon.org (via my good friend Jeff Schell) asking me to put my name on a list of people who think that President Bush should be censured by congress. This seemed like a great thing to do, and not only did I sign up, but I crafted a rare mass email and asked most of my family and friends to do the same.
Included on this mass email list was my mother, who I'm told, brought me into this world, and is apparently allowed to take me out of it at any time. I was not aware of this loophole in the law, but she seemed quite sure of herself, so I guess I'll believe her.

She didn't think Bush should be censured.
In fact, what she said was,

"Not all of us think he's a bad guy, Ryan."

That's it. That was the full text of her message. No, hi son, are you married yet, when are you coming to visit. That meant she was serious. So I sent her this.

"I never said he was a bad guy, Mom. I said he was a LIAR."

And I capitalized "liar" like that too, very cool. Or so I thought.

She sent back a message that talked about how Iraq was better off now. Then she asked me to imagine if she was living under a brutal dictator, wouldn't I want someone to help her?

And what can you say to that?

I'll tell you what you say. You say, "Of course I'd want someone to help you, Mom. I love you, and I'm sorry for upsetting you."

At least, that's what you say if you're not a dick.

I went on an e-rampage and pulled out all the sarcastic comments I could find. I wrote very lucidly about the lying, the agenda, and all the troops that are dying. I was mean and condescending to her. I talked to her like she was in The Habit.
Basically, I tore my mom a new one.
And I feel really bad about it.

I don't regret what I said, because it was the truth as I see it, but I shouldn't have gone as far as I did. On the bright side, at least I never once used the phrase
"Son of a Cock."

I sent the email with a vicious stab at the left side of my mouse, and sat back, thinking to myself, "Go ahead Mom, respond to THAT."

But she didn't.

I waited around for an hour and still nothing.

And then I read David Swidler's Way Cool Dude Blog to cheer me up.

Bad idea. He's what's known as "a good boy".

I'm an ass.

No, I'm worse, I'm a Mom-abuser.

A Mother Puncher, if you will.

May God have mercy on my soul, even Tupac loved his Mama. I just hope she's not on her way down here right now to grab me by the ear, use my middle name, and tell me to clean up this pigsty.

Mommy?


EDITOR'S NOTE: To follow up on this story, this morning I received a package from my mother and in it were two awesome gifts which she had sent me before our little chat yesterday. I really suck.

I'M 27 NOW (PART II)


When we last left our hero, he was valiantly attempting to ignore the pain in his viciously sprained left ankle and get down to enjoying his birthday. He looked at the clock and it read 11:45.
Perfect.
He'd summon his sidekick Jeff from his lair two stories below, and together they would set off to rid the world, or at least the Wyndham Hotel Pool and Spa, of any kind of despicable treachery or evil.

But, there was no evil there.

Instead there was a Steam Room.

And a Sauna.

And a Hot Tub.

And together, they conquered them all.



THE END



I'm truly sorry folks, but I've made the executive decision to move on from the topic of Chicago/My Birthday. My apologies to those of you who don't know how it ended. Let me sum it up, we all died.


Anyway, I have some things to discuss with you folks about the race for the Democratic Nomination.
First off, Dean is done.
As soon as he made that unholy noise at the end of his speech in Iowa, his political career went into a very sharp nosedive. Pull up, crooked smile guy! Pull up!
And then there's Kerry.
He looks as if he was left out in the sun too long under a magnifying glass with Dr. Mindbender and Serpentor. All I have to do is think of the pitifully lame stab he took at being cool when he rode his motorized bicycle into Jay Leno's house last fall, and I know he doesn't have what it takes to beat anyone at anything.
Wesley Clark looks remarkably frail for a Nine Star Sky Admiral, or whatever the hell he's supposed to be, doesn't he? He's all pale and little, like a iddy-biddy white bunny, who eats carrots and lettuce, and would make a fantastic Vice President.
Who's left?
Lieberman? Done.
Sharpton? Done.
Kucinich? Way too short.
Which leads us to one John Edwards. With Dean, and Kerry, and Edwards in the three man hydroplane race that this is going to come down to, Edwards is the Yellow Boat.
Sure, the Red and Green start out with a good deal of speed and momentum and the Yellow is quickly left behind, but as anyone who's been to a baseball game at Safeco field can attest, the story doesn't end there. There's always some commotion towards the end of the race, and just as the Red goes to cross the finish line, BLAM!

Blam, in this case, meaning that the Yellow hydroplane comes from out of nowhere to win it all.
This is what will happen in race for the Democratic Nomination. Next?

