Sorry to disappear for 3 days last week, but I'm sure you know by know that I am about neither quantity OR quality. Things were really hitting the proverbial fan at work last week, even considering the fact that I got out of work early on Thursday and worked from home on Friday. The bigwigs were having a monstrous meeting today for which they needed information, so we've spent roughly three weeks gathering it, and last week was a fire drill while we tied up loose ends (not that the hem isn't still fraying just a bit).

ANYWEG. Here are the various updates in our lives:

• My foot: still aches a bit, but functions reasonably normally for walking. I twinged it a bit at church yesterday, so I'm back to limping a bit today, but it's not bad.
• Cinderella: really coming along. Since school let out early last Thursday, I didn't get to rehearse with the pit band, which was VERY annoying, but we've gotten through most everything at least once. I should be able to spend the next couple rehearsals fine tuning various jaunpiece. The chorus has known most of their parts for weeks now, since there ain't much to learn. The soloists sound great too. Oughta be a hell of good show.
• Annoying Item: the last few weeks we'd been planning to meet some friends on Saturday night to see Cabaret at the New Candlelight Dinner Theatre up in Arden. However due to some issues, we weren't sure if we were going to be in town until the last minute, so we couldn't order tickets until last week; we called, and they were sold out. We tried to pull some strings via friends of a friend, but to no avail. So we said oh well darn, and on Saturday made plans for dinner with Kyle (of Kyle's New Girlfriend fame) and Kristy and some other friends. While we were enjoying dinner? Our friend calls. Two seats opened up.

  Dammit.

• Inspired by Jeff Kay, we were hoping that we might rip out our carpeting and put in nice wood flooring, or, even better, find EXISTING hardwood floors underneath. So just now, after I got home from work (short day due to blizzard conditions), we handled some stuff, and I went into my bedroom closet with a pair of pliers.

  I am so happy I may have to do the Humpty Dance.

  Beautiful oak hardwood underneath our hideous carpeting. It won't even need much work; it's in gorgeous condition, probably won't need sanding or anything, maybe a coat of polyurethane and some wax. We are so excited we can barely keep ourselves from peeing.

  Now, to figure out how to move the piano so I can get the carpet out from underneath it . . .

My problems with modern technology continue unabated.

I broke down and took the truck to the dealership on Monday morning. Of course, on the way, the check-engine light turned itself back OFF, as the truck did its best to make sure that by the time it rolled into the garage, nothing would actually be wrong. It almost made it, but they were able to deduce that the problem was a burned-up ignition coil, which they repaired, and for which I was charged $316.

I won't go into the nagging feeling I have that Ford only makes their cars difficult to work on so that they can prop up their service industry. I'm just gonna say that I could have changed the spark plugs AND the ignition coil on my '96 Saturn with a few hours of effort and a lot of cursing and probably saved myself $200. Then I'm going to move on to our washing machine, which currently looks like this:

It won't agitate, for some reason. At first we thought it wasn't spinning OR agitating, but I've been able to make it spin. That may, however, be because I tightened up the belt. It still won't slosh the soapy water around like it should, even though some little doohickey (I think it might be part of the transmission) underneath is definitely twisting back and forth. I have a query in to some website that apparently is full of answers about these kinds of things, so we'll see what they say. Of course, our home warranty, through which I could have gotten this repaired for something like $50, expired 2 months ago.

If I can't figure it out any time soon, I'll probably just buy a new one. The existing one may be older than I am, so it may be time. Oh well. Since I'm not being very funny today (it's been a long couple of days, and things show no signs of letting up any time soon), I'm going to send you to a couple of amusing links:

Paris Hilton's Phonebook. I'll give you a dollar if you can get through to Lindsay Lohan and post what she says somewhere, preferably in my comments.

No, you can't have a pony. I'm hoping to put this on business cards and hand them out to whiny people at work.

I'm sure you're all familiar with the original Numa Numa Dance, which I'm proud to say I linked here a few days before it went all buckwildfire on the web and news media. Now, see the parodies. I'm particularly partial to Jiggling Mario, but they're all good, from the gratuitous use of Bob Ross, to the trio of retarded, head-banging, nipple flashing teen boys, to the silly hats. Check 'em all out, and feel free to pee.

P.S. - Is that Roger Clemens with a lightsaber?

Sorry for the late post today, and the rather high possibility of no post at all tomorrow. Things at work are pretty hectic, so I haven't had a lot of time to do all the brain-storming and research that goes into each word I write. (For example, today's post was written only after a staff of 14 people spent about 3 solid days apiece looking up Jack Parr's middle name, only to be told that I didn't need it after all. They all quit. My help never lasts long.)

Anyway, I've decided I should be on TV. I mean, honestly, how can I NOT be on TV at this point. I'm hilarious! Ask anybody! I haven't entirely decided on a format, but I figure it'll be a cross between a regular talk show, and "Chappelle's Show." Funny sketches involving making fun of African Americans when they get slave reparations, that kind of thing, but occasional interviews with Jon Stewart and Charo.

Here are some of my [brilliant] ideas so far:

• Sidekick. I'd definitely have a totally awesome sidekick. Way better than Ed McMahon. What the hell was that, anyway? Did he have any redeeming qualities other than the ability to agree with everything Johnny said? I'd prefer a show where the chemistry of the players involved was better than that of the Bush administration, thanks.

  I'm thinking along the lines of Jon Stewart or my sister, Liz. Jon's funny; Liz has a big rack. Jon might try to steal the show, and then I'd have to hide his body in the desert, so we can't have that.

• The best in comedy. What I will do, is hire away all the current SNL writers. Then, I will shoot them all in the face and hire people that are funny, like Al Franken. Liberal radio channel . . . har! That was hilarious.
• I imagine I'll have to have a live studio audience, which will be great 'cause I'll just make sure they're all drunk or stoned or both. I'll get HUGE laughs for anything from farting to periodically showing pictures of what Bob Marley might have looked like at age 50 if he went bald. And if the crowd starts to turn on me, I have Liz flash a nipple. It'll be great. So long as I personally don't have actually see my sister's nipple, 'cause that's just NASTY. I definitely just threw up in my mouth.
• Once a week, I will take a day off and let a monkey host an episode. That'll be AWESOME.
• Speaking of drinking, I'll definitely make sure all the guests are loaded. Unless of course they are alcoholics. Then they get all the methamphetamines they can take.
• Periodic dance breaks, a la Ellen DeGeneres, will be encouraged. Metal stripper poles will be provided for this purpose.
• The guest list would be an absolute who's-who of modern pop culture:
  • Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam (musical performance)
  • Ian Ziering
  • Pat Sajak (and Vanna, if she's willing to dance on the pole)
  • Urkel

Anyway, there may be an update tomorrow, or it might not happen until Wednesday. WE SHALL SEE.

