A'ight, here's just a li'l taste of how big of a dorknerd I am. That's right, I just called myself a dorknerd. I don't think it needs an explanation. If you need it explained, well, you're a dorknerd. Got it? Good.

Now, some folks are hooked on a lot of different things online. Porn. Shopping. Boob implants. Wait, that's porn. Um, Paris Hilton. Wait, that's also porn. Damnit. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, why I'm a dorknerd.

I am hooked on online Yahtzee. Yup, I said Yahtzee. Five dice, a cup, scoresheet. The only thing that isn't there is being able to make that hecka obnoxious noise when you shake the dice in the cup, and never being able to find enough pencils that don't have the lead broken off (did anyone ever have a pencil sharpener in their house ... yeah, neither did we). I even get mad when I lose. I just lost to some person called lightfoot40. Nice. Hmm ... maybe I was playing Yahtzee against Gordon Lightfoot! Hey, it could happen!

I managed to corner one of the folks from the gym that I was hanging out with on Friday, and he assured me that I didn't do anything dumb. 'Course, he wasn't there until later, but as far as I'm concerned ... off the hook! Yahoo! Now, I can drink again. Well, responsibly this time. Hopefully. I just saw one of those Cap'n Morgan commercials where everyone puts their leg up like the good Cap'n. You know the ones I'm talking about. I cannot BELIEVE I haven't been using that move. That's good stuff!

You know what's really cool? When a totally obscure 80s song just pops right into my head. I mean, there's cool, and then there's another level of coolness when that happens. Here's what I just got:

Wave your hands in the air
Like you don’t care
Glide by the people as they start to look and stare.
Do you dance, do your dance, do your dance quick
Mama, come on baby, tell me what’s the word, word up

If I could just get my hair to look like Cameo's, I'd be a complete success in life.

Ok, so it's time for really pathetic stuff that you never wanted to know about me but were afraid to ask. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a rock star. I didn't necessarily want to be the lead singer, I just wanted to be in a band. Most young boys play with GI Joes, or their Big Wheels, or doctor with the neighbor girl, I was playing my personal favorite game - Rock Band. Basically, I'd play a tune, then take turns being each of the band members. Well, except the bass player. Who the hell wants to be a bass player? Bah.

Mmm, an aside. Man, I'm not sure I should even share this, but here goes. I have to temper this with the info that I did NOT know at the time that the Village People were gay. Ok. I used to pretend I was each member of the Village People. My favorite was the Indian ... um, Native American. Whatever. I had all the moves down and everything. If you get me drunk enough, I might even do YMCA ... not just the letters, but the whole friggin' thing. You have to get me REALLY drunk, though. At that point of drunkenness, most people either (1) take my wallet, (2) take advantage of me or (3) both, so they don't get to see the YMCA dance.

Speaking of YMCA, ever notice that the majority of people doing that dance do the C backwards? Idiots.

So, where does this fit into the rich, fulfilling life I have right now, you ask? Well, I still sorta play Rock Band in my head sometimes. I don't play the air guitar or pretend I have a mike in my hand like I used to as a kid, but I visualize it. I'll be on the elliptical thingy at the gym, and in my head, I'm singing "LA Woman" (the Billy Idol version, that is), or I'll be riding the bike, and I'm George Thurogood doing "Move It On Over" ... move over, cool dog, the hot dog is moving in. Yeah. I even have the parts where I break down the song and get the crowd into it.

Move it on over (your turn!)
(Crowd sings along)
Rock it on over (now you!)
(Crowd)

Yeah. Um. Remember the word.
Dorknerd.

Hmm. I think I just created my own personal poem. Maybe I should do it Cameo style.

C'mon, baby, tell me what's the word ... dorknerd!

I learned some interesting info recently. Actually, I learned it a long time ago, and I've probably talked about it in past blogs, but it's in my head now, and I want to talk about it. So deal. What's that? Oh, the info.

Well, sometimes boys, when they go whizz (and it's not going into some stupid medical cup for some nurse), they don't shake off so well and they get what I like to call The Spot. You know, the drop or two on the shorts/jeans that will just stay there without drying for the duration of time that you aren't aware of it.

I recently found out that girls can get The Spot, too, which is fantastic information. Now, I have an excuse to look directly at a woman's ... mmm ... area. I'm sure it won't seem creepy at all when I tell them I was checking for The Spot, eh? Maybe I can become an offical Spotchecker. Hang out just outside all of the bathrooms, and sorta frisk people as they exit.

Speaking of johns, what's more annoying that having to tip the dude/dudette in the bathroom with all that stuff on the counter. You know, the ones that give you the paper towels, like you're not smart enough to figure out how to do it. I swear, I spent at least $20 one night in DC on tips for the friggin' john dude.

I have a fairly standard line when most people ask what my middle name is. I tell them it's Richard ... as in DICK. It never fails to get a big laugh, and I'm not exactly sure why. I guess it could be the emphasis on the DICK part. I might have to patent it.

Ok, this blog is getting too long, and I have to go fold my laundry. What joy! Dorknerds.