Dear Readers,
As almost none of you know, both because I have never shared any of my “in-progress” work with anyone who could potentially judge it and hurt my feelings by telling me that my jokes have been the exact same for much, if not all, of the past 24.56 years of my life—aka the entire period of my existence where I knew how to speak (yes I learned how to talk at age 1.44)—without having the cover of published Internet writer to back up my self-esteem and because I doubt any one of you out there are really Ellen Paige and have the ability to burrow deep inside my mind and plant a tiny thought nugget that will one day grow up to be a full fledged terrible and poorly executed idea and/or see that I am thinking weirdly erotic thoughts about you featuring several of your exposed pregnant scenes from the film Juno (eh…what?), I was set to publish an entirely different blog today, an upcoming piece of writing detailing both my belief in magic and the many wishes that I hope that said belief will earn me that can only improve an already dominant existence, but have decided to go in a different direction. Mainly because I couldn’t write that other blog due to the fact that I 1-Didn’t try very hard and 2-Spent all of my time this week doing things like sleeping, snapchatting pictures of my feces and saying what up to the girl in my gym after she caught a glimpse of me throwing up 225 lbs. on the bench for 2 reps like it was a bar made out of feathers or something.

 
 
Dear Readers,
As all of you know, both because you have seen Risky Business and because you have seen Screech, Zack Morris, and AC Slater recreate Risky Business’ most famous scene only to have that nerd Violet break Screech’s mother’s ceramic Elvis statue, house sittin' can be a dangerous proposition. The litany of bilious temptations put forth in front of your average house sitter—who is, in one way or another, being trusted to be responsible for someone else’s property, pets, or perhaps even Cool Whip without the threat of consequence, since, like, they don’t have to sleep on the sheets they just soiled ever again once you, the home owner, arrive back to your abode and discover the defecated on silk covering your Queen sized mattress—is certainly nothing short of overwhelming. Imagine being a house broken lion that is then rereleased into the wild yet is also ironically expected to live by the same house rules in the jungle he was just abiding to in his human parent’s attic. That makes no sense does it? Well, neither does expecting a 26-year-old who lives in his parent’s attic to treat your house like a respectable piece of architecture now that he is no longer living under his mother and father’s roof and can, in essence, do whatever the F he wants without being told to shut the hell up and take out the recycling.

 
 
WALTER WHITE stepped out of the darkness with his eyes open. His eyes had always been opened, literally from the second he reached out to that great light, it was just that, for a while there, there was really nothing to see. Walter White had laid there, on the floor of nephew Todd and Uncle Jack’s meth laboratory with his eyes open and had walked toward that beautiful bright light beaming through the frame of his coke bottle glasses with his eyes open and had entered the black hole of nothingness, of none continuance, of blank emptiness devoid of time and space and presence with his eyes open, and now he was here, back in the dim light, standing in front of a black door sporting a sign reading “Elevator” in big, block, golden letters with an arrow pointing straight ahead and an smaller text warning to “enter at your own risk” below viewing it all with his eyes wide open. He was not sure how, but he knew this: right now, at this very moment, Walter White did in fact exist. He could see it. He could feel it. He could sense that it was true. One way or the other Walt White was still alive. One way or another Walter White’s story was not quite over yet.

 
 
Dear Readers,
As you already know—both because you are currently doing it and because you have all seen the movie Office Space and memorized it word for word in an attempt to convince yourself that your name is really Michael Bolton, and therefore your life has some modest pendulum of coincidental meaning as well—being a part of the work force is not all that it’s cracked up to be. There are some pluses to having a job sure. Health Insurance is nice when you eat more than 40 White Castles in any given week. A 401K can come in handy when you need to retire or have a mental break down or are forced to resign from your job for having copious amounts of “death by horse cock” videos saved to the desktop of your work computer or something like that—to be honest I am not sure what a 401K is. An actual paycheck is very useful when you actually want to buy stuff like Whiskey or Honey Nut Cheerios or lawn ornaments or boom boxes or beanie babies or what have you. All of these aspects of possessing a job are good things. They are the reasons that people work in the first place.

 
 
Dear Readers,
As all of you undoubtedly know—both because I have written copious tales of my own adventures and you have seen my semi-autobiographical film Journey to the Center of the Earth starring Braden Fraser as a slightly less handsome/completely less talented version of myself (what I can say…Martin Lawrence was all booked up)—the Sack is no stranger to world travels. Because, like Brendan Fraser and Amerigo Vespucci before me, I have transversed the Globe, trekking North, South, East, West, Southeast, Southwest, Northwest, North by Northwest, and to the hospital of North West’s birth in my quest to see, hear, know and understand everything that this giant planet has to offer. Like the Greek Dude Odysseus before me, my odyssey has been filled with mythical sirens and semi-naked babes who are into my neck beard and athletic sandal travel attire combo. It has been a magical experience. And one I would not trade for anything other the opportunity to record 90-minutes of whiny white-people sounds with the one and only Alanis Morisette (and yes I am listening to her Spotify Station right now). Jamming with God? That's a billion dollar idea if I have ever heard one.

