I've been hearing a lot of undue praise for my arch-nemesis Brendan Huedepohl recently.  "Brendan Huedepohl is entirely likable."  "Brendan Huedepohl is a friendly person."  "Brendan Huedepohl never once strangled a hobo."

I can't take any more.  Brendan Huedepohl is not the glowing figure he is made out to be.  Brendan Huedepohl is a villian.  Brendan Huedepohl is the worst person I've ever met.

Brendan Huedepohl steals hubcaps.  He chews tobacco.  He pretends to only speak Spanish when goes through a drive-through.

Brendan Huedepohl spent one whole summer driving around in an ice cream truck.  He would tell the kids that he was completely sold out of ice cream, all the while stuffing his face with butter-brickle.

Brendan Heudepohl wrote bad checks to the Red Cross.  He only communicates in "l33t speak."  He bought his most recent car used from Al Qaeda.
 
In 2004, Brendan Huedepohl planted massive warheads deep in the ocean. When detonated, these caused enormous underwater earthquakes, triggering the tsunami that killed thousands.  He did this all because he hates Thai food.

Brendan Huedepohl once dipped a dog in paint and put it in the oven.  He digs up Indian burial mounds, then reshapes them into enormous earthen phalluses.

A sloppy eater, Brendan Huedepohl grew a mustache just so he could get food caught in it to gross people out.

Brendan Huedepohl once glued pennies to his girlfriend while she slept.  When she woke up, he told her he did it so that she could finally be "worth something to someone."

Brendan Huedepohl hired illegal immigrants to do his yardwork, then called the INS. Brendan Huedepohl lets his car idle in his garage all night, just to waste gas.

Brendan Heudepohl refuses to pay his own taxes, but steals refund checks from his neighbors.

Every Halloween, Brendan Huedepohl dresses up as a Klansman.  At night he breaks into his best friend's house and pees in his toilet tank.

Brendan Huedepohl never makes anyone happy.  He knows only evil.  He should be destroyed.

Brendan Huedepohl is hate.

I've been reading a lot of bad press about my buddy Simon Halder lately.  He's being dogged all over the Internet, the TV, the radio.  Everyone from the lowly bloggers to the high-powered pundits are heaping blatantly untrue accusations on him.  "Simon Halder molests dogs," they say.  "Simon Halder replaced my chunky peanut butter with creamy."  "Simon Halder is responsible for the incredibly short life span of fruit flies."

This really gets my hackles up.  Simon Halder is not the hateful monster he is made out to be.  Simon Halder is a good friend.  He got straight As in school.  He always roots for the home team.  He lives only to serve.

Simon Halder can recite pi to 80 decimal places, but only does it when it is helpful, never to show off.  Simon teaches men to fish, but also gives them a fish.  This way they can eat forever, but really pig out today.

Simon Halder wears a tie.  He is virile and handsome.

Simon Halder offered me a no-fees checking account with a 4% interest rate.   When it's yellow, Simon Halder lets it mellow, unless there is company coming over, because that is gross and Simon Halder recognizes that.

Simon Halder never runs spell check.  He doesn't need to.

Simon Halder loans out chapstick, and doesn't even get grossed out by it; he always plays it cool.  (I think this is because Simon Halder is immune to all forms of disease).

Simon Halder's belly button is the perfect size for Conversation Hearts.  He always has "Luv You" tucked in there.

Simon Halder dispenses street justice, but also second chances.  His street cred is unparalleled, but his refined good taste is unquestionable.  Simon Halder has friend requests from every single registered member of myspace.  He hasn't gone through all of them yet, but he will.  He's very considerate, but also very busy.

Mr. T pities not Simon Halder.  Simon Halder was state yo-yo champion three years running.  Simon Halder runs the city's largest youth midnight basketball league; he is friends with all the teenagers, but not in a creepy way.

Simon Halder is all things to all men.  He should be lionized.  Statues should be erected on every corner.  Simon Halder is a hero.

Simon Halder is love.

What is this?  WHAT IS THIS?

Norbit, the oversized Eddie Murphy comedy, rolled to a huge debut this weekend, taking in $33.7 million, according to studio estimates from box office trackers Nielsen EDI.