Oh, how I hate modern technology. Wait...hate? That might not be the right word. Perhaps it's love. The two are so intertwined, and I'm of such a brilliantly paradoxical nature, it's hard to tell. Anyway, today's topic is modern technology, and why it is awesome and/or pisses me off.

Exhibit A: The XM Satellite Radio. I purchased one for Hearnwife for Christmas, got it all installed and actimavigated, and I am here to tell you it is so awesome that riding in HW's car is a joy. (Before, it was rather painful; her car is very slow.) It has something like 150 channels, including weather and traffic for most major cities, three classical channels, three comedy channels, a bluegrass channel, a broadway channel, news, sports, and, most importantly, the "decades" channels. You get a channel each for every decade from the 40s to the 90s, so you can listen to Glenn Miller get his 'bone on, and then immediately switch to the 80s station to catch "I Think We're Alone Now" and "Funky Col' Medina." It goes without saying that this is pr0niffic.

Exhibit B: modern automobiles. My truck is running poorly, and the check engine light has come on, so I said to myself, "You know, I don't think the spark plugs have ever been change on this thing. Might be time to do that." So I stopped by Pep Boys and picked up 8 plugs.

This morning before work, I figured I'd spend an hour wrenching them out of there and then be done. So I gathered my tools, popped the hood, and started rooting around among the various cables and pipes and things, looking for plug wires. But they were not to be found. Anywhere. I crawled underneath the engine compartment, and still found nothing. Apparently I've been driving a diesel all these years and not known it.

So I went inside and sat at the computer, and did a little investigating. Apparently, instead of having one ignition coil that powers 8 spark plugs, each plug has its own coil. Which is inside what appear to be the valve covers. So replacing spark plugs, which on my old Saturn was a 10 minute job, becomes a 2-8 hour workstravaganza. This is not thrilling to me.

I threw all the stuff back in the garage, and then grabbed my laptop and my diagnostics code reader. I plugged all that stuff in to get the problem code that generated the "check engine" light, and sure enough, the system is detecting misfires on cylinder 2, which if I guess properly is the cylinder all the way at the front on the passenger side. One guy online had had a problem where something, probably a chunk of loosened carbon deposits, had gotten into the cylinder and bent the spark plug, so I'm hoping that's my issue as well. This weekend, I get to pick up a Chilton or Haynes manual and try to figure out exactly how I get the spark plugs out, and probably have to buy a torque wrench to do so.

It occurred to me today, that having a vehicle that currently is not under any warranty, that I can't do simple work on like change the spark plugs, is going to be costly down the road when, say, a fuel pump needs to be replaced and it turns out you have to completely disassemble the front half of the truck to get at it.

My plan "going forward" (ooh! Business office cliches! Life is good!) is that HW and I should always have one nice car, preferably leased and warranted, so that when it has problems requiring complete disassembly we can just take it to the dealer and have them fix it. HW can drive that car around, and I'll buy a 1982 Toyota Corona or something equivalent to that so I can get to work, and that when it breaks, it's simple enough that I can easily fix it, or just torch the car and spend $500 on another one.

I predict that within the next year, the truck will be traded in on a 2005 Camry, and I'll be tooling around in a 1977 Caprice station wagon. And all will be gravy.

Ooh, tough news. My aunt sent me one of those "answer all these mildly idiotic questions about yourself and send it on to everyone" emails. You know what that means: I answer all the questions on here and force you all to read them! (Seriously. Read this, or I will show up at your house with a German Shepherd and a tall Dane named "Svikaak.") Also, there will be some study questions at the end that you'll want to answer if you want to do well on next week's test.

1. What was the last movie you saw in a theater?

Jackass, like 3 years ago. Hey, I don't go to movies. I don't see the point in paying $9 a ticket to go be deafened by drivel that's going to be out in a year on HBO. (Movies are too loud. Also, you drive too fast, I can't believe stamps no longer cost 22 cents, and what's with all this long hair? Damn kids.)

2. What book are you reading now?

This unbelievably horrible novel entitled "The Golden U-boat." I can't even begin to describe how bad it is. I don't have it in front of me, so I can't quote the dialogue, but it couldn't be more forced if the author was holding a gun to his characters' heads. Made-up example:

"But Chief, you know as well as I do that the sonar won't pick up a surface ship amongst this awful surface noise! Think ye not that we should head to The Great Depths of which our venerable underwater craft is capable and thereby increase the effectiveness of our listening devices? I daresay, the captain may be daft! BARKING daft, were you to ask my person."

You may think I'm joking. Perhaps I will lend you this book. I can't even figure out why I keep reading it; I'm roughly 60% through it, and the Nazis still haven't tried to build their nuclear weapon. In year 1990. Yes, I know. Let's just move on.

3. What is your favorite board game?

Oh, I dunno. I'm partial to Cranium, of course, but I always seem to win. That, my friends, is because I'm smarter than everybody else on the planet. It's nothing personal, it's just true.

Of course, I couldn't beat a horse at chess. No patience, you see.

4. What is your favorite magazine?

Hm. I don't really read a lot of magazines. I get "Men's Journal," although what I actually ordered was "Men's Health," and I should tell you that Men's Journal is a pretty crappy magazine. There's usually one decent article about something, and then 80 pages of advertisements for adventure vacations, expensive diving watches, and interviews with professional ski instructors. As if I give a crap what Bodhi LeMange says about life paralleling a ski slope.

Short answer: Modern Drunkard.

5. What are your favorite smells?

Oh, this could go a number of different ways. I mean, you could go gross (along the lines of "Smell my finger!"), super gross ("Now guess where my finger's BEEN!"), and relatively tame ("saffron").

I'm going with: bacon. Because bacon is mankind's greatest discovery after adultery.

(Haha! Just kidding! Adultery is TOTALLY bad.)

6. What are your favorite foods?

Was it once an animal? Then there's a pretty good chance it is one of my favorite foods. I haven't yet met fauna I won't grub up ons. Specific faves include pig and cow.

7. What is the worst feeling in the world?

It's a toss-up between getting kicked in the nuts, and getting your scrotum caught in a table-saw.

(And all the guys just threw up in their mouths. Hey, that's what I'm here for, folks.)

9. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?

"Dammit, why do I keep dreaming about Brad Pitt and Menudo having an orgy at Hunter S. Thompson's house? 2 weeks in a row now! What the hell!"

10. What is your favorite fast food place?

I'd have to go Wendy's on this one. Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers, 99 cents. I usually get between 5 and 8 and peel the buns off and go Atkins BUCK WILD on themses. Totally balicious.