 
 
Dear Readers,
For those of you who don't know The OC is celebrating its 10th anniversary this very month. For others of you who did not know, television fan fiction is reaching such heights as to recently have been published in the New Yorker--aka the place where literary nerds and other pretentious people do their magazine reading. These combination of facts can mean one thing and one thing only: I am going to write some OC fan fiction and hope that pretentious people like it.  I am almost certain that they will not.

So let's look at the lives of The OC's characters some 10 years after their televised lives began shall we?

 
 
Dear Readers,

As all of you should know, both because you have watched the AMC original television show Mad Men and tried to live the program out in real-life by getting hammered drunk, smoking 1,900 cigarettes a day and cheating on your wife so often your weiner no longer works when you actually try to have sex with her, advertising is no easy racquet. To be a successful advertiser person you have to have guts. You have to have courage. You have to be able to mercilessly mock people who are not as smart and/or good looking as you are. You have to be able to ignore your kids and act like they are nothing more than a burden on your otherwise awesome existence. In other words, you have to be exactly like Donald Draper: morality corrupt, ethically bankrupt and, above all else, really, really, really ridiculously good looking.

 
 
Dear Readers,

As all of you almost certainly know—because, due to the current state of our Economy, all of you are living under the exact same conditions I am unless you are just some sort of show off who thinks that renting a 2-room condominium in some shitty suburban development will make the ladies respect him in spite of the fact that you own a grand total of 1 plate and 3 KFC sporks, because stuff like multiple plates and sparkling metal sporks cost money and the minimum wage salary you are taking home in washing sheets in that Albuquerque laundry mat (wait…is that a meth lab?) is all going to rent, and heating your wooden stove, and like, the consumption of crystal meth—being a grown man (or woman probably) who lives with his (or her) parents is a state of existence that comes with numerous challenges and grating moments embedded directly into its essence.

 
 
Watching greatness diminish is never easy. It's never fun. It's never satisfying. Seeing Willie Mays roam center field in what--for all practical purposes--amounts to a walker, or Ron Jeremy being forced to down copious amounts of Viagra just to get an erection in an vain attempt to have consensual sex with Sylvester Stallone's now-obese ex-wife on a VH1 reality show about people who used to be considered semi-famous, or my lifelong arch-enemy Tricky Dick Nixon forgetting that recording super secret conversations about illegal stuff is usually just a terrible way to not get caught doing said illegal stuff, just doesn't seem right. And not just because of the diminishing itself--we all know that age is a real thing that effects real people--but because of what that diminishing represents.

It's one thing to know Willie Mays is a 45-year-old with a couple of broken hips waddling around a golf course out of the public limelight; it's another to have it thrown in your face while he attempts to chase fly balls around the outfield on national television. We don't want to see greatness disintegrate. We want our baseball players to call it quits while they can still chase down a pop up, our porn stars to stop having sex on camera while they can still get a boner, and our politicians to get out of office while they can still flip us all the bird, not caring if we find out about all the shady shit later. We wanted Tricky Dick Nixon to be able to smile and say: "Peace I'm outta here" on the man's own God damn terms.  We want our greatest immortals to get out before their own mortality sets in. Before we can see that everyone is in fact human. Nothing more and nothing less.

 
 
(And now, continuing this little internet convention I started last week with a riveting tale about how I like fart, pick my nose, and dress up like Barney the dinosaur, and do all of these things in very explicitly public places, let's switch gears to sports.  Not the actual playing of sports, mind you, because well that's just not all that interesting.  There's a reason why the Iditarod isn't even on television. Rather let's focus on the reading of names from a podium by a pompous white person who gets paid $20,000,000 a year to take poops, remove said poop particulars from the toilet, put them in between two slices of pumpernickel bread, re-brand the turd/pumpernickel concoction as a "dooty sandwich, (check at about the 1:56 mark on that one BTW)," mail said "dooty sandwiches" to James Harrison's abode 500 at a time, and then read the Facebook statuses of people who have never played football and possess severe learning disabilities--in spite of the fact they have never played football--discussing how Roger Goddell sending a dooty sandwich to James Harrison's house as a punishment for attempting to murder Josh Cribbs by tackling him with such poor fundamentals and form, with a hit that is far far away from whatever "real football" should and could be, is ruining the sport. 

Basically I'm talking about the NFL Draft, which was on last night. Here are 5 of my own observations.