The Daily Derenger

7/12/2002

I'm pissed off and need to vent. I just may break my streak of non-dirty Daily Derengers. Someone in my house ate my leftovers. And not just any leftovers either. It was a steak and cheese sandwich from Quizno's. Can you think of a better snack at 2:30am? I don't care if you can 'cause I don't give a shit.

Eating someone else's leftovers is grounds for a fight whether you're a new roommate or my mother. To make it even more dastardly, the sandwich wasn't cut in half; It was chewed in half. I had eaten a portion of it using my teeth and left my saliva all over it. I clearly marked my territory. I could see if I brought home three whole pieces of pizza and someone ate two of them. That would at least leave me one. But to eat the rest of someone's mangled sandwich is unacceptable. This may be worse than taking the last beer. Okay, maybe not. But it's close.

I almost want to wake up everyone in the house and ask who did it. Or just make a board game out of the whole ordeal. I have my money on my step-dad. We barely talk to each other as it is. If my car wasn't parked in the driveway, he wouldn't even know if I was home. He does pay the bills and put food on the table. But he didn't put that sandwich in the fridge. I did. He did pay for the fridge, though, so he gets cut some slack.

I could suspect everyone of eating it. My mom, my brother, his girlfriend, my sister, and the dog. If someone gave my sandwich to the dog or the raccoons, I will be even more livid. I had my heart and stomach set on eating that sandwich. Now I don't even want to eat anything else. I'm going to bed and setting my alarm clock for the crack of dawn to find the culprit. And when I do, someone's buying me some Quizno's for lunch.

UPDATE: I found out whodunit. It was my brother. He claims there were only a few bites left and it didn't even fill him up. It wasn't supposed to fill anyone up, least of all him. It was a leftover that was to be consumed by me when I didn't feel like making anything else. 2:30am was that time. Furthermore, I can't stress enough how against-the-law it is to eat someone's already partially eaten food. You just don't do it unless they okay it. Or you're forced to listen to "Tiffany's Greatest Hits" for an entire day. It would just be a continuous loop of "I Think We're Alone Now," which wasn't even hers!

My brother does work at a restaurant and did bring me home a poor boy with cheddar cheese and onions that I devoured in eight seconds (bring on the rodeo) while his girlfriend ordered a pizza which I ate five pieces of. I guess you can call it even now.

7/10/2002

My butt hurts. My testicles are sore. It's painful to walk at times. And NO I didn't just get released from prison. Rather, I went horseback riding yesterday for the first time ever. As I currently sit in a wheelbarrow full of ice to heal my wounds , I realize that it may have been my last time as well.

I only went because, I guess you could say, I was in the right place at the right time. Erin's 8-year-old sister Caley was out of town. Her mother needed someone to go with because that's how it works I guess. It was a 2-person private lesson and Erin doesn't like horses. She'd do anything to get out of riding horses. She opted to re-pave the neighbor's driveway and walk their cat instead. I was the only option to fill the void.

I'll do just about anything for material and this was a prime example. Plus the lesson was free. All I had to do was show up and listen to the instructor, Meghan, who was quite the hottie. That made the piles of horse dung more tolerable. My horse's name was Copper. Erin's mom rode Root Beer. I didn't know what to expect since the last horse I rode cost a quarter outside of K-Mart. They told me I might be sore for a few days from bouncing on the saddle and from the use of muscles unique to horseback riding. They were right of course.

The lesson lasted an hour and was held indoors on a farm outside of Chicago. I threw myself on top of Copper and away we went. To get him to move, I had to kick him with my heels in his sides. I guess I didn't do a very good job of kicking 'cause we never really moved that much. For a first time it was okay though. I steered with the reins, walking and trotting with Copper. The trot is where the soreness came from. I bounced up and down like a two dollar Vegas whore. Then I was told to "post," a move that basically looked like me humping the saddle as I thrusted my hips and slid my thighs, again like the Vegas chick. This was suppose to reduce the bouncing and get me in rhythm with Copper. Didn't really happen. I just looked like some freak on a horse fornicating with some leather. Now, I hear people pay good money to see that stuff.

Hmmm. I'm realizing that I have a lot more to write about this. I will continue in my journal. "When" is the question though. Until then, here are a few tips for you first timers out there: Stuff your underwear (down the back, Einsteins) with toilet paper to cushion your rump. Or just have a fat ass and ride away. And don't say "glue factory" too much on a horse farm. The horse may shit on you and the people will encourage this. Other than that, have fun horsin' around!

