Wood Sagas - Stories From Wood Sugars Comedy

So, I Think I Can Dance [A Poem Told as A Short Story]

2009-10-13T12:15:00.001-07:00

By Donny Rodriguez

The address is comprised of numbers I've encountered previously-- filled with the odd and even digits I've grown up with over the past 27 years--hopefully this is the last I'll encounter them under these circumstances. 3530. The name of the street is unique compared to the licensed business name of the dance company holding today's audition. Hoyne. Chicago Moving Company. Unfamiliar with this street, the company, and city I'd plié around as a gadabout for the last four years, I enlisted my friend and audition companion, Rebbecca, or Becky, to join me. “Yea, I'll go. There's a cute coffee shop right by that place [the audition], so at the very least we can get some pumpkin inspired lattes,” said my college dance piece partner, Rebbecca. “Alright, I'm going to get ready and I'll pick you up shortly there after,” I murmured into my mobile phone. “This is my last audition. I'm serious,” I said aloud to myself, by myself, as I tried to find a pair of purple socks to help me stick out from the other dancers (the purple socks are a hacky trick that I picked up from a former college mentor. However, this “bit” has yet to Mind Freak my dance resume or bank account). “I'm too old to be new learning steps, only to forget them as soon as I fasten my shoe laces and duffel bag's zipper,” I said to the red light on my way to pick up Becky on this ideal marathonesque weather on Sunday morning in October.

Psyching myself out has become the preferred method when trying to psych my self up for another body moving, confidence crippling, dance try out. Four years out of college with no major career excitement, just minor roles in scattered pieces. I arrive at my good friend's domicile, wait three minutes as she gracefully exits her apartment building and gingerly enters my Ford Focus. “How's teaching going, Becky?” I asked already knowing the answer. Becky is an amazing dance instructor, who becomes increasingly more passionate about teaching dance for a living than performing it. Where most of us with a state school issued degree that states one is qualified to make money off dance, use teaching as a “back up plan”, Becky looks forward to inspiring strangers by creating dance compositions for them to rehearse under her tutelage. “You know, it's a job. I still go on these auditions because the need to create is always there, but yea, it's okay,” explained a modest Rebbecca. “Yea, but at least you're dancing for a living,” I passively put out there. Then Becky went on to remind me the paying gigs and choreography I've been able to fill out W-2 forms for. It's not the same though. I wanted the structured clarity a dance studio or company affords for my creative insanity and to avoid self imposed physical calamity.
*********************************

The building on the outside is just what you'd expect. Inconspicuously bland front for the ingenuity, chaos, and the dexterity presumably performed on the constructions' floors. Dance studios, just another office building. Except in a studio you have a few more mirrors than copy machines. The structure's bricks and beams don't sway, careen, or do the fox trot, that I might be asked to do in the coming minutes, so I deem it's safe to enter, and Becky and I do just that. The floor boards of the space look like that of the other auditioning dancers from the neck up, blonde and bored. Remove shoes. Find a spot. Stretch the muscles--hopefully all 656 to 850, depending on if you count the skeletal muscles and fascia bands—don't for get to exhale. As I set out, elongate, and lengthen all my tools on the floor, I raise my neck and strain it while surveying all competition covered with fear and optimism. This is my last audition, maybe the last time I'll dance, maybe the last time I'll love, and these thoughts aren't scary, but reassuring. “Shit, I forgot to sign in,” I sorta mutter to Becky. Forgetting to sign in was no good sign, but telling that I'm getting too old and too forgetful of how and why I do this.

Haphazardly and unwillingly, I've become a pro at showing these tunnel visioned casting agents that I can fake good technique. Why I got into this [dance] was because I love performing and using my body for art's sake. Which is a far cry from my contemporaries whose idea of contributing to art for art's sake is making out with “actors” and “musicians” after they drink a Pabst and romanticize their vision aloud just to see one naked. Creativity and physicality. It's why I dance. It's what I've wanted for my life, not this wave rejection by email and verbal nonconstructive criticisms face to face. Well here goes it, today's cattle call wrangler has entered the room in his skin tight spandex cowboy pants and a loose fitting “hipster” pearl snap shirt, ready to whip us with little reassurance that we belong in his heard.

We start with ballet barre. Out of spite or necessity I've perfected ballet barre, an exercise that you'll never see in a live performance, but if you ever want to be seen in a live performance you should center your focus on this trite obstacle. Becky and I are the token elderly dancers who still come to these judgmental gatherings. We perform inane dips and rises on this inanimate barre in hopes not to mess up. When you're on the ballet barre the trick is to not get noticed. Standing out isn't anything you want at this stage of the audition. The purple socks come in handy later, not now. Focus on your center I'll tell my self. This showcase continues for another five minutes with Becky, myself, and the throngs of countless girls awaiting to hear if we made first cuts. Mine. 13. Becky. 6. Read aloud, and we move on. We've moved on. My last first cut, ever. Pumpkin inspired lattes can wait, I have some inspiring I must do, one last time.

Freedom is something a dancer struggles with. Are they free in the madness and structure of their moves in those maintained studios? Or are they free, when they are in the real world, unbound of techniques, madness and structure? I still think it's the former, even though, I'm done with dance after today's auditioning curtain call. It gave me something to love but, more importantly, something to do for the last twelve years. Time I would have spent waltzing through meetings, team building, and filing in offices with more copy machines than mirrors. Just duplicate while rarely looking at one's self, doesn't seem so bad now. I'm happy with the choices I made. I didn't waste nothing, I became something, though something without a lot of things to show for itself. I'm not defeated, I'm just done. Not angry, nor disappointed, just closed, perhaps just for repairs. A sign that hangs and says will return at ...... Maybe. Plausible.

*************************************

Mimicking without feeling. Spot on. That's the room. The lucky ones who've advanced. All these girls turning, spinning, getting dizzy, it makes me sick, knowing they need to nail this audition or they'll stay affected. See what four years of this has done to me? I use to never speak this harshly of another dancer. We are shown the routine, then we show the shower. Everyone counting steps, but not considering being the dance, just counting, numbers they've been familiar with for twenty some odd years now. I'm moving without thinking. Spot on. Why not? Now's not a time to feel small, tense or frustrated. I'm feeling something with no intentions to mimic things I've felt in the past, and why the fuck not, it'll be my last. Oblivious to the oblivion that is my fossilized dance career found under the ruble of the new stones, that these new girls are trailblazing through. Not now. These beautiful, capable, rational dancers must yield to my insane reasoning. Just for now. My curtain call with dance. Step aside. I want to be this dance, it is me, why the fuck not, it's going to be my last, and it'll be over in 32 more steps. Arms raised, nothing's grounded. Freedom. 24 steps left. I'm doing it, and I sorta got a feeling that I've been doing it now for a while. My feet have been doing the talking, it's my head that's refused to listen. I've been dance, and I hear it loud and audible now. I've been spreading the word, performing the act, I've done dancing for a while now. A lot. In front of people even. Mostly alone. When I've needed it. Now understanding that dance needed me just as much--just to exist. If I stop dancing, it's stops living. I've always wanted to dance for a living, but naive to the fact that me dancing has kept myself and dance living. So what, I have to bartending to pay rent, I pay rent to live in the city, to keep dancing. 16. But it's coming to an end. Becky has been tapped on the shoulder, by the dance instructor, the wrangler has all but put her out to pasture, he's seen enough of graceful Becky. Becky, the best dancer I know, the supportive co-worker I've shared a water or two with. She watches me as my center and everything on my person personify the dance. The last 8 steps of my life I'll be told to do. Measurable time will have a different meaning to me when I've completed this piece. Time will be about half off when this is all over. My perseverance, has paid off and it's collecting interest in interest of the love I've put forth that's in debt wishing to collect. With my lungs insufferably spazzing and collapsing on themselves I've come to the conclusion I've just experienced twelve years of work come to a conclusion on this Sunday in October. What a weird time to have an audition, right? Then, it's over, the routine anyway. I keep dancing, even though it would be appropriate to bow on behalf of my final performance , I just want 8 more counts. 8 that are my own. Ones that I taught you. 8 a capella notes that you will try to mimic and feel. 8 seconds worth of moves that will imprint my size 8 feet all over your back instead of the other way around. The world that I discovered is counting on me to show it something unique. Hoyne. Chicago Moving Company. Freeze and watch. Hear my feet do the talking. Your decisions have decided my future for the last time, my final bow ends with the moves you've wasted on me. Because I've never wanted to be a part of belonging. I've just wanted to be dance, with and defiantly now without you. It's over, my final routine anyway. I'm thirsty yet satisfied. He can call out whatever number he wants, I've counted my own fate aloud for those 8 steps.

******************************

As I fasten my laces and zipper my duffel bag and tell Becky I can't wait for a latte, the cowboy starts hooting and a hollering numbers aloud. I try to usher Rebbecca out of there before he finishing calling out those who've made it and the defining silence that follows from those who hadn't. I get to leave on my own accord. At peace with the chaos. I've given dance what it was never able to give me in 12 years, everything. The hurt is over. He called my number. My tears hit the floor and make a sound louder than my tumbling duffel bag and knees.

I have nothing, and making the final cut doesn't change much. It's the nothing that's everything to me. I will always be able to dance with and definitely without them. So I stick around, for one last time, to dance for them. An encore. To inspire us both, not caring if I become a member of their dance team. The music strikes up, the routine and my life go there separate ways. Excited for the other. At some point, every song will quit, give up, like I did this morning, perhaps a life long jam-band style encore is in order. This number is comprised of steps I've encountered previously,--filled with the odd and even counts,that I've grown up with over the past 27 years-- hopefully this is the last I'll encounter under these circumstances.

