On His Wife's Driving: Whether she's putting on her stockings or trying to balance her checkbook, you can be sure that at any given point while she's driving, my wife is performing at least one other task that requires the use of both hands and usually a foot or two. I'm pretty sure I once caught her in the middle of a yoga pose while she was driving us to the mall, although I couldn't prove it.
On Dentists: Once things were under control, the dentist began the process of anesthesia by stabbing me repeatedly in the gums with what I could only assume was the harpoon they used to catch Anna Nicole Smith. In between stabs and this is way too weird for me to make up the dentist thought it would be a good idea to tell me about a horror movie he once saw called "Dentist 2," in which a crazed dentist ties a woman down and systematically pulls out all of her teeth. I found this to be exceedingly creepy and inappropriate, but forced out a little laugh anyway since he was the one with the harpoon.
On Spinning Rims: It's time to take the silly spinning rims off of your wheels. Nobody thinks they're cool but the guy who sold them to you, and that's just because he works on commission. Surely there is some better way you could put that $2,000 to use. Like by feeding the poor, for example. Or by donating the money to the Women & Babies Hospital. Unless you hate babies. It's OK if you do. If that's the case, just leave the rims on. That way we'll know for sure.
On Babies: Babies can't hold their liquor. Not only that, but they're terrible at video games and it takes them forever to work their way through a piece of beef jerky. And that's why, for my friends and me, having a baby is simply not an option. A baby would threaten everything that we, as a group of young, spirited and most of all, flatulent males, hold dear. By which I mean Guys Night.
On High-Fives: High-fiving is something that frat boys do after one of them lights a fart. It's cheesy and primitive, and usually means that you were born with the mutant chromosome that makes you wear your hat backwards and listen to rap-metal. So basically, you need to find a new way to express your happiness. However, in the event that a high-five becomes unavoidable (i.e. you just made out with Eva Longoria), under no circumstances are you to attempt a high-ten, which is never OK.
On Theater People: Theater people should be herded together and shipped off to a desert island, where they could start their own country. They could call it the United Federation of Flamboyance, or maybe the Republic of Obnoxious Peoples. Their national anthem could be "Theres No Business Like Show Business," and their flag could have a picture of a dozen or so men snapping their fingers and doing that crouch-walk.
On Bellybutton Piercings: Apparently, my belly didn't get the memo that the rest of my body had decided to stop growing. In the six or so years since I had gotten my piercing, my belly had expanded from a normal, boy-sized tummy to a bulbous mound of jiggly, wiggly pudge. Suddenly my bellybutton ring was less like a cute little accessory and more like a giant flashing beacon perched on top of Mount McPlumpy.
On His Wifes 30th Birthday: When I first told my wife I was going to be writing about her birthday for my next column, her head started spinning around in circles and blood came out of our walls. Then she started talking backwards Latin and flinging large pieces of furniture around the room with her mind. Our poor little Jack Russell still hasn't stopped shaking. Of course, that could just be because he's a Jack Russell. And because I fed him a bag of espresso beans.
On Hummers: As far as I'm concerned, driving a Hummer anywhere in Central Pennsylvania is like trying to pick a piece of broccoli from your teeth with Ruben Studdard sometimes the situation just calls for something a little smaller. Like Clay Aiken. I mean, maybe, maybe if you're living in the frozen tundra, then perhaps you need a vehicle with a little more oomph to it. Something with an engine the size of, say, an Alaskan oil drill. But otherwise, driving a Hummer down our Pennsylvania streets is like trying to remove a splinter from your thumb with a bazooka.
On Hummer Response: We at Team Last Call are taken aback by the Hummer owners' angry response. We certainly meant no offense in our columns. Team Last Call would never deliberately ridicule Hummer drivers or the various insecurities that compel them to drive a truck the size of a river barge. Like tiny genitalia, for example. We would never make fun of that. Or impotence. Again, not funny.
On Paris Hilton: Stop having sex with Paris Hilton. If you're one of the many, many people who have slept with the hotel heiress and statistics show that most of you are it's time to stop. If we all work together to keep Paris from having sex, thereby cutting off her only real contribution to society, then maybe, just maybe, people will stop caring about her and she'll finally go away. Together we can make a difference.
On Writing: In the past, some of my readers have accused me of exaggerating in my columns, of "embellishing" the "truth" just to get a "cheap laugh." To those "people," I have this to say: Yeah, totally, I do that.
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