11. What names have you picked for future children?

I haven't quite convinced Hearnwife of this year, but I'm fairly certain my first-born is going to be named "The Right Reverend." Regardless of gender. Plus, you can abbreviate it a bit, and "The Rt. Rev'd Hearn" just looks so awesome on paper. And it's not like anybody in my family is likely to earn a bishopric.

I'm also partial to the name "Levert."

12. Finish this statement: "If I had a lot of money, I would . . ."

Quit my job and spend a lot more time on the toilet.

Then I would spread the wealth around a little bit to some worth charities, and then I'd go to England to see if the toilets there are as awesome as I remember.

13. Do you drive fast?

Depends on my mood, and whom you might ask. Honestly, unless I'm stressed, I don't go more than 10mph above the limit. However, I tend to frighten passengers because I don't put up with things like people driving slow in the left lane without getting about 15 inches from their bumper and flashing my lights.

14. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?

Four, if you count obese cats.

15. What's your opinion of storms: cool or scary?

Pretty much cool. I'd much rather have a totally righteous thunderstorm than just boring old rain. I dislike rain, but if I have to have it, make it entertaining. I mean, is it too much to ask for some fun lightning to strike the neighbor down the street with the damn dogs? That would be so awesome.

16. What was your first car?

A 1972 Pontiac Grand Ville. I believe it to be the largest production car ever built. It was AWESOME. I miss it. I didn't appreciate it at the time. Now I'm getting verklempt.

17. What's your favorite drink?

I'm partial to both orange soda and scotch, though not mixed together, as that would be nasty.

I'll also admit a certain affinity for pureed bat guano.

18. Finish this statement: "If I had more time, I would . . ."

Probably get more sleep. This 8 hours a night thing just isn't working out, really. It's only 10am, and I'm already ready for a nap.

19. Do you eat the stems on broccoli?

Of course. I'll eat anything that I can dip in mayonnaise.

20. If you could dye your hair any color, what would be your choice?

That's sort of an absurd question. I can dye my hair any color. I just buy the dye, and get to coloring. That's silly.

(Blond.)

21. Name all of the different cities or towns where you have lived:

• Media, PA: I don't remember it, but my parents assure me I lived there, in an apartment in which they may or may not have had to throw a couch from the balcony because it was on fire. During the Super Bowl. I dunno.
• Wilmington, DE: A long, long time, potapatie, potapahoney. This is where my formative years were spent, which explains why I'm so boring.
• Baltimore, MD: Ah, what a great two years. What with the cutting class, hanging around liquor stores, occasionally going to court with my buddy Mike when he had to testify to put some poor slob in jail for assaulting him . . . definitely the most productive years of my life.
• Newark, DE: I was in college, so therefore I remember little of these years.
• New Castle, DE: I've been here about a year so far, and all I can tell you is that we're happy to find out that the woman in our neighborhood that was stabbed to death in her home wasn't a random victim.

Half full. Probably with booze.

23. Favorite sport to watch?

Curling, and let me tell you it is a travesty that it is only on during the Winter Olympics! 2006 can't get here soon enough for me, I tell you.

24. One nice thing about the person who sent this to you:

She has had her picture taken with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

25. What is under your bed?

A skittish grey cat and a gimp suit.

26. Toilet paper: over or under?

I believe I've talked about this before; people that put toilet paper on such that it is dispensed from the bottom of the roll should be harvested for organs.

27. Morning person, or night owl?

More night owl, really. I hate waking up. But then, I also hate falling asleep. I wish I only needed like 2 hours of sleep a day. Paradoxically, SLEEP IS AWESOME.

28. Eggs over easy, or sunny side up?

Oh man, now I'm totally hungry. Over easy is my style, since sunny side up is just silly. You get one side that's over cooked and hard, and one side that's runny and gross. It's like eating a burnt booger.

29. Favorite place to relax?

In front of a TV in a comfortable chair. Mmm...chair.

30. Favorite pie?

Now my stomach is really starting to hurt. I'm partial to blueberry and Shoo Fly. Mmmm....pie. Man, I'm hungry. I better go get some afore I implode. I shall rap at all y'alls later.

STUDY QUESTIONS:

1) Matt totally made up the Scandinavian sounding name "Svikaak." Is it not totally awesome?

2) How many of his responses are completely untrue? How many are just semi-true? Are there any in which you can tell he's just yanking your chain to get a giggle? Does this make him a depressing loser?

3) If you were 17, and were driving a car the size of an industrial park, would you get any dates? Do you think Matt did?

4) Does having recurring dreams about Brad Pitt and Menudo getting on make Matt homosexual? Or just "a lil fruity?"

5) Is it silly for Matt to make fun of popular culture when he hasn't even been to a movie theater for over 3 years? Is it silly for you to complain about the business of government if you didn't even vote? Does George Bush strike you as someone who you would never, EVER, EVEREVEREVER buy a car from? Does John Kerry strike you as someone who couldn't sell Cheetos to a stoner? Is it about 3 months too late to be making these kinds of jokes?

6) The name of Matt and Sarah's gray cat is "J.D." Matt insists she's named after Jefferson Davis because she has a "grey coat." Others think she's named after Jack Daniels. Is Matt a big drunk liar?

This article irritated me, just for the headline:

Petty, Not Earnhardt, Is the Real King of Daytona

Whoa. Somebody sounds bitter. I'm an Earnhardt fan, and I don't remember ever saying he was the King of anything. (Anything except my heart.) Having a headline like this is like saying, "Gretzky, Not Lemieux, Is The King of Hockey - Gretzky Won 4 Stanley Cups, 2 More Than Lemieux." It's like, um....DUUUUUUHHHHHHH.

Just wanted to get that out. On to more pressing issues.

• As of 12:24pm, the NHL Players Union and the NHL owners haven't come to a collective bargaining agreement. Oh wait, I forgot, no one cares. Nevermind.
Googlism still doesn't know anything about me, so let me add one possible tidbit of knowledge, as requested by my friend Lauren:

Matt Hearn is a totally cool guy.

And dat's de troof.

• The foodstravaganza that HW arranged on Sunday continues. Every day I've been bringing absotively massive amounts of food to work, and then around lunchtime I remember one or two other things I could be eating as well. Today I have an egg salad sandwich, a container of chicken salad, some cheese, leftover meat and veggies from a trip to Lone Star last night, and two sodas. Even so, I realized around 10:30 that I could also be grubbing on some balicious soup. And I forgot to bring it. Foolish, foolish me.
• I should probably give you all an in-depth review of XM Satellite radio, which I got for HW for Xmas, and which may have changed our lives. I may do that tomorrow or Friday. For now, I just want to make it clear that thanks to the all 80s station, the following lyrics have been heard by us twice in the last month, which is 2 more times than I think I've heard them in the 15 years prior:

  I ain't much on Casanova
  Me and Romeo ain't never been friends
  Can't you see how much I really love you
  Gonna sing it to you time and time again

  Bless you, Levert.