In other news, what's up with commercials in movies? It's starting to get ridiculous, and I think it's because no one has spoken up and complained about the fact that we pay more for one movie than we do for an entire month of HBO. Granted, HBO isn't really worth it either, but at least they don't make you watch commercials before your movie comes on.
If the damn T.V. guide says that the hilarious Martin Lawrence comedy "Black Knight" starts at 10:30 on HBO, you'd better start watching at 10:30.
However, (and as absurd as this may sound, I'm being serious here) I can actually leave my house at the exact time a movie is supposed to start, and still make it there in time to watch the last preview.
Enough is enough, and I think it's time that I said something.

Oh, I guess I just did.


Go Dean!
Seriously Dean, go.

Well, I'm now 27 years old.
My birthday was Saturday, and I was in The Windy City of Chicago, Illinois. It wasn't so much windy, as it was God-chillingly windy.
And I've never known the kind of cold that was graciously bestowed upon me as a gift for my birthday by my new pal, Lake Michigan.
Thanks Mishy, it's what I always wanted.

I spent my anniversary of life in the Midwestern portion of this great nation of ours for one reason, and one reason only.

The Habit needed me.

And being the professional that I wish I was, I answered the call.
The call came, and even though I screened it initially, I did pick up the phone.

I left for Chicago on a sunny morning in Los Angeles and as I strolled, I'm sorry, limped, up to the security checkpoint, I had the momentary fear that I'd accidentally left a little heroine packed into my luggage. But I hadn't, she had escaped and taken all of my drugs with her, the scamp.

I rode on Southwest Airlines, or as I like to call it, the Metro Bus of the Sky. Some of the guys from my comedy group, The Habit, were on the same flight as me, and I was praying to God there wouldn't be enough seats for us all to sit together, but there were. Thanks again God, first my parents split up, and now this! I'm not going to feel guilty for not going to church* anymore.

So we took to the skies. Some of the guys looked a little scared, but I'm not afraid to fly at all. The worst thing that can happen to you on an airplane is what, a terrorist attack?
No.
Plane crash?
No.
It's Boredom.
At least if the terrorists show up you have something to do, and if the plane crashes who knows, you might get lucky and survive with only catastrophic life threatening injuries. What a story that would make for the other people in the hospital! Sure, it's the only story you'll ever tell from now on, but the important thing is, you didn't die.
However, if I ever run out of magazines to read, or music to listen to, or god help us, things to look out the window at, it makes me want to die.

I didn't get bored though, I spent most of my time flicking my Tootsie Roll Midgees at a man that they call "The D.S." because, according to our records, he is apparently "the best".

When we arrived in Chicago the excitement was palpable, and I gently reached down and palped it before setting out from the airport in a vehicle that some joker thought would be fun to call a "shuttle". What a Dick.

Anyway, I got to my hotel room and immediately went to the minibar, and then I even more immediately stood up, and ran away from it, it's movie theatre prices, and the 19% added service charge. That is fucking ludicrous! But I'm not treading any new ground here so I'll move on. You're welcome.

We were a part of The Chicago SketchFest, and I must say that it was the most professional and well organized festival I have ever been a part of. We even got badges to hang around our necks like backstage passes, it was awesome.
We had two shows to perform that weekend and a whole lot of drinking to do so we headed back out into the ice and snow to get started on the latter.

I woke up the next morning and felt great. I had gotten a reasonable amount of sleep and I had a great day to look forward to. I hopped out of bed, and after crumpling to the floor in agony, remembered that I was still grounded from hopping. After the pain subsided I collected myself and went to meet the boys at high noon.
Meaning 12:25.

We ran the show at a sparsely populated restaurant and it was good practice for our actual show that night, when we had such a small crowd that the director of the festival came into our dressing room to apologize before the show began. That's a great feeling.

But we went out and rocked those twenty-to-fourty-five-depending-on-who-you-ask people! They never saw us coming. One lady in the front row even passed out! I think it was the sheer titillation of hearing the phrase "my ball sack" repeated over and over again in increasingly provocative sentences. Though let me be absolutely clear about that sketch, it is a work of art. And she could have just been tired.

But we were undaunted! We set out into the night and went our separate ways, and once again I became Drunken Ryan. He's a slurring, limping, superhero with really bad breath and the superhuman ability to fall asleep anywhere. Ah, good times.

I woke up the next morning and, what do you know, it was my birthday.
I thought to myself,
"Well, I made it. May this next year of my life be filled with wonder and excitement and success. Look out world, here I come! I'm gonna hop out of this bed and make today the best day of my-OW! FUCK!"


To Be Continued...





*Editor's Note: We here at The Ryduffalo Pinyon don't attend church because of the simple fact that we don't believe in them. We believe in God, just not churches themselves, we don't think they exist.

