Saturday, September 15, 2007

This just in:
Initially highly ranked, but now both 0-2, Michigan and Notre Dame match up to see whose season will suck less. The last time two bigger underachievers hooked up it was called: The Federline-Spears wedding.

Ah, I love the smell of bacon and coffee in the morning, it reminds me of Fall Saturdays in leafy suburban Chicago, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

As if
After her nightmare comeback performance at the MTV Awards, critics are wondering if Britney can salvage her career? Britney thinks she can make another comeback, in fact, she’d bet her britches on it, if she ever wore any.

Wanna get away? Not so fast, you skank
Southwest Airlines has changed their slogan. It is now: “You are now free to move about the country, except you, you little whore.”

A second woman has come forward to say she was kicked off a Southwest Airlines flight because she was dressed too sexy. Hey, Southwest, how about reserving me a seat before you cop the snotty attitude, OK, you glorified Greyhound bus of the skies?

The most boring statement in the world? Man, I had the weirdest dream last night

But I really did.

There I was stand up paddleboard surfing on the coolest UCSB-colored golden yellow and sea blue paddleboard in a remote coastal section of Western Australia with a really nice family who owned this massive sheep ranch/ Victorian stone and wood castle estate on the rugged, blustery coast.

They were a friendly, partying, athletic bunch with great rock blaring on outdoor speakers, prawns steaming on the smoky “barbies” and lots of yellow and black Labrador hunting dogs and shiny black and chestnut race horses freely milling about on the beach and on the tall grass fields beyond the cliffs. Their private beach was strewn with colorful surfboards water ski speed boats, kayaks, ocean rowboats and various fishing boats.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, we were under siege in a nightmare of canon fire from their enemy neighbors from the North who were evil South Africans trying to create a slave trade of Aborigines to be sold to remote Australian and New Zealand ranches. They were attacking our ranch because it had the only landfall for a port for a thousand of miles, which they desperately needed for their burgeoning slave trade.

(No horses or Labradors were hurt during this attack)

The attack got so bad we had to retreat into the nearby coastal mountains to regroup and to plan a counter guerilla attack on the slave merchants. We were high in the mountains in somewhat of a tropical forest. One of the brothers turned out to be not- so bright, so naturally there sprung up an amusing “Who’s on first” routine with gorillas and guerillas.

“We are going to launch a four-prong guerilla attack, mates.”

“But, crickey, how are we going to get gorillas to attack?”

Somehow we all simply retired to this mountain village rustic bar and grill for steaks and Margaritas and the entire skirmish was forgotten about entirely. At the rowdy, drunken table, I became embroiled in a bidding war for a vintage sea-foam-green Indian motorcycle.

It’s hilarious how reality and wild fantasy collide in these dreams. At one point I offered to write a check for the motorcycle but decided to put it on my credit card instead because I didn’t have enough cash in the checking account. Why couldn’t I have just dreamed I had ten million in cash from the recent sale of several Santa Barbara and Encinitas fixer-upper ranch house transactions?

That settles it. No more sweet garlic pickles with Oreos and milk before bed.