Small hand, or a large throat?

"Would you rather have a really small hand or an obnoxiously large throat?"  

You'll probably have a definitive answer by the time you finish reading this sentence, but hold on.  I mean it. Stop for a sec.  

I think if you really consider this necessary question for any considerable amount of time, your decision will get significantly harder.  Now you're rethinking your answer and don't want to make a decision yet.  Me neither.  The only possible way to do this is to go over the pros and cons of each:

Really Small Hand


Small fist inflicts concentrated pain

Pressing more than a single button on any type of keypad = non-issue

Kid-sized gloves/baseball mitts/mittens cost less

Miniature knuckles hard to hit during game of Quarters


Hand can be easily crushed doing everyday activities such as giving a handshake or saluting

Impossible to grab certain objects securely (ie youth-sized football or YooHoo beverage)

Limited hand strength results in loss of ability to clutch/grasp

Hand signals such as thumbs up or "hang loose" indistinguishable

Obnoxiously Large Throat


Extra mass of throat acts like reserve food basin

Throat can be used as miniature TV tray, holding 2-3 pizza rolls easily

Fills out a turtle neck or turtle neck unishort divinely

Can be used to deliver a discreet punishing blow (aka throat-butt)


Heavy protrusion can make talking/attracting the opposite sex difficult

Singing voice is permanent Sub-Bassitone (a new sound pitch category created for people with obnoxiously large throats)

Shaving is considered a suicide attempt

Can be easily choked by a t-shirt or small child

Hmmmmm.  I'm gonna go with the really small hand.  Just the thought of doing several quick karate chops in rapid succession with pinpoint accuracy makes my soul smile

I think I have Leprosy...

I'm sick. Really sick. It seems as though Crappiness himself entered my body overnight. What a D-Bag. By the time I woke I found myself transformed into a snot-induced zombie. Seriously. I feel terrible. If I sneezed right now my bones would probably shatter. My nose whistles when I breathe. Is that "Oh Suzanna?"

You Have the Right to be Punched in the Face

This last week was a special one...why? Because I achieved a life goal. While filling my tires up at a local gas station, I suddenly (and quite unexpectadly) gained a new title. Along with being a man, brother, son, and avid listener of Johnny Cougar Mellencamp (or "JCM" to his closest fans), I became a sole witness of a resisting arrest charge. That's right. My dream of being a sole witness to something came true.

Here's how it (along with the suspect) went down:

So while I'm fillin' up my tires I noticed a police cruiser parked next to my car. After making this astute observation my attention was diverted by some audible commotion. I peered across the parking lot and noticed an older Vietnamese gentleman (we'll call him Alejandro) and a cop (we'll call him Punchy) throwing down verbal fisticuffs. Alejandro was wearing a ragged heather gray Seattle University sweatshirt and seemed to be in a state of drug-induced rage/bewilderment. Punchy had a shaved head and cougar tattoo on his forearm. After their disagreement, Punchy proceeded to take Alejandro to his cruiser. About halfway to the car, Alejandro decided that he didn't want to go any further and pushed Punchy away from him.

Bad move Alejandro.

Punchy thought about the situation for about .0123 seconds, then proceeded to grab Alejandro's arm and karate flip him onto the pavement below (which didn't seem to be that difficult as Alejandro had the physical stature of a female Asian gymnast). After this, Punchy mounted Alejandro, wound up, and punched him SQUARE IN THE FACE.

Before I could try to begin to understand what was happening 76 police cruisers, a firetruck, and 2 ambulances showed up. Apparently Punchy felt the need to call in backup against the menacing Alejandro.

I didn't really know what to do so I just stood there and stared. During my staring episode, a woman (we'll call her Arresty) in street clothes and a bullet proof vest ran over to me.

"Did you see what happened?"

"I think so. Yeah."

"Come with me, we need to get a full statement from you. You're a sole witness."

My heart jumped with anxious excitement. I'm a sole witness. F yeah.

I was rushed over to a waiting police officer (we'll call him Writey) and Arresty proceeded to jump into her car and eat some McDonalds. Writey got my info and asked me about what I saw. When I spoke about Punchy punching Alejandro in the face he stared at me blankly.

"Ok Mr. Hillard (it's Hilliard), I think we got everything."

"Did you write down that the cop punched the suspect in the face?"

"Yeah, we just put that down under detainment."

"So you didn't write that down?"

"Not word for word."

"Isn't punching someone in the face after they're incapacitated excessive force?"

"No. It's detainment."

"Oh, ok."

"Can you sign this stating that this is your words and your words alone?"

Confessions of a Peyton Manning Forehead

I have a confession to make. I've been trying to keep this secret safe for a long time, but after years of living neck deep in denial I can't take it anymore. I have to tell someone. And that someone is you, cyberspace...

I have a Peyton Manning forehead. You heard me. A huge, sky-scraping, Peyton Manning forehead. In case you don't know who Peyton Manning is, he's the most biggest and bestest football quarterback in Colts history. He also has a forehead the size of several Great lakes. Here's a picture of Peyton and his obnoxiously large drive-in movie theater noggin:

Man look at that thing. It's so big that I can't handle it. I've tried to cover up my Peyton Manning forehead with shaggy hair and bowl cuts in the past, but they've done very little to stop it's protruding ways. It's like the top of my head de-evolved a couple thousand years without my permission. I've always been self-conscious of it but it also gives me a small amount of pride. Why? Because a bi-product of this genetic marvel is the ability to give a pretty devastating head-butt. I take comfort in the fact that if it ever comes down to fisticuffs my opponent will receive a face full of dome before they even notice how freakishly large it is. The overhanging brow of my cascading cranium also provides much needed shade for my sensitive eyes. Is my forehead disproportionately large? Yes. Do I feel a little embarrassed special ordering XL hats? Yes. Will it save my life someday? Probably.


When I was waiting for the #26 bus this morning, I felt a tightening in my I went through my mental check list. No nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, or was something else. After my initial research I deduced that it was a fart. And not just any fart. By the speed at which my stomach tightened (along with the fact that I ate Wendys the night before) I knew it was going to be a hot, meaty, putrid fart. A ghastly air biscuit who's smell would be on par with a really old zombie dying then taking a dump after it died. I looked around the bus stop. The gentle roar of passing traffic provided noise cancellation and a stiff tailwind was ready to steer my rancid bottom burp into no man's land. Conditions were ideal. I smiled a little as it came out. Sweet guilt-free freedom.

Win the day, or Rue it?

Will this blog be a winner, a champ, a contender? Will it win the day and receive praise along with a pack of American Spirits? Probably not...but a blog can dream can't it? A dream blog is a god-given right. A right to BE right...or is it write?