Job Wanted

Job Ad #1:

NEED AN AUCTION CALLER? HUMAN TORNADO SIREN? EVER WANTED TO HIRE SOMEONE WITH A JOHN WATERS MUSTACHE?

I'm your guy. My name is Avery Johnson and I am looking to obtain employment that will utilize my skills both as a man with very powerful lungs and very little idea of how to coach a professional sports team. I am a published author of a book about learning from failure, of which I have experienced much as of late. And if it's a professional looking office environment in which I am employed, the good news is that I have plenty of suits and ties. If you find my skills to your liking, I hope you won't mind if I wear my championship ring during the interview. It's kind of my lucky charm.

Attached is my resume and I can furnish references upon request. As a side note, I respectfully request that my current employer NOT be contacted during any sort of pre-employment background check that you may conduct.


Job Ad #2:

LAID BACK COLLEGE GRADUATE LOOKING FOR A PART-TIME OPPORTUNITY.

Hi, my name is Josh Howard and I am proud graduate of Wake Forest College. I have dabbled in basketball but am now looking to gain some sort of part-time employment. I would search for full-time work but, in the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that I have a tendancy to only be able to really apply myself and work hard for half of any set amount of time. For instance, if you wanted me to come in at 9am and work until 5pm I would probably show up right at 9am. I would kind of hang back in the background or maybe even take a nap during a morning conference call. But right when you think you probably should fire me, I will come up with a good idea about moving the copier closer to the shredder. Assuming it's before lunchtime. Because I pretty much always tend to check out during the second half of my job. I mean I'm there physically but I am totally mailing it in. So if you've got a job that you don't really need done very well and you can work around my Grand Theft Auto schedule, please feel free to AIM me at: jhoneedsaJ.O.B.

PS - Must be 420 friendly.

Job Ad #3:

LOOKING TO GET PAID TO DO NOTHING

For further information, please call 214-555-KIDD. Ask for Jason. If no answer, please leave very slow and very monotone message and I will hit you back. Word.

[Ad redacted; applicant has since found employment]

Job Ad #4:

PLEASE GET US OUT OF THIS TOWN (2 positions wanted)

My name is Dirk and my friend JJ and I really need to get out of town. We will take any employment in any field, in any city outside of Dallas. My friend JJ is pretty upset because people keep making fun of him. I'm beaten down and my spirit is rightly completely broken by my dead end job. There are times when I am driving my silver Merc G Wagon up to my place of employment and I just want to turn around and drive back home and eat Chipotle and cry. I hate my boss. I hate puns involving my name. I hate having to do goofy-ass taco giveaway promos and pretend to play rock songs on the Jumbotron for rich people while they eat nachos and watch all my professional sports dreams circle the drain night after night. I asked JJ what some of his job qualifications and requirements are but he is sitting in a fetal position in my hall closet rocking back and forth and praying the rosary.

We both have Green Cards and are ready to work.

Liveblogging Anaphylactic Shock

I originally intended to simultaneously liveblog both game 2 of the Mavs-Hornets playoffs rapefest and the long overdue cleaning of my shamefully messy apartment. Because maybe it would serve as a metaphor for redemption and show that no matter how badly you let things go (using plastic picnic ware for plates because all the actual plates and cutlery were buried in Mount Dirty Dishes), you can always climb back to the top with a little hard work. Turns out there is only one entity lazier than me. It's the Mavs. Enjoy:

(A note here. I realized very quickly into this that I have no idea how you mark time in a basketball game. So when I denote time, I mean how much time has elapsed in that quarter. I could write out "into the _____ quarter" after that but I've already declared my laziness so it should go without saying that blah blah blah. Also, hypothetically, am I supposed to have a calculator and do the quick subtraction and be able to tell you that these moments all occurred 12:00 - 3:48 = 8:53 into the quarter? The fact that a career in sports journalism is not really a possibility is becoming rapidly apparent to me.)

1st Quarter:

8:04 - Tyson Chandler gets fouled. Speaking of foul, what died in my trash can? Seriously, Jesus may have built Ministry’s hot rod but Satan apparently is responsible for the contents of my kitchen’s garbage can. Hint from Heloise: don’t make Homemade Tortilla Soup then say “fuck it” when it comes to taking out the trash that contains boiled down chicken remnants. You may regret it sometime in the near future.

