Personal Days

“Hi, Jean, today I will be out of the office. I will be taking a personal day.”

If you substitute “Mom” for “Jean," "in your basement" for "out of the office," and “day of Wilos” for “personal day,” you got my favorite day of the week. (They are also tied for first place with MONdays! Ain’t that right, MONtos! Ya, MON!). Days of Wilos, also known as personal days, occur only on days that end in “y,” and I have had about 225 consecutive Days of Wilos since handing in my senior thesis. Pretty badass, huh?The Day of [insert name] stems from the Greek word fraternity, which is the most awesome-est thing to be invented since Easy Mac, NHL ’94 for Sega Genesis, and lambskin condoms. For the record, I was in a fraternity in college, we were far and away the best on campus, and I recently threw away all of my t-shirts accept for my frat shirts. I mean, fuck, what kinda chick doesn’t wanna hook up with a dude rocking some grey newbies, Mountain Khakis, an Alpha Beta Kickball tournament shirt, and a Kavu visor? Especially if he has scraggly facial hair, is from Texas, has a Skoal ring in his back pocket, and a nice set of dimples. It also wouldn’t hurt if he was the big varsity quarterback in high school.

Anyways, back to the subject of this entry, I must say I am having a good hair day. I mean, I need to cut my pubes. I mean, Lean Cuisine Swedish Meatballs are the silicone tits!

Days of [insert name] are great. Absolutely fucking great. Like, for example, taking one of those really sensual poops. Huh?? I really need to stop leaving my computer open while I fondle my sweaters. But the days are really great. In essence, a Day of You is a day where you do whatever the fuck you want. Literally, anything you want. It usually occurs after a long bender of drinking, most commonly after a long day-drinking session which segways into a raucous night, and such heaters are usually aided by the help of various performance enhancing scenes or salts.

The subsequent Sunday is accompanied by waking up to an apartment with broken bottles, paintballs splattered on the door, a hole in the drywall sculpted by your roommate’s head when he fell up the stairs, and a hangover that, if it were analogized to a soup, would be vichyssoise. Your plans for the day will most likely include, but are not limited to, a session where you and your roommates sit on the couch in your boxers and ripped undershirts trading war stories from the night before and attempting to get back together with your girlfriends via text message, watching football, TJ Kushmanzada-ing, having a nice greasy breakfast at around 4:15pm, and taking tiger snoozes in your parents basement until they kick you out because they want to watch Mad Men and you smell like the inside of the Small Mammal House at the National Zoo.

And that is just the precursor to your Day of You. Once you relieve some tension, listen to Trampled by Turtles, and hibernate for the night, you wake up to the bright lights of the reality that is Monday morning, take a piss, chug a bottle of water, call in sick to work (or, in the case of your humble author, give your poster of Sarah Palin a kiss on the lips), and go back to bed. To quote Devin the Dude, “oh what a job this is.”

Take today, for example. Wilos had a whole shit list of things to do, such as, seeing the light of day, taking a shower, moving into his apartment, getting his first haircut since May, creating his whole high school football team in Madden, and, becoming an NFL quarterback who doubles as a firefighter/astronaut. However, upon waking up from his second nap at 4:05pm, Wilos rubbed his sleepy eyes, looked at himself in the reflection of his parents flatscreen tv, and said, “fuck it. I need a Day of Me.” So, what did he do? Went the fuck back to sleep, that’s what he did. Then, he played some NBA Live 2003, watched some Californication, had a couple of Strawberry Banana smoothies, and ordered an “I Am Legend” poster from allposters.com. Duh…

Anyways, I think you get the point. Basically, every two-thirds of the days-in-a-year-in-a-row or so, you might need a Day of You. And, you know what Yogi Berra said, right? “When you come to a fork in the road, take it!” So, when your alarm clock awakens you just before you are about to release your tension during a lapdance in your dream, turn that shit off! Because, after all, if you don’t go back to that special place where, as the Boss so eloquently described, “you can’t remember, but you can’t forget,” you just might go into the office with a lot of built up tension.

Just be sure to clean up.

