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As hard as I try to be the ever cynical wise cracker every once in a while, I fall for something I see on TV.
Normally I resist the great Satan known as cable television with as much will as I can possibly muster. That being said I have become hopelessly sucked in by “Dirty Jobs.”
Normally I would spell out the fascinating nuances and complex strata of the show to justify my actions but the gods honest truth is if I could pay to kiss Mike Rowe’s face – I would never stop robbing banks.

I can’t tell you how dissapointed I am in myself for being a slave to such a schoolgirl brand of enthrallment. It is downright embarrassing.
Anyway, great show. Mike your particular brand of self-deprecating charm has completely unravelled me and now I must go reconsider my maturity levels.
The show is brilliant, please be careful and try hard not to mess up your beautiful face.

regards,
Sarah

There is a really skanky convenience store across the street from the art supply place I frequent, so when Paul needed his Mountain Dew we pulled over. I sat in the shadiness of the neighboring lingerie model establishment with the neon sign blazing the letters “O P E N” inside a pair of parted female lips. An elderly man sat on the concrete outside talking the talk of street crazy. When Paul came out of the store the man asked for some money and Paul handed him a ten. The man seemed startled and called out after him, “wait, wait sir, please!” Paul turned around and the man held up his closed fist “Give a brother some bonk!” Paul touched his fist with his own and we drove away.
That old man did not in fact say “brother” he used the “N” word which I am admittedly not edgy enough to say, but I changed it to “brother” because I believe that is what the man intended to mean and that is what we intend to mean when we say it. This is a common household exchange with us now because when you don’t have anything else to give – you can always give a brother some bonk.

Shortly after I had bought my VW bug a million years ago I was gassing it up at the local station. I get a lot of VW stories at gas stations and it nearly always involves some variant of they ‘used to have one but then their (insert persons name here) made them get rid of it because it wasn’t running.’ This guy appeared to be in his early forties, a little beefy with shaggy surfer blonde hair and a matching 5 o’clock shadow. It became clear to me he wasn’t merely nostalgic for his now missing VW; it was like piece of him was missing. His eyes were glassy when he spoke of it and as he ran his hand over the curve of the pale green roof of my little car he choked out. “It is pretty stupid when you end up breaking your own heart.”
Amen.
There are plenty of people walking around this planet willing to do this for you, this was my little reminder to not be retarded and do it to yourself.