BALL SUGARS: Fantasy Footballs

2008-10-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

(It's more like Bi-Yearly, but we already made this logo and are too lazy to make another one.)

“You f***ing moron! What kind of irrational pervert leaves his phone at home?” was the question asked of me by my inquisitive and inaccurately-slanderous brother. “Where do you get off calling me a pervert?” I answered with a question. “Carlos Zambrano just threw a no-hitter and I’ve been trying to reach your dumb-ass for the last hour.” “When, in pre-game batting practice?” My dumb-ass replied. “No, against the Hurricane (Ike) displaced, (Houston) Astros, dick!” proclaimed a winded Eliaz with a Category-3 powered bad taste insult.

It was Sunday, the 14th of September. I was three days removed from making one of the most short-sighted fantasy football trades of all-time (in all of the 8 years since Fantasy football's advent, according to some dude who was writing on digg.com's fantasy sports message board). I’m in a ten-team fantasy league with a few acquaintances from work. The entry fee was $30 and all of the owners/players involved are experienced FF (fantasy football) participants, so I was looking forward to general managing my players against theirs. I felt pretty good about my team’s chances after I drew the third position in our leagues’ fantasy draft. I spent the first few rounds drafting according to CBSsportsline.com mock draft suggestions. I then made a few questionable picks later on, but none-the-less my team looked good—on paper that is (FF joke).

My team had a great opening week, wherein we won 120-60 in “pretend play“. Rather than celebrating and message board gloating, I started focusing on ways to make my team better. Glibly ignoring the old idiom of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” I sought out trades among the other owners and listened to all their propositions.

The trade to which I hinted at in the second paragraph was Washington Redskins Quarterback Jason Campbell and San Diego Chargers Uber-tight end Antonio Gates for an ailing Matt Hasselbeck from the Seattle Seahawks, an unproven, third-year tight end out of the Denver organization, Tony Scheffler, and the very promising wide out from the Detroit Lions, Calvin Johnson. In my week one victory, all three of my aforementioned players performed underwhelming, to say the least. The footballers scored ten or less fantasy points a piece, which ultimately won‘t translate to a league title. The proposed transaction between my team—The Wood Sugars—and my friend Andy’s team—the Algonquin Puppies—did make little sense for me and a lot for Andy. “U know, I thought we were friends. This was before you proposed to me that horrendous trade offer that only benefits you. You tried 2 bang me in the back door and I have news for you, that unpleasant act is only reserved for those who are genetically predisposed to it, or girls who hate their fathers.” I texted Andy, or Ando as I often refer to him, in a two part text. But then I got to drinking. I mean deep boozing. Andy has been a good pal to me recently and we are both in the same holding pattern in life‘s turbulent one-way flight. We both are a couple of desolate cats staying at our mom’s house to save money for a few months before we find a scratching post of our own. (That cat-analogy was for my loyal female readers, most of whom I would surmise stopped reading after the sentence “You fucking moron!” or when they read the crass, but apt title of “Fantasy: Foot-n-Balls“).

According to my Chase online debit card statement, I purchased six dollars and thirty-three cents worth of something at a Love’s Liquor store. The libations I purchased were most likely from the Miller Brewing company. After an hour of re-watching episodes of Rickey Gervais’s Extras: Season Two on DVD, and siphoning out the contents of five domestic light beers, I decided to make sense of Ando’s low-ball trade.

My inebriated inner monologue went something like this:

Matt Hasselbeck:
Pros: He’s taken a team to Super Bowl XL, he’s played in three NFL Pro Bowl games, and he tries his hardest not to throw the ball to the other team. Moreover, that last fact is one of the most relevant in fantasy scoring.

Cons: So far this season, his top two receivers—Bobby Engram and Deion Branch—are out until week five, and his next two top receivers were placed on Injured Reserved and are out for the season. He now has three serviceable running backs, as opposed to the ineffective former MVP Shaun Alexander, which means he probably will not throw a pass further than five yards, until week six or so. Matt has now become the fantasy football version of his sister-in-law, Elizabeth Hasselback. They both were beloved by fans from 2003-2007, but will be disappointing to them in 2008. (Elizabeth is the only conservative on daytime TV’s “The View” with an audience largely composed of liberal women. She is vocal about her disdain of abortion and Barrack Obama. Jokes are much funnier when you explain them, right?)

Tony Scheffler

Pros: According to ESPN Fantasy Football 2008 magazine, the third year tight end is the seventh best tight end in the league.

Cons: I drafted Tony based completely on the fact that, according to ESPN Fantasy Football 2008 magazine, the third year tight end is the seventh best tight end in the league. I have no idea if he is any good. I do know that he is on a team where WR Brandon Marshall is going to have fifty percent of the passes targeted towards him.

Calvin Johnson

Pros: The Lions 2007 1st round draft pick showed his speed and talent in his rookie season when he pulled in 48 receptions, twelve of which were for twenty yards or more. These are average numbers, but the situation seems a little better when you factor in the fact that he is only twenty-two on a team with offensive coordinator Mike Martz (who likes to spread the ball) and Pro Bowl WR Roy Williams. Now Martz is gone, and Roy is unhappy and hence, not so likely to not play to his fullest potential. Which means Calvin will get the ball thrown to him, often.

Cons: He has to share all the passing targets with Roy. In addition, his Detroit Lions team will play in a defensive-minded NFC North division. Aside from that, he is great. However, I have a receiving core of; Terrell Owens, Andre Johnson, and week one rookie standout Eddie Royal, so if there is any position I can deplete, it is WR. What I do need is a tight end. Fuck yea, a good tight end; also, I should take a piss before I make any rash decisions.

After one and a half minutes of the expelling of urine, which my body deemed as waste, I continued to debate the trade. Enter Antonio Gates. He is arguably the best tight end in the NFL for the last four seasons. If I had Gates on my roster, I would have a complete team. So there was the proposed trade—my three players for the best tight end in football and a decent QB out of Washington, Jason Campbell. So after I finished the last beer of my six-pack, I had a glass of Manischewitz wine and decided to go ahead and approve the trade.

Fast Forward:
“Tony F-ing Scheffler, who do you think you are scoring 18 points?” I bellowed in front of my computer’s monitor. I caught the tail end of my former tight end’s game that pitted Scheffler’s Denver Broncos against the San Diego Chargers on CBS. There I sat in disbelief, in between my laptop and television, wishing I could go into FF seclusion for a couple of weeks. Earlier that day, Calvin Johnson, of the Detroit Lions, and now of my friend Ando’s fantasy’s team, scored the offensive amount of twenty-four points, on offense. “It is so disturbing how grand of a failure you are when it comes to general managing your Fantasy team. Your trade of Tony (Scheffler) and Calvin (Johnson) for (Antonio) Gates is a Magnum Opus move that will surely be forgotten” I articulately chastised myself. I continued to rip into myself with wit by saying: “F me, how could I make such a one-sided trade of this magnitude. I feel like the naive Natives Americans who were given sixty guilders for Manhattan by Peter Minuit.” (Author A.J. Jacobs humorously points out on pg. 279 of his book The Know-It-All, that the Indians got the equivalent of $120 for Manhattan, more than the $24 we have been told in the past). All Antonio Gates managed to put up was an anemic six points. After receiving three-to-six too many text messages about how embarrassed I should feel about my baffling trade, I decided to forego watching with my dad the baseball contest between the National League Central first place Chicago Cubs and the Houston Astros, who were the visiting home team in Milwaukee. Because of the damage caused by Hurricane Ike in Houston to the Astros' home field (Minute Maid Park), the game had to be relocated. “Sorry pops, I can‘t take any more disappointment from the sports arena. My writing career is bad enough. I gotta get away from my phone, computer screens, and TVs,” I dejectedly told my Dad. He batted away my self-deprecation and he told me he would take a rain check on the game and that I probably will not miss much. Ugh.

The Cubs had Friday and Saturday off because of the previously referenced natural disaster, which was probably a good thing for the Cubs. The Cubs, losers of eight of their last eleven games, needed a mental break to refocus on securing the division title. This was especially true for Cubs starting pitcher Carlos “Big- Z” Zambrano, who in his last five starts, had given up twenty-four runs in just twenty-six and a third innings pitched. The first pitch of Sunday night’s game in Milwaukee’s Miller Park was at 7:05. However, by 6:50, I was out the door and on my way to corporate coffee king, Starbucks, to read for a few hours.

I had just moved back in with my parents in their two-story house in a sub-division of similar two-story houses in Huntley, Illinois. I will be migrating to Los Angeles, California, in the beginning of next year, and I had moved back with my parents to save some cash. It has taken a lot of adjusting, moving from Chicago, where I have spent the last five years on my own, to a place in the suburbs with my birth givers. It is no knock on them, but what a culture shock it is in Huntley. I have found that there are, honestly, only three things to do in the Huntley and its surrounding towns when you are my age, and they are as follows:

1. Getting a DUI after leaving some bar where every man inside has a passion for Ultimate Fighting and ultimately, fighting with their girlfriends, who’ve told them they’ve had too many Bud Lights

2. Watching every woman, thirty-two years old and younger, text messaging someone who’s not at the bar and conducting a conversation with someone inside the bar at the same time, all the while hypocritically using the noun “drama” and how much they hate it, in conversation every four minutes.

