Subarific

In an attempt to prove that Subarus are re-cock-ulously cool, I present to you:

http://video.kenblockracing.com/flash/small_player/preloader.swf?vendor_id=204&media_id=9183&bgcolor=FFFFFF&autoplay=0

Needless to say after watching this video I presumed that I too was a badass racecar driver (a sentiment that I still hold onto dearly). I went up into the woods on my Wednesday lunch break, took my naked pic for the week and then proceeded to keep my car in a sideways drift for the better part of 30 minutes. I also decided it would be a GREAT idea to drop down into a campsite that hadn't been plowed for some off-roading rally driving....

Oops...

Just a touch high-centered.

After the dude in the picture couldn't pull me out with 4WD and a chain, I was forced to drop $165 for a tow truck to winch me out. Small price to pay in my continuing education to become a sponsored rally driver. I've said it all along: The "real" workforce is for suckers.

Good/Bad Advice? You Be The Judge...

"Hey, it's [Male Nurse]. I got an idea today that words can't explain how dope it is. It would take a little commitment, some serious balls, add a pinch of crazy and you've got [Male Nurse] and [Keev] taking ballet lessons. Aka teeny bopper secret headquarters lair. With campground rules in effect, we would be investing heavily in today and tomorrow. Talk about networking-those girls would love us and never forget us. Not to mention some serious legit ninja training. Rolling to a ballet lesson with just the right amount of ninja medicine on board sounds like a shit eating grin to me. I also have some serious connections in the [Bil-town] scene by way of a high school girlfriend who thinks I'm cool and knows instructors on a serious personal level.
Dear Diary, ALLRIIIGHT!"

That is easily the hardest I've ever laughed from one text.

I've never really applied my Tsaoist beliefs to such a funny/awesome/crazy idea. Anyone have any thoughts on how I should approach this?

I Could Fuck Up A Wet Dream

Although I love to brag about my sexual conquests (of which there are a few of the monumental variety), I have had many, many more failed attempts to mount, summit or penetrate objects of my sexual desire. This weekend was no different. I was poon party pwn3d!

What I'm not trying to say is that my weekend was somehow not a great time. It was, in fact, quite awesome. We snuck into the Cat-Griz game (35-3 Griz...w00t) by buying a few scalped tickets and then doing the pass the stub, lick your hand and smudge the stamp. It was reminiscent of being young and drunk while committing acts of random tomfoolery. Mostly because we are still young, were quite drunk and our shenanigans were verging on tomfoolery.

We finished the Griz game at the Holiday Inn bar and then stuck around for some more drinks and "Missoula's best bratwurst", which was in fact the best bratwurst I have ever eaten. Laughter ensued and we were ready to go out and hit the town. It started out at Debbie Downer's Cat House of Horror due to the fact that that is where the weed brownies were. Normally I would have steered clear of the place because of the asthmatic response to the environment and the general depression that hangs in the wallpaper, but the sound of THC via delicious snacks was just a bit too appealing. People were hesitant at first to dive in, but after I showed them that "I'm fine" after eating about 5, people started to come around.

We had a few beers and then made our way to Sean Kelly's. Not terribly exciting at first. Good friends and the booze was running downhill (read: down asophagus). As I was standing around chatting I noticed that a very cute blond had passed by a few times (I had also noticed any individual with a vagina within 50 feet of me). She eyed me a few times, but I didn't think much of it. I was dressed in my typical bear-suit jacket and that tends to draw eyeballs towards me. She then approached me and we started chatting.

Remington (Not spelled like the gun. Spelled like her name.): I don't even know why I came over here to talk to you.

Me: Because you saw my manly beard and couldn't help yourself.

Rem: It is pretty nice.

Me: If you think it's nice on the eyes, you should try it on your neck.

I then proceeded to rub my beard up one side of her neck, down across the bottom and then up the other side where I finished off with a nice little earlobe bite and a giggle of pleasure on her behalf.

Rem: That IS good!

Me: You really ought to test out the chest carpet as well...

I hold the bottom of my shirt up and she races her head inside and begins to rub her cheeks against my chest.

Rem: I've never had a one night stand before....yet...

Thank science we were in a dark bar, because my Griz colored sweatpants were doing NOTHING to hide my hardon at that point.

This carried on for a while before a group of Rem's friend went walking out of the bar and she took off to join them.

"Keev gets the ball and rushes for 20 yards! Oh no! Looks like he fumbled it! He won't be scoring tonight!"

I wasn't about ready to let my elevated excitement/hormone levels go to waste.

Me (to the group of peeps with whom I was rollin): Let's go get our groove on!

There was a one man band playing at the bar that night. Fingers was the name. He had a bass drum and a high-hat for his feet, a guitar (sometimes accordion) in his hands, harmonica around his neck and a cowboy hat to top it all off. In short, this guy was the shit. He rocked all of the greats: Ring of Fire, Country Roads, you name it...

About halfway through his set he announced to the crowd "I'm going to need a couple people to come play the washboards for me." He then holds out two chest mounted washboards and four spoons to the crowd. Male Nurse and I were ready to get funky with it.


Fingers: What are your names?

Male Nurse: Rough Rider

Me: Dick Danger

Fingers: Are we making music or a gay porn?

We proceed to rock the shit out of those washboards. We were doing the "chicka chicka", the "chicka tap chicka tap" and the "tap tap chicka tap". It didn't matter. We were on fire!

After our song he gave a few other teams a chance to shine on the washboards. Maybe it was the alcohol talking (read: it was the alcohol talking), but I think we took them to the cleaners when it comes to rocking the washboard (pun). Seemed like I wasn't the only person that felt that way.

Fingers: Dick Danger and Rough Rider, get back up here and help me with the final song!

Male Nurse and I jumped back up on stage with the determination of washed up cokehead ex-rockers that were ready to melt the panties off of their dwindling groups of groupies.

Fingers (to the two of us): Whenever I stop playing in the song, that is your guys' queue to solo on the washboards.

Me: WORD!

(song begins)
Strum, strum, strummy strum...

CHICK-A-CHICKITTY-CHICK-CHICK-TAP-CHICKA-BANG...

Strum, strum, strummy strum, strum, strum, strummy strum...

CHICKITTY-CHICKITTY-TAP-TAP-BANG...

I've done a bit of crowd amusing on the guitar via dirty drinking songs, but I think this was my most golden moment. I was having more fun than a teen with a handgun.

(song begins to crescendo to a train-wreck ending where everyone just goes nuts)

I had noticed that I in fact had two quasi-groupy girls dancing right below me at the stage, and they were watching me get down with the funky sound. So right as the song started into the trainwreck, I handed each of them a spoon, removed my chest mounted washboard, arranged it as a hip mounted washboard and let the two chicks wail away the final chickitty-chick-chick's as I sat back and enjoyed the rhythmic pleasure that one can only experience by beating a metal spoon across a wavy piece of sheet metal placed directly upon your balls.

...I need to become a rockstar. SOON.

The bar lights came on in that "hey you are drunk, it's late, go home" kind of way, and we all started heading towards the door. Then one of my two groupies came up to me.

Groupy: OMG! You are the sexiest/best washboard player I've ever seen!

I actually have no idea as to what she really said. I do remember, however, that she had a very nice smile.

...and HUGE boobs. I mean REALLY HUGE. Not the type of huge that goes all crazy, but instead the largest set of boobs that are still attractive that I've ever seen. To be quite honest I'm not even sure if she walked up to me or if those things had so much mass that the gravitational pull from them lured me directly towards her.