Hello there, my name is Ryan, and these are things that I know to be true.



1. It is better to play J.V. than bench Varsity.

2. No one is ever going to put 'em on the glass. Except maybe Jeff.

3. I desperately want to eat the silica gel that comes in shoes and beef jerky. I am thoroughly convinced that it is awesome!

4. It is impossible to lick your own elbow.

5. Beef Jerky is made by enchanted Jerky elves, that's why it's so expensive.

6. Most American automobiles' horns honk in the key of F.

7. Dave just tried to lick his own elbow.

8. Someone I know has a little mercy in his dojo.

9. The youngest Pope ever was eleven years old.

10. Making lists like this is just a blatantly transparent way to avoid writing a real blog entry.

11. You never see any brown cars on the road.

12. John Edwards will be President.

13. But not until 2008.

14. The Chicago Sketchfest was simply not prepared for The Greatest Comedy Group of All Time.

15. They will be next year.

16. We should just stop kidding ourselves and change our name to
"The Vending Machine Guys"

17. My favorite meal used to be pizza. Now, I never want to eat this miserable excuse for pizza that we get out here ever again. Thanks a lot, Chicago.

KARMA?

It has been brought to my attention that perhaps the reason that I suffered this devastating injury (see last entry), has something to do with the fact that I foolishly chose to insult The Deaf Community in a recent blog.
Some would say that I only got what I deserved.
That I had, in fact, messed with The Bull.
And we all know what happens when you do that.

I will not whine about my ankle in my blog.
That would be too easy and extremely uninteresting to you folks. I realize that.
Still, it's important to note that I have discovered the single hardest thing about not being able to walk without crutches, that thing being:

Transportation of liquids.

A glass of water, a cereal bowl, hydrochloric acid, all of these things must be balanced carefully when being moved, and balance isn't exactly my forte right now.

To be honest, I'm actually starting to wonder what exactly my forte is.

It's obviously not basketball, even before I was injured, I was still indelibly white.
I can't say that it's video games, I enjoy them, but I'm not even in the same league as most 5th grade boys.
I'm very good at just lying around on the floor, but tragically, I'm playing second fiddle in my own group with that one.
I do like to write, and I have won every Bloggie ever awarded, but I think Jeffrey "Thomas" Schell has me beat with his perpetual ranting about fine dining servers and Man-o-meters.

Oh, how silly of me, I know what my forte is.

It's my knowledge of utterly useless facts.

Strangely enough, that hasn't helped me very much throughout my journeys in life.

There was one time though.
One time in my life that this talent of mine could come shining through, and I could use it to light my darkest hour.

But then it didn't. Let me explain.

My senior year in high school I was: Drama Club President (impeached), a Varsity Soccer Player (benched), the School Mascot (Splash, the friendly killer whale), Copy Editor of the school newspaper (The Natsilane), and Captain of the Hi-Q team.

What the hell is Hi-Q, you ask? I asked the same thing, and here's what they told me. (If you already know, feel free to skip this next paragraph, it won't be funny at all.)

A kind of aptitude test is given to the entire student body, and the top nine scores are taken to field the school's representative team in the Hi-Q tournament. It is like an academic competition that lets different schools compete against each other by answering questions for points. The questions range from history to physics to literature, and each team has four chances to answer each question before the question is given to another team. Got It?

So here's what happened;
It was the last match of the year and we were up against our arch-rivals, Everett, and Cascade. Luckily, it was a home game and we were in our own gym and surrounded by everyone who couldn't sneak out of school before the assembly started. My mom was even there.

I was the spokesperson for our squad of four, and therefore it was my responsibility
to poll my peers and give the best answer possible for the first three tries, and then pull something out of my ass for the last attempt. It was a good system, and I had fun with it.

Then the question came.

It was a question about an Italian artist, and it was so complex that I won't even attempt to recreate it here, lest this blog become even more staggeringly boring.

Needless to say, my crack team of experts couldn't even come up with one answer, let alone three. So, it was up to me.
I racked my brain for names of Italian artists and just blurted out the first name that came to me.
"Michelangelo?" I asked/answered.
"No, that is incorrect." The judge said.
I scrambled for another name. And surprisingly, I found one.
"Raphael."
"No, incorrect."

At this point a plan began to formulate in my head. If I couldn't get the answer right, I'd at least have a little fun being a dumbass.

"Leonardo Da Vinci." I proudly proclaimed.
"No." The man said.