6:40 – Dampier elbows West. My cat throws up in protest in front of the TV. I kind of don’t blame him. Dirk dunks. My cat stops covering his puke long enough to stare at the replay.

4:42 – West fouls Dirk behind the 3 point line. He should see Dr. Tylock. I see him regularly in my nightmares.

2:52 – Two names I am already sick of hearing : Chandler and West.

After buzzer - Brad Davis : “Boy if you like offense, this was your quarter.”

Yes, Brad. It was. But really, what kind of person is the basketball fan that goes “You know, I LOVE basketball but I’m really not that into offense. All that running and shooting and scoring points and stuff. Yeah I hate that. But blocking shots? And defensive three second calls? God, that really gets me going. My dream score is both teams somewhere in the low 20s”

The only good thing I can gain from that first quarter is that most of the fans in the stands already suffer from advanced cirrhosis of the liver so that was kind of like the Make-A-Wish quarter.

(I also used this time between quarters to take out the offensive trash bags. The fear of a trash juice rupture that could occur any time lead me to gingerly tiptoe to the dumpster then once I reached the safety of the garbage pen outside my back door I hurled the offending bags like Molotov cocktails and ran back in my apartment. They’re someone else’s problem now.)

2nd Quarter:

9:05 – Bass for MVP. If only because he scored the first points for the Mavs in the second quarter. After more than three minutes into it. I’ll start making the shirts.

Mark Followill – Don’t say “shout out” ever. You sound like the kid that does the morning announcements in high school on the PA. Don’t forget that yearbook money is due this week and PJ Friday is this Friday!

7:31 – Stack just made an AMAZING ninja-like pass. To Bonzi Wells.

Dirk offensive rebound, Kidd basket, Kidd steal, turnover, Hornets score, Dirk fouled. Man, efffff this. Those radio people must be on crank or something. This is hard and confusing and boring. I get distracted by stuff too easily. My radio play by play is more:

"Have I mentioned that I think that the team doctor Casey is hot? Oh wait, sorry Josh Howard shooting free throws. He made that first one. This afghan is itchy. Why do I even have it on my lap, it’s warm in here? Oh wait, because my laptop battery gets hot. Oh shit, didn’t watch the second free throw. Jason Kidd threw it far after he missed it. Defensive three seconds on New Orleans. Bonzi is a stupid name. Commerical break. Jack in the Box doesn’t want to wear a silly hat. Fly Southwest.”

The Mavs are a pretty good basketball team except I seem to have isolated part of their problem. They can’t “make” “baskets” which seem to be key to scoring points. They should look into that.

3:34 – Dirk dunks. I get excited that we are ONLY ten points down. Start planning a parade!

2:53 - Followill boldly declares that he is pro-Terry making three pointers. What’s next? Voting Ron Paul ’08?

WNBA tip-off is May 17th! Mark your calend…..oh nevermind. You don’t have to pretend you’re interested in women’s basketball. We’re all friends here. I remember one time on the way to watch a Mavs game my friend Chrissy brought a portable TV in the car and excitedly told me that the early game was almost over and we better hurry. I asked “Really? What’s the score?” She told me that ______ (non NBA franchise city) was beating _______ (non NBA franchise city). I responded that I believed she was watching the WNBA. We both went “Ewwwwww” and she added “I guess that explains why the score is 42 to 53.”

Halftime. Going to Fiesta to buy Fabuloso. And some dented cans. Only botulism can blot out the memory of this first half.

3rd Quarter:

3:48 left in third quarter – I am blogging with as much passion about this game as the Mavs are showing about playing this game.

2:31 – Bass for MVP

40.4 – Rad. It’s the America’s Next Top Model cycle where the righteous Caridee beats the evil Melrose. See Caridee has psoriasis and she beat it. And Melrose is an ass-kissing bitch who you are not supposed to want to win. And in the end Caridee wins. And manages to step on Melrose’s dress and rip it in the final runway walk off. So you see, sometimes good guys win. I’m also fairly sure that neither Caridee or Melrose would take as many jump shots as the Mavs are taking right now.

4th Quarter:

11:19 – Dirk apparently is calling for the seldom called “Christ in Mid-Crucifixion” foul. They never call those. You have to practically squirt Gatorade through the handholes to prove that one.

Then I made dinner while the massacre continued in the other room. In tribute to the Mavs, I made Sloppy Joes for dinner. And I used ground chicken instead of ground beef because even when the Mavs are playing sloppy, they still don't get it right.

