Rise of the Phoenix

I guess you could say I'm back for the first time.

For those of you who have actually met, talked to, and pontificated with the Birdman, this little mess comes as no surprise. I've got a couple of words for you folks: Number one, congrats on not being pregnant - and that's men included. I've got some pretty potent gunk in my trousers, so good luck dodging those little lasers. Number two, although I will cover an array of topics that include my traditional banter, the online nature of this forum will allow me to go above and beyond my typical topics, which include but are not limited to: different versions of the "Can't Belive It" remix, whether or not Andrew Bynum is actually Tracy Morgan's long lost son, and if the definition of the word douchebag should be expanded beyond the traditional usage (see any 27 year-old male who's closet is littered with penny loafers, partially used extra medium condoms, and Brooks Brother's button-ups with the initials stitched into the forearm) or should be expanded to include anyone or anything that one does not like. Do not distress, those topics will all be addressed, but suffice it to say that there will be more.

Enough with the introduction - let me get to the real heart of today's post: grammar and rules. I feel it's important to kick this blog off with a description of the way I talk - or, more accurately, the way I write. It may help you understand a little better the sordid nature of my memory and my past. You see, the thing is this: grammar is mostly bullshit. Shakespeare invented half of it and a dickhead named Webster invented the other half. Therefore, I follow it as I see fit. I punctuate where, I, want, because that's just how it's gonna be. Sentences are like schoolchildren: slap 'em around and make them work for you. If you can, time them. That'll just make them work that much harder. Additionally, I use slang - hellas of it. See, I just did it right there. Most of my lexicon comes from my closest acquaintances - who are now scattered across this great land, but all originate from Iowa City, IA, aka "God's Country" aka "Blackout City" aka "Liquid Courage" aka "Are you 18? Fuck it". I'll ease you into the lingo slowly, but I'm not going to explain it to you, you're going to have to figure that out for yourself. You're not a child. And if you are: Santa doesn't exist, your parents have had tons of sex-including anal, it's easier to get weed than booze, and the chances of you being what you want to be are zero; because then everyone would be Paris Hilton. And you're not Paris Hilton, because she can't read.

Back to the point: rules are meant to be broken. Like right now I'm at work! And what's my manager going to do? Nothing. Because she's in the back gettin' bent over a chair by her boss, or she's knocked in her private office, or she just doesn't give a shit. Even more likely - some twisted combination of all three. It's ok though, Americans can all do this really cool thing where we pretend to care about work ethic and not care at the same time. It allows us to work 40 hours a week, yet hit the club for a tatty whenever we see fit. Pretty convenient if you ask me.

Stream of consciousness side note - I could really use a nap. Naps are God's way of telling you that you're a jackass. For some reason when you're 5 and could run around at full speed with a juicy juice and a box of animal crackers for three hours and your tired-ass mom is chasing you with a clean dishrag and trying to put you to sleep on those sticky blue mats, you want none of it. If we had nap time at my office I'd be the first one out and the last one up. But I can't have one. Shit, I just fell asleep a little.