Friday, December 4, 2009

Guess I should've done this earlier

In order to find inspiration for my writing (I know, these posts have been few and far between so far) I started checking out the blogs of other folks (*uncorked, keep it up lady, you're hot, smart, and witty). And I realized that most people wrote an initial blog describing themselves - an 'About Me' kinda deal. So.....

"About Drew."

I am a 32 year old man-child. I was raised by two incredible parents in Southern Indiana, in a town of about 35,000 people, where the opening of a Chili's or Texas Roadhouse counted as a media event.

Went to Catholic school for 8 years, and was even an altar boy. And before you ask, the priests did not touch me inappropriately. They insulted my intelligence on a daily basis, but that was as far as the abuse went. After 8 years of kneeling under a truly creepy statue of a grown man nailed through the palms of his hands to a giant plus sign, I learned the following three things:

1.) There was once a homeless, unemployed hippie, who could cure the blind with his touch and turn water into wine. And people followed him all over the world, despite the fact that he didn't even have a Twitter account.

2.) Forgoing material possessions and dedicating my life to poverty and humility will get me a one way ticket to the pearly gates and an eternity of bliss. But moving my hand back and forth on my own cock will get me thrown into a firey abyss, even if I do it in the shower for easy clean up.

3.) The answer to any difficult question about faith or the church can be summed up with one phrase, "The Lord works in mysterious ways." Which is a Catholic priest's way of saying, "Fuck kid, I don't know. I got into this for the free room and board."

Needless to say, I have distanced myself from from the church. I have moved on from putting my faith in J.C.; instead I deal with the demons in my head with a bottle of J.D. Hey, at least I know where my money is going now.

Getting back on topic, I am single, and have never been in love. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a commitment-phobe. I am just a fan of experiencing new people. A fan of that initial flutter in your belly when you kiss a new pair of lips. A fan of finding out what your date's naked body looks like for the first time. A fan of finding out surprise things about her, like she once spent a year exploring Spain on foot, or went through the police academy after college, or that she's a squirter.

After almost a decade spent as a restaurant/bar manager (cause I was all growns-up), I have spent the last 3 plus years in the fast-paced and exciting world of Insurance Consulting. Now, that isn't as boring as it sounds. It is far, far worse. But it's stable, and these days, that's all a man with no real ambition can ask for.

So what do I do in my spare time? I drink. I smoke (I know, gross huh?). I listen to good music and have an unhealthy obsession with the cinema. I like to sing, write, hike, go out with friends, or just kick it in the house with some board games. I am a sports fanatic, and I like to be active and outdoors, despite the black lungs and constant hangover. I am uncomfortable with all things on-line (ironic, huh?), and still read my newspaper everyday to find out what's going on in the world.

I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald was simply a patsy, and that O.J. Simpson was still funny in the "Naked Gun" movies, despite his penchant for cutting people's heads off. I believe in the death penalty, and marking degenerate sexual offenders with a little red dot over their homes on the internet. I believe that it is a woman's right to choose, but that the man should at least be allowed to have some input into the conversation. Despite the protestations of those "artsy" people I met in film school, I think that Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, and George Clooney are all terriffic actors. I firmly believe that while I have the right to slam the door in the face of any pushy door-to-door salesman, it is better for both parties if I just cut them off, tell them that I am in no way interested, and wish them good luck in a sincere manner.

I believe that any man who physically or emotionally assaults a woman is a coward. I believe that a woman can sleep with a large number of men and not be a slut. While I am heterosexual, I believe that if it was as socially acceptable for two guys to hook up as it has become for two women to do so, you would see a hell of a lot more guys whistling show tunes. I think that women can get anything - and I mean ANYTHING - they want by kissing another woman in public. And while I am absolutely one of those guys, I think we are fucking stupid for succumbing so easily.

I believe that if all women were to get together and decide that they are not going to pay attention to other women's toenail polish or designer handbags, they could do away with all of them and save thousands of dollars (Here's a tip ladies, unless the guy is gay or has a foot fetish, he doesn't give a rat's ass). I believe that when a woman says, "Size doesn't matter," she is lying to herself, cause a guy with a tubesteak who knows what he's doing in bed is better than a guy with a light switch down there who knows how to work it. I believe that lips are more important than the tongue when kissing; that sex is just as important to a healthy relationship as love is; and that men and women will never, ever GET each other - which is exactly why we need one another.