• As you can tell, I'm short on witticisms today. I had some ideas last night for some HILARIOUS stuff, but of course didn't have a chance to write anything down, so it's all gone. Long, long gone. ::sigh:: I'll try not to suck tomorrow.

  Casanova . . .

For years now, friends of mine have been telling me "Dude, Hearn, you totally have to see 'The Big Lebowski,' dude, it's totally YOU."

So on Sunday, after church but BEFORE my audition, Hearnwife and I rented it via the technological marvel that is "Comcast OnDemand" and gave it a watch. Here is what I have to report:

Um...snore. Literally, in the case of HW; she lasted about 45 minutes before looking over at me with that "Why did you just waste $2.99, you cretin?" look that she does so well. She was out like a light for the remainder of the film.

I managed to stay awake through it, although I frequently picked up some kind of women's-wear catalog that happened to be in reach, because the movie was just that boring most of the time. I get the feeling that my friends thought I would identify with the main character, "The Dude," but the only similarities I could see between him and me were:

1. We both like beer.
2. We both occasionally demonstrate a large vocabulary.
3. Sam Elliott appears intermittently in both our lives, sharing interesting anecdotes while sipping sarsaparilla.

1. Lazier than a deadbeat dad.
2. Has the sense of style of a blind hillbilly.
3. Curses like a sailor with Tourette's. (And I freely admit, I drop F-bombs like a Senator drops his pants, but holy cow. This man knows no boundary.)
4. Drinks White Russians. C'mon. White Russians? C'mon.

Anyway, the plot of movie was reasonably interesting, although it could have been done in a one hour episode of NYPD Blue and left me with an hour to watch something that didn't suck. And it included a plot "twist" at the end that was not exactly surprising.

There were a few bright moments; every time Steve Buscemi said something, I usually giggled. And the crazy German guys who cut off their girlfriend's toe to try and get a million bucks in ransom money, they usually amused me. And any time Sam Elliott appears on my TV I am freakin' RIVETED. But by and large? "The Big Lebowski" gets a big thumbs down.

Ah, Valentines day. The day in which I have to come with a card and a reasonably quality present for HW, else I'll come home and she'll present me with a thick card that folds out to reveal a 12th century triptych icon on thin cardboard, complete with gold leaf inlay halos. Once I finish reading that, she'll hand me my "bag of presents," which will consist of 6-12 individually wrapped presents, including various consumer electronics and a small leather pouch of silver doubloons. And lo, nothing will be said, but HW will have that look, that look that says "I spent roughly 3 weeks salary on this present, and you got me a monkey card and a thong that reads 'Insert Love Potion Here' on the front?"

And there will be guilt.

So I better go to the store on the way home and get her something nice to go with the monkey card.

Anyway, various weekend updates, with Norm MacDonald:

• The ankle is getting better. Still hurts, but the brace is helping (once I got the right size; turns out I have a large foot, not a small one. Who'd've thunk it?), and I've cut way back on my intake of acetaminophen (read: I've stopped snorting it). Sunday night I had an audition (more on this shortly), and was able to get through the dance portion without serious pain or re-injury. I don't even limp as much, unless I'm going for sympathy or free drinks.
• Sunday evening I auditioned for the part of "Freddie Eynsford-Hill" in the Wilmington Drama League's production of "My Fair Lady." I think I did well; we auditioned in the lobby, so my primary vocal characteristic (extreme volume) was amplified a great deal. I sang a number from "Cinderella," and the director seemed greatly enthused. I did a short reading, as well, and didn't bollix it up too badly. I think I at least earned myself a callback, which (if they have them) will happen Thursday. I'll let you know what goes down.
• While I was at auditions yesterday, HW, who was SUPPOSED to be studying (she's taking some class involving special education), procrastinated by making vast amounts of food. She roasted a chicken and used it to make chicken salad and chicken soup; she made tuna salad (yuck); she made egg salad; and who knows what all else. I was thrilled beyond the ability to speak English, and set about gorging myself on everything I could find, particularly the soup, which was like no other chicken soup devised by man, beast, or divine figure. It had spinach, green beans, mushrooms, and a few other things, and was really, really grood. I plan to eat a lot of it tonight while Sarah's at class. I love food so much.
• I may have to start actually spending more time writing. I've got a lot of random story ideas leaping into my brain for no discernible reason. Some of them are pretty crappy, like the one I came up with the other day wherein it turns out that reincarnation is reality, and we just move from life to life throughout time in really interesting ways, except that one guy starts to remember all his previous lives, and then maybe he starts to see his lives in the future, and then maybe somebody gets shot. I dunno. Some of them, I think, aren't bad, like the one I'm mulling over where some dorky guy like me overcomes his fear of conflict when his daughter gets raped and spends 2 years plotting how to kill the rapist and not get caught. Not to mention the lengthy novel I'm thinking about involving a married guy that realizes he's gay. I better start putting stuff on virtual paper before I forget it all.

  I've also been working my musical muse (hee) and doing a little arranging and composing; I wrote an accompaniment to "Ol' Man River" that's very trite and amateur, but hey, it's a freakin' start. Particularly since I can't play the piano. I still work intermittently on a Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis setting that inevitably frustrates me 'cause I suck, but perhaps I'll get somewhere on that soon.

• Mmmm...chicken salad.
• VASTLY IMPORTANT SOFTBALL UPDATE!!!!!!!!! That I should probably have put atop the page! But I'm an idiot!

  Anyway, the check and form have been sent. Assuming they don't already have too many teams, the Prancibald Duckshirts will hopefully be registered to play soon. SO. We need to make sure we have enough players, 'cause I didn't just cough up a $395 fee for us to back out early (which might cost additional penalties). If you live anywhere in driving distance of New Castle County and wouldn't mind giving up some Friday nights this summer to play extremely low-competition softball with a bunch of idiots who may or may not be drunk the entire time, let me know! The more people we get, the cheaper it is for everybody. It'll be more fun than watching donkeys screw, I promise.

So much for daily postings huh? Argh. The mind, the body, and the spirit were weak, not to mention every time I tried to type something up, something came up. Wednesday, I started a column and had to leave the office to go manhandle servers around all afternoon, followed by an evening of having burnt palm-fronds rubbed onto my forehead to indicate to all I might meet that I believe in a twenty-century-old legend about a guy who told us to love sinners and got stapled to a whipping post for it. Thursday, I started a column early in the day amid frequent requests for my attention, and then had to skedaddle home to make sure Hearnwife didn't throw up a lung. (She's much better today, thank you.)