The Chat Scene

So, I guess this is moving a little bit into the “social commentary” aspect of the blogosphere, which I never really wanted to get into, because my opinion on the topic of anything holds about as much importance as the four Mott’s apple sauces that I just housed do to anyone who might be so bored at work that they are reading the musings of Wilos. I mean, shit, guess what Wilos thinks about the faux pas of facebook or the new Martha Stewart Cookbook! Damn, Yonder Mountain’s new album is pretty dank (heady, bra! And, this one is true, so you should care). On a side note, when I listen to music when writing I tend to ramble, so bear with me or go back to redtube.

Anyways, the reason that I am writing on a subject of such importance as the “Chat Scene” is because, well, CdM, I just love pickin up some new scene. Also, I was talking to my old skydiving buddy MJB, one of the all-time great party bois. This dude is so cool, that he is up there with Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and Moses, and Wilos as the Top 5 coolest guys in the history of history. On a side note, thank you for happening, history, for without you my thesis wouldn't have been possible. Anyways, I said, “hey mon, my good skydiving buddy, I’m bored, just partyin by myself, have no job or friends, and want to write something stupid in my blog. What should I write about?” And my good buddy said, “hey mon, just write about the old AOL chat scene!”

And I said, “shit! Why the hell has it taken me two paragraphs to introduce this topic?” So, anyways, let’s get to the point. I used to love those AOL chats. This entry probably won’t be very good. We used to get our buddies together back in sixth grade, and it was very exclusive if you were asked by LaxRat16 to join "Sweet, Sweet 6th Graders." We would shoot the shit on topics ranging from football, to which chicks were hot and which had acne (I still do), to football, to which websites had the best (fake) topless Spice Girls pictures, and who just sprouted their first pubic hair (yuck!). By the way, a bunch of friends and I were the Spice Girls for school Halloween in 4th grade. Pretty bold move.

Then, then came the chats with the girls. Now these were fucking awesome. If you got invited by the hot blonde chick who had hit puberty three years before everyone else and had breasts the size of Granny Smith Apples, then you had fucking made it. You were set. You might as well have already accepted your bid to the best fraternity on campus six years later (sick!). Now these chats were where the most important topics on the planet were discussed: Which dance we would be attending on Friday. Whose parents would be willing and cool enough to host the spin-the-bottle party on Saturday. What was the latest horrendous inside joke or nickname that the girls had ingeniously discovered, and that us guys would have to laugh at and pretend was funny. If you weren’t chatting, you might as well resign yourself to a life of getting wedgies by the lacrosse team or getting stuffed into lockers by the football team, and wait until college to try to reinvent yourself as having an ounce of coolness.

Lastly, and these were my favorite, were the “open” chats. The chats that you had to check the box that said “I certify that I am 18” to enter. Now, if you have a pair of testicles and had access to the internet in 6th grade, and you were as sick as my friends and I were at the ripe age of 12, then you know exactly what I am talking about. You had a lot of options, here. You could go into the standard adult chats, the lesbian chats, threesome chats, and even downright weird chats. So, you would lock the door, tell your parents you were studying Latin vocabulary, and pop into your chat of choice.

You would start off by either asking for or responding to the standard “a/s/l?” question. Now, to amateurs, this might be a tricky question, but to those well-versed in the language of desperately-seeking cyber sex, this constitutes an immediate, mandatory roll call for chatters to divulge their “age, sex, and location” Now, let me give you a sample response had I replied truthfully: “12, male, sitting in the top bunk with the lights off so I have time to react if my parents come in.” However, you would naturally spit out something such as “19, m, Los Angeles.” I don’t know why, but it was always LA for me. Musta been the sunny weather. So, you’d hook up with SexxxyBabe6969 who was 21, f, Fort Lauderdale, and open up a private instant message window.

Now, as sexy babe describes her voluptuous and Coke-bottle curvy body, you are combing the Abercrombie and Fitch website for a picture of a stud in the latest fashion to email to your new girlfriend. On the other hand, sexy babe was most likely an overweight, middle-aged lady eating Dominoes Chicken Kickers and guzzling Pepsi out of a 2 liter bottle. Or, worse yet, a rail-thin, middle-aged man who was doing keyboard dusters and running a GPS search on my computer. Hmmm, pretty nice “off-campus house at USC, Wilos, which happens to be located on the east coast...” And, the conversations that transpired from that magic moment are not appropriate for this blog. However, I never got much further then the a/s/l introduction. Never had to. Hmmm.