I could make up the rest of the conversation between the two of us or just tell the truth. I think I'll opt for the tsaoist truth: I kept hugging her in an attempt to push those things agaisnt me as many times as possible (stranger hugs: the purest form of self proclaimed frotteurism known to man). It was fan-fucking-tastic! And then the Keev-ball announcer came back on the PA...

"Keev recovers from his previous turnover and has great field position. He's marching up the field and I've got to tell you folks, looks like he may drive this one into the endzo....OH NO!!! ANOTHER FUMBLE!"

Well at least I got some boobs pressed into my abdomen. DAMN NASA!

We all decided it was time to get some food. And by that, I mean that I was ready to get down on some naughty girls, but my fumbling ability left me high and dry (and boy was I still high). I followed the team around for a while from one line into a late night food joint to the next. All the while an un-named cougar was latching onto my arm, butt, etc. These are all bad things for good decision making when I'm hopped up on the hormones.

Brain: Fuck this! I'm ready for bedtim...

Dick: Were gettin LAID FTW! w00t!

(Time travel to the moment my eyes open the next morning. Scene: Debbie Downer's bed in the Cat House of Horrors.)

Brain: We got laid FTL...Dick!

Debbie Downer: Let's have sex again.

Me: Let's not...

What A Junkie...

Need For Speed...Then Less Speed

As many of you know, I'm a bad ass race car driver (read: still heel-toe double-clutch like a grandpa trying to figure out a PS3 controller). More importantly than my driving ability though, is my choice of automobile. Many people can put in the time to become a proficient driver, but very few people can buy a fast car.

You are probably thinking "well not all people live rent-free in their parents' basement and spend the saved $$$ on some sort of sick penis enlarger called a car", but that's not it at all. I'm referring to the contract that they make you sign when you buy a sweet race car.

I'm already breaking the first rule of fast car club (don't talk about fast car club contract), but I don't think I have many fast car club readers...yet.

Now I'm not just rambling on about fast car club because I want the Lords that be to come take my ride, I'm prefacing a story...


I was driving down the Interstate the other day. It was Halloween Friday. I had worked in Bozeman all week and was excited to get back to Billings in order to see all of the skankiness downtown that night. I was doing my typical 84 mph (any speeding ticket on the highway that is under 10 mph over the limit will not register on your insurance in Montana) and slowly passing cars at a steady rate. About 10 miles before Big Timber I just hung in the passing lane for a bit after passing in order save the calories required to signal then move the steering wheel 6 degrees to the right.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

The unmistaken sound of a large naturally aspirated engine. I then see out of my driver side window a Beamer M3 moving fast. I'd say somewhere in the neighborhood of low triple digits.

I really wanted to let the guy blast past me and collect the hi-po ticket that was sure to find him down the road. I was set to let that happen. Really. But I couldn't. It wasn't pride. It wasn't some sort of cock measuring contest or anything like that at all. I had signed THE contract. The fast car contract that said "I ____ will never let another car race past me uncontested. Regardless of sobriety, mental state or physical disability, I ____ will bury the fucking throttle in the floormat." (damn NASA I hope THEY don't google my blog and see that betrayed the first rule)

Clutch. Rev. Down Shift. Zoom

I finally had my bumper at his passenger door around 125 mph.

Clutch. 6th. Zoom

The Beamer is a 5 gear manual against my 6 gear manual. Creep, creep, creep and I was leading. That was also about the time my govenor kicked in (152mph). The tables changed and the M3 started moving into the distance as I pinged my speed limitor about 4 times. Then I quickly came up with a rationalization for not removing my govenor: I don't need to be going any faster than this...

I DON'T NEED TO BE GOING THIS FAST! I'M ON SNOW TIRES! 120MPH SPEED RATED SNOW TIRES!

[Science Lesson: Tire speed ratings are based on heat. The faster a car goes, the more friction the tires see. Friction equals heat, and heat equals tires exploding. It doesn't require many hours of GTA4 to see what a bad idea driving fast without tires is.]

I throttled down and regained a more "appropriate" speed. (I mean I climbed out on the hood while I was still racing, pulled the govenor out with my bare hands and raced the M3 until he exploded in a fireball...and then I found $20)

Here is a pic of me, the M3 and a Mitsubishi GTS that caught up to the big dogs down the road from Big Timber. We did some 120mph cruising for a while. Fun stuff.



I'm now in Florida and I get to drive my "roommate's" (crazy older dude that likes to lock every door all of the time) rig. It doesn't move fast, shakes, and is slow to stop. But it makes a serious statement:


It says: I am not a "real man"

...and "nope"

Laughter...Us Sharing It...

Last night I get a text from my Brother (the married one, not the other married one).

Anonymous_Blogger: Dude, I just got hit by #2 because I spoke while she was on the phone with her parents. She's 29.

Me: HAHA ZOMG

I promptly forwarded it to my PIC (remember: partner in crime)

PIC: hahahaha. I think that's like when [asian] would hit him if he talked while she was ordering fast food.

(couple minutes later)

PIC: He's in the first stage of a relationship...denial...I remember those days...No, [insert girls name here]'s wayyyy better than the last one...if there is one thing I've learned it's that slits are all the same.





Here is some fun math for you voters/non-voters:
For the sake of argument and before the final votes are tallied, we'll say that Barack won by 7M votes. So let's just say that my chances of changing the outcome of the popular vote would have been 1 in 7,000,000.

In a 49 ball lottery, where the player picks 6 balls and all 6 must match to win, the chances of winning are 1 in 13,983,816. That is roughly half the statistical probability of effecting the election. Buy 2 of those same lottery tickets and the odds are lined up almost exactly.

The moral of this story is a "Here is what I should have done". I should have registered to vote, bought two lottery tickets and then voted for McCain. Because if I win that multi-million dollar jackpot, I'm going to jump up a tax bracket or two. And if I'm going up a few tax levels, I'm sure as hell going to want a rich white guy protecting my $$$.

As it turns out I just sat on my ass. My thoughts on the election can be summed up by my lawyer: To paraphrase Blazing Saddles "The president is a [bell tower rings]"

I think he said "The president is near"...

Work Tip FTW

Part of my blog is dedicated to self improvement (for you the read, I'm fine). Most of the time that improvement is in the form of an increased PMA (positive mental attitude). Other times it is in the form of life activities (such as one of my many fine Bukkake adventures). I'm now going to attempt to improve each and every one of your work lives!

I presume that you already have your facebook, gmail and RSS feeds set up. If that is not the case, don't waste your time reading any further. This is an advanced technique handed down from the elder council of proficient/efficient slackers. It would be comparable to somebody attempting to submit BJ Penn with a Gogoplata prior to learning how to pull guard.

We all know how to "work" on a day when the internet is abuzz with new postings, chat is firing on cylinders and we have the energy to sit still for 8 solid hours. Problems arise when that is no longer the case, and the only excitement you can conjure up from the 7 remaining firing synapses is to stare at the clock. Each second takes roughly 3/4 of a minute to complete, and you have to turn the pages of a calendar to find the 5pm finishing line.

In non-work life this time is called "nap time". That glorious time when you can give the world at large a big middle finger and close your eyes. Sadly The Man doesn't allow such and act. He sees it as "lazy" if my eyes are closed, even if I'm accomplishing as many work oriented tasks as I would be with them open. Solution?

I give you EyeWork v2.0


Welcome to salary sponsored beauty sleep...

Chick Magnet

I've been told that my car (an STi. Like this without the wrinkles) is a chick magnet. I have not found this to be true (unless you count my predilection towards driving to High School girls' houses and not leaving until they return to school the next morning). In fact, it seems to be more of a young boy magnet (Anonymous_Blogger, is there a way to keep Chris Hansen's team of professionals from finding my site on Google?) since they are the only people still entranced by Need 4 Speedesqe cars.