And then in the ultimate tribute, I decided to give up on cleaning my apartment halfway through and just re-watched my two favorite episodes of Top Gear and thought about what sort of clever put-downs James May would have for the Mavs right now.

Or Maybe Not

Oh yeah and

Go Mavs

(I swear, I will be writing about the playoffs)

This is My Hometown

(That's actually the side of the pharmacy in my hometown in Georgia which is the home of the "National" Grits Festival)

Springsteen has his Jersey. Tom Petty has his Florida. Rick Moranis has his Toronto. And I have my Warwick, Georgia. A recent email from my dad has made me realize that perhaps my family in Georgia are a little more "country" than most.

The email that inspired this blog:

Amanda: I hope you're doing well.... Haven't heard from you in some time and just wanted to catch you up on some news... First, Erin (stepsister) had her baby on Monday afternoon... 6 pounds 12 ounces, 19 inches long... His name is Zachery Wayne Peacock... I've attached a couple of pictures of "Peanut"... Janice is so excited she can't stand it.... Other news, Wesley has switched schools... He's now going to Crisp Academy (He was picked to play on their baseball team)... Bubba says he's ready to transfer too...


So if you're keeping track, that's Zachery Wayne "Peanut" Peacock. The kid is three days old and has already been saddled with that name. He didn't get a chance to earn it by eating lots of peanuts or being vertically challenged. He got a few minutes to let them get the goo out of his nose and cut the cord and now he's Ol' Peanut Peacock.

You may have noticed the news about Bubba also considering transferring schools. Bubba's birth certificate reads Chandler Paul Larkin. I cannot confirm nor deny that he was named for a character from Friends. He was born in 1995. I will leave it at that. His nickname was bestowed upon him at the ripe old age of 3 months. You know, when you really get a good feel for a child's personality. Which one would you rather live up to? Being called Bubba or being named for Matthew Perry's character from Friends? I'll let you decide.

This made me start to think that perhaps the signs were there the whole time.

Example #1: My Aunt Bon bought a cordless phone in 1989. She took it home and charged it. Then she grabbed her new cordless phone, jumped in her car and drove to the closest Wal-Mart which was thirty minutes away in Cordele. She tucked the cordless phone into her purse and walked into Wal-Mart. In the middle of the jewelry department, she decided to really razzle dazzle the clerk by making a "call" while shopping. Two days later, she returned the "broken" cordless phone for a refund. So in a way, my Aunt Bon invented the cell phone. I will tell her "thank you" on behalf of all of you.

Example #2: We spent a week each summer in a condo in the sunny climes of Panama City Beach, Florida every summer. In case you aren't familiar with Panama City Beach, the nicest restaurant in the city is one that is located inside a pretend pirate ship. There were a few red flag incidents in Panama City. The first one being when we all got dressed up to go to the Pirate Ship Restaurant. This was a classy affair in Panama City Beach terms because the Pirate Ship Restaurant contained two separate dining quarters. The family-style Captain Crabby's and the more adult-oriented Hooks Grill and Grog. So the waitress comes around to take our drink orders. Most order iced tea. Dad orders his Budweiser. She works her way around to Aunt Bon (as the kids would say, she most certainly "kept it real" at all times) who enthusiastically inquires "Y'all got Hot Damn?" Yes, Aunt Bon starts out not with breadsticks or a glass of wine but with cheap cinnamon flavored schnapps. Luckily for her, we were in Panama City Beach and her wish was their Hot Damn.

The second Panama City Beach incident involved the other family tradition of getting personalized airbrushed souvenir t-shirts. By the time I was 10 and blossoming, my family decided that it would be a great idea to make me and my 18 year old cousin Jeannie get matching two-pieces to go with our airbrushed shirts. That may not sound creepy. Until you realize that my airbrushed shirt was customized with my family's new nickname for me: TATAS.

