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May 23, 2017
I Got Your Blog Right Here
by Michael Dell, Special Guest Star
Apparently, "blog" is like an online diary that some poor disillusioned souls keep in order to bring some sense of importance to their lives. Ace Reporter Jim Iovino asked Michael Dell to do one, and he agreed -- mostly because he thought it involved a stripper and a bottle of gin.
After the letdown of realizing what a blog actually was, here's what he came up with. The latest update is at the bottom. Why? Because Michael Dell wanted it that way.
May 5, 2002
Spent the afternoon looking for a stripper and a bottle of gin. The gin was easy. It was already in my left hand. The stripper part was much more difficult. I came home, alone, and celebrated my new blogging gig with a drink. I may have had more than one. The next thing I know I'm walking through a supermarket and people are screaming at me. Yeah, like I'm just supposed to know where my pants are?
Someone must have moved my house while I was gone because I had a hell of a time finding it. The glowing orange "Jager" sign on the roof was my only salvation. That's when I came up here and remembered about the blogging.
So, there ya go. That was my day. But I'm still blogging. Even as I type this I'm blogging. See, right there. I just blogged. How do I quit blogging? If a blog is supposed to be an account of my day, should the blogging be included in the blog? And if so, how does it end? Like, I can't say "Well, that's the end of my blog." Because it's not. In order to be true to the form, shouldn't my blog contain my thoughts as I close the blog? What about the second after I consider ending the blog? I guess one could divide the blog into exact days so that the arrival of midnight means the end of the blog. But then the onset of the new day would automatically signal a new blog.
I don't think I'll ever be able to leave the computer again. That kind of sucks. I should have sat in a more comfortable chair. I'm getting a headache. Where's my gin? Damn. I left it in the kitchen. Who keeps alcohol in a kitchen? Let's see what I have under the desk. That's quite the collection of empty bottles. Damn you, blog! Damn you straight to hell! Screw this. I need a drink...
May 6, 2002
I woke up this afternoon wanting to do some writing. Yes, sir. I was gonna do some work. Lots of it. You know what they say, "Idle hands are the Devil's playground."
Ya know, I reckon the Devil would have a real bitchin' playground. There'd be like fire and brimstone a-plenty, and you can't beat the brimstone. That's quality. I'm sure he'd serve booze. Probably the good stuff, too. What the hell? He's the Devil. He can afford it. And you know he'd have wanton women. We want the women, the wanton women. They'd probably be wearing sexy outfits of like red lace and leather with fake horns and pointy tails. And they'd playfully poke you with pitchforks as they make the rounds with the drink cart. You naughty girls!
School was letting out by the time I made it to the playground. I asked one of the little punks where all the wanton women were. He didn't know but he did invite me to join in one of their youthful playground diversions.
What ensued was a wicked good game of kickball. My team crushed. It was like these kids never saw a spinner before. Who rolls strikeouts in kickball? This guy! I can make that ball dance, my friend. I was breakin' ankles left and right. And, hey, Cindy... if you don't want to go home with skinned knees then you should stay out of my way on the base path. It's called hustle. And since when can't you throw at someone's head to get an out? They're baby teeth! You were gonna loose 'em anyway!
I like to think I taught those kids a lot today. They learned about the competitive spirit, what it takes to win, and, most importantly, never gamble on kickball with a complete stranger. I've got mad milk money. I don't really have to spend it on milk, do I? Now I just have to figure out how many dimes it takes to buy a fifth...
May 7, 2002
Today I ran away to join the circus.
As I walked proudly from my home, the stick with red kerchief bouncing on my shoulder, I smiled at the prospect of my new life. I've always admired circus folk. It's a proud tradition. The dedication and commitment they display to their craft is inspiring. Plus, you know, I always wanted to date a trapeze girl. Don't kid yourself, that is some wild, wild stuff.
The dream didn't become a reality until I met this dude named Bosco at one of my local watering holes. I thought his floppy shoes and rainbow hair was a fashion statement, but it turned out that Bosco was in town with the circus. He said they were always looking for a few good men. I told him I didn't swing that way. But he assured me it was only a job offer. So I shook his white- gloved hand and we toasted my good fortune. Bosco did his shot and his bow tie began to spin and smoke came out of his ears. I told him it was quite the trick. He said, "What trick?"
So, anyway, Bosco picked me up at the corner this morning in a little red Volkswagen. It was just Bosco, me, and 18 of his closest friends. We got to the circus grounds around noon. The sight of the Big Top, standing bright and tall in the afternoon sun, brought a tear to my eye. Or maybe it was just the smell of the elephants.
