For Christ's sake, I wasn't sure my erratic host--for which I should say for the last five years I have paid nothing, thanks to the generosity--was going to let me post anything. Finally it relented. I just wish that in the middle of the night it wouldn't get all funky and be like, "Hey! You know what? I'm not going to load this page. I'm beating off to Tiffany Mynx. She's over forty, and looks kind of like a lizard, but what a rack!"

Anyway. You're on your own for a little while. See, the thing is, tomorrow the wife and I are flying to deepest, darkest, rodeoest Idaho for my 20th high school reunion. Yes, proud bulls will get their nuts tied up purely so we can drink beer and cheer them on to stomp on some insane cowboys. Perhaps one of those cowboys will get headcrushed in the ring and they'll audibly shoot him out of mercy in the parking lot. You never know!

The whole thing promises to be a complete clusterfuck. (Note to self: spellchecker does not like "clusterfuck." Other note: spellchecker also does not like "spellchecker.")

For one thing, we're all pushing forty. Which means that it's a bunch of people all standing around talking about things like weight gain, hair loss and prescription medication. I'm not sure why we even bother. We might as well just send in representative samples from our pillboxes. "Doug wins. He's got Paxil, Viagra, Wellbutrin, Propecia, Clugnubber and Magic Boot Root McSmoot Toot, which is illegal in Tennessee. Also, he weighs six hundred pounds and would have been here, but there weren't any winches available."

We might even have a float in the terrible parade, which means that they give you a case of beer and a bunch of Super Soakers to douse the children. I don't really fucking know. I don't know anything.

Can you tell I'm a little freaked out? Christ. Look, I'll see you next week. I'm guessing I'll have tons to write about.