Wild weekend, I'll tell you. Nipples, NBA fistfights, girls making out, fried turkeys, it had everything but the Kitchen Sink, which I almost ordered at the Charcoal Pit on Friday to gross out my friends.

Friday we went to see the Brandywine High School play, "You Can't Take It With You," which was pretty damned funny. We did a little pre-eating at Lonestar (mmm...16 oz prime rib), and a little post-eating at the Pit.

[An aside: We had a discussion at the Pit on Friday (Me, HW, Mary, Milo) about the Kitchen Sink, which has 20 scoops of ice cream in it and, according to the Pit menu, serves 2 to 4 people. Everyone else was astounded to think that 2 to 4 people could finish off 20 scoops of ice cream, but then I got to thinking about it; when I have ice cream, I usually have between 5 and 6 scoops, coated liberally with chocolate syrup. It stands to reason that 4 Hearns could eat a sundae containing 20-25 scoops of ice cream. Of course, one would have to find 3 other Hearns, and after they made me, they broke the mold. (Thank God.)]

Unfortunately, the real fun to be had Friday night was not with Team Hearn. The Ychromes had an away gig at George Washington University, followed by a riotous afterparty with a bunch of slutty girls. Good times for all, I'm told. Even the fat kid with horrible teeth got to make out with 2 or three women. These things did not happen while I was in the group.

[Also occurring on Friday night: Ron Artest bitch-slapping Detroit fans! It's a pity he got suspended, considering if you throw a beer at me, I'm going to at least punch you in the stomach a couple times. Milo says that's fine for the average citizen, but professional athletes can't go into the stands no matter what. So if a fan throws a brick at me, I still can't do anything? Is there a line somewhere that I can't cross? Beer throwing is okay, but am I allowed to go after a guy if he's hurling shuriken at my teammates? Artest and I would just like this to be cleared up before next season.

Saturday we got a bunch of stuff done around the house, including the creation of a blueberry pie (with which my wife absconded on Sunday, forcing me to make two replacement pies). At 5, we headed up into Philly, where we ate dinner at "Fat Tuesdays," henceforth known as "A Particularly Crappy Bar in Philly That Charges Too Much For Everything and Had a Sticky Floor." Then we went to check out Rebecca Buswell's nipples cabaret performance at the Red Room in the Society Hill Theater. It was highly rad, and featured our friends Nora and Cindy in a number of songs, and got HW to thinking: "Matt, you should do something like this!" I'm just a meal ticket to that woman, I swear. Or at least a ticket to maybe meeting Janet Jackson someday.

Sunday: Church, bake pies, more church, English "Cream Tea." The last was amusing; Jill and Wally and I polished off about 18 scones, 40 tea sandwiches, and a gallon or so of clotted cream.

I scooted out of there around 6pm to roll to Colin's for Thanksgiving dinner, at which I ate too much pie, and we all made fun of the people who weren't there (Ian, Unga, Ian some more, Justin and his HOTT NEW GIRL, etc.). We also threw the football around, and surprisingly, my left arm still functions! I must be getting more athletic as I age. By the time I'm 50 I'll be ready to start for the Jets!

Let's hear it for the short workweek. I'll be baking a lot of pies. I love pie so much.

[Aaron took a picture of Justin at some bar with a woman who wore a bright pink shirt and a bright pink mesh trucker hat, and also appeared to have no upper lip. Seriously. From what I could see in the picture, her face, from north to south, went: nose, gum, teeth. I've never seen anything like it in all my years of tracking ugly people at Walmarts.]