Anyways, I have provided far too much information on the subject of middle school cyber sex, but I have no shame in general, and nobody knows who this anonymous writer from Wichita, Kansas is, right? Anyways, to wrap it up (wear those raincoats, kids!), it appears as though a revival of the various “Chat Scenes” is upon us. The leaders at the forefront of this glorious movement happen to be Skype, g-chat, smoke signals, and craigslist.

Craigslist, you ask? Just search for my ad under “19 year-old stud looking for hot MILF affair” in the Los Angeles section. I still rock the A and F long-sleeve golf shirt in my pic. Haven’t aged a bit.

The Endless Summer: In Search of the Perfect Rave

First off, I would like to start with an earnest apology to my six loyal readers who have been so fervently craving a steady dose of Wilos’ Blog over the past month and a half. Not surprisingly, I have been a huge bum who has lacked the motivation to “find my voice” and engage in the art of fine composition. In other words, I have been too fucking lazy to “get up off the couch,” “take the Steak and Egg out of my mouth,” “walk up the stairs” to “find my computer” and open a Microsoft Word document. After all, the sole purpose of my computer’s existence of late has been for looking up crunchy concert dates online, watching bukkake with newly-initiated DC Unemployment Line Member CdM, and chopping it. Not to bukkake, that is.

Anyways, now that I have scared off any of the female readership (if the bukkake comment didn’t do it, I would assume that the reference to doing “guy stuff” did…), I can really speak from the heart about all the cool stuff I have been doing the past six weeks, all the hot babes I have been bringing back to my Aero bed, and how cool I am in general. In other words, how utterly pathetic I have been, the bare bones of my intimacy, and how much of a waste of space I am in general. Before I provide whatever amount of details that my slothful mind can produce at this hour, I will give you a quick stat line on the glorious month that has been Rocktober: I have visited my alma mater (college, that is) on three separate occasions for a total of six nights, my alma mater (high school, that is) on three separate occasions, one of which was the opening football game, to which I had to trick my Egyptian friend into going because my high school friends wouldn’t go, and another was the school’s centennial party, where I faceplanted on the d-floor in front of the Headmaster - this after sticking my hands in multiple cakes (desert cakes, those are, not “bu”-kkakes) and bird feeding myself, been fishing twice, hunting once, been to New York a couple of times, saw Widespread/Allman Brothers, P Groove, Yonder Mountain, and then Railroad Earth/Yonder Mountain – all in the span of one week, been to Nantucket, tried Molly (just kidding!), gained about 15 pounds, and a whole bunch of other cool shit that I can’t think of right now. Now I am getting ready to go to a Springsteen concert with my Mom tomorrow night and email some college buddies to see what the undergrads are up to for Fall Break. Man, it’s been a great summer so far.

Looking back on that, I will allow myself to pat myself on the back. Hell of a season, pal, and it’s not even the All-Star Break yet. Thanks, Wilos. How kind of you. I guess I’m too tired (guess the 14 hours of sleep per night isn’t enough) to go into detail about my totally awesome life at the moment, and I am also looking forward to crushing a dozen or so more episodes of Sleeper Cell (great Shotime show about counter-terrorism – a more intellectual 24 if you will) and Community (funny new show on NBC with Chevy Chase – a great line, after Chevy has failed to come up with a “school song” for their community college: “I’m sorry, Jill, I lied. I’m no more of a song-writer than you, or… Billy Joel. I just can’t do it.”) before takin a nice, long Tiger Snooze. However, in light of the grim prospects for respectable uss in the near future due to my horrendous game, I will leave you all with a quote from our high school’s unofficial class mentor, on the subject of taking down rather large women: “Hogging is fine, from time to time, but after a while, it’s no longer hogging. It’s what you do.”


But hey, man, now that I’m pushing 220, I guess if I ever hook up with a girl it’ll be hogging for her… Ha!