Today will be different. I still have plenty to do, and I'm not entirely sure I'm going to get to it all, but I'm determined, dammit, to get something posted on my webpage, so that my readers (both of them) don't wither and die from lack of subtle humorousness. Plus, I finally got some information about the first thing, which is:

Come to the Absalom Jones Concert at the Cathedral next Friday, February 18th, at 8pm. Tickets are $15, and I expect the show to be awesometasticalicious. What you will see: the Cathedral Choir, getting its jam on with some classical stuff, and some gospelly favorites. Dawn Padmore, choir alumnus and touring professional, singing whatever it is that touring professionals sing. Soloists from the choir (including yours truly), singing some nifty solos. It's well worth the $15, so come one come all!

I've been trying to post something about that for 2 days. FINALLY. Sheesh.

Also, Speedweeks is upon us! The drivers, crews, and groupies have hit Daytona for 11 days of practice, qualifying, racing, and surreptitious nookie in the team hauler. I couldn't be more thrilled if Michael Jackson himself appeared at my door in Full Zombie Mode and grabbed his crotch at me.

The racejoyment begins Saturday night with the Bud Shootout, aka the Bud Clash, or whatever it is they're calling it this year. I predict high speeds, a truly brilliant wreck that takes out half of the field, and for the winner to thank Budweiser for their support and for all the cases of pee-flavored alcoholic beverages they'll be delivering to his mobile home. Sunday afternoon, pole qualifying, which to the untrained eye is deathly boring, but which to the trained eye makes me fall asleep.

Then things die down a bit until Thursday, when the Gatorade Duel 125s are run to determine the starting positions for the Daytona 500. Friday night there's a truck race (which you'll miss, seeing as you'll be at the Absalom Jones Concert watching me sing Old Man River), Saturday the Busch Grand National Race, and then on Sunday the DAYTONA 500 sponsored by Some Rich Corporation (SRC)!

Somewhere in there, there's also an "International Race of Champions," or "IROC," race, but that has lost relevance since it's lame.

What the hell, weatherman? It's freakin' February, and the temperature keeps getting up into the 50s? Yesterday afternoon at the grocery store I had to keep hobbling down to the frozen foods aisle and stick my torso and head in a freezer to ensure that I didn't succumb. (If you find my hat frozen to a box of Tostitos frozen pizza rolls, let me know and I'll swing by and pick it up.)

Yesterday, my truck reported an afternoon temperature of 56, and today's high is supposed to be 50! On Thursday we are told to expect snow and snow showers, but with minimal accumulation, and a high of nearly 40. What is going on? Is it global warming? SHOULD I HAVE BEEN VOTING DEMOCRAT ALL THESE YEARS?

God, I hope not.

To horrifically and drastically change the subject, I would just like to issue a thank you to the inventor of the roasting bag, and also to the fellow that realized that you could couple a roasting bag with a small packet of spices and make a killing. So far I have sampled a couple of the pork spice/roasting bag combos, and last night went with a pot roast version, to go along with the three-pound hunk of chuck roast I purchased. You just throw the meat in the bag, mix the spices with a little water, pour it atop the meat, massage it a little bit, and throw it in a 350 degree oven for about 90 minutes.

I tell you, friends and loved ones, you have not truly enjoyed life until you've pulled out of the oven a 13x9 baking dish containing a bag containing a hunk of beef and roughly 2 cups of bubbling brown spicy juices. I almost wet my pants. Moist, full of hellaflava, all around good times. I served it with broccoli, which was surprisingly none the worse-for-wear despite having served as a cooling apparatus for my injured food.

I just ate the rest of it for lunch today. So awesome, even microwaved. I am so happy right now I might weep.

So awesome.

Let the random tidbits of rambled information begin!

• So, Wicked = Awesome. I daresay, Wicked > *. (Wicked is "greater than" "all," if you aren't a loser geek like me.) It would have been nice to see it with the original Broadway cast, but beggars can't be choosers. I thought it was amazing anyway.

  The tunes are catchy, the plot is awesome, the ending just a LITTLE disappointing on some level, but still I'd go see it again. I'm reading the book as well, since Liz finished the copy I got her for Christmas. (Is it weird to give a gift to someone and then swipe it when they're done? No? Good.)

  The production value, if there is such a thing for a stage musical (and I assume there must be), is fantabulous as well. So much that it would probably be a challenge for anything other than a professional theatre to pull it off, which is a pity; I've decided I would absolutely sell a testicle to conduct the pit for Wicked. (I'd say I'd like to be in it, but there is a distinct shortage of decent men's roles, and I can't hit high F# in my chest voice like the gal playing Elphaba did a time or three.)

• Miraculously, my left foot survived walking around New York all day Saturday and has gone back to painting nudes while I'm asleep. Still, it hurt enough this morning that I decided to finally go see Dr. Bercaw, and, per usual, whichever medical student he is educating. This young lady was named Kathryn Elizabeth something or other, which amuses me since that's my mother's name. It's even spelt the same, which is surprising. Also interesting was the fact that this particular medical student was very, very good looking, and tall.

  The two of them twirled my foot around for a while, gave it the usual "does this hurt?" "No." "Does this hurt?" "No." "Does this hurt?" "HOLY CRAP OW OW OW OW OW QUIT IT" "Aha!" Diagnosis: I sprained my ankle. I should stay off it as much as possible, keep it wrapped, and take acetaminophen for the pain and swelling. Since I've been doing these things anyway, I took this to mean that I am now as competent a doctor as anybody. I will begin accepting patients . . . now. Form an orderly line to the right.

  Anyway, the ankle's fine, so anyone (mainly just Llij) who was concerned that I had done more serious damage: alles ist Soße.

• I'm just not ready to begin discussing the Super Bowl yet. Let's just forget it happened and move on for a few days, and then perhaps I'll bring it up later in the week. Possible discussion point: when did Andy Reid begin taking clock-management lessons from Art Shell? Also: Considering the Sports Guy will be insufferable for the next, oh, fifteen years, is there anyone available to drive to LA and punch him in the mouth?
• Last Friday's story was well received, particularly among the people that DIDN'T notice I managed to switch from first to third person for the last 5 paragraphs or so. (I've gone back and fixed it already.) One or two people are telling me I should "finish it," which I assume means that I should come up with however Harry and Deborah's date ended. 'Cause honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead. Also, one or two people seem to be under the assumption that the story is autobiographical; not to burst their collective bubble, but although I certainly drank a lot in college, I didn't meet any women then, because
  1. I have the social skills of grout, and
  2. I had already met Sarah in high school, and we were actually married by the time I entered my last year.
  Anyway, for those that actually read the whole thing, many thanks, because it was a frightfully long thing to post on here. If I had any sense, I would have broken it up. The lesson as always: I am pretty sure I have Asperger's Syndrome.
• That's about all I have. If you want to see something that's actually FUNNY, check check it.