My car also seems to show a physical affinity towards various other worldly objects, such as Curbs:


The first came when my good friend Handleme and I were driving (read: he was driving) to get some weed. About a QP worth. He was watching some people walking on the sidewalk while driving at about 8 k/hr. The car was being pulled into a curb...

The next was after the first snow in Hamilton last year had turned me into the protagonist of Tokyo Drift. I was kickin some ass through some bank drive through lines when again the magnetic curb took the car. That freak moment of unexplainable physics ran me $650 for a new wheel bearing.

It also pulls in flying objects:


Rocks on the highway for the windshield and foam flip-flops to the mirror (I know, it has to be REALLY magnetic to get a hold of foam, but it's true)

Finally, my car pulls other cars towards it, but mostly when parked:

The rear fender was a good 'ol hit and run at the Bitterroot River Inn in Hamilton. The door crease happened yesterday while I was running a guided trip on the Stillwater river (There is still time this year to get your trip in with Bukkake W&FA. Sign up now!). I didn't notice it when I returned home, but my padre pointed it out and gave me the business card of the guy that did it.

I'm as shocked as you! There are still people these days that will have a free hit and run and actually do the right thing (right thing based off of an efficient societal golden rule method vs. a christian absolute ethics "method")!

Now it is my turn to do the boring ass "right" thing and not try to explain to the insurance company that this hit didn't bend my door, scrape the fender on the other side, crack the windshield, break the mirror, ding the rims on two sides of my car and wear down the snow tires by about 62,000 kilometers.

Bukkake was successful again in its fishing trips though!

SHARKS!!!

Some more good news is coming straight out of the "I almost made as much money as I wanted to" retirement community called Sarasota FL. I've aligned my work/play schedule here so that each day at about 5pm I leave work and go change into some shorts. I then drop the top on my sweet (read: shitty Chrystler) convertible and cruise over to the beach. I've marked out a run along the beach on Gmaps Pedometer. It isn't a very long run, but running in softer sand is quite physically tasking. Each step feels like the sand is giving away behind you as a sandworm from Dune swallows up the earth in an attempt to make you his afternoon snack.

I typically end my run by going to the car, drinking a beer and grabbing my skimboard before returning to the shore. I then rinse the salty sweat off my body with salty sea water. This is a fun swim each time because of the amount of life in the water. Each time I see something I haven't seen before. Almost stepped on a small dinner plate sized ray one day. These are funny because every time somebody does a similar thing you get to hear "STING RAY!!! I ALMOST STEPPED ON A STING RAY!!!" yelled back at the beach to anyone that is willing to listen. Yesterday I was swimming along (breast stoke) and grabbed what can only be described as a handful of heavy snot. Having seen a dead jellyfish on the beach a week earlier, I was pretty sure of what I had just grabbed. I popped up to my feet, stared back into the water where I thought it was and then decided I didn't need to be "Keev the jellyfish hunter" at the beach by myself.

Two days ago I was standing in the water, about waist deep, watching the sun go down. This is always a funny sight because it owns people's emotions. Couples that were arguing on the beach moments before stand hand in hand and love each other for those 10-15 minutes from when the sun touches the horizon until it dips below the sea. Shell collectors and metal detectors alike stand with "treasures" in hand as if in some sort of hydrogen fusion induced trance. The rest of the beach population is clicking away on there cell phones and cameras like they are the first to document an ocean sunset.

I was focused on something that I thought was a bit cooler: Dorsal fins. I saw one pop out of the water for just a second and then dip back down. My Montana raised insticts instantly fired my heartrate up like it was the tip of Jaws on his was to get my boat, but then I noticed the horizontal tail and knew I was dealing with a mammal. The water kept swirling around but no more surface sightings for a bit.

Then I saw something awesome! The distictive bottle shaped nose of a dolphin popped out of the water and spit a shell about 2 meters. The dolphin dove back down and raced towards the shell with another dolphin next to it. This carried on for about 10 minutes and slowly grabbed the attention of the sun-people as their fusion god dissappeared below the horizon. After that it was getting dark and the dolphins were no longer playing so the beach cleared quickly. I so wanted to swim out and play with them, but I REALLY didn't want to be the guy in the Sarasota Daily News headlined as "Montana Tourist Dies After Thinking He Was A Dolphin Whisperer".

Yesterday I failed miserably to get any coworkers to join me at the beach for beers and watersports (not the type involving piss), but it actually worked out for the better. I was skimboarding away for a while then took a swim out for a bit. Upon my return I found that my nice skim area had been invaded by one of the many tourists that believe they are Anne Geddes. The parents had their baby stipped down and playing in water while they look like [ass]clowns trying to get her to smile (lawyer, I kept my hands above my head and stared at the sky the entire time. No new work from me this week).

I decided to pick up my board and wander down the beach in search of better skimming. Same 'ol same 'ol down the whole beach: short drop-off waters edge (bad for skimming with a shitty 16 dollar board) and old and/or married couples on the sand. Then low and behold I spotted something that really caught my eye. A girl that looked to be in her low 20s with a red/yellow/green wristband on. Clearly this is one of the many symptoms of smoking a lot of weed. So I approached.

Me: You wouldn't happen to know where I can get some smokes would you?

Her: I've got a cig right here if you want it.

Me: Wrong type of smokes.

Her: Oh you are looking for herb?

Me: Ya

Her: I can't get any right now, but I was going to smoke a bowl if you want to join.

Me: Sweet!

We cruised down the beach and got acquianted before our blaze. She is a unique individual that sets herself apart by getting tattoos and piercings. Oddly enough she was also an art school student (didn't see that one coming).

She was in fact quite nice and loaded some chronic stank so I have no room to talk shit or even any real desire too. Hell, if there was an easy "in" I probably would have taken her home (or better yet let her take me home).

After the blaze we parted ways. I walked down the beach giggling at everything I saw. Then ran into some coworkers.

I think I've finally given up on trying to be "normal" when I'm high around coworkers. I went out in the water and showed them how quickly I can fall on my ass when stoned skimboarding.

Motion In My Ocean

I decided to get out of the hotel/lab this weekend a little and visit the beach. Not having any amigos around with whom to do this, I decided to go for a run in the sand. Maps.google.com showed me a close beach with public access, and I visited it. In my favorite pair of Sprawl shorts and some tennies, I started jogging. The sand was a tan, medium fine grit and quite loose. After about a mile though, the sand turned into a cocaine white, baby powder soft substance. The crazy thing is...this sand squeeked! Every single step made the same sound as when you step on hard packed snow after the temp drops below -20 degrees Celcius (look it up [The] America, it's time we grow up and act metric!).

After the run I took a dip in one of the largest bathtubs in the world: The gulf of Mexico. The surf was crashing in at a whopping 6 inches in 4 second sets and the riptide was pure death! Being a long shallow shore off of a beach full of aged and wealthy individuals fat off of over priced food, I went out and swam by myself.

When I got about 50 feet off shore (still only waist deep), I noticed that there was a mini school of minnow sized fish that were chill'in about a foot away from me at all times. If I jetted my foot out or threw my hand into the water, they would retreat at the same rate. I presumed that the little fellows were just using me as a big brother to not be consumed by bigger fish scared of my presence.

I dabbled around screwing with the fish for about 15 minutes when I noticed that all of the seagulls within about 200 meters of me were racing to an area of water about 60 meters down the shore. The seagulls were screaming like a 2am crowd trying to get a brawl from that oh-so-famous pushing stage to full on fists-a-flyin slugfest.