Bosco asked what I wanted to do. I told him I would serve the circus in any capacity imaginable, and would work tirelessly to uphold the grand profession. Then I asked where the trapeze girls were.
Glenda the Magnificent? You bet she was! I'm still picking sequins from my teeth. That girl was a freak! No, literally, she was a freak. The tail's not part of the costume.
Ah, but circus love is fleeting. Glenda had new cities to conquer and I realized that such a life wasn't for me. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a decent martini at a circus? Everything they mix tastes like peanut shells and old hay.
May 8, 2002
The new Spider-Man movie is all the rage. And I have to admit, I loved it. I also really loved Kirsten Dunst. Twice.
I should have been a super hero. What? It's not too late? Are you sure? I am 27 with no discernible skills or future. If that's not super hero material I don't know what is.
The first step was to think of a name. After much consideration, I chose the Lush. Yes, that's right, the Lush! Drinks faster than a speeding bullet! More alcohol tolerance than a locomotive full of winos! Able to skip large bar tabs in a single bound! It's the Lush! Hey, what do ya want? I was drunk. Hell, I'm drunk now.
I needed a costume. Chicks dig guys in uniform. I don't know if an old Holiday Inn bath towel pinned around my neck counts, but I gotta be me. Squint and it looks like a cape. Squint a little more and it looks like a tuxedo. At least that's what I tried to tell my ex-wife at our wedding.
I had the name, I had the costume, now I needed crime to fight. Spider-Man had all of New York City. I can't really climb buildings or swing from webs. Trust me, I found out the hard way. So I can't provide an entire city with protection. I needed to narrow my focus. The solution was obvious. As long as the Lush was on duty, no harm would befall the liquor store across the street. That's right, I live across the street from a liquor store. Location, location, location.
I entered the store with my chest out and a watchful eye towards crime. Upon seeing me, Gus, the owner, produced my usual bottle of gin and began to ring up the purchase. But I informed him that he must have mistaken me for some other strikingly handsome, if undernourished, youth. I was the Lush! Champion of justice! Then I told Gus that one of the perks of being a super hero was free booze. Gus informed me that he kept a baseball bat under the counter. Ah, that Gus. He's like a father to me.
That's when my Lush Sense began tingling. Evil was afoot. Some yuppie dork in the second aisle was reaching for a bottle of amaretto. If that's not criminal I don't know what is. The Lush leapt into action. The yuppie confirmed that he intended to purchase the sugary elixir. I asked him if his husband drank, too. Amaretto? If you want a lollipop go get a haircut. I threatened him with bodily harm and then thrust a bottle of Jack into his hands. Another wrong righted.
But there was work to be done. I noticed a wide-eyed lad wandering aimlessly amongst the glory. He couldn't have been more than 21 or 22. It was obvious that he was a first-timer. Rookies. Clearly he needed help. I set him up with the Lush's standard starter kit: Jager, Tangeray, Old Crow, and Absolut. He'll thank me later. Poor kid. Reminded me of my first trip to the liquor store. That Night Train tasted so smooth after a long day of Little League practice. I could barely ride my bike home. Memories.
A damsel in distress! A lovely young woman, who had Mary Jane written all over her, was eyeing a bottle of peach schnapps that was enticingly out of reach on the top shelf. She cut quite the striking silhouette against the backdrop of vodka bottles. I stepped in to help. She smiled a thank you. I smiled back. She commented on my cape. I commented on her rack. And that's when I learned a very important lesson. Even the mighty Lush is no match for a well-placed knee to the groin.
I collected my gin from Gus and limped home. But all was not lost, fearless readers! For I, the Lush, limped home a hero! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get more ice for my bruised, yet heroic, nuts...
May 9, 2002
People ask me all the time, "Mike Dell, what's it like being an international playboy and raconteur?" And I always say, "Well, former president Bill Clinton, it's not as easy as it looks." But maybe it would be helpful for you, our valued readers, to see what an average day is like in the life of Michael Dell. And it's all made possible through the joys of blogging! Thanks, blog! You're the best!
It should be noted that in order to keep track of the time, I actually wore a watch. That's crazy talk. I never wear a watch. I don't feel the need to have a reminder of my mortality strapped to my wrist. But I made the sacrifice for the sake of the blog. And I should probably take this time to recognize my next door neighbor, Mr. Sanchez, since it's his watch I borrowed. So thanks, Mr. Sanchez, for leaving your window open and for being such a sound sleeper. You're the best! Now, on with the blogging...