So there it is, I'll talk about high school and college and relationships and all that shit some other time cause in case you haven't noticed, I am a bit long winded. Until next time, let Uncle Drew give you one piece of advice to take to your grave:


If you are a guy, and are bored with your sex life with your girlfriend, talk to her. She is willing to do RIDICULOUS shit with you at least once, because she loves you. And you never know, she may find something that she likes.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Turkey Time

In honor of Thanksgiving next week, I am grateful for - and humbled by - the following:

1.) People on Facebook who do NOT feel the need to come across as 'deep' and throw out schmaltzy, meaningless quotes about life, love, or happiness on a daily fucking basis


2.) The complete filmographies of Daniel-Day-Lewis and Bill Murray

3.) Girls who actually know how to give a good hand job

4.) #18, and his refusal to quit, no matter how many points down and how little time left on the clock. God bless you Peyton, you are the best QB and head coach in the NFL

5.) Attractive women with low expectations and/or daddy-issues

6.) Lem Motlow, Proprietor, Jack Daniel Distillery - for your incredible vision (and your fine product's effect on mine)

7.) The feeling that comes over me when my amazing little niece kisses my cheek and tells me that she loves her Uncle Anjew

8.) Wii Punch Out, the batting cages, and my writing, for giving me an outlet that keeps me from causing other people harm

9.) Those who were put on this planet to create incredible music - songs that inspire me to think, create, and sing at the top of my lungs on the freeway while passers-by stare at me like my car is on fire. I'm looking at you Eddie Vedder, Damien Rice, Jill Scott, Elliot Smith, John Legend, Layne Staley, and Ray LaMontagne, amongst others.

10.) People who treat servers, bartenders, and managers in restaurants with respect toward them as people and what they do.

11.) Those women that didn't get preggers or cause me to get itchy despite my aversion to condoms (may the Lord bless and keep you)

12.) Anyone who in any way contributes creatively to the show "Lost"

13.) People who join me in restrained laughter when a fat person falls down or a midget jumps up and down in anger

14.) Waking up from sleep on my back when I have morning wood

15.) Haley, Jack, Will, and Connor - I love you all very much. You make me a better man and uncle.....and keep me from being a Daddy. The world owes you.

16.) To those of you who have faith, and use it for inspiration, instead of a crutch. And for not pushing it on me, describing it to me, or pretty much bringing it up to me at any point in time

17.) Angelina Jolie's lips, Jessica Biel's ass, Emmanuel Chriqui's hair, Audrina Patridge's breasts, Eliza Dushku's legs, and Charlize Theron's eyes. Put it all together on one woman and....well, she'd probably look messed up but I would hit it every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

18.) For James and Elaine Derby, the most loving, understanding, influential, and patient individuals that have ever graced this planet. Everything that I am, that I've been, that I will strive to become - it is because of the two of you, and your guidance. Can't wait to see you for the holiday.

19.) To my 'Framily' - my friends who are, although not by blood, part of my family nontheless. You inspire me, help me grow, make me strong, make me laugh....and on occasion drive me bugfucking insane. I need all of these, so stick with me.

20.) And last but not least, for my early morning BM. Without you, the day cannot progress

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone. Here's hoping you get to spend it with those people who feel like home.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Serendipty - so sorry, this one is gonna be LONG

When you are on the kind of lengthy romantic drought that I am, you start thinking back about the chances that you let slip away. I can't help but let my mind drift back to those times when, at a bar or party, I locked eyes with some beauty, and a little spark flickered between us.

The possibilities are endless in this moment: she could be the girl. The one you take home to mom and dad, marry and raise kids with, then spend your golden years sitting on the front porch watching the sun set while holding hands. Or better yet, she may be that girl, the one who goes home with you after drunkenly dry-humping on the dance floor for an hour, has awkward sex with you, then tries and fails to hold her head up high after you toss her a Gatorade and show her the door, silently whispering "Be strong" as she makes the walk of shame to whatever front lawn her intoxicated ass parked the car on last night.

But the window of opportunity to act on said spark is miniscule. You hestitate, and she walks away. You go to get another drink for for a little Irish courage, and when you come back, she is surrounded by a pack of her girlfriends. Or worst of all, you chicken out, and next thing you know you see her slip into the back room with the musclebound douchebag who probably couldn't tell her the capital of his home state, but at least had the sack to walk up to her and drop some line he picked up watching "Tool Academy".

I have had more than one of these moments in my life, but one takes the cake, a mistake I will never fogive myself for. It was back in college, and her name was Laura. And I mean....damn. Black hair. Green eyes. And a fucking college gymnast. Still to this day, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen with my own two eyes. And considering the douche I was back then, who would hit on any woman at anytime, I could not talk to her for the life of me. She would show up, smile at me, and I....became Anne Frank. Like I was hiding under the floorboards, hoping desperately not to breathe too loud lest me and my entire family become Hot Pockets.

This went on for years - she would even laugh at my complete and utter cowardice sometimes. I graduated, and thought that was the last of it. Until she walked into the restaurant I worked in after college, 50 miles from campus in another town. There she was, a group of what I am sure were extremely good looking friends with her, made to look like Whoopi Goldberg sitting next to that goddess.