The water below the birds was popping like crazy too. A hurricane of turbulence was bubbling up on the surface, and 10-20 cm fish (silver with yellowish fins) were airing about a foot out of the water (the distance from my heel to the tip of my large toe, not that silly english unit).

This turbulance was moving towards me too...FAST!

50 meters...30 meters...10 meters! Holy crap this was coming at me fast and I was the only jackass in the way!

Looking into the water I saw schools of the minnows fleeing from the death jaws of the silver fish. The school was getting thick.

A couple minnows slam into me! Then more....and more...and MORE!

I would assume that 50-100 minnows gave themselves brain damage against my legs/waist in about 5 seconds. Then the silver fish raced past me (smart enough to avoid my solid shape). Hot on the silver fishs' tails (pun intended) were the seagulls.

I haven't seen the movie, but I'm sure this is what filming Alfred Hitchcocks's "The Birds" felt like. Each one gave little to no shit about me on their quests to catch fish.

Being the manly man that I am, I ducked down to avoid the certain death that contact with webbed feet would guarantee. Mini fish, small fish and birds have never scared me so much.

Side note: I'm also too scared to catch one of the may lizards outside of the hotel. Every time I go for one I feel like I'm going to crush the lil' guy like Lennie petting the rabbits in "Of Mice and Men".

Hopefully I'll man-up a bit when in Montana. And by man-up, I mean have sex with a 16 year old: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ages_of_consent_in_North_America

Stupid ass Florida...thanks for the heads up lawyer!

Learn Something Every Day

For instance: today I learned that you cannot put the convertible top down when the trunk is full of a coworker's luggage.


Tomorrow, I bet that coworker learns how much she hates me/broken glass...

Sarasota FL

Settle down readers! No need to get all huffy and puffy just because I haven't been stuck in a town with little to nothing for me to do except blog. I'm now back in a town where I don't know a soul, and it will finally allow me to sit on my ass and do what I really enjoy: Sitting on my ass writing about stuff that makes me chuckle enough to forget I'm missing out on great things in other parts of the world (the lack of comedy central and spikeTV also insures that I don't veg out too much).

I looked up a nice little Mexican restaurant close to my hotel, borrowed my coworker's convertable (Chrysler Sebring, don't get too excited), and went to enjoy some of my favorite ethnic food. As I was drinking in the sights (senoritas that make my pants want to get up and salsa dance), sounds (the total lack of birthday singing mariachi bands) and Pacificos, I noticed a couple getting ready to eat. Not by wetting their whistles with margaritas, but by holding hands and speaking to an entity that they have never seen any proof of it's existance (or so I presume...hahaha).

I really don't have any problems with this other than the complete lack of logic. Why thank something for the food in front of you other than the people that were directly responsible for putting that food there. "Higher entity" didn't plant the seed, fertilize, water, harvest, raise the cow for slaughter, transport, prep, cook or deliver that chimichunga to your table. People did that. If you really want to give thanks to somebody/something responsible for your dining, just politely say thank you to the waitress.

But perhaps that isn't enough for you, and you don't have the time to thank the cooks, truck drivers, farmers and ranchers. You just desperately need to thank something that doesn't exist but is still able to give you the warm fuzzies. I propose you thank the primary source of external energy that our earth sees: The Sun.

I realize I've sort of proposed a dilemma for the fun loving christians of [The] America. You are now thanking (read: worshiping) the sun. Some call it Apollo.

Damn, I guess that doesn't make the religious folk of today much different than those of yester-lore: worshiping that which they don't understand.

...because it doesn't exist.

While at the fine Mexican restaurant I also discovered a startling fact about St. Francis, that lovable ass-clown that spent his life with the animals instead of getting a real job (these days they call him "rat-man" or "cat-woman" and send him/her to the state mental hospital). Well it turns out that Mr. Fran had a trick up his sleeve for attracting said animals...


That A-hole had them addicted to cancersticks!

Bukkake Whitewater and Fishing Adventures

Come float Wild and Scenic Rivers and fish Blue Ribbon Trout streams with Bukkake Whitewater and Fishing Adventures.

Bukkake W&FA is operated out of central Montana with access to world-class whitewater, scenic river trips and top-notch trout fishing

You've been with the rest, now come float the best. I am, without a doubt, the BEST rafting and fishing guide in the business and I relish in sharing my knowledge and love of Montana (Also my love of Wyoming, Idaho, Colorado, Washington and Oregon by special permit*). Although I haven't really done a whole lot of fishing myself, I've watched some REALLY good anglers, and it seems like I should have no problem doing what they did.

Bukkake W&FA is also the only premier whitewater adventure in the state of Montana that does not require the signing of a legal waiver! Not only do I not force a legal waiver down your throat, I don't even have insurance. We will spend our day focusing on enjoying the trip and not the legal responsibilities of an intoxicated whitewater/fishing guide. Over the past year, tens of people have satisfied not only their minds, but their spirits and livers on one of my many guided trips.

Bukkake Whitewater and Fishing Adventures has been locally owned and operated out of Billings Montana by Captain Keev since 2008.

Thrilling Whitewater Surfing


Guaranteed Fishing Success**
(Just ask this satisfied client)

Pricing:

1/2 Day Whitewater Adventure - $50 per person (+tax***)
Full Day Scenic...umm...Adventure - $75 per person (+tax***)
Full Day Fishing...what the hell... Adventure - $350 for up to two people (+tax***)

Stop debating and sign up for the adventure of a lifetime! Any one can do can take part in these wild, scenic and fishy good times****. Fun for the entire family is just one click away (or fun for you and your paid escort if a trip away from the family is what you are looking for). Stop purusing the internet for porn, and sign up now!

Slainte,
~Cptn. Keev

*Special permit is $1,000...cash...or $1,000 worth of ZJ's (if you have to ask, you can't afford it).

**Success is determined by the Captain.
***Tax will be payed in the form of a 12 pack of Busch Light.
****No Cops or Parole Officers allowed on Bukkake W&FA trips.

Bachelorette Party

There are many things that I don't fully understand. I figure this is due to my particular upbringing, environment, intelligence (or lack there of), etc. For instance: I don't fully understand religiously dedicated individuals (christians in this example because they make up the most predominant religious following in my life until this whole Tsaoism catches on a bit more) that repeatedly bash other religions for their misguided beliefs without noticing that their beliefs are equally as ludicrous. Sure the details are tweaked, but more or less they are sailing the same vessel of ignorance and intolerance.

Another phenomenon that completely baffles me is the check-list bachelorette party. The event where a group of girls lead another of the same sex (that is about to make the worst mistake of her life) around bars to do a predetermined set of activities. These activities include, but are not limited to, "do a body shot", "get a guys underwear", "kiss a random guy in a bar", etc.

From what I've gathered, this check list must be performed while wearing a necklace of plastic cocks and a tiara that was designed for a 9 year old where the word "Princess" has been replaced with "Bachelorette" While these activities are often accompanied by the giggling of females drunk off of 2 Keystone Light spritzers, I cannot rally behind this sort of tom-foolery. Every bit of it just seems like the party was planned by a 2nd grade teacher trying to plan a PG-13 version of afternoon activities for her students (ok, maybe a 3rd grade party...at best).

Perhaps if the checklist was modified a bit. Why go looking for a guy's pair of dirty ass underwear? Do you really want that skid mark ridden wad of cotton anyway? In five or ten years will you look back and say "That was an effin awesome night! Remember how I managed to get ALL 15 of those items checked off before 2am?" My guess is no.

The list only really needs one item: 1) Drink and laugh until you shit your pants.