God damn it.  GOD DAMN YOU.

THIS

SHIT

IS

NOT

FUNNY

You'll pay.  You'll ALL pay.

The guy at work who pulls his pants all the way down to his ankles at the urinal, then stares at me.

The Boy Scouts of America.

The lady who brings 30 damn items to the express lane at the grocery store, and refuses to drop dead when I give her withering looks.

Old people.

Lex Luthor.

The lady who gives me withering looks for bringing 30 items to the express lane at the grocery store.

Bob Barker.

Zombies.

Lynch mobs, particularly if I have recently rustled cattle.

Whoever keeps sending me emails titled "hey bud why your dong so tiny."

Chevy Chase Bank.

Peanuts wussiest kid, Linus.

Also, that bitch Peppermint Patty.

Now that I think of it, I'm going to include the entirety of the Peanuts cast, minus that one weird dog who lives in a cactus, cuz that guy has problems enough without being my enemy.

People who call in their vote for American Idol.

Rachel Ray.

The Earl of Sandwich, because what the fuck dude?  No one is that busy.  Keep your damn bread off the meat.

Hobos.

The entire population of Paraguay.

Steve Alford

The Legend of the Christmas Plant

'Twas three weeks before Christmas and all through the apartment Christmas decorating was being done.  The young lady whose home it was stared despondently at one corner.  It seemed so empty and sad and in need of some Christmas cheer.  What could fill this corner with happiness and glee?

The young lady sat and stared and hoped.  She dreamed that something beautiful would fill this space and bring Christmas into her home.  Then she realized what was needed here.  A Christmas tree!

So the young lady and her husband piled into their tiny car, off in search of the Christmas tree!  They drove quickly around the city, happy that their google maps map was actually leading them on their way.  Too many times had they tried to find themselves a beautiful tree to only be led to a dangerous land bereft of Christmas cheer.

But this time they were successful in their hunt.  They were there!  The place where their hope would be found.  The land of the most beautiful trees ever!  Home Depot.

It was with excitement and nerves that the couple hopped out of their car and went in search of the glorious tree that would make their home feel like a Christmas paradise.  They rushed into the store and skipped over to the Garden Department to look at trees.  And then they looked for the trees.  And looked for the trees.  Where were the trees!?!

Deciding that their Christmas cheer would not be the same if it was found for them by some miserable Home Depot employee they decided to walk more around the store.  But despite finding some lovely clamps and a purple pot they could not find a tree.  Oh, what were they to do?

The once happy couple drug themselves back to their car and tried to decide what to do.  Should they brave the terrifying traffic that would be awaiting them at this time of day, or should they find another way.  But what other way could fill their lives with the happiness and lights that had to be there to really make this the Christmas season?

It was then that the young man had a brilliant idea.  One that would change their lives for the better.

"What about that plant?" he asked.

"What plant?" the young lady asked, confused and trying to overcome the grief of the lack of tree caused.

"The one in the corner.  You know, the corner that you want to put the tree in?"

"Oh that plant.  What about it?"  the young lady wanted to know.

"We could decorate that.  It is already sitting nicely in that corner."

"That's an idea," the young lady agreed.  "Let's do that!"

It was with renewed happiness and energy that the young couple returned to their small apartment and began to untangle the Christmas lights for their tree.  Once the lights were untangled the couple looked at each other with excitement shining in their eyes.  It was together that they leaped towards the tree and began decorating with reckless abandon.

Quickly the plant was covered in lovely lights and the Christmas spirit filled the apartment.  The young couple looked each other in the eye, the happiness of the season filling each other.

And it was all because of the glory of the Christmas plant!

Merry Christmas!

Sure, everybody enjoys drinking themselves stupid. After a while, though, you need to make a game of it. That way you can pretend you're doing it to have fun, instead of to drown out your shitty, shitty life.

What better way to have fun then to throw in The Game of Life for the Playstation, a game that ign.com refered to as "easy to play. That's the only good thing I can really say about it." You can't beat that!

The rules of the drinking game are fairly complex, so do your best to start sober.