When she saw me, there was instant recognition - and that smile that flat-out fucking floored me (points to me for alliteration). This was it. This was my time. I was going to talk to her or perish in a flame of pity and shame trying. My buddy let me drop her check (and the change) off at her table, and I walked right up to her. She looked up, and smiled in a way that let me know she wanted me to talk to her. I handed her the book and the money. And in a confident, incredibly sexy/macho manner, I looked her right in those indescribable eyes and said, "Huhhuhmmkaytanksforcomingnite." I think that's how you spell it, I'm not sure, it was loud in there. Then I turned around and made a bee-line for the kitchen like I was a fat kid with diabetes and my orange juice was back there somewhere. She left without a word.

Later that night, while my coworkers retold the story and mimicked my Forrest Gump-esque run for the hills, I grabbed the book with her change in it and took a single dollar from it, replacing it with another from my wallet. I went home and put it in a box, so that at any time I could take it out, look at it, and curse myself for being the world's biggest vagina.

A year later I moved to Cali, and spent a comfortable night alone with some booze and a chick flick (a practice that I am fully comfortable admitting still goes on). And being the Cusack fan that I am, I let the horrible script and lame direction of the film Serendipity wash over me. If you haven't seen it - a summary: Guy and Girl meet cute. Guy has girlfriend, Girl has boyfriend. They part ways, but not before she writes her number on a $5 bill and throws it into the wind (like people do), hopeful that fate brings 'em back together blah blah blah. Whatever, Piven's in it.

Painfully reminded of my neutered encounter with Laura a year or so earlier, I walked into my room and took out the dollar bill. The word "pussy" came out of my mouth as I looked in the mirror, bemoaning the thought of how, standing in front of that emerald-eyed gift from God, my testicles had chosen that exact moment to regress into my abdomen, leaving me standing there like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs (Cue creepy music and the infamous "Tuck Back").

I crumpled up the bill, and threw it. And then (because at this point I was apparently still channeling the spirit of a little fancy girl) ran after it, picked it up, and spread it out on my dresser like I was trying to mend a baby bird's broken wing. And that's when I saw it.

Now, you can see where this is going. Before you cry "BULLSHIT!" - I swear to Peyton. I still have the bill if you wanna come look at it. No joke, scrawled on the back of the bill was one word. A word that instantly made me want to punch myself in the face, throw down the rest of my drink, and start furiously beating off. And not necessarily in that order.

Laura
(812) 323-$&%@

Come on, I'm not an idiot. I ain't puttin' the whole thing up there. Fuckin' perverts.

She had left me her number, and I became, on that very day, the saddest pile of monkey spooge on the planet. Let that be a lesson to all of you! When the woman/man of your dreams comes 'round, try your best not to act like Drew. Like a puppy who limps around the house, giving you that, "WHY?" look when you just got back from the vet after having his nuts chopped off.

And that's not even the end. You should hear what happened when I actually called the number. But alas, that is a story for another time, dear friends.....

Friday, October 30, 2009

My Little Road Rage

To say that I am an angry driver is a bit of an understatement. When I am alone, behind the wheel of my girl (a '98 Saturn who is way too good to me), I make Patrick Bateman look like the kind of guy you would think is a good cuddler. To those of you who make me want to chase you down, drag you out of your car, hit you on the nose with a rolled up magazine and yell, "NO!" - this is for you:

You people who drive the speed limit in the fast lane: Hi! My name is Drew! I drink too much. I am unhappy in my job. At any given time, it has probably been too long since I have been laid. I am prone to fits of rage, and my foul mouth could make a Tourette's sufferer stare in stunned silence. I like old movies and showtunes. And if you don't get out of the fast lane when I am clearly going faster than you, know this - behind you, I am planning your brutal demise. It probably involves my scrotum on the forehead of your dead corpse at some point.

You people who get butt-hurt and speed up to keep me from passing you on the right: I am not afraid to go to jail. You will lose this particular battle. Be the better person, and let me by. And that gesture you see as I race past? Don't take it the wrong way, I am just letting you know that you are #1 in my book.

And finally, you people who don't give me that little wave after I let you merge in front of me: I feel terribly sorry for your parents. They probably tried their best to raise a well-mannered, polite son or daughter. They probably speak so highly of you when someone asks them how you are doing at dinner parties. Let's just hope they never have to see what a terrible waste of human blood you have become. Seriously, on the scale of value that you bring to human society, you rank somewhere in between the still living member of Milli Vanilli, and a kiddie rapist. Say hi to your mom for me.

Hope to see you on the road!

All Hallow's Eve



I remember the last time that Halloween counted as a 'holiday' for me. I was 10, I think. My mom made me a kick-ass E.T. costume. And I came back with what was at that point in my life, the best candy haul EVER. Forget the fact that, even at age ten, I was pretty tall and my legs were way too long to fit into squat little E.T.'s body shape. Hell, I was probably walking around the neighborhood looking like Pam Anderson must have looked when she got off that boat with Tommy Lee. Like I had the rickets.