7/09/2002

On Saturday night Erin and I went to mass and then to an engagement party. The mass was at St. Cletus where she went to grade school. While listening to the priest's sermon, I realized what a great place for a comedy club a church would make. Have you heard the acoustics in a church? Outstanding. The microphones are either the standard ones or lapel mics so that would be taken care of. The altar would be the stage. The pews would serve as great seats for the captive audience. Even the alcohol and snacks would be provided. What more could you ask for? And with all the news surrounding the priests these days, one wouldn't have to wander far from the club for material.

The engagement party was for Erin's best friend Katie and her finacee Cory. I wasn't quite sure what to make out of an engagement party though. All I knew was that there would be free food and booze. The party was classified as a "champagne barbeque." I did see some of both, but it was basically some family and friends getting together and meeting for the first time. It was yuppie LaGrange so a cookout wouldn't have sufficed.

I laid low and just mingled, sipping a few Rolling Rocks. Erin, who will be Katie's maid of honor on August 16, 2003, knew most people in attendance. Since I'm a 27-year-old dick-joke-teller living with my mom, she kept me away from the crowd. However, the priest who said the mass was there. He asked what I did for a living and I told him. He laughed before I even rattled off my first joke and seemed sincere. But then again, he was a priest. I tried my church-as-a-comedy-club bit and he loved it. I've got calls out to the bishop and the Pope to get their feedback. "I'm here all weekend. 4 and 5:30 Saturday night. 7, 9, 11 Sunday morning. Try the wine and crackers."

7/08/2002

I spent yesterday with Cyndi and in doing so have figured out two things: I need a dog or I need to be in a band. The reasons for both are quite obvious - chicks will love me.

Cyndi and I spent the first half of the day laying out in a park near a Chicago harbor. The day was gorgeous and soaking up some sun was a must. The location, which Cyndi had classified as "her spot" even though 30 other people were there, was heavily travelled by walkers, bikers, and roller bladers. Some of these people had dogs as did some of the sun bathers. Every guy that had a dog soon had a girl talking with him. Every girl who had a dog soon had a guy talking with her. Cyndi and I noted this and decided we both needed dogs. Furthermore, we also realized we both needed shirts that read "We're Not Together." On second thought, I can't afford to pay my phone bill so my dog would starve. Cyndi can get the dog and I'll just get the shirt. The maintenance on that is much lower anyway.

After the park, we hit a block party held in Lakeview, a late-20's-to-early-30's part of Chicago where I lived when I moved to the city in September of 2000. Chicago is well known for its summer block parties which happen every weekend through Labor day. Yesterday's party, as do most, featured great food, martial arts 101, basketball games, rock climbing, novelty shops, and live music. And many beautiful women. Having a dog there would have been a pain in the ass though. Wearing the aforementioned shirts would've been the thing to do. Instead, I wore a shirt that read "HAHVAHD" based on the Boston pronunciation of "Harvard" in that accent we all love making fun of. Within five minutes of being there, the shirt received a few smiles and approvals from hot chicks. Who knew? If I go back to Hahvahd, I'll buy many more.

Cyndi had wanted to see the bands that were scheduled. One was a Dave Matthews cover band and the other was a jazz/blues band from Chicago called the Mighty Blue Kings. The cover band was good. However, as an artist, I have an ongoing problem with people making a career out of singing other people's music. Some view this as a talent. I simply call it glorified kareoke. I can't or wouldn't have the least bit of interest in doing George Carlin's or Eddie Murphy's comedy on stage for money. But like Eddie Murphy said in his "Delirious" concert, "Being a comic ain't like bein' no singer. 'Cause singers get all the pussy."

The Mighty Blue Kings were great. They did all original stuff and put on an awesome show. Catch 'em if you get the chance. The lead singer was a Freddy Prinze Jr. looking guy with a voice that would cause Mother Teresa to get naked. The ladies were all weak in the knees, including Cyndi who was fanning herself over him. "He's probably gay," I said, trying to play off the fact that the guy was simply amazing. My hats off to Ross, the MBK's front man, and all the girls he made moist last night. If you read this Ross, can I just have the scraps you don't want? In the meantime, I'm off to go learn to sing. And search my mom's couch for enough change to buy a dog.