By now, some of my classmates at the assembly had begun to perk up. They understood what I was doing, but none of the teachers or administrators had any clue. The entire student body began to murmur to each other all at once.
That moment in time was slowed down to a crawl in my mind, and I remember looking over to where my mother was sitting in the audience. She had a pained expression on her face. At first I didn't know why, but then I realized, she thought I was looking to her for support because I didn't know the answer to the question.

But this was bigger than the question.

It was bigger than me.

It was bigger than the whole Kimberly Clarke Scott Hi-Q Team competition.

It was a chance for me to make the greatest inside joke in history, and the level of tension had begun to rise. The murmuring built to a crescendo, and finally the narrator put up his hands and asked the crowd for quiet. They gave it to him.

Absolute silence, in fact.

He turned from them and looked at me and told me that it was time. What was my last response going to be?

I felt the wave of anticipation swell in that gymnasium, and I rode it to it's peak before uttering the four syllables that transformed the rest of my senior year into one long day at Disneyland, only with no lines. I licked my lips, cleared my throat, bent forward towards the microphone, and said it.

"Donatello."

The roar from the crowd was enormous and instantaneous. As soon as the "O" had left my lips, people had begun cheering, and the sheer volume of their happiness was overwhelming.
And as strong as that tide of jubilation had been, it was nothing compared to the tidal wave of joy that was unleashed upon us all, when the narrator looked at me and said,

"That, is correct."

I have some good news and I have some bad news, Nillas.

I'm going to be writing a lot more in the next few weeks (that's the good news), because I have what's known as a sprained ankle.

And before you ask, yes, it hurts. A lot.

I was playing basketball this afternoon at a lovely park in West Hollywood, and for once I was shooting pretty well. I was playing defense on a particularly nasty competitor, Luke "I'm just a little guy" Thayer.
He had the ball and was making his move down the lane and I thought to myself,
"I will be damned if he's gonna make that weak-ass scoop shot again."

Turns out, I was damned.

He made the shot, (I think) and I went sailing harmlessly past him. Actually, it wasn't as harmless as I would've liked. When I landed, I heard/felt a significant pop and I knew before I hit the ground that I was done for the day, and most likely, the month.

Now, I'm not going to die, and I don't even have what would be considered a major injury, but the fact remains;

I can't go anywhere.

I am stuck, as they say, like Chuck. I can't walk to the store to get more water, I can't even use the bathroom without an intricate system of ropes and pulleys. To say nothing of driving or working.

To make matters worse, I have a show to do this weekend in San Francisco, and
I don't know if I'll be able to pull off the complicated choreography. How will the guys survive without my dancing prowess? It will be tough, but I know they can do it. Reasonably well.


AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This sucks!



We at The RyduffalO regret that last outburst. We hold ourselves to the highest journalistic standards, and would never do anything to bring into question our integrity or to somehow use this mighty forum for our own selfish benefit.
The word above should not have been bolded. For to wantonly and frivolously toss around bolded words does an injustice to bolders everywhere. If we are to learn anything from the legendary story of the boy who cried wolf, let it be this,


Hey cool, I think the Vicodin is kicking in.

I've got it!
I figured it out.
I know what the coolest nickname of 2004 is going to be.

And let's not forget, I'm the guy who called Pilates, five years ago.

Here we go;

The coolest nickname of 2004 is going to be...

"My Nilla"

As in, "What up guys, this here's Luke, David, Detlef, and my nilla Ryan."

I bolded it in that last sentence so that you would notice that I was using it, it's that good.

Think about it.

My Nilla.

It's so right, it's wrong...to not use it all the time.
Some people would say that it's simply a "white" version of a previously taboo "black" word.
To those people I say, isn't that AWESOME? And who are you fucking people calling me "white"? I'm not white, I'm an American. And let's be honest, I'm really more peach than white. You're only saying that I'm white because you are comparing me to these so called "black" people, if they even exist. So back up off me!

The legend of the roots of this word are soon to be known the world over, and then passed down from generation to generation when families go camping and huddle around the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine for warmth. (It's the future.)

While I was hard at work perfecting the ultimate fake name for when I sign in at the next hotel I go to, (Mike Oxbig, by the way) I glanced down at the box of cookies I was snacking on and inspiration struck.

I had it. The best nickname ever.

Would you like to know how I found it?

You would, wouldn't you?

Oh.

Well, I'll tell you anyway.
I discovered the name by covering the first two letters of the name on the box, and then also covering the word wafers.

My Nilla.

It is destined to become this year's "fushizzle", if I may be so bold. And I may.

So go, tell it on the medium-sized hill, that today was the day that the world of geeky white guys changed forever. Today we earned the very cool, barely perceptible, slight-inclination-of-the-head nod, from the world.

Awe-Yeah! Keep It Real, My Nillas!

One Love.