A late post of PURE UNADULTERATED FICTION, YO! Enjoy!

The first time we met, I was drunk. (This was hardly unexpected; it was early in my junior year, it was a Friday night, and I lived with 2 roommates in an apartment directly over a bar.) The bar was called the "Wild and Wicked" at the time, and she was there with a friend, Mimi, who happened to be in the same Ethics class as my roomie Walter. He wandered over to say hi, and to see if he'd missed anything by not going to class for the last 3 weeks. I followed him.

As we got close, Walter's "Hey girl, whassup?" caused the girls to turn around on their bar stools. Just as they did so, I slipped awkwardly on a puddle of frozen margarita and fell face first into the breasts of Mimi's friend, who in turn spilled her drink into my hair. I got to my wobbly feet and began the lengthy process of profusely apologizing when I felt a pair of large hands grab my shoulders and drag me towards the front entrance.

"Hey, wha? Wha're you doing? Cut it out, jerk!"

"Out you go, a-hole. Have a nice night."

With that, he threw me out the door, and I belly flopped painfully on a pile of rough ice. "You retard! I live upstairs! Let me back in and I'll just go to bed!" Sadly, bouncers aren't paid to rethink 86ing someone, so I was stuck. I could have waited for Walter to come outside and rescue me, but Walter doesn't stop paying attention to ladies until they either slap him or leave his apartment in the dead of night.

I went across the street to the Dunkin Donuts, bought a cup of coffee, and fell asleep. Around 3am I woke up, horribly hungover, and realized that 1) there's a back entrance to my apartment, up the fire escape, and 2) somebody had lifted my wallet while I was asleep.

While we nursed our coffees and tried not to move around too rapidly, two girls dropped their bookbags on the seats in front of us. The redhead turned around to look at us, and I realized it was Mimi and her friend from the bar last winter. Mimi looked at Walter and said, in what seemed to us to be an extremely loud tone, "Hey Walt, third time's the charm, huh?"

"Ow," he replied. "Not so loud. You'll bruise my eardrums."

Mimi laughed. I sat silently, hoping her friend didn't recognize me. Fat chance.

"Hey," she said. "You're that idiot that flung himself into my boobs a few months ago, aren't you?"

"No, I'm the brilliant finance major who flung himself into your boobs a few months ago, although my friends call me Harry." I thought this was a remarkably witty retort for someone who, not 15 minutes ago, had thrown up in a bush outside the building.

"You smell like puke." Touche.

The teacher walked in just then and demanded that we all have a seat. Associate Professor Agnes Prescott was the most feared instructor in the entire mathematics department. Her grading standards were like some medieval torture; 70% to pass? We hadn't been held to a standard that high since middle school. Half the profs at the college would give you a C just for showing up to the final and filling out most of the dots. Nevertheless, her Statistics 207 class was filled, 4 sections a semester, every single semester, because you couldn't get a business, science, math, or engineering degree without it.

After 90 minutes of frantically scribbling symbols in a notebook, Professor Prescott reminded us that in her class, attendance was mandatory, and would be enforced via daily quizzes, and that we should get the hell out and start studying if we expected to get anything approaching a passing grade in the next one. Walter and I stood up, and then I got rather horribly dizzy and sat back down.

"Is he gonna be okay?" asked Mimi, watching me shake cobwebs from my brain.

"He needs a Bloody Mary," replied Walter. "Any one else wanna meet us over at O'Brien's?"

Mimi shook her head. "I have Western Civ for the next 2 hours." She sighed. "Debbie doesn't have anything to do, though."

Debbie. I hadn't heard anyone say her name before, and I was slightly disappointed. Frankly, the girl was exactly my type. Very slender and tall, with large breasts, and dark hair, almost black. Her name, however, was on a lengthy list of names that I'm picky about. Stacy, Casey, Joan, Brenda, all of them just turned me off a little bit. This is not something I reveal, of course, to any Stacys, Caseys, Joans, Brendas, or Debbies I happen to meet. I resolved that, should I have the opportunity, I would always refer to her as Deborah. Very biblical and strong, Deborah is.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Are you deaf?" Debbie had been talking to me for probably 30 seconds while I was thinking about how I disliked the diminution of her name.

"Sorry, sorry, I was thinking about the Stat quiz we need to study for. What did you say?"

"I said I could use a quick hair-of-the-dog before I have to go to Technical Writing. Are you coming?"

"Most definitely. I don't suppose there's any chance you could carry me?" I smiled roguishly. Turn on the charm, Harry, that's it . . .

"You're clearly retarded. Let's go."

We wandered over to O'Brien's, which is the bar that replaced the "Wild and Wicked" after that unfortunate rohypnol incident involving every single bartender ever employed there. O'Brien's is actually owned by 2 Italian brothers, but as one of them put it, "This is a frickin' college town. No rich white kid is gonna come to a wop bar night after night." So they went with an Irish bar, albeit an Irish bar with a surprising variety of pasta on the menu.

Being only about 11am, the place was just opening for the early lunch crowd, and was nearly empty save a bartender and a couple servers wandering around. We sat down at the bar, and Walter was kind enough to seat himself directly between us, thereby ensuring that no physical contact of any kind would occur between Deborah and myself. I would have to have a chat with him about this later.

"Hey Jim, gimme three Bloody Marys, extra horseradish," Walter yelled down the bar.

"The name's Bobby, you ass," the bartender hollered back. O'Brien's prided itself on having the unfriendliest staff in the entire county. Business was booming.

The bartender plopped three tall glasses of red liquid in front of us. "$14.50," he said.

"Wait a second," I said, "14.50 doesn't divide by 3. What're you pulling?"

"I dunno, jerk, I just push '3' then 'Bloody Mary' on the damn screen, and it says $14.50."

We each slapped a fiver on the bar. "Keep the 50 cents and buy yourself a real job," smiled Deborah. The bartender stared hard at her for a moment, but she wouldn't break her gaze, so he stared me down instead. (I have the balls of a newt.) The drinks were tasty, like they usually were, and Bobby knew damn well we'd leave an extra couple bucks for him before we left. Anger was just part of the ambience.

"So Mimi tells me you idiots have gone through Stat before. What should I expect?"