No longer will these poor souls be limited to a mere 15 points of entertainment for the evening. Only one item is needed to encompass all their good-time needs. When they look back on their last "free" night they will only have good memories (unless you do it right, in which case you will have no memories at all, but a slew of good pictures and a criminal record to prove your deviance).

The point I'm really driving at is that deciding how you are going to have a rock'in good time prior to the unfolding of the evening is not the way to go. You limit yourself way too much.

Case in point: I'm walk up to the bar to get a drink with a friend I hadn't hung out with since jr. high/early high school, and a bachelorette party comes parading in through the front door. They march up to the bar, and the majorette of the party blurts out to me:

Majorette: Can my friend give you a kiss on the cheek! It's part of her bachelorette party checklist!

Me: Of course...

Then all of the sudden there are about 7 cameras drawn from their holsters like I was in the filming of desperado II. These girls line up like bachelorette girl and I are Brangelina on the red carpet. What they didn't know is that the "Bran" was a Tsaoist.

She goes moves in for her picture perfect checklist kiss that will amass at least 7 giggles when it is posted on her myspace.

I, on the other hand, offer the bride-to-be a once in a lifetime chance to makeout with a long haired angelface the day before she signs her sexuality away by busting out a 90 degree spin right before her lips reach my cheek.

Bachelorette: AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

Bachelorette party: OMG, LOL, HEHE... (other capital letters that imply laughter and astonishment)

I'm not joking about the astonishment either. Not a single girl took a picture. They were so shocked by my little antic that they neglected the photo. I give them myspace gold and they squander it like a drunk gambler.

If they had only gone with my one point checklist! The girl would have sucked a little face, the party would have 7 cameras worth of hilarious pics (plus some post honeymoon bickering), everyone would have laughed (possibly until they shit themselves) and I would have had the opportunity to walk back to the table of people that I work with and say "Did you just see me making out with that bachelorette?" Everyone would have won.

Tsaoism works SO much better by example...

50 Posts Later And It Is My Birfday!

I just had another birthday (read: birfday). It was sort of standard fare. My balls got a little closer to the ground, my hair line moved back a little more and I found that drinking hurts my entire body.

Me and 5 coworkers (4 male, 1 female) went out on the town to celebrate this momentous occasion. They wanted to start at some fancy pants bar in some upscale neighborhood. I went along with this plan for about 3 beers before my need for excitement got the best of me.

Me: Fuck this place, let’s go find a dive bar!

I can only sit at a round, cherry stained natural grain bar table watching the Olympics for so long. I needed parking meter jumping.

We drove to what I guess is called the Gas and Light district. I personally haven’t been to many districts that don’t have light or gas. The place was sort of a concrete courtyard surrounded by hip but skanky/gay bars. My entourage had a hankering to do some mechanical bull riding so we went to a “cowboy” bar. I say “cowboy” with the quotes because it was about as close to ranching as a Korean girl in a bikini and chaps (sadly this imaginary Korean girl was NOT at the bar). I go up to the bar to get one of my many free drinks that I received that night.

Me: I’ll take a beer…

I wasn’t terribly excited about my drink-to-be because the draft options were limited to Bud, Bud Light and Coors Light.

Bartender: Just any beer?

Me: Ya…

Sweet baby jebus did I hit the jackpot! Instead of handing me some shitty beer like a pint of MGD or PBR, he hands me a something far more precious than a gold medal in the summer Olympics. 40ozs of highlife to be exact (plus or minus 0.3%). It was as if my long blond hair acted as some sort of muse for this guy to do the single greatest act of his life.

I wander around the bar that is about 1/3 full while I drink in the sight of a sexy wet little girl (wet t-shirt type, not piss her pants type…but we’ll get to that too) in her skivvies riding the bull in slow motion (I’m not sure if the bull was just moving slow or if my brain was doing me a favor and running the events in slow-mo). About 30 minutes of this sort of thing and then they have a guys’ bull riding contest. The other engineer in the group (real engineer, not a tsaoist engineer), who happens to be a hyper-sensitive male around the age of 28, is wasted and decides that he is going to whoop some ass in the contest. He is an athletic/competitive guy and pretty sure that he is going to win. The judges are 4 super sexy girls in duck skirts (so short you can see their quack), so I give “Engi” some advice.

Me: Take off your shirt for the ride to get some extra points on the scorecard.

Pivotal mistake (the kind that makes you want to rear naked choke somebody…but we’ll get to that).

He walks out to the bull, hops on, rips his shirt off and then tosses it.

Sadly, instead of tossing it at one of the fine ass judges, he looks directly at me and throws the shirt at my chest. I was so effin baffled by this complete lack of awesome sexuality that the shirt just bounced off of me to the ground. When I turn around, my coworker, who happens to be the project lead, is in tears laughing at me. I might as well have had a sign on my chest that read “Ladies, I’ll be your best friend and braid your hair and speak with a lisp.”

We polish off our drinks and head off to the next bar.

My Darby roommate, Engi, the Girl and I are halfway there when we realize that we need to wait for the other guys to close out their tabs. I notice a kid in an Affliction shirt and proceed to inform the group around me that whenever you see someone in an Affliction shirt, you instantly know that they are a total D-Bag/Tool (Try it! It really works).

Darby Roomy: Go use your jiu jitsu on him!

Me: I’d kill him!

Engi: I’ll wrestle with you!

Let me take a second to point out that drunken jiu jitsu is NEVER a good idea. It WILL end badly. It always does.

Me: Word. Let’s go!

We circle around a couple times until I get his wrist. I give him a quick arm pull and have his back in a split second. He’s looking around like a lost child, so I slip in a well placed rear naked choke. He squirms around for a few seconds and then I feel him get that getting all too familiar body movement that says “I’m no longer conscious.”

Darby Roomy: He’s out! Huh huh huh!

As if to prove my point, right at that moment the Affliction D-Bag comes walking by:

D-Bag: That isn’t how you do a rear naked choke. (God I hate those guys)

I quickly set Engi down on the pavement on his back and we watch him do the crazy face/spit breath breathing for about 3 to 5 seconds. The far away look leaves his eyes and he is legit again.

Engi: What happened?

Me: Sorry dude! I choked you OUT.

Engi: How long was I out?

Me: About 5 seconds.

Engi: It felt like 30 minutes. I don’t remember anything.

Me: Do you remember wrestling?

Engi: Ya.

Me: That was 5 seconds ago.

Engi: I WANT TO DO THAT AGAIN! COME ON!

I wasn’t dumb enough to go double or nothing with my drunken luck, and I put the stop to all of the wrestling. Time for the next bar. We had drinking to do.

Side note: I would put a 5 to 1 line on Engi’s cause of death to involve autoerotic asphyxiation and a curtain cord.

The next place was a gay bar, and by gay bar I mean their DJ has never purchased a track (track is what we in the music industry call a song) that was laid down outside of the years 1980-1989. I think I heard every single terrible ‘80s song except YMCA last night. I made the best of it by shakin my groove thang to every track (read: song) like they were playing the 25 Most Played playlist from my iPod.

After failing miserably to get two girls to come hump my legs on the dance floor, I went for a shot of cool air outside. A gay guy decided that I too must be gay because of my incredible dance moves (or he saw my polka dotted toes), and he started to put the moves on me. I figured that this would be a great way to get a free puff of my favorite herbal stimulant.

Me: Do you have any weed?

Guy: No, but do you want to do a line in the bathroom?

Me: Hahaha…I’m probably good without that!

He slapped my ass then ran off into the night. Keev : 1...Sucking Dick In The Bathroom : 0.