The first thing you do in Life on the PSX is choose your character, your name, and your car. A good thing to do when picking a character is to pick someone of the opposite sex to represent you. That way, when you later get married, you can make those same-sex marriage jokes which are only funny to a drunk person.

As for your character name, it should generally involve the words "butt", "ass" or "tit," or any derivation or combination of any of those. This isn't actually a rule of Drinking Life, just a general guideline.

The color of your car doesn't matter, but if you don't choose white, you are eliminated from making "white power" jokes.

Next, you have the spin-off to see who goes first. Then you choose whether to get a career, or go to school first. It is wise to go to school, as this usually translates into more money for you. And more money for you means more drinking for your opponents. After this, you get to the actual playing. This is where the drinking begins.

"A drink" refers usually to a drink of beer. If you'd rather use liquor, then you're a fool who will spend the night first vomitting, then dying. Here are the times when you have to drink.

• Everytime you lose money. For every $20,000 you lose, take a drink.
• When you get a career, you have to chug half a beer.
• When you get married, you have to chug half a beer.
• When you have any kids, you have to take a shot of liquor. That is, one shot per child.
• If you land on the square marked "Don't Drink and Drive," that's a full beer.
• A full beer if you land on "Don't Do Drugs."
• As soon as the first person reaches a million dollars, all of you non-millionaires have to take a shot.
• Anytime you land on something "gay," you have to take three drinks.

Now, the gayness of whatever you've landed on is usually pretty obvious, but if there is any ambiguity, put it to a vote.

You also get to give out drinks. For every $20,000 you earn, you can give out a drink. This includes PayDays, money through LIFE games, or any other time you get cash.

Finally, once the game is over, all of the losers have to take shots.

That's it, really. Go out there and get loaded!

Last night I had a crazy hankering for french fries, but of course have no fryer.  Here is a recipe I came up with for oven fries.  I call them Curry's Badass Oven Fries.  You'll need:

• A bunch of potatoes
• Salt
• Pepper
• Paprika
• Some olive oil

Grab all of your potatoes.  I was making two servings (one for Norah, one for me), so for some reason I used six bigass potatoes.  You can probably get by with fewer.  Cut the potatoes into some wedges, about 1/4 of an inch thick.

Put the potatoes in a big bowl and toss them around with some salt, pepper, and a bit of olive oil.  Just enough oil to lightly coat the wedges.  Don't go all nuts with it.

Lightly oil a baking sheet.  Spread the fries out in an even layer, and throw those fuckers in the oven.

Let them bake for a while.  Say, 10 minutes.  Then take them out and realize that they aren't done.  Put them back in there for another 10 or whatever.  Check them out; if they seem pretty much done, pull them out.

Now is when the magic happens.  Stoke the oven way the hell up to around 500 degrees.  Flip the fries over on the sheet, and realize that you forgot to put on paprika.  Load them up with that spice, wait for the oven to come to temperature, and toss the fries back in there.  This second cooking is what makes the fries all crispy on the outside and not crispy in the middle.

At this point, you should go into the living room and turn on whatever you have Tivo'd.  Wait until the show is over, then suddenly realize you forgot about the damn fries.

Rush into the kitchen, and pull a sheet full of ruined cinders out of your smoking oven.  Toss them in the trash, and go out for pizza.

I've been a moderate fan of televised rugby ever since Norah and I lived in Pittsburgh.  We would occasionally flip through the channels, and see the Super 12 in action, so we'd watch it.  I kinda got hooked.

When I lived in Northern Virginia, I saw that there was a local rugby team.  "No familiarity with rugby necessary; all levels of player welcome."  I checked into it, but it was really too far away for me to get involved with.

So, when I moved to DC, I figured, "There might be a team close by to my new place."  I looked into it, and found a team that practiced only 15 minutes from my house.  I signed up, and went to a practice.  It was a lot of fun, so I convinced Joe to go to the next one.

Joe and I practiced, and the team veterans told us all about the tournament they had just been in.  It was called the Bingham Cup, and it was apparently named after a rugby player who was killed on September 11.