"To fail," Walter and I replied at the same time, and then all three of us laughed. "But seriously," I continued, "the prof is a cast-iron bitch. Quizzes end up being something like 40% of your grade. The secret is having a late session."

"Why's that?"

"Because as mean as Prescott is, she isn't very smart about some things. The quiz will only have one or two questions on it, and if you know what they are, you just bone up beforehand on that material. She teaches two sections on Monday and Wednesday; by Tuesday and Thursday, the questions are well known. Being seniors, we get first dibs on the Tuesday/Thursday classes."

Debbie was impressed. "You're smarter than you look. How'd you figure all this out?"

Walter fielded this one. "The first time you take the class, you learn all about it from the seniors and juniors that are trying to pass for the second time."

"Or third," I interrupted, and Walt jabbed me in the arm with his straw.

"The only problem," he said, "is if she gets wise to us and starts changing the questions from day to day, and so we signed up for the late T&T class, in hopes that maybe we might be able to sneak into the 8am, find out the questions, and then run out for a quick hour's study before the 9:30 section." Walter was very pleased with himself, despite the fact that I was the genius that came up with it.

"You guys have got it all figured out, huh?" Deborah sipped her drink thoughfully.

"Hey, after 2 or 3 tries, you tend to learn," I said. "Not the material of course, just how to get around having to know anything." I smiled brightly.

"I think you have puke on your chin," she said, but she smiled coquettishly. We finished our drinks and stood to leave, throwing a dollar each on the bar for Jim or Bobby or whatever. As we walked out the front door, I said,

"So hey, Deborah, any interest in going out for some drinks this weekend?"

Deborah laughed, clearly at my expense. "I'll tell you what," she said. "Friday night, Mimi and I are throwing a party at our place. Nothing huge, just a keg and an iPod full of dance mixes. We'll be getting started around 9. If you come, and can keep that massive head of yours - " she rapped on my forehead with her fist - "out of my cleavage, I might let you clean up somebody's vomit before I kick you out."

"I can't think of a more enticing offer. See you tomorrow, then?"

"You are a dork. Bye, Walt," and she trotted off towards her class.

"Sweet girl," Walter commented.

"Shut up," I replied.

The third time we met, Debbie was so drunk she was clearly not capable of standing upright. We got to the party around 1am (Walter told me I should let her anticipation build up, and she'd be happier to see me when we finally showed up), having hit a couple bars before-hand, so we were nicely tuned up ourselves. Deborah, on the other hand, was leaning on everything: walls, doors, the keg, the counter, other party-goers.

"Hey look," she yelled as we walked in, "it's those two assholes who were supposed to show up hours ago." Then she threw a bottle cap at me, which missed me completely and went down some girl's shirt. Luckily, her dance partner was more than willing to put his hand down there and retrieve it. Walter and I watched him try to find it among her bosom and large beer gut, finally giving up when the girl grabbed his groin and led him off by it in the direction of the bathroom.

"What can I say," Debbie hollered, "I throw some seriously classy parties."

"Where's Mimi?" Walter asked.

"What?"

"I said, WHERE'S MIMI?"

"Don't yell at me you turd!" Debbie screamed, as she fell sideways over a small sofa, spilling her full cup of beer all over a girl in a white tshirt, who immediately shrieked and ran in the direction of the bathroom. Walter helped Debbie to her feet as best he could, and finally set her down on a dry part of the couch.

"Looks like you've kinda ruined this little sofa," I told her.

"It's a chaise lounge, you dumbass."

I looked more carefully at it. "Technically, Deborah, a chaise lounge is more like a chair with an extension for the legs. This is a love seat."

"Oh, shussup," she retorted, stood up sullenly, and made for a glass door leading to a small balcony. "I wanna cigarette." Walter and I exchanged a look, during which I tried to signal as clearly as possible, Stay here you idiot, but which Walter appeared to decipher as Let's both go out there with her and we'll have a nice big chat! I seriously reconsidered my relationship with Walt, as I did at least 30 times a day.

Both of us went out on the balcony and kept a careful eye on Debbie in case she decided to pull the same move on the railing that she did on her "chaise lounge." Something about the dumpster beneath us didn't look quite as cushiony.

"So," I began, "what have you been drinkin'?"

"Whaddaya think, you nyerd? Beer! Beer an' vodka! Oh, and Mimi had some pot, we did a liddle o dat."

"Where is she, anyway?" Walt asked.

"Oh, she's back in the be'room, toking up with some art major. Probably screwing in my bed. She always does that, jus' to mess with me." Debbie lurched towards the railing, and I grabbed her waist as she leaned over and threw up noisily.

"Holy crap!" yelled Walter. Debbie moaned loudly.

"Okay, okay, got any more?" I asked. She shook her head, and then leaned over again and let loose with what appeared to be Salisbury steak.

"That's freakin' nasty, dude," said Walter.

"I know, retard. Go inside and grab some paper towels, lemme see if I can clean this up and get her to bed."

"Dude, you're not - "

"No, asshole, you know I wouldn't, all jokes and rumors to the contrary." Walter got some Bounty, and I wiped off her face and tried to sponge some of the goo out of her hair. We carried her inside, squeezed by some commotion near the bathroom (the girl with the beer-soaked white t-shirt wanted to go inside and hide from everyone who could quite clearly see that she wasn't wearing a brassiere, and the couple inside wanted to continue their shower-related activities) and found what appeared to be the door to the bedroom Deborah and Mimi shared.

We knocked, and then knocked louder, but got no response, so we opened the door. Mimi was passed out in a twin bed with some short bald guy, so we dumped Deborah in the other one, and closed the door behind us.

"Sweet girl," Walter said. I just gave him a look.

We wandered back out into the party, and a mildly-inebriated girl wandered over. "Are you guys Harry and Walt?"

"That's us," I replied.

"Cool. Thanks for taking care of Debbie; she'd been asking about you, wondering why you hadn't shown up yet. I'm glad you finally did, if only to keep her from going over the railing out there."

"Just doing our jobs," Walter said with a grin. "What was your name again?"

"Joan," she replied. "Do you guys need beers?"

"Hell yes," Walter said.

The fourth time Debbie and I met, the following morning, we were both very hungover. Walter and I stayed until the keg was tapped out, around 4 am, and then we stumbled back to our apartment as well as we could. I actually made it to a couch, but Walter barely made it into the apartment, collapsing on the floor in the small entryway we jokingly called a foyer. Around 9, I woke up and dragged myself down the hall to my bedroom, where I slept fitfully until around noon, when the phone rang. I let almost all incoming calls go to voicemail (I just don't like talking on the phone), but for some reason I answered this one.