We shut that bar down and started to make the drive back home. We were all tanked and really had no idea where the eff we were, but that didn’t stop us from getting there fast. It also didn’t stop us from laughing out farking asses off in the process. Engi, the hyper-sensitive married engineer, took this time to start believing that we were all mad at him and/or thought he was gay. He stared at the door, Girl tried to comfort him and the rest of us laughed and devised a plan to get late night hotdogs.

We finally get to a gas station (Quick Trip…I now love you) and we all run into the place like we were kids running into a candy store for an all night candy shopping spree (read: like drunks running into a gas station for hotdogs at 2:30am).

So I was a little off. All of us except Engi went running into that place. He decided that he was William Clark, and he was going to navigate back to his apartment by foot. Never mind the fact that only the driver had any clue as to where we were.

We get our dogs and stand out front of the place and gorge ourselves. Those meat-tubes in bread were so enjoyable that we didn’t even make much of a fuss when I pointed out that Girl had in fact pissed her pants on the drive to that Wiener Mecca. Mmmm mmm tasty.

Done with those, we all agree: Fuck Engi…we are going home!

Not really sure why, but we stand around in the parking lot of my hotel for quite some time. We shot the shit and conversed in disbelief regarding Engi’s decision making processes. Around 3am one of the guy’s phone starts to ring. Engi is lost (gassspp) and wants a ride.

Me: Well…internet porn isn’t going to masturbate to itself!

I then ran across the parking lot, through the lobby, up the stairs, down the hall, through my suite and onto my bed. I then passed the fuck OUT. In stark contrast to Engi I was out for about 4 hours, but it felt like I was out for 5 seconds. Stupid karma that I don't believe in.

E-Harmonize

As some of you know, prior to this blog posting (yes, I do share intimate life details outside of this digital communication system), I have recently met my soul-mate. For those of you that don't know, a soul-mate is a your mate not only on this planet but also the magic planet that you go to after death. Many people even think they are currently with their soul-mates, but if you haven't taken E-Harmony's compatibility test and scored 28 out of 29 or better, you don't know shit.

You are probably thinking to yourself "...but Keev, you don't believe in magic planets". You are correct. And while I don't believe in this planet(s), you have to admit it is pretty nice knowing that I've got somebody waiting for me there when I die.

Unless I die first...

Fuck! I didn't even think of that. Say I pass off this mortal coil a few decades prior to said soul-mate. That isn't even much of a stretch of the imagination considering my current driving/rafting/feltching/longboarding hobbies. Am I just going to be sitting there at the entrance of a P.F. Changs's (magic planet location) for years and years, while she logs back onto E-Harmony to search for another soul-mate. Maybe not even a soul-mate. Maybe she'll meet some sap that barely pulls a 27 out of 29 matches who is into cryogenics. I could be waiting for hundreds or years in hopes that a massive power failure allows the freezers enough time to thaw everyone, release them from the clasp of cryopreservation and kill my soul-mate off in order for us to live (not-live?) happily ever after!

(deep breath)

Sorry. This is my first soul-mate, and it has me a touch freaked out. It goes against my typical Tsaoist beliefs that everything in the universe is constantly changing. All of my reasoning for being an adaptive human being has sort of been thrown out the window. It's just that we lined up on 28 out of 29 traits! We were meant for each other! It's just science...boring, but my life. The point is, E-Harmony has showed me what it has shown thousands of others: Your soul-mate is out there. It just takes the internets to find him/her/other.

Now you would think that after getting the results of our compatability test it would be all fun and games. That we would no longer have to work for a living and we could sit around and drink alcoholic beverages that were born of natural ingredients with natural carbonation. That is NOT the case! I was required to converse, laugh, swim and sexually perform for at least 4 straight days (luckily some of our matching traits were conversing, laughter, enjoying water and sex).

In the days to come I will hit my most crucial test of all:

[From E-Harmony.com]Studies tell us that about 10 million Americans are regular marijuana smokers, ³ which makes it more than a little likely that your active dating life will present you with these questions:

• Are you willing to date someone who is a regular marijuana user?

• If so, how much is too much? Are you fine with the weekend toker? The “I only smoke if offered” casual user?

• What is it about marijuana use that makes it a deal breaker for you? Is it the stereotype that pot smokers are lazy? Is it the illegality? Do you believe that it is a gateway drug?

• What if the marijuana is for medicinal purposes? Is that okay?

• If you are a marijuana smoker, when do you share these details in a new relationship?

This caused a chilling revelation. If my soul-mate doesn't smoke pot, is she really my soul-mate? Or perhaps I'm just a shell of the soul-mate that I'll become for her once I stop smoking. I fretted about this for hours the other night until I came to another revelation. This time a saving revelation. On the same site that shows how to deal with these weed questions they showed a guy rolling a joint.



I just need to sit back, smoke a joint of what I can only assume is bird seed and relax.

I mean, 28 out of 29 traits CAN'T be wrong...can it?

RAGNAR! *kisses metal*

For the first time in my life, I've dedicated part of my waking hours to running as a form of enjoyment. Sure I've run many times in the past: Evading the cops at the shutdown Safeway warehouse in Butte, at the losing end of threats made by various high school sport coaches and of course from the needle whose intent was to sentence me to 17.5 years of child support. This was different though. I just ran to run. It was both the means and the end. Sort of a quick paced meditation if you will.

I was contacted by my Cousin that is susceptible to arm-triangles back in March about a relay race that he and 10 others had signed up for. They needed a twelfth person to complete the team. Having never been terribly excited about running, I needed more persuasion than "come all the way out here and run for us".

Arm-Triangle: You will be in the van full of sexy girls

Me: Sold!

At this time I was in Hamilton and working out on a regular basis, so I figured the transition to runner-me from elliptical-machine-me would be cake. Turns out the muscles are a touch different. And a mile is faaaaarrrrrr!

These initial running pains were not much of a hurtle until they sent me out to Madison WI for work. This is when I finally realized that I had been running in the desert. I know Hamilton looks nice and green, but it is the desert. Madison on the other hand is a touch moist. Even thinking about putting on my running shoes made me sweat. The actual running part was enough to leave me wondering if my balls would ever quit smelling of cheese rotting in a Louisiana swamp (I can't reach them myself with my nose, but I keep trying to get them as close as possible to a girl's nose. I'll report the findings when I get them).

Couple month's pass of normal life, and I'm finally on a plane to Seattle (Horizon Air w/ free booze. w00t b33r). Two girl I've know from previous visits come to get me at the airport and bring me to the pre-game pasta feed. Stopped by a cool vista on the way there.



We all get drunk (or maybe just ArmTri, Aye, Yae and me...) and call it a pretty early night. The next morning I get up around 10am. Aye, Yae and I get in the car and start to collect the other 3 runners that make up van 2 (the other van left at 5am...suckers). We head towards the Canadian border for about 2.5 hours to the first exchange and chill out at a park by the sound somewhere near Bellingham. We eventually took the slap-bracelet baton around 1 or 2 pm, and I finally started my first leg (I was runner 11 of 12) around 6 pm.

The first leg for me started out downhill through some ranch type homes with lillacs growing everywhere. The smell was awesome and my legs were more than fresh. It wound around for a while, and before mile 2 was complete (4.7 mile leg), I had already passed 3 people. This was an essential task, because in order to receive a Busch tall-boy at the baton pass, you needed to pass a runner. The next 2.7 miles did not share the same aromatic/visual pleasantries of the first 2 miles. I rounded a corner only to stare down a perfectly flat 2 mile straight away. Cones on the side of the road as far as the eye could see. The lack of digestibles in my stomach quickly turned into a side ache that was only exemplified by the growing smell of cow shit. And what is this other fine smell I’m catching slight whiffs of? The glorious olfactory sensations of road kill skunks. Ahhh…Drink. It. In.

