Ran to the Dom

First order of business - a very happy 28th birthday to party boy himself, Mr. Michael Clifford Maratta. If you see this fine fellow slumming around Mt. Adams tonight, buy him a drink and sing happy birthday to him. He'd like that. Nice bowtie, by the way.

I experienced my first old, married man moment yesterday evening. I was at the gym, attempting to banish my dear pal Mr. Beer Belly. I wasn't really into it and was struggling to keep pace with the treadmill. Then, out of the blue, in walks some chick in sweat pants she purchased in the child's section of Target and a sports bra. However, that is not to say that she shouldn't have been wearing said get-up. To borrow a quote from Jocko, her body was "on point". Sure, her face looked like a Mack truck hit it and then backed up to make sure it finished the job. That didn't matter. So not only did I not want to be there, I nearly feel off the treadmill from gawking at the butterface. And I was pissed off about it. Listen, sweetie, I'm there to work off my love handles. If I was in the hunt for boner material, I'd hit the world wide interwebs. Put some clothes on next time.

These little buggers right here are called Puffcorn Delights. If you haven't had these things, do yourself a favor, and DON'T EVER try them. If you have had the pleasure, I'm sure you can appreciate the ensuing rant here. It's not that these guys aren't DEE-LISH, it's that your attempts to resist them are futile. They're light, fluffy, cheesy and obviously coated with an addictive substance that's only rivaled by heroin. If your attention isn't directed solely at the task at hand, you will crush half a bag of these things before you know what's happened. I usually get them at Sam's club, where for $2 you get a bag big enough to feed entire villages in Uganda.

And lastly, have a good life Browns fans.......