As of today, Spork Nation is officially one year old. You know what that means: pretty soon I’ll be walking and trying to put everything within reach into my mouth. It’s time to childproof your homes or, alternatively, if you’re used to me coming to visit you when I’ve been drinking, they’re probably already safe (Kyle – hide the apples).

I’m not entirely sure what to make of the past year, but overall it’s been mostly good. My divorce was finalized in June, I got a job that I truly enjoy and that pays me fairly well, I got a new car that I love, and I moved back to my hometown, which has brought me closer to family and friends I had lost touch with. On the down side, I miss the friends of mine from Greenville who I rarely get to see anymore, living close to the mountains, and Clemson, once again, broke my heart with our football season.

At the beginning of the season, there were whispers that we had the talent to be a dark horse candidate for the national championship, and we had an incredible season until our loss to Virginia Tech. After that, it was all downhill, our regular season ending in a loss to USC and finally culminating with a pathetic loss to Kentucky in the Music City Bowl. Thanks, Tommy*. But I’m not going to focus on it anymore. I still have Penn State and Ohio State to pull for, maybe one of them won’t let me down. It’s sad how much my relationship with Tommy Bowden is like that of an abusive couple. He keeps promising to be better and try harder, and I truly want to believe him, so I keep coming back, only to be punched in the kidneys and thrown down the steps to the basement.

Enough about football. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who takes the time to read the rants and raves of little ol’ me, and welcome to those who I’ve met over this vast interweb of violence, news, and pornography. 2006 is almost over, and Yahweh knows 2008 can’t get here soon enough, but for now it’s time to focus on 2007.

To all my readers, whether I know you personally or only digitally, have a great New Year’s Eve. May the booze flow freely, the fireworks explode loudly**, and may 2007 rawk.

Much Love,

JT

*with an honorable mention to Jad Dean
**and also not blow off your thumb or any other part of your body.

My head hurts. The oyster roast, despite lousy weather and a smaller turnout than expected, rawked.

Of course, we cooked oysters...



Also, we were surprised by oysters...



We also:

Drank



Danced





Performed cavity searches



Rocked



And rocked the PBR tats...



Oh yeah...and Miles looked at nudie mags* when he came over the next morning...




But truly, it's all about Beer-mas...behold, the Star of Compton, in honor of Compton, who is spending Beer-mas away from home for the first time. Bring it on home soon, cuz.




*The nudie mags were a Beer-mas gift from Guy...how thoughtful!

Awesome.

Brought to you courtesy of letseatpaste, but I never would have found it without CDP.

Hopefully it won't offend anyone, but it makes about as much sense out of the holiday season as anything else I've read.

I know I've been complaining about Christmas a lot lately. Get used to it. I'll keep complaining until the decorations are down and that terrible music is silenced. I'm truly curious to see how early next year they trot out the decorations and music. I'm thinking shortly after July 4th, Labor Day at the latest.

Here's a subject I haven't brought up yet: gifts. If I had my way, instead of exchanging gifts, half of which will be returned or tucked away for later "re-gifting," we should just hand each other twenty dollars and call it a day. Maybe we could then go out and buy each other drinks with the combined forty dollars. Think of the fun to be had! Instead, we're supposed to put actual thought into gifts. I don't like thinking, it makes my brain sad. Also, my family is extremely difficult to buy for.




Unfortunately, this usually gets me yelled at by my mother, grandmother, sister, or all three combined. They think it's tacky and that I'm lazy. While I won't argue either point, it's still more attractive than what happens when I actually try to wrap presents. This year, my friend Aubrey offered to assist me in the gift-wrapping area (Sucker!). She actually enjoys it! Here are the final results of Aubrey wrapping the Girlfriend's gift:

Aubrey rocks, as I believe I've stated before. There's an actual jingle bell on there, folks!

I do wish I had remembered to poke air holes in there, though.

...it's the new style.

I got sick of the generic template that I had been using for my blog, and the lack of any type of logo, so I spent some time over the past 2 weeks updating and customizing everything. I just wanted to make it stand out a bit. I'm also considering removing the ads, since I don't make any money off of them, but I think they're kind of funny from time to time. They're supposed to draw from the context of my posts and put up relevant ads, which is a bit hit or miss, mostly miss. Sound off in the comments section, and tell me what you like and what you don't. Be brutally honest...I can take it.