"Uh...hello?"

"Hey, uh, Harry? This is Debbie."

I sat up in bed so rapidly my spine popped in three places. "Debbie! Hi!"

"You're probably wondering how I, um, got your number . . ."

"I would imagine you got it from Mimi, who got it from Walt."

"Oh. Uh, right."

"How are you feeling?" I asked, sincerely.

"Honestly? Like crap. Thanks for taking care of me last night. Joan said I nearly went over the railing outside."

"Yeah, you probably would have survived the landing in the dumpster, but we weren't going to climb in there after you. I figured it was just simpler to catch you before you went over."

She laughed. "True, true. Anyway, thanks. I'm sorry I wasn't more, um, fun."

"What are you talking about? You promised me if I came, I might get to clean up someone's vomit. I got everything I expected to get, and I helped finish off your keg. It was a great deal."

"Well, I'll tell you what. I've got a better deal. How about you meet me at O'Brien's in an hour, and I'll let you buy me some lunch and a bloody mary or two?"

"What say we make it 2 hours, miss the lunch rush, and give me another hour to try and get rid of this pounding headache?"

Deborah laughed again. I liked it. "Deal," she said. "And . . . thanks again."

"My pleasure. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye!" I rolled over and tried to catch two or three more winks. I'd need to be well rested.

A plethora of interesting information today, good, bad, and ugly:

• I am NOT a huge fan of this at all. That's right: some poor woman was murdered, in her own house, about 4 blocks from my home. BAD. TIMES. ALL AROUND. As of the moment, the police have zero suspects. I have a desperate urge to purchase a shotgun, although at the moment I'm rather poor, so I guess I'll just keep locking the doors (like an idiot, I left the garage open all night on Tuesday night, so I guess I should be glad no one came into my house and carved me up) and praying.
• On a lighter note: Numanuma.
• An open letter to the Kraft corporation:

  To whom it may concern,

  I am writing to request that you make a change to the packaging of some of your varieties of sliced cheese. I am a huge fan of the standard Kraft American Slices, and often wish they were available in a 64-count variety. (Mmmm...64 slices of American cheese.) I am less of a fan of the Mexican flavor of the product, so I simply don't buy it.

  However, the packaging for the regular flavor and the Mexican flavor is almost exactly the same; same color, same font, merely the addition of a hard-to-see "Mexican" on one container differentiates the two. As a result, I hurriedly ran through my local Acme the other day and accidentally purchased the wrong cheese!

  Please change your packaging to ensure this doesn't happen again, as the Mexican cheese makes me throw up in my mouth.

  Thank you!

  The Hearn

• Speaking of cheese, I have discovered a new edible delight: cheeseburgers with fried eggs on top. Delicious. And The Cheat likes it as well.
• In other news, my ankle is beginning to feel a little better. As long as I stay off it, I appear to be fine. This isn't a problem until Saturday, when we're going to New York; I'm hoping to possible acquire a set of crutches by then, because walking 50-60 blocks over the course of the day does NOT appeal to me in the least. I'll let you know on Monday how that was, along with a review of the performance of Wicked (which I expect to be awesome) and just how cool NYC has gotten since I was last there in roughly 1999.
• Today's Googlism: Matt Hearn is actually a SUPERB typist, and resents the implication that a simple typographical error denotes otherwise. Matt Hearn is not, however, a very good proofreader of his own prose.

I'm getting a little bitter at the fact that googlism.com STILL knows nothing about me, despite the fact that I have the most popular website on the internet, based on statistics that were given to me by my accountant, who I hired away from Enron back in 2002. However, it seems to know lots of things about all kinds of OTHER people I know. Not that I'm bitter. (Oh wait, I guess I already said that I am. Never mind. Shut up.) Examples:

• Jill Knapp is a liaison member from the nrc board on physics and astronomy
• Josh Lewis is getting a little out of hand
• Sarah Hearn is the daughter of george and tabitha skeen hearn
• Brian Smith is god
• Kyle Anderson is deformed and has a 3rd leg growing out of his binky

So here's what I'm going to do to fix it. I'm going to periodically post "matt hearn is . . . " entries so that eventually Googlism will know everything there is to know about me and my radity. I invite you also to add things to your own webpages, or even just leave lengthy comments about how you all love me and wish to bear my children out of wedlock. Here goes NOTHIN':

• Matt Hearn is a sex machine.
• Matt Hearn is not one who feasts on small children, despite what AAA says.
• Matt Hearn is a lover of the "Guess Who's Coming to Criticize Dinner" episode of The Simpsons.
• Matt Hearn is the possessor of a right thumbnail that is 1/4" from quick to edge.
• Matt Hearn is on point.
• Matt Hearn damned sure he saw a bunny running around in the snow the other day, despite what Matt G says.

Jared has alerted me to the existence of Diet Cherry Vanilla Doctor Pepper. As he put it, "Talk about [very bad word] complicated." I'd have to agree. I've never been a huge Doctor Pepper fan to begin with; I find it tastes like some horrible mutated love-child of sarsaparilla (pronounced "root beer") and denatured brake fluid. So you can rest assured, Diet Cherry Vanilla Doctor Pepper (hereafter referred to by "DCVDP," which can also stand for "Diseased Cat Vomit: Duck Poop," which I think you should know before you buy a 6 pack of it) is not something I will voluntarily "enjoy."

But it got me to wondering what other kind of unholy combinations the soda companies are working on next. I did a little "research¹," and I have discovered the following tasty concoctions:

• Cheezy Coke: "All the natural Classic Coke Flavor™ you've loved for over 100 years, with just a hint of brie rind! Mixes well with crackers and pimiento loaf."
• Meat: "We took Pemmican® Beef Jerky, ground it into a fine powder, and then snorted some! Then we took the rest and infused it into 7-Up! The result is surprisingly horrifying flavorful!"
• Land of our Fathers: "An ancient Cherokee recipe, this tasty beverage contains 475% of the Daily Recommended Allowance of ox hooves! It may also have cocaine in it. Chief Sycamore won't say for certain."
• Lo-Carb Triple Mochachino Grape: "So here's the thing: Bob in R&D got really hammered on Jaeger Bombs, and came up with this. We're not thinking it's gonna be a huge seller, but Bob won a bar bet that forced us to spend $14 million marketing it. Enjoy!"
• Mangotastic Orange-Love Juicy Friend, With Beaver!1!: "Straight out from Japan, get yourself's readiness on for a fruitistic autism! Humbly, we triple-time-mixed Hungarian 'flavaz' to 9 times caffeine! For drink. With LOVE we bring it ON, all of the night's LONG!"

²200 pounds, you dolt.