Woo! I just kicked ass on a cold, thanks to my favorite Lauren (after Lauren Holly, of course) giving me advice to get this Airborne stuff. I'm chugging this junk like it's chocolate milk. Bam! I even got this lemon lime flavor, and it actually doesn't taste like lemon lime chalk. So, get ready, Charm City, cuz I think I'm going to be healthy for the weekend. Be sure to check the gutters as you walk by, and say hello if I'm there.

I have big news from the gym. The Three Stooges are back! They were in top form, too. Picture this ... three chicks, doing walking lunges with a sort of ballet twist at the end of each, walking in unison right down the middle of the gym. It was hilarious. When they got to a point where they couldn't walk straight anymore, they'd sorta veer off to the sides. People would then have to scramble around them to get to other machines or the drinking fountain. Some poor schlub walked into the gym right as they got by the stairs, when they did their little veer move, and he had to stand there and wait until they had cleared the entrance. I really wish I could get a video of this.

I also got a very interesting look from the incredibly hot chick that annoys the hell out of me by singing out loud. Maybe she reads the blog. Hmm. I may be onto something here.

I sewed up some jeans the other night. Now, in a blog long ago, I had a discussion about The Spot, which I have a tendency to get. To quickly recap, The Spot happens when you don't shake well enough after whizzing. Apparently, women get it also, but I was unaware that women do the shake. I'd think their legs would be too tired from all that hovering ... but I digress.

So, I always seem to get these holes in my jeans right in the crotch, and could never figure out why. I finally solved the case, Watson. At times, when I've caused The Spot, I will then rub the spot area briskly with whatever paper is in the bathroom. After enough friction, The Spot goes away. Hmm. I could turn that into a sexual reference, but I'm being lazy tonight. It's also great fun when someone walks into the bathroom while I'm doing this.

So, multiple spot removals has caused the jeans to wear away in that area. I actually don't mind it that much. I mean, what's more fashionable that having a hole where women can see what color boxer briefs you're wearing? But, last week in DC, I managed to rip the hole open to an unreasonable amount. I mean, it's one thing to have a small hole ... it's entirely another to have a hole big enough for Winkalicious to make an appearance.

So, I sewed. It actually looks pretty good. I did it old school, too - needle and thread. I was also smart enough to take the jeans off before sewing, so I didn't poke anything important. What's going to be cool is when it breaks back open this weekend, and I don't notice. At least I'll have a reason for striking out.

We hit Red Maple last night for happy hour. They must know I have a background and bachelor's degree in white trash, cuz they hate me there. I tried to order a Captain, and was told that "it hasn't been brought down from upstairs yet". So, I waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently, by "upstairs", they meant somewhere in the upper New York area or Michael Jackson's house, because by the time we sat down, they still didn't have it.

Now, ya'll know I love my Captain, so I might be a tad biased, but this isn't like I ordered Martian Juice or a Matza Ball martini or something. My boy JB finished his first drink, so the waitress (who was the worst waitress in the history of the world), decided to pay us her hourly visit. My quote: "Uh, he'd like his second drink, and I'd like my first". She dawdles around for another 15 minutes, then comes back to tell me that they don't have any Captain at all. Zip. Zero. Bupkis. Apparently, I've walked into another country when I came through the doors to this joint. So, I'm informed that I get my drink on the house. Sweet!

Naturally, I start scanning the menu for the most expensive drink. Lotsa martinis, all heavily priced, so I choose one. Nope, they don't have that. I try another. Nope. The following exchange actually happens:

She: We have everything else.
Me: How about a Red Mojito?
She: Um, no ... we don't have that.
Me: [incredulous stare]

I finally find something they have, a thing called a Green Plum, and it's eventually brought to me. Now, I've had some bad drinks. I've had something called a Prairie Fire, which was tequila and tabasco and caused me to immediately get sick. I once drank Tab, which you youngsters probably don't even remember. This drink, however, topped them all easily. I mentioned Martian Juice before ... this was more like Martian Piss ... and it was an appropriate color for Martian urine.

The kicker? When we get the bill, she charged me for the Captain! NICE!

Red Maple ... I loathe you!

After that, we stopped at the 13th Floor for a quick drink. No matter what time you show up at this joint, you are going to see the strangest collection of people known to man. My boy Ricky has a term for this - he calls it a Star Wars bar. Think of the bar in Return of the Jedi, with all the weird ass creatures, and you'll get the gist.

So, after all that nonsense, guess where I'm going tonight? That's right, mofos ... starts with a P, ends with a side! Woot!