Around this time of year, I get called a lot of names, even more so than usual: Scrooge, humbug, jerk, heathen, and some others that are less kind. It’s because I don’t get into the Christmas season. Actually, that’s an understatement. I do just about anything possible to avoid it. Other than the obligatory office parties, I don’t intentionally go anywhere Christmasy. I avoid the malls (which I do usually anyway,) major retail stores, parades, and most Christmas parties thrown by family and friends unless they’re completely irreverent (like Guy’s with the fog machine and Santa hat-wearing skulls dangling from the ceiling) or there are copious amounts of free booze to be had (I would go to a Babyeaters Anonymous meeting if there were copious amounts of free booze to be had. I would even claim to eat babies with hollandaise sauce for breakfast if the Bloody Marys were exceptionally good.) I also refuse to wear any Christmas-themed clothing. If you try to get me to wear a Christmas sweater, I will murder you.

It’s not that I’m a horrible troll of a person who hates peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. Really, I’m all for the peace and goodwill. I just don’t find anything peaceful about being assaulted with Christmas music and lights before Halloween candy has disappeared from store shelves. Especially synthesizer heavy Christmas music like Mannheim Steamroller or Trans-Siberian Orchestra, or coma inducing music by John Tesh. It grates on every fiber of my being. But can you guess what I hate more than the music? Decorating for Christmas, especially lights.

I blame this on my mother (Hi, Mom! Merry Christmas!) She absolutely loves decorating for Christmas, especially by stringing white lights around anything that sits still long enough. (She once mummified one of our family cats with Christmas lights after he fell asleep in the den. True story.*) What this meant was, after we were done with the actual Christmas tree, Dad and I would march outside into the cold, armed with boxes full of Christmas lights, extension cords, and electrical tape. The remainder of the day would be spent perched perilously on stepladders, hanging lights on most of the outdoor shrubbery and assorted small trees. Then, when we were all done, Mom would come out and kindly explain how we had done most of it wrong and maybe we should redo those last three shrubs. Then she would stab us. After the lights were done, there were wreaths and ribbons to be hung. Decorating with Mom was a multi-day process, and we had to listen to Mannheim Steamroller, The Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and John Tesh until our ears bled. My dad is a much better man than I am. To this day, he still helps with all of the decorating, while my sister and I have fled the house and plan our visits carefully around potential decorating days. For instance, I only visit after dark during meal times, and almost never on weekends until it’s halfway into January, because all of those lights have to come down after New Year’s Day.


*No, it’s not. She tried to, but I swooped in and saved his furry little life at the last minute**

**No, I’m lying again. She never attempted this, although she did threaten to***

***She really did threaten to.

Well, I began the long and arduous task of moving yesterday. Normally I try to move all in one day, but the power company couldn’t get to the new house to turn on power and gas until Monday. This creates 2 problems: 1. Cold weather has finally arrived in South Carolina, so staying in an unheated house for the weekend would suck 2. It gets dark at night, so staying in a dark house at night would also suck. Sure, I could have stayed with friends or my folks for the weekend, but I chose to move using two weekends and the evenings this week instead.

Originally I had a few guys lined up to help me move, and my sister and the girlfriend had promised to help as well. Here’s who showed up: Kyle. The other 3 guys mysteriously didn’t answer their phones, my sister has a huge project due for her finals this week (she’s still in college,) and the girlfriend conveniently fell asleep on her couch and didn’t hear her phone ring (which, oddly enough, happened the last time I moved.) I’m telling you ladies, Kyle’s a catch. He’s smart, has a good job, and is reliable. Hell, for a dude, he’s not too shabby looking either. However, he’s not terribly coordinated.