3. Going to the local Starbucks, to purchase coffee.

I am on to you, Starbucks. I know that you purposely make your regular coffee taste like tar, marbles, and ferret shit. So that way the consumer is forced to purchase the more expensive espresso drinks. What a suburban dilemma I am faced with: ingest the vile coffee because it is cheap, or digress and buy the venti, two-pump sugar-free vanilla latte with soy? “Four dollars and seventy six cents, huh? That comes with free refills right?” I asked in a perturbed manner, despite already knowing the answer. “You can save thirty cents on a refill if you use the same cup,” explained the equally annoyed barista. “Alright... Killing two trendy birds with one recyclable stone, going green and saving green at Starbucks.” I quipped. The same awkward expression you have after reading that bad joke is equal to my coffee making counterpart. Yikes.

I wanted to read a book that was devoid of competition or victory, or any themes related to it.
The book I chose to read was about a porn star and her ambitious attempt to break the gang-bang world record. The novel is called Snuff, penned by the same man who back in the late nineties forced Fight Club into the pop-culture ring, Chuck Palahniuk. I’m a big fan of all his work and have recently, found myself, defending the man’s art because most friends, fellow Palahniuk readers, claim that he is just merely a ‘shock writer’. I am not going to argue with the validity of my friend’s criticism in a sports blog, but I will say this: there is nothing shocking with novels about copulating on film for cash and fame nowadays. See Also: Paris Hilton.

Four-fifths finished with my latte and fifty-nine pages deep into the book, I decided to call it a night. Although it was only two and a half hours, I was so relieved to not be surrounded with my technical vices. I packed up my dictionary, book, and I pod and left Starbucks vowing never to come back unless I am with my mother, who always picks up the tab. As I am about to pull into my parents’ place, I change the dial of the radio station in my car from 93 XRT to A.M. radio powerhouse, and home of Cubs games, WGN 720. Just as I tuned in, an excited caller of the Cubs post game radio show stated: “I’d never thought I see the Cubs do this in my lifetime!” I immediately tuned out the radio and thought in my head “It’s September. The World Series is in late October. What could this man possible be talking about?” As I snapped out of my pensive state, 720 had gone to a commercial. I parked my car in my folks drive way and ran up the stairs to the computer room which servers as a comedy office to my brother and I. My brother is watching Cubs’ highlights as he looks at me and says: “Do you have any idea what you‘ve missed? I tried texting you fifteen times” “I have no clue what happened; I left my phone in my bedroom. I just wanted to get away from sports. I was at Starbucks for the last time in my life, read Palahniuk’s new book about a porn star gangbang. It is not as sexy as you think a book would be that tells about degrading sex for money. But it’s funny.” I rambled as my brother stood in shock.

“You fucking moron! What kind of irrational pervert leaves his phone at home?” ……

So I missed the biggest Cubs moment of my lifetime. Why? Because I let a shallow area of the sports milieu, (Fantasy Football) affect my rational relationship with fandom, (watching my beloved Chicago teams play.) Playing fantasy versions of any sport is merely a numbers game. Statistics do not cover the intangibles of the sports fan experience. It robs sport of the moments and adventures you will hold on to for the remainder of your life. As a sports fan, one is inclined to discuss the merits and memories of the teams which the fan holds dear to their contemporaries and younger generations. It is safe to say that twenty years from now, I would not tell my as-yet-to-be-born child “Devin Jordan Rodriguez, (tentative name based on Chicago sports icons), you should’ve seen me in my twenties.” “I was one of the best Fantasy owners of the Chicago northwest suburbs. Nobody made trades and wavier wire pick ups like your old man. What a life. I would spend seven hours sitting in front of a TV and a computer screen just watching my teams move towards victory. Boy did your pops neglect your mother like champ, all because he had to catch every minute of Direct TV's Sundays’ NFL Ticket package.” I would tell my kid. “Also, I know I only see you on alternating weekends due to divorce court mandates. But in two weeks, the guys and me are having our fantasy soccer draft at some dive bar, and they said no kids allowed into their establishment. Sorry,” I would further tell my youngster.

As absurd and hyperbolic as that tangent was, parts of it ring true. Obviously, there are participants of fantasy football who do not let their team’s performance affect their personal life, but I am trying to make a point. There is a good chance I would have told my kid about watching Carlos Zambrano’s no-hitter, the year the Cubs had the best record in their league. (By the time you read this, the Cubs will have already blown it, once again.) Sports are a form of entertainment. Men will aimlessly sit and view the boob tube for hours, just as women will watch reality TV shows on the VH1, Bravo, and Oxygen channels. A major difference is that, although women watch the producer-controlled, scripted, and contrived reality shows with as much fervor as men watch sports, they do not lose touch with reality. Your girlfriend will never blow you off because she has to go to “Rock of Love ’” fantasy league meeting. My point is that fantasy taints what sports fans love: distraction from life’s routine. We enjoy sports because it takes us away from the mundane motions of the day-to-day grind. But when you are tracking your fantasy team's progress daily, stressing over your win-lose record, and subsequently taking it out on the things you enjoy, it’s pointless. After the Cubs lost a tight game in July, I was a little bummed out. We were heading to a bar and my friend asked me why I care. I said, “I’ll get over it in like ten minutes” but that “it was just disappointing to see them lose.” He said, and I paraphrase “It’s not like if the Cubs win or lose a game, your rent will be paid. Sports are a waste of time, unless you bet on the games or have a fantasy team that can win you a shit ton of money.” “Those athletes don’t get bummed out if you have a bad day at work, get over it.” I watch sports because it elicits emotions and lends itself to bonding experiences with your friends and family. Although I will still participate in the remainder of my leagues’ fantasy season, I don’t think I’m going to play again. Even if I win my fantasy league, which I most likely will, it still will not ever feel as good as watching Carlos Zambrano strike out that last Houston Astros batter, for his first no-hitter...

To rip-off and manipulate a phrase from an advertising beer campaign, an ad that plays during commercial breaks of most sporting programming: Please watch sports, responsible.

Wood Sugars' Advice Column

2008-10-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

Wood Sugars Comedy decided to have their 2 least qualified members give advice. Check it out:

My boyfriend recently told me that he's gone down on a man, on 2 separate occasions. He also told me that he liked it. Does that make him gay?
Scaredstr8 LaPorte, IN

says: Yes. And let me ask you this, does he listen to Benny Benassi? Have you seen him "practice" on beer bottles? Does he refuse to color-coordinate his everyday clothes? If you answered yes to one, or all three of these questions, then it's definite. I bet he has an asshole for a dad- You know the kind I mean: plaid-wearing, Milwaukee's Best drinkin', Deadliest Catch watchin', good old fashioned son of a bitch. I guess what I'm saying is that he's only dating you because his dad hates queers, and Jonny Two-Tone doesn't wanna catch a beatin'. Look on the bright side, now you'll have that "gay friend" to go shopping with you on State Street (not any of that Woodfield shoppin', that's busch league), and be a back up date to weddings in case you happen to be single at the moment. Just don't make him wear anything brown. It just looks so God awful on broad shoulders.

adds: Though it may seem like it, there are some rare situations where this does not mean he's gay. For example, just the other day my friend mike said to me, he says to me "Hey, no homo or anything, but can i give you a bj?". I respectfully told him no. However, if I would've let him, he stated "No homo", which automatically takes the homosexuality out of the situation. So, you just have to find out if your boyfriend made it clear if the act was performed in a “gay-way”. Try to find out before he puts another mans' penis wand in or around his mouth.

It should also be noted that if a male fan of the Dallas Cowboys' states “I'm Homo for Tony Romo” they are, in fact, totally gay.

Hey, I'm an 18 year old girl , and extremely shy. I have a mega-crush on this baseball player at my community college. But I don't even know his name. How do I get him to notice me without making it look like I'm trying too hard?
Cynthia Schaumburg, IL

answers: Treat it like a confrontation with a Grizzly bear - It's just as scared of you, as you are of it. I mean, it's the aughts, now. It's nice to have the chick make the first move for a change, what with all this equality I've been hearing so much about. Walk up to him, introduce yourself, and lay it all on the line. Don't even think about it, just blurt whatever comes to mind. It'll work for sure.

Hey guys, what is it with chicks and their crying?
Fed up Phil, Gary, IN

educates: Phil, women cry all the time because they just don't know any better.

The intimate love life my partner and I share is starting to become stale. How do we spice things up a bit?
BoredInBarrington Barrington, IL

says: I've never had this problem... ever... But I would suggest that whenever you two are about to hook up, get blackout drunk before hand.

asks: Have you tried the butt?

Editor's note: One of the members of Wood Sugars have tried the butt and thoroughly recommends it if you enjoy sand paper.

This is hard for me to say, but I'm embarrassed about having a girl go down on me because I think I have a smelly taint. What should I do?
PerplexedPerineum, Chicago, IL

responds: You think it smells? Like, you're not sure? Why would you think it would smell? Has anybody complained? I mean, aside from the fact that it's right smack dab in the middle of the two most disgusting parts of the male body, and it's probably covered in hair... Wait, you know what? Now that I think about it, I think I might have a smelly taint as well. Oh God.

declares: Cottonelle Fresh Wipes®, they're the wave of the future, bro.

What is your advice to a couple that is completely in love, but one of us is sober and the other is addicted to crank cocaine?
Allison Chicago, IL

suggests: Learn to make it yourself. That way you'll save money AND he'll become addicted to you as well, which I assume is what you wanted in the first place. Isn't that romantic?

reminisces: I once made out with a girl who was on crank. It was the most experimental night of my life... Other than that, I got nothin.