I finished the first leg with 5 passes and I wasn’t passed at all. Got my Busch, passed the baton and prepared for more van riding nonsensicals. After Aye finished her leg we went and got some food then headed to the 3^rd exchange to wait for van 1. It was dark by this time, so we bedded down on some grass for a mini nap before the next runners showed up. The combination of street lights, people talking and my lack of sleeping bag didn’t allow me to catch any Zs, but I was able to get a badass Aye/Yae sandwich cuddle for about a half hour.

The night runs were fairly uneventful (because of the lack of light out in the woods at that hour of night) except for one small pit stop we made. Somewhere near an Indian casino we pulled off the road in order for me to get my naked Friday picture (even though it was already Saturday morning around 1am Pacific). I had two of the girls shine flashlights on me while another took a picture of me butt-ass nekid with my race number (105) in front of my junk. It was classy to say the least. After that pic we took another tribute picture for a friend that couldn’t make it of Aye, Yae, another girl and me. We all lined up in front of the car (for headlight lighting) for a group ass shot. I haven’t seen the pics yet, but I can assure you they are good.

My 2^nd leg started around 2:30 to 3:00 Saturday morning. It was a 6.2 mile “Hard” leg. Lots of hills and further than I think I have ever run at one time in my life. Since it was so dark out, the van would leapfrog the runner by a mile or two at a time just to insure the runner’s success.

I was kicking some ass on my run around mile 3:

Yae: Keev, how are you doing? Do you need anything?

Me (panting): NUDITY!

Aye: Fuck him…he’s fine.

Not only was I fine (minus the lack of breath and burning legs), I passed 9 people on that leg and still I hadn’t been passed. It was a kick ass leg for other reasons too. The entire run was along the sound and out in the woods. It was quiet enough to hear the waves the entire time, and the moon was full enough to run without a flashlight.

One more night run (Aye's) and then we take off to exchange 5. Yae is driving and I’m the navigator, so no sleep for us. We roll into a small town where there is a high school that has the gym floor set up with mats for the runners to sleep on. Sadly, someone opened a door that was still actively alarmed and the entire place was strobing and screaming at the top of its lungs. Mind you, I have an incredible ability to sleep through alarm clocks, but falling asleep to that sound is a completely different ball game. It just wasn’t going to happen.

We took the opportunity to go find a park and bed down in the grass. Yae was kind enough to share a cuddle and her sleeping bag, but once again sleep was not on our side. We would close our eyes just long enough to start drifting off…KAAAWWWWW!!! A fucking crow would just lose its mind. Not for any extended amount of time. Just long enough to startle us out of slumber. Then it was back to situation normal…tweet tweet tweet…zzzz….KAAAAAWWWW!!!! Damn you, you stupid ass bird! Harland Williams was right. Why do we need crow?

This continued long enough to keep us from any of that annoying REM sleep before runner 6 came trotting into the exchange. While our spirits were a touch hindered by the total lack of sleep, we still managed to enjoy our final leg of the relay. I even did the final leg in a sarong. Makes for some top notch nad ventilation. Got passed once (elite runner) and passed another. Final pass count: 15 passes, 1 pass.

The race ended for us in 26 hours (not bad for 189 miles). That put us 46^th out of 150 teams with an average pace of just over 8 minute miles. Pretty good for some booze-hounds with a running problem.

We jumped on a ferry and booked back to Seattle for a nap prior to our planned outing and boozing shenanigans. I was even one of the main pushers for this R&R prior to firing back up for evening drinking. What I didn’t realize is that I was about to get into all sorts of glorious sexual touching enjoyment. And while I didn’t receive that shuteye I was searching for, I did manage to release a firetruck’s worth of hormones into my body and that seems to produce a methamphetamine like alertness. Took a quick shower and I was ready to step up my drinking again. Well, not that dymatap tasting "energy drink" shit ArmTri tried to get me to drink.

The troops were rallied, the bars were patronized and we shut it all down at 2am. ArmTri and Aves had a mini battle of blackout bull run in the apartment that night and Yae and I were finally able to rest our weiry heads around 6am.

(speed finish)

Got up at 10am.

Breakfast at noon.

Hustle and Flow at 2pm.

To the airport at 6pm.

Flight delayed until 10:30pm.

Arrive in Bozeman 1am Monday morning.

To the office for work at 8am.

So from Friday morning to when I arrived in Bozeman late Sunday, I had managed to acquire roughly 6 hours of sleep. It’s amazing how little that matters to me when I’m having a great time. Good times, booze and drugs…that’s my anti-drug!

Airline Tsaoism

Recently I've been flying a lot.  This means that I've been stuck in airports without free wireless and relying on m.youtube.com to stream mindless garbage into my brain via the cell phone internets.  It also means that I've had a lot of time to work on patients and anger emotional evasion techniques.  Most people don't practice these techniques and it quickly becomes apparent how readily people will loss their minds over situations that are completely out of their control.

It doesn't matter how loudly somebody curses the airlines or the airports, that lightning storm is still going to be hanging over MSP airport, and the crew is not going to be able to load your baggage into the plane.  Furthermore it doesn't matter how many times you turn to me in your seat and sigh heavily, we aren't going to land in Billings anytime before 1am.

It doesn't have to be that way.  You simply need to be a touch creative.  I do that while basing my creativity in the roots of Tsaoism.  

For instance:  The Billings Logan International airport has one of the slowest baggage claims in the continental [The] United States.  Most people take that time to brew up a tasty batch of pissed-the-fuck-off with a side salad of grumbling-at-the-floor.  I'm much more clever.  Here's the scoop.

Using deductive reasoning I estimated that the baggage would again be slow on my final return from Madison WI, so I called ahead to MBSE with a game plan, and followed that sales call with a text the moment we had touchdown.

Text from Me:  Touchdown

Now that I'm in the elite status with NWA (airline...not the rap group,  although I really wish I were), I get to sit first class.  This means that I'm first off that plane and first coming down the escalator.  I don't stop there.  I keep on trucking past the baggage claim and right out door 4.  There, waiting like a rally car with a sexy driver...actually not like that, that exactly...is MBSE in my STi.  We let the motor spin, the turbo boost and the clutch drop on our way to a dark parking lot not even a 1/2 mile away.

She is in a sarong without those time consuming panties that seem to take a lifetime to remove, and I've expedited my race towards full nudity by not owning a pair of underroos.  Now with the windows down far enough for legs to jet out into the night and let the moans of 10 days in Madison without touch escape, we work up and incredible sex sweat.

There...all better.

I fire the STi back up and roll to door 4, walk inside as the bell goes off for the luggage to start moving out and 3 bags later I have my checked bag in hand.

Only thing left to do on a night like that is to poke a little smot, drink some beers downtown and return for the scheduled double-header.

Tsao be with you...(and also with you)

I'm Fucking Famous

I went to see where another fire was burning outside of Billings by checking billingsgazette.com.

Turns out I'm sort of a big deal.

People know me.

I want to be on you...

This Morning

10:00am (still asleep)

MBSE: Do you smell smoke or something burning?

Me: No... (closes eyes and goes back to sleep)

10minutes pass

Father: WAKE UP BEFORE THE HOUSE BURNS DOWN!

I take a second to stare out the window with my -5.25 shitty vision, and even then I can tell that there is a serious fire taking place about 100 to 200 yards away. I snag my glasses from the night stand and head up the the balcony that is a floor above my room. I'm greeted with a hell of a view.