I bring this up because neither am I. Two uncoordinated guys moving heavy furniture is always bad. Now factor in that we’re both slightly hungover, making our wits and reflexes less sharp than normal. Also take into consideration that when we played baseball together growing up, Miles, Kyle and I were the benchwarmers and the coaches referred to us as “The Three Stooges.” (Miles didn’t help me move, but in all fairness I didn’t ask him to. His name is just included because I needed it for narrative purposes.) The point being, Saturday was a comedy of errors. We got ourselves stuck behind furniture, dropped things off of the hand truck, and were just generally uncoordinated. I’m kind of surprised I didn’t back the trailer I was pulling into a tree or the house itself. No…I’m not. I’ve got mad trailer-backing skillz, yo.

I also helped my dad move my little sister out of her apartment this weekend (while she was still at my parents house, working on her project.) Am I just a sucker for moving? No, I’m getting free decorating and furniture arranging advice from her this week, as she is an interior designer, and I am the equivalent of a monkey on acid. I’m dying to see what she does with all of my PBR memorabilia and mismatched furniture.

Now if the power company will call me this morning so that I can meet them over there to get the gas and electricity turned on, I can finish up moving next weekend. Horray! Ain’t no party like a movin’ party, ‘cause a movin’ party don’t stop!

I hate moving.

Yesterday, December 5th, marked the 73rd anniversary of the 21st amendment being ratified! To those of you who are not as dedicated to booze and all of her boozy ways, the 21st amendment repealed the 18th amendment. The 18th amendment marked the start of Prohibition, the 21st mercifully ended that dark period in American history.

Seriously kids, those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it! And I'll hunt down and kill anyone who bans booze again. Ever. Even if it's in the year 3246 AD, I will rise from my grave with a terrible vengeance. A terrible, drunken vengeance.

You know what I love more than moving? Getting poked in the groin with a white-hot fork, and Republicans. I kid, I kid. The girlfriend is actually a Republican, so I have to at least pretend to like them...

I found out about a month ago that there were problems with the septic tank in the house where I live. I discovered this while I was in the shower one day. I noticed that the water wasn't draining very well, and I could hear what sounded like air bubbling up through the toilet as well as the other drains in my house. The next day, while washing dishes, the water didn't seem to want to leave the sink. I couldn't blame it, the sink is shiny, but still, dirty dishwater belongs down the drain, not standing and festering and smelling like old grease and stale beer with a hint of sour milk. Delicious.

I called my landlord, who immediately sprang into action. In all honesty, he did. He truly doesn't fit the stereotypical lazy landlord image. Don't get me wrong, he's lazy, but he and I have been friends since junior high school, so he's pretty quick to respond when I have an issue at the house, or want to drink beer with him, or both.

Unfortunately, since the house is within city limits, the city decided that he couldn't replace the old septic tank, and must tap into city sewer. This is proving to be too costly to make it worth his effort, as I would have to continue paying rent, with no other repairs or maintenance done, for well over a year to make up for the cost. Luckily, he has another rental property that has recently come open that I can move into. It's slightly smaller, but in a much nicer neighborhood, the kind where even Republicans would feel safe, and the backyard will be bigger and much nicer for the dogs.

Also, it gives me a good excuse to have another party to redecorate the Beer-mas tree, since it will have to come down in the move. Be prepared for Beer-mas Bash 2k6, and with the coming of the new year, the official retiring of "2k6." I promise I'll try to refrain from using "2k7," but I'm a filthy liar.

Hey there boys and girls, Uncle Josh here, reminding you that it's sweeps month over at the CDP. Go visit and say hello to one of the coolest people I've never met. He likes it if you call him "Ry-guy."

I saw one of the greatest things ever last night. It was Cooter's birthday (yes, in case it wasn't already obvious, I live in the South) and some of our friends were throwing him a party. No big deal yet, right?

When I got there, there were 3 separate fires buring. The big bonfire, where most of the people were hanging out, a smaller fire, where I found HL and hung out most of the night, and a fire burning in a shopping cart. I wish I had had my camera with me. I tried taking pictures with my phone, but they didn't turn out all that well. Later on in the night I pushed it around for a while. Well, actually, I pulled it around, since the front wheels had burnt off.

I’ve been meaning to post several times, but keep getting distracted. They tell me that the syphilis can cause that from time to time. Instead of short, concise posts about each individual event, I’ve opted to go with one long rambling, stream-of-consciousness post. Think of me as William Faulkner, except with syphilis.*

Let’s begin with Thanksgiving Eve.