I need a good pick up line. You guys got any?
Sugarfan24, Woodstock, IL

warns: Whatever you do, don't mention you're in a comedy group. That hasn't worked for any of us (See “Days since Donny has had the sex” counter on the front page of our Myspace [1 year 8 months & counting]).

answers: "Wanna come over and watch "The Notebook" with me?" Works every time.

I'm desperately single and unhappy, but I despise the relationships of others, like my friends and parents. What should I do about my ambivalent and contradicting feelings?
SoxSukDik Schiller Park, IL

says: I'm pretty much in the same boat as you are. A couple of years back I wrote the straight-to-paperback book about relationships called “Damned if you do and fucked if you don't (or more like fucked if you do and damned if you don't)” [Sold exclusively at discount online bookstore, Half.com]. In it there was a section where I stated: “Picking a girlfriend is like picking a pumpkin. Even if you end up with the best looking one, you'll eventually get sick of it & just want to smash it's face on the ground.” I was a real dick back then, but what I was trying to say is that Humans are not monogamous creatures by nature. Therefore, you should not feel the need to have a committed relationship with one person because that is the societal norm.
You ever see March of the Penguins? Those emperor penguins are monogamous creatures. Some couples like to say that their love is “unlike any other and will last forever”. If that's the case then they should try the emperor penguins' approach to natural love.

(Spoiler alert) Ok, if you're in a relationship, and you both believe that you are in love, try this out:
1. Have a baby. 2. Move to Antarctica. 3. Have the male shove the baby between his ankles & the bottom of his nut sack. 4. Have the woman leave the man there for about 6 weeks, so she can waddle her fat ass to the sea, have the time of her life w/her girlfriends, slide around on her belly and eat caviar. 5. Have the male nearly starve to death without eating the baby (I call this one the "Alive" task. They couldn't even pull it off in that hollywood movie, you think you can? Ha.) 6. When the woman returns, try to pass the baby between your legs (no hands) without letting it hit the ground. (Interesting tidbit: this is how the principals of Aussie Rules Football were formed) 7. Have the male (clinging to life) find his way to the beach, in a blizzard, while trying to follow directions told to him by a woman (You know the route's gotta be all fucked up). 8. Have the woman throw up in the babies mouth all while trying to fend off baby thieves.

I stopped watching the movie at that point, but if you can do that once a year, every year, then ok, you probably have true love... If not, you both may as well look for divorce lawyers who do repeat business.

Other than that, relationships are nothing but poppycock.

simply states: Drink, you idiot.

fin.

The Hiatus Sweepstakes! Get drunk, for free, w/Donny from the Wood Sugies.

2008-10-01T18:51:00.000-07:00

Get drunk, for free, w/Donny from the Wood Sugies.

In promotion of the latest chapter from his story, “The Hiatus”, Donny has created a contest in which he and the winner will spend an evening together drinking and figuring out life, all on Wood Sugars' dime.

Unlimited cosmopolitans made with Ciroc vodka, growlers of a Irish pubs micro-brew, or shots of a bars finest Jagerbombs, it's your choice what you drink for free if you win the hiatus challenge!

Here's how to play: simply read chapters 1 & 2 of “The Hiatus” and post a comment (vV Below Vv [on this page]) stating which Donny you like better: pathetic Donny from Chapter 1 or uber-pathetic Donny from Chapter 2, then give a sentence or two worth on why you picked the Donny you picked.

The competition will take place from October 1st to October 15th , at twelve am. So be sure to post your comments by then to become eligible for a free night of libations with Donny.

The winner can be male or female , but we do warn the female participants that they will be spending the night alone drinking with the guy from “The Hiatus”. The grand prize winner can redeem their night of free drinking and transportation from October 15th till November 23rd.

Two runner ups will win one free drink* on a night that Donny is already out and about and lonely, don't call him, he'll drunk text you!

If you are under the age of twenty-one ( like sixty-percent of Donny's readers), Donny will buy booze for you and your friends and hang out with you all night at your dorm room, or parents house while they are away celebrating their 2nd, 3-year Anniversary** at a Sybaris pool suite.

*the one free drink is limited a house cocktail or a domestic draft.

** that was a joke about divorce and re-marriage.

The Hiatus (Chapter 2) By Donny

2008-10-01T18:32:00.000-07:00

Authors Note:
You have to stop texting me right now, J.L., or we'll never meet up tonight! In a few hours we will be spilling ourselves on the city sidewalks and messing up the floors with all sorts of watered down, overpriced birthday shots!!! I'm typing out the first draft of your birthday card on my laptop then plan to write it out on a wacky birthday card. You probably won't even read this version or I may decide to just write “You're old now, kiddo!! Happy B-Day.”
I forgot my laptop charger at my apartment, 45 minutes away from where I am. I'm at a god-awful coffee shop, one which employs an arrogant hipster barista who has inexplicably messed up my Americano. How did the freedom-hater mess up an Americano, you ask? No time to explain. We are against the clock, blue eyes. According to this icon at the bottom of my desktop I have 1 hour and 9 minutes before this machine shuts down!

Chapter 2: “I Don't Know”

March 4th, 2008

Dear Jenny Lewis,

“I don't know” is the phrase I've heard you pensively utter and delicately mutter the most in our two years of acquaintance. When spending a lot of time with someone, one’s indifference or indecision will usually lead to the other’s annoyance and ultimate exodus. However, I don't plan on leaving; it’s too brilliant being around you, bud. What's unique about you is that you do know exactly what you want. Unlike your contemporaries, you are continually focused on what you want and who you want to be. It would be somewhat accurate to define your perennial demeanor as chill, laid-back, relaxed, or “chil-laxed” but those terms insinuate that you are a detached and unconcerned person as far as life goes.
But you not knowing isn't a sign of apathy, it's a badge of digression to the temporary. You don't know, but you do care. Some examples to bluster my contrived and convoluted thoughts are as follows: be it responses on where you would like to dine (“I don't know, something not greasy, I didn't make it to the elliptical today,” or, “I don't know, I'm losing weight and my butt, so something greasy.”), or declarations about celebrities and why you love them (“I don't know, I really like her [Rachel Bilson], she's just so cute.”), or the evening’s entertainment (“I don't know, let's watch something sad -- Wanna watch The Notebook again?”). I'm positive that you are always unsure about right now, J Lewis.

49 minutes left!

Well what do we positively know? You and the TV viewing audience of Jon and Kate Plus Eight know that raising kids is tough, unless they are adorable half-white/half-Asian, “Rugrat-esque” sextuplets, and then it's impossible.
Every astute-eyed twenty-something female is aware that you look stunning in a pair of skinny jeans, coordinated with grandiose jewelry and a loose, solid color tank top.
I know indie-rock deity Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, makes you happy when you’re sad, sad that you’re not happy, and happy that you’re not sad anymore. Amen!
We know that everyone misunderstands you, which is the cause of your crying on command.
All sudoku puzzles know you’re coming for them and that you plan to solve their problems.
The contents of your over-sized purses are hip to the fact that you are probably going to lose them at some point.
Caribou Coffee baristas understand that when they see your hoop nose ring, it's time to make a pain in the ass mocha concoction.
Turk and pretty much the rest of us know that J. D. and Elliot should be together and this whole “will they end up together?” question will have you waiting with bated breath for the May 16th season finale.
Your four walls and your record player know that Rilo Kiley makes you dance carelessly and effortlessly all by your lonesome. My text message inbox fully expects that at least once a month, you are going to break down and need to talk to me at 4 A.M.
Your Motorola RAZR V3 is sharp and knows the skinny of your mission objectives, once you've had five vodka-cranberry beverages in a span of two hours...drunk texting time!
Every Flaming Hot Cheeto will defend its home (the bag) against you by utilizing its only defense mechanism of, turning your fingers and lips orange to no avail. They know the entire colony will be lost.

All pajama-outfits that I've lent you when you've spent the night are keen to that fact that in all likelihood, they will be borrowed and never returned. (I want my basketball shorts back! The one's with the Chicago Cubs logo on the bottom of the left leg. Do you know how hard it is to find a pair of basketball shorts with a baseball teams logo on them? Why do you still have them? They are the least flattering article of clothing that a girl could wear).

Sorry, I got lost in the details, back to the point.

26 minutes till shut down!!

Every two months or so, after we engage in an argument, you'll bring up the idea of you wanting to end up with me romantically. It is a debilitating trump card when you so choose to use it. Almost always, I withdraw my contentions -- though it's been some time since we've dated each other, my emotions towards you have yet to expire. Some may call this left-of-center relationship we maintain “pathetic,” “unhealthy,” “masochistic,” “back-up planning at it's worst,” or simple cowardice, but I think “genuine” is more appropriate.
I've felt all those adjectives about us at different points, but isn't that the point? Isn't this what a mature friendship or relationship is supposed to be? Continually challenging complacency so that one can be happy and better off in the future? Building towards something we can't enjoy now but will ultimately house us later? Are we just priming ourselves with enough hurt to shelter our frames so that we have something chip away at till we’re old and gray? I don't know. I'm realistic, and understanding. Although I could care less of the details of you and your current beaus, it's comforting to know that your hands are being held. I mean that. It's hard to be sincere in your ex-girlfriend’s birthday card when the text deviates from a “you” to an “us”, but I selfishly feel it's necessary to show you are cared for. I don't plan on painstakingly sticking around until the wrong person leaves you at the right time for me. I'll continue to take out girls too cultured and too pretty for me, because it passes the time. However, no successful creator of anything got where they were because they spent most their time hooking up with or misleading potential lovers. Until you find something that is your life, you'll toil in your work and incidental friendships. That's not life.
You aren't my life now, but per chance you will be, if the time’s right for both of us. Perhaps until then, I'll indulge in a brunette schoolteacher or two who feign interest in art. And as far as personal growth goes – at the elementary level, she's just a time passer. Speaking of which...

