The Daily Derenger

8/09/2002

Ever have the fantasy of making out with a Hooter's girl while wearing the skimpy orange shorts? I had that happen to me yesterday. Kind of. I didn't get to do the making out part but the shorts were worn. Now let me explain. It was all part of a head-shaving, fundraiser for the American Cancer Society sponsored by Hooters of Orland Park, 96.7 Will Rock in Joliet, and Fantastic Sam's of Shorewood, IL.

My good friend Matt DuBiel is the on-air talent at Will Rock weekdays from 2-7pm. He and Flounder, the midday jock, spearheaded the campaign to raise money for cancer research. This was all in the wake of Ozzy Osbourne shaving his head in support of his wife, Sharon's, battle with colon cancer and chemotherapy. Ozzfest is in town this weekend in Chicagoland and this was a perfect opportunity to help a great cause. And give away ShaveYourHead.com bumper stickers.

I stood on the street donning the orange shorts. For your child's and wife's safety, I wore a brown apron that covered my stuff. It actually looked more like a loin cloth. I was out there soliciting donations from passersby as they stopped at the light on 153rd St. and LaGrange Rd. in Orland Park. Some of them went faster so as to avoid the hideous Hooter's 'girl' with hairy legs. Others stopped, stared, and gave money out of pure shock and as a means to get me away quickly while still helping cancer.

I had thought that I could wear a wild looking wig to draw attention. But then I realized that would've defeated the purpose of shaving your head for cancer. What better way to get the message across and attract attention than to have a guy with a shaved head and a Hooter's outfit on standing on the street. I tried telling people it was really laundry day though. Nobody bought that for a minute.

Standing in the sun from about noon to 6 had made my head quite the bronzed-bean. I have tan lines that my girlfriend may cringe at. Or she may feel proud that I helped out cancer and had the balls to do it. Literally. A few times when I lunged either way, the meatballs and sausage fell out of the bun. Luckily nobody ran them over. I had shaved earlier yesterday so that coupled with restrictive bloomers made for a 'all-together' and unusual feel.

Around 5pm, a cop approached the 2 girls and I who were soliciting on the street. If you only have read that line, it sounds like a typical day in Vegas. Me being the pimp of my 2 whores and the cop needing a fix. He told us that we had to leave the street because you need written permission from the village board to solicit donations. We stopped. Then Matt convinced me that it would be great for my career to get arrested in a Hooter's outfit while raising money for cancer. So I went back to work. However, I didn't take the donation box with me. Rather, I simply pointed from the street where the head-shaving would be taking place. I pointed using my hands, too, you perverts. I garnered a few honks and screams. The latter was from women in favor of the outfit and those men apalled by it. Or maybe they were friends of the cop. You see, after the warning, the cop drove by 3 times and did nothing. Maybe he liked my ass. Half-a-fag. Seeing that I wasn't going to make a Letterman appearance or the 6 o'clock news for being arrested, I regained some decency and called it a day.

Over $2000 and nearly 200 shaved heads resulted from the fund-raiser for the American Cancer Society. Ozzy and Sharon would be proud except we couldn't understand a word of Ozzy's praise. The bald white man is taking over the world! Or at least Orland Park.

I enjoyed some free wings and was on my way. This morning I awoke and saw off in the corner of my room the bright orange shorts. I guess I dreamt about bagging a Hooter's chick. Then I awoke and realized that the shorts were worn by me. I went back to bed ashamed and alone. Not much changes in life, people!

8/07/2002

My friend Cyndi called me the other day. This is usually something she does a few times daily, so it was nothing special. Or so I thought. We've been friends for about 8 years and have gotten close over the last few. This particular call was most unique because of where she called from - a dayspa. Now she wasn't in the waiting area nor was she getting her nails done. Rather, she was in the middle of a Brazilian wax. For those of you unfamiliar with this term, a Brazilian wax is a method of removing body hair ... from the genital region up to and including the plumber's crack. Whether you work in that field or not.

Yes sir, that's what it is and that's when she called me. If there is any one person more deserving than me of such a call, I'd like to meet them. You wouldn't call me with your one call from jail nor would I be your phone-a-friend. Unless of course bathtub flatulence was the category.

