If Snoop Dogg had played at halftime of the Superbowl, ABC could have billed it as “The Snooperbowl.”  And that would’ve been awesome.  (I saw this joke on Leno the day after I wrote it.  If it’d been Conan, I would have felt flattered.  Leno doing it made me feel ashamed and in need of a shower.)

Today I ran into an old friend from High School who I haven’t seen since Auburn, and I asked him how he was doing.  The conversation quickly turned to my stint in rehab, as it often does with people who I haven’t seen in awhile.  What is it about that experience that people love to talk about?  If I run into some girl I had typing class with in 1993, she doesn’t say shit about me graduating from Law School.  But damn sure she wants to hear about rehab because she “heard” I wasn’t doing too well.  (Incidentally, this same friend told me he was ordering poppy leaves off Ebay, grinding them up in a blender, then boiling the sledge down and adding it to his coffee to get a “morphine-esque” high.  I couldn’t make this up.  I saw this coming freshman year at Auburn, when I came back to our apartment from a weekend at home and he’d removed all of our furniture to have a rave.  He couldn’t remember what he’d done with our furniture.  Good times and new-roommateness ensued.)

Today I was studying for the most important exam of my life, and my Mom called to have me help my Dad move some furniture in the freezing-cold pouring rain.  In the midst of it all, my Dad said he’d retire but he couldn’t put up with my Mom’s bullshit for eight hours a day.  It’s good to know my dad’s cubicle is preferred over spending time with his soulmate.  I can’t wait to find that special someone to make my life complete. 

The other day my friend told me his high school girlfriend used to like to have sex to Warren G’s “Regulators” album.  Even though I’m nearing a nervous breakdown because of the bar exam next week, picturing him getting his sixteen year-old swerve on to “This D.J.”  always brings a smile to my face.  I like to think that one day, when lecturing his son on the birds and the bees, he’ll give a thorough account of the amorous effect that a Nate Dogg joint has on the ladies. 

This upcoming fall’s pledge class at Auburn would’ve been nine years old when I pledged.  I will now curl into the fetal position and rock myself to sleep.

Would it be desperate if I called one of those “local singles” phone lines?  I mean, the girls look really hot.  That has to be legitimate.  Has to be.  And, even if they aren’t quite as hot in real life as they are on the commercials, how bad could they be? Am I right?  Because it’s looking like it’s either that or one of those Russian mail-order brides.  You always hear about those, but you never actually see a catalogue with overseas women for sale.  And I’ve looked long and hard.  That’s a hell of an investment, though.  What if she showed up at your door, and you’d given the wrong item number in the magazine?  You’re stuck with a hermaphrodite midget who speak-a no english, that’s what.  And I bet their return or exchange policy is brutal. 

And speaking of desperation, a buddy of mine recently engaged in a cocaine fueled sex romp with a hot married lady.  In itself, that would not be desperate.  When you add in the hot married girl’s husband exceeding the scope of observation and plunging in to participation, the desperation becomes a little more clear.  I can’t imagine anything more awkward than being inside another man’s wife, and yet having to politely refuse a reach-around from the husband.  Constantly, he had to fight to maintain erectness while slapping the guy’s hand away everytime it got near a “zone of danger.”  Clearly, some protocol needs to be established ahead of time to prevent anyone’s feelings from being hurt. 

(It’s kinda easy when ya listen to the G’d up sound, Pioneer speakers bumpin’ as I smoke on the pound.  I got that sound for yo’ ass and it’s easy to see, that this D.J. be Warren G.)

(Giggling like a schoolgirl).

These are the things that keep me awake at night.