15 minutes to go.

This is the age of 'right now'. Our world is one of express buses, search engines, and clicking on MP3s by name to hear the song right away. As you stand here on your 21st birthday, you’re clearly old-fashioned. Your love for walks isn't shared by the rest – you can still take them, just be sure to get out of everyone’s way when they have to catch the southbound #50 Damen.
Who needs to see the beauty of the downtown Harold Washington library in person, when you can just ask Yahoo to see some pics? Be sure to hide those archaic vinyl records that put you at ease, because they’ve got iPods now to match your every mood. In this period you’re either “Live, Breaking News,” or dead, buried in the commas. To them you're yesterday’s newspaper, J.L.
Sadly, virtually nobody reads today’s paper, unless a blogger tells them to. I love trying to read you, though. Sure, at times you are as irritating as the potential paper cuts I may sustain, but I'm going to keep reading. Don't let their need for 'right now' rush you anywhere, young lady – enjoy your stroll down your concealed path. If you live by their deadlines, life's just a timeline. Let yourself get lost in the details, and you'll find the real point. Point being, you got the right idea about life, kid – your own.

8 minutes!

I sincerely mean this when I say, “I don't know anyone more deserving of being happy than you.” It's been such a pleasure getting to know the different types of Jenny Lewis over the last 25 months. I've heard all your gripes and complaints, your questions, I’ve heard your loving words, and I'm so excited to see you grow. I'm grateful that you've inspired me to punch walls with frustration. I answer your phone calls with grand anticipation. And you’ve taught me to quit being so hard on someone who just wants to be loved. I owe you so much.
Alas, I'm afraid I can't repay, because all I can offer are words that you've outgrown. I'm aware that a birthday card can only be so genuine, that's why I ask you to read this again six weeks from now, when no one is going out of their way to let you know how stunning you are. I've never been able to overcome myself, but watching you do so, makes me want to try (great, this card went from being about you, to us, and then predictably to me... selfish doesn't describe this act enough).
I don't know Jenny Lewis, I guess in awe of you.

Fondly,

Donny

Author’s note (again):

I saved the letter to my desktop and turned off the computer, 140 seconds before it was set to self-shut down...

I met up with Jenny Lewis for some pre-drinking at her apartment, where I handed her a birthday card that only read: “You're old now kiddo, Happy B-Day”

Wood Sugars Launch Facebook Page 09/22/08

2008-09-22T14:21:00.000-07:00

Thanks for checking out the Wood Sugars fan page! Please, take a look at the video and short stories on here... If this facebook page leaves you wanting more, visit our myspace profile (www.myspace.com/woodsugars) to see the majority of our material.

New stories, podcasts, and advice columns will be posted on here in the near future. So check back tuesdays, alternating thursdays, and every wednesday prior to a harvest moon for updates.

The Hiatus (Chapter 1) By Donny

2008-09-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

Eliaz forced me to mention that since I do not have a Myspace, I must put this on the Wood Sugars page instead. Hopefully you read more than Eliaz did (the first paragraph). Enjoy. The intetnion of this story is to not hurt anyone's feelings. However, the majority of the characters in this tale must be held culpable for their missteps with me and my emotions. Ladies, don't ever make the mistake of "hooking up with" and hurting someone who likes to write. The character named "Jenny Lewis" you'll read about that i actually love and respect. This is chapter one – a preview of Donny Rodriguez's "The Hiatus: A Semi-Autobiographical Novel." Edited by Jena Kehoe .The other thirteen chapters will be posted over the next few weeks,but for only a week at a time,becuase this project will be avaliable for purchase in book form.

Chapter 1

A baritone, genetically fashioned, homosexual morning radio disc jockey in Chicago, glibly denounces me as a 'crazy-ass, creepy, stalker, loser' around 7:30 AM on March 1st, 2007. This voice and articulation trained, man doesn't know me personally but he sure is developing a rapport with my ex-girlfriend, Jenny Lewis (all the dames mentioned in this story will assume nicknames so to protect their identity and any legal recourse towards myself. They will be named after other things i love/hate which are-but not limited to ;red-headed-indie-rock-chicks,their former or current boyfriends, etc... ). He first encountered her in a radio segment about "crazy-ass, creepy stalker ex-boyfriends."

"So wait, he took pictures outside your dorm, at three thirty in the morning, of himself with his phone, and sent them to you?" asked the ClearChannel KISS FM employee.

"Yeah, he left me eight voicemails, and said he was tapping on my first floor window, like a stalker, and that he was going to sleep outside until I came out to talk to him!" exclaimed my hoop-nose-ringed, Urban Outfitter's fitted former girlfriend. Jenny Lewis went on to say "Yeah, I just moved to the city and he couldn't handle all the new friends I was making, so I dumped him, and he went psycho and sent me picture mail right on the other side of my window!"

The reverberating cringes and ambivalent laughter from the Hills-viewing, soup-and-half-sandwich-combo-consuming, (Insert an article of raiment from the current issue of Cosmopolitan's "Get the chic look for under $100." ) wearing, listening audience of primarily 16-28 year old women...

It should have been enough to wake me from my Miller Lite-induced, three-hour-deep coma, but I just laid there, the fabric-softened sheets shielding me from the embarrassment and the sixteen month sexual hiatus ahead of me that would commence around 9:30 AM -- that "morning drive" time from the Kennedy expressway outbound to O'Hare an hour and half, morning. Was I guilty of Jenny's claims, or did I have a solid slander case against her?

Everything the soft, but not fragile, voiced young lady said about me was one hundred percent true.

Zack had amazing breasts -- fully B-cupped and perfectly proportioned.(refer back to the first paragraph for character name clarification.) However, you wouldn't notice because you would be too busy avoiding everything but her sincerely gorgeous crystal green eyes. With that said, is there any body part more overrated than eyeballs? Even if one's eyes are the apex of aesthetic beauty, what can you do with them? There's no experiencing, or physical enjoyment to come of anyone's organs of vision. It is the most shallow thing one could be attracted to. Nevertheless, this girl's looker's were lookers.

Zack's thoughts were pleasantly dense, so much so that they felt fleshy and tangible -- like once you heard them, all you wanted to do was gather them in both of your hands, brush them with your face's skin and entertain them with your lips.

Zack and I were first acquainted at the $9,000 dollar a semester, ersatz of "artistic learning" institution known as Columbia College, in Chicago. The then-20-year old Zack was cast with me in a few off-Broadway and Lincoln Ave. plays. We traded off desire for one another for the equivalent of $36,000 in artist-credibility-crippling tuition money.

Zack was good at playing the "actress" role -- she wasn't prolific at the acting part of the craft, but she could, however, pretend to be humbled by compliments. She had the consistent ability to orgasm and then pass out before I could even anticipate my climax. Our relationship wasn't purely amorous in nature, but anytime we drank and spent the night together, sleep was never a priority.

Obviously, not every aspect of her was flawless; she did partake in some annoying rituals. Whenever she was around other actors, she would get as wasted as Trishelle on the first day of shooting the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Also, once a week, she and her female colleagues would drown themselves in bottles of Yellow Tail Merlot, hoping to be resuscitated by Adam Brody's hazel eyes and the Pacific ocean that waved behind him, while Snow Patrol breathed ambiance (an O.C. Reference, three years after the height of the show's popularity... I sure am a hip and current writer!).

As faith and the suits would have it, production on our relationship was put to a halt, a year and eight months before the Benjamin McKenzie star-making vehicle was actually cancelled. In the summer of 2005, Zack and her perfect 2nd base's rounded towards home – Columbus, Ohio, and got engaged to Morgan . Morgan was a 29-year old, slender, two-time DUI offender, legitimate artist. Miss leading lady took her final bow.

In the epically freezing month of February '07, I received a phone call. Zack tells me she left Morgan because "he couldn't handle being compared to YOU." In addition to Morgan's insecurities, he showed up blitzed to her best friend's wedding reception at a country club in Bexley, Ohio, where he was removed and arrested for crashing a golf cart into the side of the complex (at which point the Morgan DUI meter gets bumped up to three). Most likely, I was freshly cheated on (by another girl,the opening paragraph's Jenny Lewis) and Zack, crisply out of college, had her whole life ahead of her, no expiration date in sight. I had no plans for life that night she called, and so we agreed to meet up on her birthday. On the night of the phone call -- the night before the Bears were preparing to participate in (and not cover the Vegas odds they were getting via the spread) Super bowl XLI-- our tongues were wet, warmed up, and set to tackle each other at some Lakeview after-hours joint, when it became caressingly apparent (Zack's tangible thoughts!) that she had "gone corporate," and had intentionally grounded her integrity (witty and accurate football metaphor). She was all business now, and indifferent to anything that didn't concern facilitating her ego or her 13-digit routing number. Disappointed in who she had become, and not possessing the cash needed to buy enough booze to sleep with someone I didn't respect, I deflected her advances and drove home dejected, buzzed, and stung.

PEG-32 Stearate—PEG, which is short for polymer of ethylene glycol, is a clear, colorless, and practically odorless liquid. It's strongly hydroscopic,which is defined as the absorbing of moisture from the air (1). The number in the name is the average number of units, or monomers, of ethylene glycol. In this case, the number is 32 (2). PEG-32 is present in various feminine cosmetics, from Fall Out Boy Pete Wentz's eye liner to P. Diddy's infomercial-staple, Proactive acne treatment (3). PEG-32 can also be found in face and body paint. Other contents located in standard facial and body paint are: Ceteth-3 Acetate—a non-ionic surfactant which exhibits surfactant properties and may be used as emulsifiers (duh) (5), Water, PEG-8 Stearate, Glyceryl Stearate, PEG-75 Lanolin, Phenoxyethanol, Methyl Paraben, Ethyl Paraben, Propyl Paraben, and Butyl Paraben.(4) All face paint purchased in the United States must adhere to FDA regulations. According to the FDA website (cfsan.fda.gov), before application, one should dab a small sample of paint on the arm a few days before paint is placed on desired region of the body. This is to check for allergic reactions. One should always dilute the paint before administering to any domain of the body. Warm water and soap is the best method for removing the festive make-up, but anything that's safe for the skin and of liquid matter, such as saliva and pre-moistened make-up removal wipes would also be sufficient.

Game 6 of the 2nd round of the Eastern Conference 2007 NBA playoffs, pitted the visiting, defense-minded, veteran Detroit Pistons against the scrappy, shooting-at-will, over-achieving Chicago Bulls, on a seventy-degree day in the month of May. The Bulls started off the first half of the game sluggishly, with 37-year old reserve forward, P.J. Brown, leading the team by scoring 20 points, so even a novice clairvoyant could predict the former 6 time NBA champions were in for a rough night. While preparing a soy protein-filled chili, I received a text message from Zack, who I hadn't spoken to in months. I began to read the mess faintly aloud:

Hey you, long time no talk.

I miss u n want 2 c u tonight.

I hadn't had sex in three months, so after reading those two cyber English sentences, I was titillated with the idea of a potential rendezvous. Instantly willing to repress the thoughts of Zack being a selfish lover and over all non-genuine friend, I continued anxiously reading the text:

I'm in this new musical, Debbie Does Dallas the musical.

Sexy, I know! We r having a fund raiser tonight at the gay bar

Spin on Halstead and Belmont. It's only $15, hopefully I'll c u there!

What the Fuck!?!?! Sorry, I mean WTF. Too insulted to think in correct, standard, adult English, I regressed to using the diction of a eleventh grader, state-school-bound girl, and texted this thought in my head:

WTF the nerve of this bcth, txting me this BS.

She only wnts 2 c me b/c she's got a fdraisier! skank!!

F if I'm going 2 some g@y dance club,2 c her inconsiderate a$$.

ttyl in hell, axe wound!!!

My actual response was less callow and petulant than that, something to the effect of "Zack, we've haven't spoken in months due to our incompatible personalities, also you have never been a good friend to me. Are you aware of how insulting your offer is? You won't be seeing me tonight or anytime soon for that matter," which she countered with "I know, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you ; ) (winking icon).

The Bulls got waxed all over the hardwood floor at the United Center, so I needed to rebound from my now doleful demeanor. Predictably, I got on the Halstead bus headed north, en route to the Boystown nightclub Spin, and the compromising of my last bit of integrity. My plan was to sit alone at the bar, avoiding Zack until I would be so heavily inebriated that I would forget I had irascible feelings for her.

It wasn't my first time in a gay bar. My best friend and former high school paramour,Lee, was a dancer at Columbia College and she often brought me around her hot female friends, and I guess equally attractive (gay) male friends who all loved dancing at gay bars (that PC,cliché line to show chicks you're not a bigot comes to mind : "I'm comfortable enough with my sexuality to say other bros are attractive"). In the spirit of being solo at a gay bar, I asked the bleach-toothed, clean-shaven, six-foot two barkeep to politely fetch me "tonight's most popular drink" — I've always thought it would be funny to drink a brightly colored, fabulous, Sex and the City-inspired cocktail in public. He handed me a Miller Lite. Wow! Gay guys are just like you and me, only repulsed by lady parts!! Zack and her cast mates took the well-lit stage and performed a scene from the crass, duly suggestive, poorly adapted Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical. After they finished, the dance party started and the novelty of being stag at a circus-like gay bar was running on the fumes from the Redken's aerosol hairspray that filled the room. It was getting late and I had to use the bathroom, but was kinda of nervous, considering my surroundings and alcohol-induced almost-homophobia. I decided to leave. With Britney Spears' dry-hump-friendly hit "Toxic" body-rolling out of the speakers, I did the "F, I gotta pee" dance all the way to the door, where Zack spotted me. I dodged her all night and there she was as I'm about to leave.

Zack, incredulous, parts her mouth,slowly pulls down the shades on those optical delusions of hers and careens her face towards mine and begins to kiss me. Be it apathy or a needed diversion from the fact that I needed to pee, I welcomed the act. Zack chugged her Cosmo, and dragged me to the dance floor by my left arm, my right arm very candidly squeezing shut the flowing of any urine that might have the audacity to crotch block me this night, so to speak.

Pardon my Friday night Comedy Central's bad stand-up set-up, but did you ever notice how dark the four corners of gay disco clubs are? At Spin, the corners are not only dark and rayless, but they also have curtains to pull around you and that handsome, Latin fella with the perfectly shaped eye-brows named Raymundo. In the middle of the dance hall, nary a word was spoken between Zack and I; we were indulging on brews, boredom, and each other's bodies. Public displays of affection, or PDA -ing, are awkward and distasteful wherever they happen, but when you consider two members of the opposite sexes performing the ironically aberrant act in the midst of a sea of dude-on-dude hooking up, it was clear we needed to relocate.

She had on a white and purple bubble print, 95% cotton/5% spandex, hand-wash-only summer dress, with a plunging neckline. I backed up the 5'5'', naturally tanned, incandescent Zack into one of the aforementioned wall-joiners, where our hands proceeded to take some liberties. Our palms, thumbs, and fingers were mischievously sliding behind, on top, and underneath our evening attire,while our mouths were in perfect cadence with one another. "Let's go to my place, I just moved down the street, and I have plenty Corona Lights in the icebox," Zack whispered into my left ear as she began biting my neck and lobe. In a very un-Benicio Del Toro bad-ass way, I too eagerly uttered,"Vamanos!"

"Do you have any limes?" I asked Zack once we were back at her new apartment. No answer. Coronas are almost undrinkable without limes. After digging through her vegan-friendly fridge, I located a container in the shape of a lime with Tropicana lime juice inside of it. Let the battle between my sobriety and the fear of getting "whiskey stick" commence.

Zack was in the water closet for about seven minutes doing any combination of the following activities: puking, bikini-line-shaving, crying, and/or madly swallowing her Ortho Tri Cyclen Lo, which she took erratically. I spilled the contents of an imported 12-ounce Mexican cerveza down my throat as I waited for Zack to finish up in the restroom. Dizzied but still conscious of the situation, I ran back into the sandalwood furnished kitchen and grabbed three more beers for back up. Enter Zack, 'clothed' in skin tight pink boy shorts and a see through white tank top sans brassiere.

The kissing was sloppy, the petting was aggressive, and my intentions were slowly proving cumbersome. Had I had a little too much to drink? "I'll return in a moment," I explained as I took her hand from beneath my boxer briefs and placed it in between her own willing and toned thighs. On my way to the bathroom, I grabbed the skunky tasting long necks . Once inside the heavy-candled powder room, I began pounding the two piss-yellow beers. Unnecessary. By the time I came back, Zack had found the remaining beer and had siphoned out the liquid. The swirling of our tongues clockwise, and the counter-clockwise revolutions of our hands below the other's waist, lead to a rhythmic and hypnotic downward spiral towards sleep for the both of us. Unbelievable, that one time too much alcohol was a bad idea...

Remember when you older brother would pin you down and force his thumbs into your eye sockets while projecting dissonant shrills at the top of his lungs? Well, take that experience and add the feeling of paper-cutting the pink tissue that makes up your brain, and mix in a pinch of the summer-season traveling-carnival's main attraction, the Zipper,-inspired dizzies ,and voila, the recipe for how bad I felt that morning. From her bedroom, I smelled an intermingling of raw vomit, lemon-scented Lysol brand disinfectant, and three unlit lavender-scented candles. Zack was frantically getting ready because she was already twenty minutes late for work when I came to.

I scavenged for my clothes and decided to split a cab with Zack to her job, my final destination being my apartment, and more importantly, my cell phone charger so I could tell everyone about my ridiculous night.

It was hard to tell what was more nauseating that morning after. Was it the unapologetic braking and accelerating of the taxi in Chicago morning traffic? Perhaps it was the unsympathetic sunshine that was forceably tailing us on every turn? Or, was it the fact I stayed in neutral instead of driving towards a shot at redemption and vindication against the egocentric and uncaring Zack?

The hired driver pulled up to the curb in front of Zack's office building on LaSalle and Wacker, and after looking at the expensive fare as it already stood, I decided to make this my final destination as well, split the bill with Zack, and just take the CTA home from there. As we were set to embrace and exchange empty hugs, I noticed that on her left cheek, a black penis and testicles were painted on her face. I was hilariously reminded of a scene from the movie Ten Things I Hate About You, and the night before at the fundraiser. In a desperate attempt to prove that Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical was sexy and fun, Zack agreed to the plastering of non-toxic genitals on her left cheek. Even if Zack would've Google-searched "face paint" and "FDA regulations" like this narrator did, nowhere would she have found a warning against letting someone paint your face while drunk, and the consequences that follow the next morning if you don't wash it off. I immediately licked my right hand's pointer finger, and as Zack's emotionless eyes followed my tongue to my finger, I caught a glance of her eyes. That clear morning, Zack's eyes were the most beautiful I'd ever seen them – paralyzing, is apt. Unfortunately for Zack, I don't really care much for eye portals. I care more for selfish people getting justly gutted every now and then. So rather than wipe off the pocket-sized, dark phallic symbol and save her the embarrassment of explaining herself to her boss, I just slathered saliva on my digit, than ran it to her lips and said, "This is the most honest and painstakingly gorgeous I've ever seen you. Text me later, I would love to hear all about your day." I shot her a wink only reserved for Vince Vaughn archetypes and kissed the right side of her face, the one that didn't have man privates painted on them. I strutted away, hung over, sore that the Bulls were slaughtered the previous night, and completely over Zack.