12:30PM: I woke up and tried to crawl out of bed.
12:46PM: After repeated failures to find the edge of the bed, I realized I had actually fallen asleep on the front lawn.
12:47PM: All the crawling around left me exhausted. Decided to take a nap.
2:30PM: The mailman woke me up. I had a slight pain in my right side. And it wasn't just because he dropped a Sears catalogue on me. I had slept on my flask. That sucks. The only thing worse was that it was empty. Luckily, I had my backup flask still taped to my ankle. Remember, kids, two flasks. Safety first.
3:00PM: I made it upstairs to my room and fixed myself a drink. I needed to unwind a bit before getting down to work. I turned on the FOX News Channel and saw Catherine Herridge or, as I like to call her, the future Mrs. Michael Dell. Ah, Ms. Herridge, why must you play so hard to get? You little minx, you. We just keep going around and around on our little carousel of love. I can still remember her exact words: "Please, don't send me any more letters or I'll have to alert the authorities." Have you ever seen anything so precious? Well, I'm sure the Fates will bring us together. No sense worrying about it. But I decided to celebrate our future nuptials with a drink.
3:30PM: I sat down to write another award-winning article for LCS Hockey. Things were going slowly. I elected to grease the creative wheels with a little gin. I poured it liberally over the keyboard and jammed an olive into the disk drive. Still nothing. I forgot the vermouth. Once the missing ingredient was added, I gathered the keyboard and tower in my arms and began to shake vigorously. Always shake, never stir. Computers must not be able to hold their booze. Everything froze up and died. I figured it was just hung over so I made it some coffee. That didn't help either. Sometimes when I'm really hung over I like to just sit in the shower with the water running. I gave that a go. Still wouldn't work. I left it in the tub to sober up, the miserable drunk bastard.
5:00PM: Was getting hungry so had dinner with my best buddy, Uncle Ben. Good ol' Ben. He could kick Chef Boyardee's ass. While I ate I enjoyed reruns of "The Honeymooners". Ralph tryin' to golf. Aw, that was great, that was fun. I've got 'em all on tape. Afterwards, I placed the cassette back in its velvet pouch and returned it to the vault along with the rest of my classic TV collection. That reminds me, I have to write back to the Library of Congress. Yeah, like I'm just gonna lend them my "ALF" tapes...
6:45PM: It was around this time I discovered a fire raging in the kitchen. Which is odd, because I don't usually start an accidental fire until at least eight or nine o'clock. It seemed I had left something on the stove. But seriously, has kerosene always been flammable? Or did they monkey with the recipe like New Coke?
7:35PM: Checked on the computer but it still looked tipsy. Poured some more coffee on it.
8:10PM: Did my two pushups and three situps. Gotta stay trim.
8:30PM: Wanted to spend some time working on my stamp collection. Had trouble finding the album. Looked everywhere. Then I remembered that I didn't have a stamp collection. That was Mr. Wilson on "Dennis the Menace". That's the second time this week I've made that very same mistake. Although, the last time Mrs. Wilson didn't seem to mind...
9:36PM: My phone rang. All that writing my name and number on ladies' room walls seemed to have paid off. Whoever it was, they were very shy. They wouldn't say anything. Then I realized I was holding the receiver upside-down. Curse these newfangled telephones! My secret admirer was gone. But I think we both know who it was. I poured myself another drink. Here's to you, Ms. Herridge, wherever you are!
10:00PM: It was time to make my rounds for the neighborhood watch program. But the blonde across the street had her blinds drawn. I put the binoculars away and fixed myself a drink.
10:32PM: Wanted to do some reading. But Faulkner was apparently experimenting with some new, innovative language. I couldn't understand what the hell he was saying. That's when I realized I was holding the book upside-down. Curse these newfangled books!
11:12PM: The computer seemed sober. I hooked it back up and everything worked like a charm. I got online to check email. Can I get more offers for herbal Viagra? Never give ex- girlfriends your new email address.
11:23PM: Updated my "Corky Romano" fan page. You guys want some cookies?
11:50PM: Searched for naked pictures of that "Alias" chick. Don't tell Catherine Herridge.
12:30AM: Still searching...
1:00AM: Still searching...
1:30AM: Needed a break. Fixed myself a drink.
1:32AM: Still searching...
2:00AM: Forgot what I was looking for but kept searching anyway.
2:30AM: Decided to call it a night. Fixed myself a snack. Drank said snack and went to bed.
4:24AM: Woke up screaming. Rolled over. Went back to sleep.