This size of fire continues for about 10 minutes before it runs into some rocks and the firefighters (fooooya-fiiiightaaas heeeeeeeeyyyyyy, fun indian joke for anyone in Leadore with me a couple years back) are able to subdue the flames to a state of smoldering. The air temperature here is 31.5C (89F) and the wind has been gusting up to around 56kph (35mph), so it should be pretty easy for this thing to kick back up into full force. The phone rang a couple minutes later to give us an automated evacuation alert. We promptly ignored the warning and continued to watch the PoPo and Firefighters put out the small blazes still left at the base of trees and sagebrush. A coast guard looking chopper did two flybys with a water bucket and I got a picture of it dumping and returning to the pond for a refill.




I've been working from home for the last week, and I haven't really found the time to put together any blogs. I've just been swamped...

Happy 232nd [The] America

I swear she doesn't look a year over 218.

I went on a fun little trip the week of the 4^th, and I want to chronicle it before booze and weed erase it from my spank bank.

I took off for Hamilton on Monday morning and pretty much felt like a bag of dicks. I got some sort of throat virus (presumably from a bus station skank) and it was rocking my world. After taking a few Ibuprofens, I was pretty much ready to hit the road. My car on the other hand was not ready. It was downtown at the tire shop where they had just put my summer tires back on and aligned it all (drives like a badass again). My first attempt to get a ride was from the rents. They both were at work so my search continued. Not being afraid to lay a little groundwork for the future (read: present), I went next door to try and get a ride from the hot 16 year old that likes to wash her car in her swimsuit. Sadly she didn’t answer the door (I assume she was touching herself to the mix tape that I gave her and didn’t hear me ring the doorbell). I finally got a ride from the grandma that watches the kids across the street. So I guess it is true what they say, “although slow and dangerous behind the wheel, senior citizens CAN still serve a purpose”.

I finally get the car, load up the boat, longboard and some clothes and hit the road. The drive was nice now that I’m rockin the satellite radio. Comedy and re-mix techno are the shizz. But aside from getting a few new pumps for the raft, the trip was pretty uneventful.

Pulled into Hamilton at about 7PM and stopped by the hotel to see my sweet little hotel friend X-tina. Chatted (read: hit on her and talked dirty) with her for a while and then went and saw the rest of the crew. Finally settled into the Coin for some beers and called it a night. Actually I went back to my Mexican’s house and watching bow hunting for turkeys. If you ever get the chance to watch guillotine bow hunting for birds when you are drunk, TAKE IT. It is hilarious, and I don’t even hunt…or care to start.

Woke up around noon (to a nice naked pic of X-t) and went up to Darby to get my one of my favorite burritos. It is a little place called the Little Blue Joint. You must stop in and have one if you are ever passing through. After that tasty treat we (Mex and I) went to a fishing access just outside of town and planned on floating to Main St in Hamtown where my Mexican’s house is located. For those of you that don’t know, the Bitterroot River just killed a guy (or gal, not really sure), and everyone and their fucking mother’s dog felt like they needed to tell me about how I was going to die on this river. Turns out the river is a slow moving lake with only 1 section that actually has anything worth mentioning (read: wave that can put water in the boat). All in all it was a nice float and a good excuse to drink some beers. Afterwards we hit up the brewery and failed miserably to get some girls to come out drinking with us.

Next morning I woke up and started my trek towards Idaho. Everything was going quite well until I was a few hours into the trip. I was racing across some pretty open/barren land and I started to recognize a town I was quickly approaching. Everything seemed so familiar although I know that I hadn’t been down the road before. I soon put together the mental puzzle pieces and realize that I was in Leadore Idaho. The same town I was in when doing firecamp catering. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, but Leadore isn’t even close to the path I wanted to be on. To further the problem, I was running low on gas.

Me: What’s the fastest way to Boise from here?

Gas station attendant: Airplane (laugh). Did you just come from Salmon?

Me: Yep, I’m sort of an idiot.

GSA: You aren’t the first to miss that turn. The quickest way is to go down to Arco.

Me: Do you just have 85 octane fuel (my car manual recommends 93)?

GSA: Yep, but you can put in some octane boost if you fuel up, that will get you to about 89 octane.

Take a look at this map and you will see how far off I went:

Should have gone this way.

Went this way.

Original trip would have been 336 miles. My new trip was 432 miles. Ooooopps!

The nice part about that drive though, is that I got to really open ‘er up. You can see for miles down there, and it is so empty in this mountain valley (think napoleon dynamite landscape) that you can spot any and all cops (there were none). I also had the radar/laser detector on, so I spent about 30 minutes of driving at an average speed of 120mph. Even with the reduced octane fuel I never had any engine knocking. Go Subaru.

Things shake a bit at this speed.

Finally got into Boise around 5, met up with PIC and his girl and went to the downtown “Alive at 5”. When we got on the bikes to go down there, I was expecting the skanky methed out version of downtown drinking events that Billings so eloquently hosts. What I got instead was a sweet party. The booze was better, the music was better and the people…well the people were just dead sexy. Younger, hotter and did I mention sexy. PIC had to go to school, so me and his girl went and got some food downtown. We ate outside and I just sat back and filled up the spank bank (which really paid dividends the next morning in PIC’s shower, HEY OH!). After dinner we went up to the road that leads to Bogus Ski Resort and did some longboarding. I tell you what! It was the shit! It is a 20+ mile road and steep. We bit off a 6.1 mile chunk of that road and made it our bitch. In that 6.1 miles we descended just under 2000 feet. The chip and seal was a little rough and lit our feet on fire from the vibrations, but you can’t have everything.

Next morning we got up and started to prepare for a river day. PIC and I were sort of being beavers and opted out of the Main Fork Payette trip (after almost killing MBSE a couple days earlier on the Stillwater River I didn’t have my daddy pants back on yet) and settled with the Boise River. The Boise is a super mellow float with a ton of people from the city on it at all times. It would be super chill, but the town is a touch mormon and have strict booze laws regarding boozing outside. It was a sweet day to be on the river.

As you can see it was a bit on the warm side in Boise.

We capped the float off with some sweet zza and beer (and beer and cheese paring), and then we drank it up downtown. The next morning I decided I didn’t want to go all the way out to Bend OR only to turn around and have to drive to Billings in a day, so I opted to head back up to Hamtown for the fireworks and 4^th of July tomfoolery. Before that PIC and I did a sick 2 mile smooth stretch of longboarding right at the ski hill. It was another epic run. I said “epic”. I suck.

Drove back up to H-town the “correct” way and it was a MUCH nicer drive. There were a lot of passes and roadside rivers and it was in the woods instead of the desert. The South Fork of the Payette is a sweet looking river and someday I’m going to return to it and float it (who’s with me?).

I bought some fireworks from a mildly foreign guy that night and it was a blast. Haggling for fireworks in a nearly empty stand is funny shit to me.

Foreign Guy: That will be $55.

Me: Damn, I guess I’ll have to go get them somewhere else because I only have $46.

FG: Sold.

The best part is I still got raped. Hahaha.

Woke up on a couch the morning of July 5 (feeling like another bag ‘o dicks) and went to the farmers market for an Amigo’s Burrito, rented two PFDs from a fishing shop and then went floating with 4 other people. Good times. That night the Mexican and I got fucking housed at the Coin and the Rainbow and ended up playing with a kitten in his front yard (trying to get it to kill something) and yelling at cars that went by. Times like this sure make me miss the small towns.

We went inside around 3AM and I don’t think the Mexican even made it to the menu of Semi-Pro before he hit his proverbial wall: