Let’s Get Caught up!

So, in the midst of getting back from Iraq, getting the hell out of the army, moving into a new apartment, growing a dirty hippy beard, burying an aunt, getting drunk on days that end in “y”, trying to keep off the 30 pounds I lost in Iraq and acquiring a girlfriend, I really haven’t had the time, nor the inclination, to write any Eighty-Four Glyde entries recently. Too many damn things on my plate and I’m far too lazy to be efficient.

Sorry. Let’s get updated on things.

Looking back, it seems that I haven’t written anything since the middle of December. That’s not strictly true though. The same frustrating thing seems to happen to me whenever I come back from Iraq: I lose a thumbdrive that had a bunch of pre-written (as we in the news writing business call “evergreen” stories because they’re not topical and can be used whenever) entries in it and it bums me out to no end. Truly, it frosts my buttons. It pains me to think of all of the laughs you (my loyal reader) will never get to enjoy because those entries are lost to time (or lost somewhere in my ridiculously dirty bedroom. It makes Theo Huxtable’s room look Spartan and clean.) Pity.

Tomorrow is the third birthday of Eighty-Four Glyde. That’s right, my stupid little blog is three years old. Amazing, no? Yet I still haven’t gotten paid or laid because of it. Such injustice! There won’t be much in the way of any kind of special birthiversary entry as in past years. I had hoped to get the 84 Glyde website up and running in time for tomorrow, but couldn’t get it done in time. My bad, gang. But keep your eyes out, because it’ll be coming soon and it’s going to kick so much ass that you’ll lose your sense of smell! (And I don’t even know what that means.) Of course birthiversary wishes are always appreciated.
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Hey, get this: They voted a black guy for president while I was gone! Ain’t that a hoot!? I honestly had no idea America had it in itself. I figured all the WPs would be too scared of black people making rap the official music, ebonics the official language and chicken the official bird, to elect a HNIC. I’m almost proud of this crazy country. I still want my damn 40 acres and a mule though. Quit bullshitting and give me my reparations!

The inauguration was a few days ago, but there are plenty of stories out there of what happened on Tuesday. How historic it was, how iconic the images are, how nipple-freezing it was and how bangable Michelle Obama is. So I won’t go into the event too deeply here.

I live 20 or so miles away from downtown D.C., yet refused to leave my apartment. I’m not crazy, I knew there’d be (literally) billions of people on the mall, and that at least 15% would be ex-girlfriends that I didn’t want to run into. Instead, my girlfriend and I stayed in and toasted with some champagne when the awkward swearing in went down.

Of course, had I known that there wouldn’t be any kind of terrorist attack (I can’t help it, like all patriotic Americans I’ve been brainwashed and frightened by a government trying to convince me that Jihadists are trying their best, 24/7, to specifically kill me) I might have gone downtown to better appreciate the moment.

…Nah.

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About a month ago I was voluntold (because that’s how the military works) to participate in a hoagie building contest for the opening of a WaWa’s in Shithole, N.J. (otherwise known as Any Town, N.J.). For those of you not familiar with WaWa’s, it’s a typically middle East Coast place where you can buy poorly made sandwiches, sub-par coffee and diabetes-inducing morning pastries. People in Pennsylvania and New Jersey go wild for WaWa’s. Scientists have yet to understand the phenomenon.

Anyway, as some kind of publicity stunt, for the store’s opening, they had ten soldiers, divided into two teams, form hoagie assembly lines to either make as many hoagies as we could in three minutes, or be the first team to make 20 hoagies. Or maybe both, nobody was quite sure what the rules were, or what we were trying to achieve. It didn’t matter because my suck ass team lost like the giant toolboxes we were. It was pathetic, but at least we got to keep the hoagies we made.

I didn’t eat a single one. They were gross.

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As I wind up this rambling and non-linear entry, I’d like to close with something new. With each new year that greets Eighty-Four Glyde, I try to do something different, to keep the blog fresh and relevant. Last year I didn’t use the letter “e” in any of my entries. Two years ago I only typed with my toes. This year, at somebody’s request, I’m going to do less abstract, nonsensical blogs where I pretend to be fictitious James Bond villains, and more entries that have to do with the weird things that go on in my life. Because even though I try to live my life as a shut in, I still manage to go out amongst The Great Unwashed and have kooky misadventures.

So, in 2009, you’ll get to know more about your favorite blog writer: Joshua. Playboy, raconteur, debonair man-about –town, messiah, nose-picker, unparalleled lover, last son of Krypton, philanthropist and kitty-cat petter.

Happy 3rd Birthaversary Eighty-Four Glyde! Sorry for the gift card, I promise to have a real present next year.