I guess this is popular among hairy women. That's not to say that Cyndi is hairy but she is Croatian and likes to feel all smooth and sultry. I have some friends who do the waxing for a living and they say even guys get their junk removed. And then they have a Zima and watch Oprah on their rainbow-colored couch.

I was most appreciative of Cyndi's call. It motivated me to shave my "downstairs." But I cut myself. Now it's all bloodied, wrinkled and bald. It looks like an old man who fell down the steps. The moral is to shave carefully or pay top dollar to get waxed. Either way, I'd like a phone call please.

8/06/2002

I've got 2 things to write about today: toilet brushes and plungers. Erin has moved into her own place in Chicago. I've been helping her move and shop. Okay, so I have a car and she doesn't. Maybe she's just using me. Doubt it though. She seems to love me. It's kinda serious like that now. But I don't know when it went from, "Hey you wanna get a beer after work" to "I'm crazy about you. Come home soon or I may leap off a tall building." I guess I have a way about me, my enormous bank account and plush, purple bedroom adjacent to my mom's makes me a catch.

We shopped yesterday at Target in Chicago. Holy cow! Either there were a lot of people who took Monday off or there are more night jobs available than I thought. Or some people are just able to shop at Target 'cause they get a buttload of public aide.

Erin needed a bunch of stuff for her new place. 2 such items were a toliet brush and a plunger. Erin claims that both things will be kept under the sink ... in the kitchen. Exactly. "When was the last time you shat in the kitchen," I asked her. "Not since I was 3," she replied. Quite the witty response and not the "never" that I was looking for though.

I wouldn't let this die easily. "Why under the kitchen sink," I asked. She maintains that it doesn't look nice to have a plunger and a toilet brush in the bathroom in plain view. Oh. I guess skid marks the size of the Daytona 500 track are more pleasant. Let it be known that Erin's entire bathroom is the size of the average person's medicine cabinet. Anyone over six-foot tall may in fact have to shit in the kitchen because their legs won't fit in the bathroom. This will cause the door to be left open and feet will be braced against the stove to drop a deuce. Great way to entertain guests. Furthermore, how much nicer will it look to have me prance through the place with plunger and brush in hand while the toilet is overflowing and logs are going over like a Niagra Falls canoer?

Currently, the brush and plunger sit next to a cabinet in the kitchen until further notice. I think I will wait until her parents and other relatives come up for dinner this weekend to prove my point. I will be sure to eat in excess and have yet more material to write about. I'm now off to go shower in the living room.

8/04/2002

I'm not much of a handy man when it comes to car maintenance. I know where the gas goes and how much air to put in the tires. That's not to say, though, that I put air and gas in when it's needed. I've run out of gas three times and two of which were when I was on my way home from work ... at a gas station. And the fact that I failed to put oil in my car when the "oil light" was on for two weeks doesn't make me Mr. Goodwrench either. That was a long, hot summer riding a bike in Phoenix my friends.

I'm quite proud that I've finally learned how to change my oil. My buddy Matt DuBiel showed me how last year. Today saw me change my oil in the 6th state, Minnesota. It doesn't call for bragging but it makes me feel somewhat productive. I know few people who have changed their own oil let alone have done it in every time zone in America.

While today's change was being done, I had the car radio on. I was into the project and didn't really care what station I picked. I briefly scanned the local stations and found Jump from Van Halen, the very theme song for the 1984 Chicago Cubs. It could be in the top five best oil changing songs of all time. If there was such a list. The station was called some kind of a mix of hits from the 80's. Rock on! Just as Jump ended so too did my liking of the station. Jump was followed by Madonna's Holiday. What a fag I now looked like. Not only was I changing the oil in a Geo Prizm, but I was doing so to a Madonna song. This kinda shit is okay behind closed doors but not in the parking lot of a huge apartment complex at noon on a Sunday with the volume cranked. Covered in grease and oil, I did the only thing I could do to save face. I wiped my hands on my capri pants and began singing show tunes. I guess that wasn't saving face after all.

The accents and the Minne-soh-ta life had gotten to me. Mama, I'm comin' home ... after the show tonight.