But just looking down into that plastic jack-o'-lantern full of delicious, chocolate-covered madness gave me a boner before I knew what boners were meant for. Snicker's bars, Bit-O'-Honeys, and Butterfingers. Nerds, caramels, and Sweet Tarts. That unbelievably cool woman who had handed out Fun-Dip packets was a rockstar; the douchebag who handed out toothbrushes could kiss my pucker.

As always, my wonderfully responsible parents checked my candy out first. And my mommy found it - it was one of those peanut butter taffy's. You know, the no-brand-name ones that came in either black or orange, non-descript wax wrapping, twisted into little bows at both ends. Am I the only kid ever who fucking LOVED those candies?


Only this one had a large pin in it, whose pointy side was poking through the wrapper.


My mom loved me very much (still does, though I have given her so many reasons not to), but she was also a pediatric nurse who was no-nonsense when it came to her two children. The entire haul went into the trash. I remember her taking me, crying, to McD's for my favorite shaped and processed poultry parts - Chicken McNuggets - and buying me some small bags of candy on the way home.


But it just wasn't the same anymore. The innocence of Halloween for me had bled away, the result of some sick, demented psychopath who thought that the idea of a child putting a sewing pin through his upper lip qualified as good sport. Sure, I trick-or-treated again after that, but it was never the same. The idea that people like that existed out there, in our own neighborhood no less, made the idea of dressing up as my favorite superhero or Saturday morning cartoon character, knocking on stranger's doors and allowing them to give you things to put in your mouth seem dangerous and stupid.


No more kid's stuff. I mean, look at how I spend Halloween now: I throw a big party where the booze flows and the costumes show as much flesh as possible. I dress up in a costume that I hope will offend people in some small way. I blare loud music, stare at countless breasts sitting up perfectly like Ziggy and his twin brother peeking over a fence, and watch as all the women relax, allowed to look like total tramps one night out of the year and not be judged by the chunkier girls (the ones who dressed up in 'funny' costumes). And all the while, I calculate exactly how much whiskey I can consume to properly lower my inhibitions (and maybe my standards), but still allow my penis to work just enough should I be lucky enough to fulfill that fantasy of sneaking back to my room with some girl dressed as a naughty maid or a sexy cop, and allow her to put my Tootsie Pop wherever she feels appropriate.


Wait. Come to think of it, fuck innocence! I can buy Fun Dip at Seven Eleven!


Happy Halloween everybody.




Friday, October 23, 2009

So here it is....

....my blog. A little part of me died inside as I typed that word. "Blog". I am contributing to the death of the printed word. Doing my tiny part to slowly and methodically kill the possiblity for future generations to actually pick up a newspaper or magazine. I'm serious, every little bit of technology that we become obsessed with, that becomes part of the public vernacular - "I just Facebooked you" or "Did you Tweet about it?" - causes one more fat, pimple-faced twenty-something to spend an extra hour in his room, face all a glow from the light emanating from his monitor, simultaneously killing hordes of goblins on World of Warcraft with one hand, while the other (without guilt) touches himself as 'justturned18hottie' tells him that she's wet via chat room.

Jesus, that was one of the worst run-on sentences I ever wrote. Oh well, that is what you will get by reading this blog - a lot of piss and vinegar, a shit load of random thoughts, and probably more honesty than you or I are comfortable with. I will promise you three things:

1.) Whatever comes into my head - it will be thrust into cyberspace (do we even call it that anymore?) minus any concern for your feelings, viewpoints, or values. If you don't like what I write, don't read it. I will not take it personally.

2.) The frequency of my posts will directly result from both the mood I am in at any given point in time, and my level of intoxication. Come on, anyone who ever had anything to say was fucked up on something. Hemingway was a rampant drunk. Thompson had more acid in his system than the alien from H.R. Gieger's nightmares. Hell, even Shakespeare needed an opiate of some sort to put pen to paper. While I am in no way shape or form putting myself on the level of those artists, and chances are nothing EVER on this blog will have an effect on anyone's life other than mine, I like to daydream that I have a talent that the rest of the world just hasn't been exposed to yet. Sue me, I am a self-centered prick. Although, contrary to the popular phrase, my shit does in fact, stink. My diet is poor.

3.) I'm gonna talk about anything. From whatever happened to me personally that day, to what's happening in the sport's world, to movies, to the fact that I will never understand the appeal of Kate Hudson, personalized licensed plates, or couples who sit on the same side of a booth in restaurants. In fact, those three things make me want to stick some sort of sharp object in my ear, to make death come swiftly.

Hey, you were the one dumb enough to log on to this. Don't blame me. I'm just the.....fuck....blogger.

And P.S. - thanks BFF, for giving me a push.
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