A little Wisdom

“He who does not love wine, women, and song
Remains a fool his whole life long.” –MLK

Not a truer word spoken, or my personal fave:

“I spent 90% of my money on women and wine,
The rest I wasted.”

Not too much to report here. I had a good weekend. Friday was one of the best Friday’s a guy could ask for. While at work, I
hardly did any! We spent a fair chunk of the morning talking about everything one could imagine. The day zoomed by and before
I knew it I was at Jake’s house kicking my feet up sipping whisky. Jake’s mom was staying the night and so I got a good chance
to talk to her. I’ve never talked to her very much, but on Friday I realized she has a great sense of humor. What’s even better
than that is egging her on when it comes to Jake. Jake left the room to tuck in the kids and while he was gone his mom started
snooping through all sorts of papers he had on the desk and stacked up on the floor and in the garbage can. She was freaking out
because most of it was credit card applications and bills and things with his name and account numbers all over it. She thought
he was just going to throw it away so when he came back in the room she laid into him.

Her: Jake you got all this stuff here you shouldn’t throw it away.

Me: Yeah Jake.

Jake: I know ma.

Her: This is important stuff you should shred it.

Me: Yeah Jake, you should shred it.

Jake: (annoyed) I know ma!

Her: If someone got ahold of this it could be real dangerous!

Me: Yeah Jake, your identity could get stolen!

Jake: (Loudly) I know MA! Wouldja….wouldja put that down! That’s what its there for, to shred!

Her: But what about this stack over here, some of it isn’t even open!

Me: yeah jake are you going to shred that too?

Jake: (at his boiling point) Wouldja….get out outta there! put that down! etc…etc.

I like seeing my 28 yr. old friend reduced to a 16 yr. old still living at home. Other than that we watched Jarhead and drank
super yummy whisky. We got decently soused so I decided not to drive home. Although I wish I would’ve driven home. Jake set me
up in the coldest room with the hardest futon! To top it off in his drunken stupor he ‘tucked’ me in which involved
him punching me in the gut, mooning me and giving me the beating chicken heart.
I could’ve done without all three.

It was so cold I wore all my clothes, my jacket and a huge comforter on top, and it still wasn’t enough. I got all of 4 hours of
restless sleep. So early in the morning I packed up my things to leave, but not before going up stairs at 7am and pouncing on
Jake and giving him the ol’ Nowack Nudge. I figured it was a little payback for his tucking in shenanigans. He was so out of it
all he could muster was a deathly low “stooooooooooooopppp” but he put up no fight and let me continue.

Once I got home I crashed until about noon o’ clock. Later I went over to Dave’s house and we contemplated the pong while listening
to Mozart’s Requiem. It was all fine with me since I was whooping his ASS all up and down the miniature tennis court. (admit it dave)
Afterwards we found ourselves planted on the couch sipping some super smooth Woodford Reserve and listening to Norah Jones.
That last part is probably the gayest thing I’ve done in the last 3 years, but it was relaxing.


  1. Billy said,

    March 14, 2006 @ 9:31 am

    Um, I would have guessed that the beating chicken heart were a more “gay” occurance, but I guess the gay is in the eye of the beholder. I wish you and Dave the best.

  2. Jake Foster said,

    March 14, 2006 @ 10:47 am

    I would like it known that the Jake in the above post is NOT Jake Foster. I spent the weekend in Lincoln City with my wife… doing not gay things.

  3. Jake said,

    March 14, 2006 @ 1:23 pm

    On occasion, I get do get a little soused and cause a rucus. The “beating chicken heart” was undoubtedly inluenced by the “field fun” in the movie “Jarhead” although, it never went that far in the movie….

  4. Phil said,

    March 14, 2006 @ 11:12 pm

    Come on now. We’ll all know you’ve done gayer things than that in the last 3 years.

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