And finally Example #3: This one also involves Aunt Bon. In Warwick, there is a place called Rubo's. Rubo's is a gas station. And a bait shop. And a grocery store. And a hair salon. And a video store. And a pizza parlor. And a diner. And an arcade. And they sell guns. I'm guessing the square footage of the entire building is somewhere around 2,500 feet. I was a regular late night visitor to Rubo's. Because my Aunt Bon used to wake me up around 11pm on summer nights and tell me to put my bunny slippers or flip flops on and get in the car. So I would drag myself out of bed wearing my Care Bears nightgown and get in the car. Once we reached Rubo's, Aunt Bon would hand me a check made out for the exact amount of a carton of Doral Light 100's. I would sleepily wander up to the register to request my carton in my tired child voice. Then stagger back to my aunt's Pontiac Bonneville (she bought it because "it's got my name written all over it!") and hand over her beloved Dorals. After many late night Doral trips, I finally one night asked why I was being recruited for this task. I will never forget the answer.

"I just hate puttin' shoes on"

I spent this past Friday night in Ennis, Texas. No, I wasn't on work furlough or experiencing car problems on my way through Ennis. I voluntarily went to Ennis. The King Bucks were playing at an establishment in scenic/historic/stip mall-tastic Downtown Ennis. I have done some research into Ennis and just as I assumed, there is nothing remotely interesting or noble or noteworthy in the city's 140 year history. Wait, I take that back. Here's the two interesting facts I found:

- Ennis has the widest main street in America, possibly the world, due to the fact that it is actually two separate streets, each on opposite sides of the railroad track that runs through town.

- The median income for a household in the city was $38,923, and the median income for a family was $44,608. Males had a median income of $28,585 versus $22,855 for females.

I include that second fact because based upon my own rudimentary calculations, regardless of gender, approximately $12,000 of that yearly income is spent on jello shots.

The Wooden Nickel is actually a pretty nice little place. With the exception of their Big Buck Hunter which is unique if only for being the first such machine ever created and carved out of bedrock in a Flintsones fashion. The only problem is that The Wooden Nickel also happens to be the only place in the county that can serve alcohol after midnight. Meaning that, no matter what sort of crowd you travel with or what rung of society you dwell in, if you live in Ennis and you would like to get hammered you will end up at this United Nations of drunks sometime around midnight. And for some reason, you will become Mr. Pac Man and drinks will appear as dots to you and you will gobble them up in such a frenzied panic that you are completely unaware of your surroundings.

Seriously folks, this place is surreal. The stage is separated from the audience with a split rail fence. Conveniently, there's a balcony that overlooks the stage which gives members of Ennis's own Cossacks motorcycle gang a way to more forcefully and effectively demand that the band playing below them "play some ROCKNROLL!" It also allows their morbidly obese and dangerously intoxicated lady-friends to stand on chairs and perch dangerously over the band.

Now if you're a band and you're thinking: "Wow, this place sounds GREAT! I really want my band to play there!" I should give you a tip. There's some sound issues which I'm sure are being worked on around the clock to be resolved. So don't get too weirded out when, in the midst of experiencing ear shattering feedback, you see the sound guy walking through the crowd with a jello shot in each hand. Don't worry, he's probably really into your band. In fact, he may be so into your band that at some point during the show (mid-song) he will walk onto the stage with a beer in his hand and just sort of stand next to your bass player and nod along to the song you are playing. For a good solid minute or so.

This is the part where I want to give "shout outs" or "mad props" to some of my favorite people I was lucky enough to meet on Friday night:

1. Burnout Guy That Looked Like Andy Warhol If Things Had Gone Very Wrong for Andy Warhol - Yeah, like worse than being shot and dying after a botched operation. Like being the town drunk in Ennis. Anyways, I really loved it when you were telling someone about your love for music and how you loved "every type of music out there, man. Except the negro music. And that Mexican music." I hope every day brings you a new Dan Fogelberg record, metaphorically speaking.

2. Second Trimester Pregnant Woman Who Was Still at the Bar at 2:30am - Sometimes they say that when women get knocked up, they lose their edge. To them I say, not true. Because you were fierce. Remember when we were standing in the bathroom line and those two girls went in together and took a long time? I remember your response like it was yesterday. "What the fuck are those two bitches doin' in there? This motherfucker [pointing at belly] is pushing on my bladder and shit. Fuck, come on. I'm pregnant and I gotta piss, motherfuckers!" Don't forget to let me know where your baby registry is. I can't remember if it's Tobacco Town or Arby's.

3. The Tracy Morgan of Ennis - PLEASE. NEVER. STOP. BEING. AMAZING. You are a dancing machine. It doesn't even really matter if there's any music playing. I wouldn't have pegged you for a big David Allan Coe fan but I was wrong. My only real critique of your dancing skills is that I felt like sometimes you borrowed a little too liberally from Bill Cosby's opening credits dance. But your air guitar made up for that. I also liked how you threw the pool que on each turn you took. Keeps them on their toes.

4. Every Anonymous Person Who Likes to Go Up to Bands to Talk to Them or Make Requests Mid-Song - You guys are awesome. We have people like you in Dallas. But none who are bold enough to walk up to the band during their THIRD set to ask "WHAT KIND OF MUSIC DO Y'ALL PLAY?" In an age where irony is all the rage, I was also glad to see that there's still people who, completely seriously, request "Stairway to Heaven" from a honky-tonk band.

And so to Ennis, I would like to offer my most heartfelt thanks for showing me a "good" time on Friday night. You guys sure do know how to "party" and "have a good time" which is admirable. It's like every day is some sort of extremely depressing Mardi Gras with you guys. I wish you all the best. I hope your children are born relatively Fetal Alcohol Syndrome free and I hope that your meth-related house explosions never result in multiple fatalities.

When I was little and I got really excited about something, I would tug on my clothing too!

I'll admit it. I am not ashamed. I didn't high five my friend Danny when Dirk hit that three with 0.9 seconds left. Nope. We actually high TEN-ed. I don't just hand out high TENs willy-nilly. I might also take this opportunity to point out that if you watch the jersey tugging moment right after he sinks the shot, you will notice what I personally think is the coolest thing about Dirk. He kind of has a beer belly. Which makes me think that he's probably the kind of dude that could really get down with a little bit of Big Buck Hunter.

I wish there was a more cautious way to say "cautiously optimistic" to properly express the trepidation/optimism cocktail I've got running through my veins about this Mavs playoff season. It's like "double condoms" optimism. It's like "driving on residential streets very slowly with your hazards on when driving on a donut" optimism. If you are at all familiar with Albertson's extremely slow check cashing system, I would say that this playoff series is going to feel like when you write a check at Albertson's three days before you get paid. Theoretically, you should be able to get away with it.

And if I cared about either baseball or hockey, I would be super stoked that all our city's franchises pulled off victories yesterday. Wait, what am I saying? I like parades. Go us! Also, one time I saw Daryl "Razor" Reaugh in person and he looked exactly like Morrissey. I just wanted to throw that out there.

This is in response to this and this, both of which happened within a few days of each other. The stories are interesting but it's the comments sections of each article that really got me fired up.

Which brings me to my Why I Like Dallas and, Furthermore, Texas and Freely Choose to Live in Both list:

1. Cars - Let me make it clear that I hate traffic. And I like taking public transportation as often as possible. And I live on the same street my office building is on, making the carbon footprint of my daily commute comparable to that of our state's official bird, the hummingbird. All that aside, I love the idea that if I decide to stay out late or want to go to some out of the way restaurant, I am not reliant on a train or bus to get me home sometime before sunrise. Even better: I like shopping at Target. I like buying many items of varying size at Target. I also love Home Depot. I am not confined in what I can purchase due to the fact that I will be transporting said purchases back to my home via my Chevrolegs or a city bus. Call that very superficial and selfish. I will respond by asking you how you like these large bookshelves I got for $10 each at the Salvation Army last week.

2. Other people - Yes, there are a lot of the characters for which Dallas (and Houston and maybe Texas in general) are known for around here. The girls with fake hair and faker tans. The guys who wear more hair gel and self-tanner than the girls but still can muster the machismo to call people "faggots" etc. But have you been to New Jersey? Because, here's the thing, those people are EVERYWHERE. Go to LA. Go to Florida. Go to the Hulk Hogan household. They're everywhere. The idea that there's old oil barons are being escorted around town via a saddle tied to the back of a minority is hardly fair. Replace "old oil baron" with "technology marketing specialist" and "a saddle tied to the back of a minority" with "leased Mercedes" and you would be more on the right track.

3. Politics - This is a sticky one. I admit that I see this through rose colored glasses. I was raised by a wonderful liberal hippie mother. We volunteered for both Ann Richards campaigns. The names "Ann Richards" and "Jimmy Carter" were and still are met with a chorus of angels around my childhood home. I hate to say this but I can't think of any truly Republican friends I have ever had. And no, Ron Paul '08 doesn't count. All I know is that as I stood in the longest line I have ever seen to get into the Obama rally here in Dallas a month or two ago, Dallas hardly seemed to be lacking in forward-thinking Democrats. I think distinguishing between "Dallas" and "Plano/Frisco/The Colony/outlying suburbs where people move because it stays whiter longer" would help, too.