After practice, we went out to a bar, which is the team's main sponsor.  We stood around, drinking and eating, and I was thinking to myself, "This is absolutely a gay bar."

We left, and I said to Joe, "We might have joined the gay rugby team."

He said, "Looks like we might of.  I hope we didn't.  Let's not talk about it any more, and pretend it's not really happening."

That sounded fine to me.  Our self-imposed ignorance was shattered when the team sent out an email newsletter with this blurb in it:

    D.C.'s gay rugby team scores big at international tournament
    Washington Blade, June 9, 2006 - The Washington Renegades, D.C.'s predominantly gay rugby club, is living proof of athletic prowess in a rough-and-tumble sport. The Renegades just returned with two third-place prizes from the 2006 Mark Bingham Cup tournament, an international gay rugby tournament, held this year in New York City over Memorial Day weekend.

So, there it was.  We had joined the gay rugby team.

A few weeks ago, a coworker asked if I wanted to go along to the Preakness with her and some other people. Since I have never seen a horse race, have no interest in horse racing, and actively dislike horses, I of course said, "Yes, that sounds fine, let's go." So we went.

If you get seats in the stands, it's apparently some kind of relatively refined, relaxed affair. We did not have seats in the stands. We had tickets to the infield, which is apparently a seething, roaring mass of beer-fueled debauchery. Imagine 10,000 recently graduated frat brothers and their female counterparts.

We got there at 9 am, and already almost everyone there was loaded. We settled into our little corner of the infield, and started trying to catch up. After a while, Joe and I decided to go off in search of the bathrooms. The lines turned out to be ENORMOUS. We had been waiting for around 10 minutes when the dude in front of us began to dance.

"This guy is not gonna make it," Joe said.

Dance dance dance. He kept it up for a bit, and Joe and I made guesses as to how long he could hold out. He then literally started to pinch his wang shut. We thought he was going to lose it for certain. Dissappointingly, though, he manged to sweet-talk his way to the front of the line.

Within half an hour, we managed to make it back to our camp. We were bummed out to learn that we had apparently walked through urine. While we were away, a nearby camp full of extreme turds had decided the bathroom wait was not worth it. They simply let fly into an empty beer box, whiz streaming out the other end. Apparently they were quite content to publicly-piss, and then dance around in their own urine all day, provided no one else saw their dongs.

Minutes later, some slightly less revolting dudes figured that they might as well just piss through the chain link fence that surrounded the entire infield. This caught on, and throughout the next eight hours, there was no time when there were not at least four visible dudes pissing through the fence. Subsequently, by the end of the day, there was a literal piss-moat surrounding the infield.

Also, some gross chick figured that pissing through (or in her case, near) the fence should not be a male-only event. She sat in the grass while the crowd shouted some remarkably foul things at her.

In a story that's disgusting in another way, within minutes of our arrival, we spotted a guy walking the crowd with a large cardboard sign that boasted: "By exit #6 - Wet T-Shirt Contenst - Third Race $100 guaranteed." This plan CAN'T fail, I thought, sarcastically. I said to him, "Dude. There is NO WAY you will get any chicks for this."

"Fuck you, dude. I already got THREE bitches way into it. Now, get outta here. I gotta advertise." He then stood stoicly on a beer cooler for the next hour, sign above his head.

Turns out he was right. There were several chicks who apparently couldn't wait to show a bunch of weirdos their jugs at a fucking horse race. Among the weirdos were some firemen, who told me, "HA HA HA. We're getting PAID for this."

Finally, there were the flashers. Chicks who showed their goods not for the promise of cash, but simply for the adoration. There were about 10 in our little area as the day wore on. In addition, there were chicks who were unwillingly picked up and placed bodily on the shoulders of some nearby dude. These chicks were booed and occasionally pelted with half-full cans of beer for their refusal to show off their boobs.

Which is why I was totally baffled by the apparently suicidal chick who climbed up on some guys shoulders late in the day. Getting on someone's shoulders is the universal sign for, "I'm going to show you my tits." She then teased the crowd for several minutes, slowly lifting up her shirt to reveal…another shirt. Then she made a face like, "I'm not showing you my tits, morons," while waving her hands back and forth.