BALL SUGARS: Bleacher Bros

2008-09-10T11:51:00.000-07:00

Written By Donny Rodriguez, and edited Jena Kehoe

"Fucking mother of the year over there!" my brother, Eliaz, announces to me as he nudges my right arm and points down three rows of bleachers, to a woman carrying two piss-yellow domestic beers to her waiting, potentially domestic-abuse-committing husband and two pre-teen, five-dollar-cotton-candy-eating kids. (Authors note: domestic abuse is not a joke. Please check out www.batteredwomensnetwork.org to find out how you can get involved.)

Profanity, vendor's sales pitches, and the cracking death cries of thousands of peanut shells set the ambiance on this picturesque, 74 degree, light-breeze-from-the-north day in late May at Wrigley Field's Bud Light Bleachers.

"Yeah, what a bitch," I inappropriately retorted.

* * *

My brother and I grew up watching both the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago White Sox. Our dad immigrated from Mexico at the age of 18 and had a love for freedom of choice, fence-sitting (double entendre!), and anything Chicago. After six years of fireworks following every home run, Gene Honda's annoying voice inflection, and the "white flag trade" in '97, my family pledged its allegiance to Sammy "I juz apllo-gize" Sosa and the lovable (yet always losing) Cubs.

For the last four years, my father, my brother and I have been attending five to seven Chicago Cubs games each season. Four years ago, I turned 21, and since then I've made it tradition to sit in the bleachers at Wrigley Field, the rowdy secion of the whole ballpark-- during a July 2005 Cubs game, seated in the bleachers, I instructed my perpetually drunk writing partner Jon McCarthy to hurl thought provoking insults towards St. Louis center fielder Jim Edmonds. "Hey [Jim] Edmond's catch this, I obtained your HIV test results...look man we need to talk... in private."

That's the game within the game for the spectators above those ivy covered walls in the outfield stands. Pitch immature taunts and hope that the opposing team's outfielders swings-and-misses with a middle finger back towards you. Professional ball players and nine-to-five money makers all regressing to callow kids. I was surfing Yahoo a few years back and came across a list of the top ten singles bars in Chicago, and the Wrigley Field bleachers, though not technically a bar, was ranked number one.

…But the novelty of sitting in the Wrigley Field Bleachers and being around fans who were indifferently watching the Cubbies in between slamming beers has started to "hit-and-run" thin.

* * *

On May 30th, yesterday's contest, against the Colorado Rockies, the Chicago Cubs came back from being eight runs down to prove victorious in a thrilling ten-to-nine win. The Rockies, after being the 2007 World Series runner-ups, had been struggling through the 2008 season when they came into Chicago for a four game set. Decimated with injuries to key players and burdened with the expectations that come with a recent World Series appearance, the team from Colorado and their 5-game losing streak were unfavorably matched against the red-hot winners of 5 games straight (and owners of Major League Baseball's best record), the Chicago Cubs.

On the way to the ballpark, two hours before first pitch, the three of us (my salt-and-pepper-haired Dad, my year-younger, inch-taller brother and I) agreed not to have a beer until the fourth inning, so as to avoid multiple bathroom trips during the game.

"I'd rather get sloshed after the game than before, that way I'll know what I'm saying to a chick as I stare at her ta-ta's," my brother explained in an obviously mocking, typical male way. Once inside the friendly confines, we decided to sit on the right field side of the first-come, first-served seating of the aforementioned Bud Light bleachers. Right field is where the Cubs' 30-year old, Japanese-import rookie sensation, Kosuke Fukudome, sets up shop for the Northsiders. Chicago Cubs fans have sincerely embraced the high-on-base-percentage possessing Fukudome, but you wouldn't be able to tell just by looking, with all the racist merchandise being sold outside of the Wrigley gates. T-shirts and traditional Japanese karate headbands were printed with graphics of a character that resembles former Chicago Cubs broadcaster Harry Caray, but with slanted eyes and the message of "Horry Kow" (a bigoted play on Caray's famous words of "Holy Cow.").

"Man, that's funny as shit!" a sophomoric 30-year old said to a backwards-capped, cargo-shorted, racist-t-shirt-wearing "bro" as I waited in line for a slice of $4 Connie's cheese pizza. Overpriced high-carb food in hand, I went to my seat. That asshole with the 1940s-internment-camp-influenced shirt probably thinks he is helping Kosuke feel welcomed. It's called racial tolerance, prick.

"Hey, did you see those funny ass Fukudome T-shirts?" a fresh-out-of-college young man asked the group of his contemporaries on his left. One row up, I sat down, annoyed with my surroundings, and told my dad we should get some beers.

"The game doesn't start for a half an hour. I thought you wanted to wait until the fourth inning," my dad said loudly, his voice trying to prevail over the gang of young professionals laughing at the racist shirt. "Old Harry Caray with China-man eyes -- priceless," the introspective alpha-male of the group said loudly. I rolled my eyes (He's Japanese, not Chinese!), and with Arrested Development comedic timing, I told my dad that I'd buy the first round.

* * *

I was slightly buzzed and irritated with almost everyone in close proximity to me when the view of the game became obstructed by a clan of four suburbanite late arrivals trying to find seats an hour after they had all filled up.

"You should have taken the 9:32 Metra train out of the Arlington Heights station instead of the 11:32, jerk-offs," I muttered under my breath towards my brother, who understood the reference with such clarity. The two of us spent our adolescent years in Elk Grove Village, a quasi-affluent, Northwest suburb of Chicago. It's not that everyone you'll meet from Elk Grove, and it's neighboring suburbs, feel a snobbish sense of entitlement, it's just that they don't how to conduct themselves without itinerary sheets and assigned seats.

"Yeah, go back to Schaumburg, losers. I hear IKEA is having a blowout sale!" my brother said even more quietly than the previous cowardly insult made by myself.

With the game well into the middle innings, my brother was starting to weigh himself down by sinking three LaBatt Blue Lights into his throat with the speed that would make Skipper Lou Pinella cheer. Legitimately intoxicated at this point, he began vocalizing his frustrations with umpire James Hoye's strikeout call of the Cubs' first baseman Derek Lee. "I'm 375 feet away and saw that the pitch wasn't a strike, blind asshole!"

The mostly male crowd was too occupied trying to hook up with the few willing ladies that were available, and too busy trying to take their sobriety off the hook by getting wasted to notice my brother's satiric commentary. However, the woman three rows in front of us, with the county-jail-inked husband and two kids jacked up on sugar, heard my brother and had some choice words for him. "Watch your mouth, I got kids here!" the woman said with a full Mai Tai in her stubby hand. My brother froze momentarily to decide what to say to the mother dressed in a faux Cubs jersey that one could only purchase from a Kohl's department store. I saw his brief pause as an opportunity to defuse the situation in a more articulate and less drunk way than my brother could.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, we will refrain from using offensive language, but I'm offended that you brought your 8- and 10-year olds to the God damn BUD LIGHT bleachers!"

A symphony of mocking 'ooh's' and laughs marked the first movement of the ass kicking I was sure to receive when her husband returned. Hopefully he is on probation and unwilling to commit strike three all over my ass. But to my surprise, the woman just rolled her eyes and slid the rest of her Mai Tai into her mouth. "Yea, there's only two things you can do at the Bud Light bleachers -- pound beers or show tits, right?" erupted my sibling. "Thanks for the back up," I told him. "'Pound beers or show tits,' … that's pretty funny," I burped into my beer.

* * *

The Cubs were three outs away from winning their sixth game in a row, and I was three outs closer to leaving the absurd grandstands of the Bud Light bleachers. Now I'm no prude -- I gave my liver a cumbersome time just as much as the other fans did -- I just don't understand the Bleachers' frat-boy milieu where the drinks and the ballpark are the attraction and the game is just a social lubricant. Behind us, three late-twenties females, one of them a soon-to-be-bride, were gabbing the whole time about how darling the future Ms. Divorced's – "just like her parents" – Aruba-blue toenail polish was.

"Shut-up, your gown is a Mika Inatome! That iridescent silk-chiffon with open side slits. And the whole under-dress of silk-satin crepe? Gosh, you are going to look ravishing," noted the older-looking brunette with the bare ring finger.

"I've never been to the Chateau Ritz before, ahhh, I can't wait to bite into that Chateaubriand, and the bordelaise sauce that you said it will be dressed in, sounds faboulus" added the cute redhead, with the gigantic sunglasses that made me think she's hiding freakishly colossal eyeballs. Is it too late to RSVP to the Devil, asking him secure my seat in hell before I kill these women for killing my buzz? The only time the daughters of privilege paused from talking was when the seventh inning stretch came around and they dissonantly sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in such a way that would make Jeff Gordon's rendition seem acceptable.

* * *

Swing and a miss! Relief pitcher Carlos Marmol closed out the Rockies' with a strikeout to their final batter, just minutes after serving up a home run to Rockies' outfielder Scott Podsednik. Marmol earned himself his third save of the season, while the starting pitcher, Ryan Dempster was awarded his seventh victory.