I consider myself a proud native of both Georgia (where I was born and raised and where all my family is from and still lives to this day) AND Texas. Both of which take a beating when it comes to public opinion. And to that I say a hearty and friendly "psha, whatevs" to all haters.

In good but totally unrelated news:

ZUBAZ ARE BACK! THEY NEVER LEFT MY HEART!

Example #4983 of my Georgia heritage:

(Pictured: Mr. and Mrs. Satan. Not pictured: a lovely print of the painting "Serenity Cove" by Thomas Kinkade, just behind Mrs. Satan's shoulders)

So is it raining or sunny outside? You know, in Georgia they say that if it's raining but still sunny outside it means the devil is beating his wife. Which begs the question....what kind of masochistic whore would marry the devil? I am assuming there was full disclosure on their first date. Like "why are you red, horned and carrying a pitchfork?" And then he's all like, "well, I'm gonna go ahead and throw this out there....I am Satan." But she's all like (inside-of-her-head voice) "oooooooh, I like bad boys. I can change him. Maybe the love of a good woman is all he needs to change his mind about the whole torturing poor souls in a lake of fire for eternity thing."

So he takes it easy on those condemned to hell while they are first dating. You know, letting them have a room temperature Sierra Mist from time to time. Sharing new LOL'cats with them from time to time. But after a while, he's back to poking and prodding and ignoring their endless howls of pain. At which point in time, Mrs. Satan is all, "Maybe this wasn't a good idea." But it's too late.

So basically, all I'm saying is "crazy weather we're having today, huh?"

A fine return to form

Yes, in case you were wondering, we have reached the point where when the Mavs win two games in a row against teams like the Los Angeles Clippers and Golden State Warriors we are ecstatic. The Clippers victory was still a little shameful considering that.....oh wait. I was going to explain the weaker points of the Los Angeles Clippers but then I realized that I already typed "Los Angeles Clippers" so I don't really need to go into any more detail.

But while the Golden State Warriors are a 9th place cellar dweller, the mental balm that is a win over them is good enough for me to be motivated to write about on this recently-neglected (or at least highly apathetic when it comes to anything involving the Mavs) blog. And for the first time in recent memory, the hustle and bustle of the first half was not completely negated by the Mavs curling up in a ball and waving a white flag for no apparent reason in the second half.

As for how a person can suffer a high ankle AND knee sprain and return to playing after a little more than a week, I have a simple answer. Witchcraft. Wicca. Santeria. We all know that it's not humanly possible to do such a thing by merely working out, doing physical therapy and applying endless ice packs. Therefore, I am forced to out Dirk as some kind of terrifyingly awesome sorcerer or wizard or spoon-bending mentalist. Which is kind of rad. Essentially we have the Uri Geller of basketball on our team. San Antonio can keep their Mr. Longorias and Manu "Chef Boyardee" Ginobli. Seriously though, didn't it take T.O. at least two weeks to get back in good enough shape to play again last season after his high ankle sprain? My ipod battery is on its' last leg and tends to die after an hour of use. If anyone can figure out a way to get Dirk to lay hands on it, please email me at:
dirkpleasehealmyipodlikeyouhealedyourcrazylegs@nba.edu. Thanks.

The Mavs are essentially, at this point, like a really bad boyfriend. They are the Dennis the Beeper King of basketball. If you don't watch 30 Rock, you should probably stop reading now since we can never be friends. I guess they are trying. And sometimes they deliver me the metaphorical cheeseburger at work that keeps me wanting them around. But then they do things like blow double digit leads in under two minutes which makes me think I should slyly start separating our stuff and change my myspace profile's relationship status. But if they can keep playing like they did last night (sorry, there wasn't a font big or bold enough to stress that "if" sufficiently), consider me "In a Relationship." I would have made a far more hip Facebook reference there but quite frankly, Facebook gives me finger cancer just by logging on. No, I do not want to find out which Olsen I am. If anything, I am the Olsen that is a foot taller than my twin and doesn't much care for Facebook.

So, you know, go Mavs. Or something.

PS - I will reinstate my previous promise to get a MFFL tattoo somewhere prominent if the Mavs beat the Lakers tomorrow. *

* I won't.