This began a war.

Comepletely full, opened beer cans rained down on her for fifteen full minutes. They just kept coming. From every direction, near endlessly. One of our companions got struck right in the forehead, which caused excruciating, inexplicable pain in her hand.

Thankfully, right around then the race was over. I'm not entirely sure I saw a single horse the whole time I was there. We abandoned most of our ruined belongings, and got the hell out of there.

"OH MY GOD, PULL OVER!"

"Jesus! What? What's going on?"

Jim and I were driving around in my car one night, when he started to freak out for no apparent reason.

"PULL THE CAR OVER! PULL THE CAR OVER!" He was frothing.

"Christ, fine." I pulled the car over onto the shoulder. We were on some highway in the middle of nowhere in Iowa. "What is wrong with you?"

"LOOK! UP THERE!" He pointed up in the sky. "It's a UFO!"

"You motherfucker. That's an airplane." I put the car in drive.

"NO WAAAAAAAAAAY. Look at the...uh...hmm. You know, that could be a plane. Well...it looked pretty weird, at first."

"I couldn't possibly hate you more." I gave the car a little gas, and the passenger side of the car dropped two feet. Apparently what I thought was the shoulder of the highway was only half shoulder. The rest was just compacted snow in the ditch. I tried fruitlessly to rock the car out of the position I was in, but it was no good. I was half on the road, half in the ditch.

"You. Son. Of. A. Bitch. Get the hell out of here and push on the car," I told him. He protested mildly, then finally got out and pushed. It did no good at all. He got back in.

"We need to dig the snow out from under the tires," he said.

"Sort of. YOU need to dig it out while I sit in here in the warm." He asked if he could at least borrow my gloves, but I refused. He got out and dug in the snow with his bare hands for about five minutes. Then he pushed while I tried to drive some more, but it did no good. He got back in.

"What's all over your face?" I asked him. He looked in the mirror.

"It's your tire." My tire was rubbing against the snow, and apparently melting. Jim's face and clothes were splattered with small pieces of molten tire.

"We need to put something under there," he suggested while scraping the tire-meltings from his glasses. Fortunately, we had a stolen roadsign in the trunk. We thought this would be an excellent thing to jam under the tire for traction. Apparently we were too retarded to realize the most likely outcome was that my car would shoot the sign directly through Jim.

Somehow, instead of the most likely outcome, the sign was tossed harmlessly aside while I hammered the gas and Jim pushed weakly on my trunk.

A passing motorist drove by, and asked if we needed help. "Yes," I told him. "My friend saw a UFO, so we had to pull over." The dude got out of his car and stared at mine for a while. He told Jim which direction to push, and offered other totally useless advice. Eventually, some woman pulled up in a truck.

The unhelpful guy said, "I bet this guy here has a rope or something in his truck."

From back behind my car (he was back to shoveling snow with his bare hands), Jim said "That's a lady."

The truck had originally driven passed us, and was about 150 yards away, making a U-turn. Unhelpful dude said, "Yeah, this guy is coming back to help. I sure hope he has a rope."

Jim said, louder, in a bizarre voice, "That's a lady!"

The guy apparently could not only not help, but could not hear. "Here he comes. He'll pull you out."

"That's a laaaadyyyyyyyyyyy!"

The lady did not, unfortunately, have a rope. She did somehow have the driving skill to get my car moving forward. She was still half in the ditch, half in the road, but now she was going forward, riding the edge of the highway like a rail. I was standing in the ditch, a little bit ahead of the car. As she drove by me, I leapt at my fender and body-checked the car back onto the road. Thank yous were issued, and we climbed back into the car and drove on.

"You know," Jim said. "I'm thinking back on it, and I don't think that was a plane. I think we really saw something...otherworldly."

"You motherfucker."

Well, here it is. I called it "1.0", but the fact is, there are a lot more changes coming.

For right now, all that's available are the old articles. The message board will be back very shortly, and new articles will be forthcoming.

For right now, please drop me an email if you see any broken links, missing images, or any other errors. I know they're out there.