As tradition after a Cubs home victory, the song "Go Cubs Go", by the late Steve Goodman, is played over the PA. I had had such an ambivalent time at the old ball game. While I loved spending time with my inebriated brother and my dad, who was seventy dollars poorer (thanks for the booze, Pops!), I realized I no longer had the patience for tipsy, irresponsible mothers, or wasted, novelty T-shirt-buying racists, or desperate soon-to-be ex-housewives.

But I refused to let "Fan Interference" ruin my passion for the Cubs. As the first couple of bars of "Go Cubs Go" were being tossed into the air, I realized all these selfish characters I suffered through today were all on the same team as I was. Sure, I disagree with how they conduct themselves at my place of worship, but they wanted to be there just as much as I did.

What I love about baseball is the solidarity that its spectators feel after their team's victory. The smiles and high fives are infectious. Cubs fans who love the bleachers and the bars in Wrigleyville may be fucked ' up drunks and detestable patrons, but they're singing the same song I'm singing, and we'll have to find the right key because we'll keep singing together till the end of October.

We're singing now

Go, Cubs, Go

Hey Chicago, what do you say the Cubs are gonna win today

...Well this is the year and the Cubs are real

* * *

"'Go back to Schaumburg'... Man, you were really fucking on today!" I told my brother as we left.

"Meet The Johnsons" by Jon

2008-09-10T10:46:00.000-07:00

So here's an idea that I've been tooling around with for awhile now. I thought that since God apparently made us in his own vision, maybe he shares the same problems with the bullshit minutae that us regular, everyday folk, go through. Some of you have seen different versions of this first act before. It was actually taped for a final project of mine at Columbia where friend of the group, Jeff Phillips, played one of the characters. You can see his work here http://www.theigloooven.blogspot.com/

So now, I'm going to post the 1st act, and finish the rest of the story within the coming weeks. I hope you enjoy. Also, this is my first stab at writing something that isn't autobiographical or a spec script, so now I'm free to create and develop characters however I see fit. Uncharted territory, for the most part. So please leave feedback, any is appreciated...

PS - I'm not married to the title, I just couldn't think of one at the moment.

It's an average Tuesday evening in the suburbs of Heaven, when a beige Toyota Prius pulls into the driveway of a house that looks strikingly similar to that house on Family Matters.. Remember that show? It had that fat, twinkie-eatin' cop from Die Hard.. I think he played a cop in the show, too. And then there was that "Did I do that?" kid.. I think he died.. I also heard that he was gay, well, before he died, of course. Well, that's if he's even dead at all.. I heard that the house was torn down, too...

Anyways, I digress.

The car pulls to a stop, and God steps out. He's wearing the standard white robe that everybody imagines that He would wear along with those brown, roman-esque, sandals. He's also wearing a brown, wide-brimmed, hat circa 1940 and carrying a fancy leather briefcase that His dad gave to Him as a birthday present (June, 3rd). This ensemble is accompanied by hair so long, white, and luxurious that even the hairiest of the hair bands pale in comparision- Sebastian Bach ain't got shit on God. His beard is so thick, it makes it look like somebody glued a couple of salt-and-pepper colored pubes collectively onto the chins of every member of ZZ Top. Chuck Norris would shed a single tear if he were in the presence of God's beard. If only that were possible, then cancer would be cured.

But, despite the majestic appearance that's to be expected of the creator of everything, He has a demeanor and disposition slightly reminiscent of someone like an Al Bundy or even an Archie Bunker, except maybe not as racist. I mean, what else would you expect from somebody that had to take over the family business because His bachelor's degree in tele-communications couldn't even get Him out of His one bedroom apartment. And, having Jewish parents, you can rest assured that He was reminded of this on an almost daily basis.

As God walks into the house, He sets his keys down on the coffee table, puts His hat on the coat rack, sits in His spot on the couch, picks up the remote where He left it last, and lets out a day-drained sigh right before He turns on the TV. Meanwhile, as God attempts to unwind, all He hears is the clanging of pots and pans, with the occassional foot-stomping, coming from the kitchen. He knows something is wrong, but right now He's more concerned about quenching His thirst,

"Hun, can you grab me a beer?"

A few moments pass. The noises do not cease, and God does not have His beer, "... Haven't got all day..."

Finally, the commotion in the kitchen halts and God's life-partner, Michael, comes storming in with a beer in his hand. Michael is an average thirty-something. He's not drop dead gorgeous, but he's not ugly by any means. He doesn't have a job, but he's constantly dressed business-casual. And it's not that lame, denim blue, button-down shirt/khaki brown slacks combination that you can pick up at Target for twenty dollars, either. Everything that touches his skin is at least some kind of polyester blend that you can find at any K and G Super Store. I mean, it's not exactly the Men's Wearhouse, but it's almost just as good. He's just like any other guy, except that he prefers the company of another man in between his sheets.

I guess the best way to describe Michael is that he's a "Midwestern" kind of gay; a pragmatic homosexual, if you will.

But right now, and above all else, Michael is visibly pissed off. He comes in, slams the beer down on the farthest end of the coffee table, and storms back into the kitchen. The noises in the kitchen resume, and not a word has been spoken. And just as before, God doesn't seem too distressed at Michael's actions. Instead, He's more annoyed that He has to get up to reach His beer, and on top of that, He has to open it.

A few moments pass and God sips His beer as He flips through the channels. Meanwhile, sounds coming from the kitchen continue to grow louder. At first, God responds passivie aggressively just by turning up the volume. But, eventually, the sound of copper and stainless steel slamming against each other gets the best of Him,

".. Alright, alright. What's got you so wound up?"

The noises in the kitchen stop and Michael comes storming in. This time he has a card in his hand, which is waving above his head, "This. This is what's gotten me so wound up."

God doesn't take His eyes off the television, ".. Well are you gonna tell me what it is?"

"Oh don't you play games with me. You already know damn well what this is. It's a dinner invitation from Vishnu-"

God immediately interrupts, "Ah I hate the smell of curry."

Michael stands in front of the TV, "God, dammit, just listen to me! The invitation says 'To God and Guest'. Who is 'Guest'? Why doesn't anybody know that we're married!?"

"Oh my- How many times are we going to have to go over this? I already told you that it's a work thing. And speaking of which, I've been having a pretty rough couple of days: I had to fire my secretary because she's an Athiest, I'm still paying off that weight bench, and KFC gave me a bad Snacker so now I gotta write them a letter. I don't have time for this. All I want to do when I get home is relax, have a beer, and watch Ice Road Truckers.

God's demeanor is changing from irritation to angry. Meanwhile, Michael's is changing from angry to Shannon Doherty, "Oh I see, it's all about you, isn't it!?"

"Yes. Yes it is all about me. I created all of this. Do you have any idea how hard that is; to just think something up one minute and have it come to fruition the next? It's incredibly strenuous, and after a long day of that I just wanna come home to some fucking peace and quiet and some fucking dinner. That's all on your end of the bargain and you can't even do that!"

Never scared off by a couple of F-bombs, Michael fires back without missing a beat, "Well I guess that makes you a pretty crappy God, doesn't it?"

You know that after saying that, Michael wants to bob his head and say, "Mmhmm!", but he won't because this is serious time.

God must now choose His words carefully. Michael didn't bob his head or say "Mmhmm" so God knows that Michael means business. This could turn into a preface for any episode of Cops, and God knows this because Cops was His idea... I think that would be a good idea for a show. Like yea, I get it, Billy-Larry inverted his 4th wife's nose with a crescent wrench who will refuse to press charges. This, of course, is no surprise because her five kids crying from the trailer and her "Frankie says relax" extra large t-shirt tells the viewer that Kelly-Martha is prone to making bad decisions. Been there, done that. But, I think it would be pretty neat to see how that particular spat got started... Oh I'm sorry, let's continue..

Red-faced, God stands up. This little tiff has totally been bumped up to another level, "Oh that's real cute. You have NO idea how this works. Do you realize what would happen if those people down there found out that I was married, let alone to a man!?"

"Well maybe you should take a page from your own damn Book and tell the truth, you spineless hypocrite!"

It's at this point that God longed for a crescent wrench. But to blink one into His hand, and subsequently, Michael's face, would be a vulgar display of His power- There's no practical use for a crescent wrench in Heaven. He bites His lip and decides to take the high road,

"Oh really? Name calling? We're going that route now? Listen, matters like these are a little more complicated to be that black and white; something your little knee-jerk reactions wouldn't be able to understand. Running a civilization requires a lot of tact and diplomacy. The situation down there is as good as it's going to get for the time being and the last thing I need is someone that knows nothing of the process, telling me life lessons!"

Michael stands there, speechless. God finishes His beer and throws the remote back onto the couch, "You know what? I don't need any of this shit right now. I'm going out! If Jesus calls, tell him I'm with Zeus!"

God storms out of the house and slams the door. Michael sits down on the couch to try and gather himself. A few moments pass and the door opens again, "... Forgot my keys... And change your damn clothes! You haven't left the house in ten years! What are you dressed up for!?"

God grabs His keys and storms out again. Michael sighs and mutters under his breath, responding to His rhetorical question, "...You.."

We can hear God yelling from the driveway, "Now you know that I know that I can hear you! That melo-dramatic bullshit ain't gonna work on me this time! Oh, and you got thirty seconds before the roast burns!" We then hear a car door slam and tires squeal as God speeds off, presumably to Zeus'.

Meanwhile, Michael grimaces a tad because he knows that his "soap opera drama" card can never be used again to win an argument. Then he runs into the kitchen. He may have lost this battle, but he'll be damned if he's gonna lose his dinner, too.