Kyle and Brett have a tradition that involves finishing a fifth of Wild Turkey by themselves on Thanksgiving Eve. I was lucky enough to be invited to join in this year. The girlfriend had some serious misgivings about this, since I was to meet her extended family for the first time the next day. I assured her I would behave and not do anything too stupid. The sad part is, I think I tricked myself into believing that as well.

Kyle accompanied the girlfriend and I to eat sushi before our night began. We probably shouldn’t have started drinking at dinner, since we had a whole night of Wild Turkey ahead of us. But we did anyway. We’re not smart men. Following that, we probably shouldn’t have stopped to pick up beer to drink at their house until Brett got home. In case anyone is keeping track, I had finished 2 bottles of Sapporo and 3 Mickey’s Hand Grenades before we ever opened the Turkey. I wasn’t keeping track of Kyle’s drinks, but rest assured, he and I were keeping pace.

When Brett got home, he also partook of at least one Hand Grenade before the turkey was opened. By this time, the girlfriend had also reentered the picture to keep an eye on me. Trust me, this was a prudent move on her part. We decided to play the Shaft drinking game with the Turkey. The original Shaft, not the new crapfestola. Every time Shaft says “cat,” “brother,” or hits someone, you have to take a drink. Any time he throws someone through a window, you have to finish half of what is in your glass. Needless to say, we didn’t make it more than 15 minutes into the movie before the brilliance set in. Brett began juggling, then we started throwing things at each other, then we ate Kyle’s apples, then I went and hid in a closet. I’m not sure why. Remarkably, I felt fine the next day, and was a smashing success with the girlfriend’s family.

Thanksgiving Day itself was spent with family and then napping, so we’ll skip over that.

Friday I made the journey back to Clemson for the Clemson – Carolina game. My buddy Heimlich has been kind enough to let me stay at his house within walking distance of downtown Clemson for the last few games, which rocks…until you have to walk back from downtown Clemson at the end of the night. The most interesting part of the night? Seeing a guy I knew from classes together at Clemson, who knew my name and insisted on buying me a beer, and I never could remember his name…maybe because of all the beer?

Saturday morning started off well enough. Carol and I went to the store for tailgating supplies while Heimlich and The Jew slept in. Here’s the difference between mine and Carol’s shopping list:

Mine:
· Beer
· Ice (which I managed to forget)
· Trash bags

Carol:
· More beer (she rocks)
· Water
· Cokes
· Plastic Cups
· Trash bags
· Chips
· Salsa
· Cheese dip
· Cookies
· Pretzels
· Fried chicken
· Pimento Cheese
· Bread
· Crackers
· Cheese cubes
· Candy
· Containers to put everything in on the table to make it attractive

We went, parked the car in the tailgating spot and went to get Heimlich and The Jew (aka JM, I may use these two names interchangeably). I promptly opened my first beer at 7:30 AM. My orange pants were on, my drinking hat tilted at a rakish angle, I was ready for Gameday. Alas, it was not meant to be a day of glory. Clemson, to put it bluntly, was outcoached by the dread pirate Steve Spurrier (and I don’t mean the Johnny Depp type of pirate, either, if you catch my meaning). To be honest, I had a bad feeling about the game going in. We had won 9 out of the last 10 years, and I knew 2 things: USC was due a win, and Spurrier is a hell of a ball coach. We won’t go into my opinion of Clemson’s coaching staff, or Will Proctor, who, at the beginning of the season, I professed my undying love for. You let me down, Will…I feel like you’re just not the man I fell in love with anymore…

This is not to say the day was a total waste. In honor of Thanksgiving, I bought a sleeve of Wild Turkey mini-bottles (which we snuck into the game). In honor of the fact the he rocks, Epat bought Crown Royal min-bottles, which we also snuck into the game. There was also beer to be drunk, Boone’s to be cannonballed, and many other misadventures yet to come. We stayed up until 1:30 AM drinking and raising hell, which made for a long day of recovery on Sunday. Now that football season is all but over (I’m not excited about our bowl prospects) I believe I’ll give my liver a rest, and wait until noon on Saturday to start drinking like any normal person.

* Kidding about the syphilis. Also, I hate William Faulkner.