Attention, spammers:

Penis enLARGEment isn’t the problem I need to have solved. The problem is penis enSMALLment. Get to work on that and we’ll be in business.

Thank you.

DFW Airport, Gate C28. A Boston flight is just leaving from the gate and my Burbank flight will leave from here next. The marquee behind the desk changes from “Boston” to “Burbank.” Several Burbank passengers are lined up to speak to the gate agent.

Another gate agent emerges from the jetway and comes to the desk. “Is anyone here going to Boston?”

We all look at each other. No, we’re all Burbank passengers.

“Boston? Anyone for Boston?” she asked again.

So I sang:

“She said, ‘Please come to Boston.’ We said ‘No.'”

Nobody got it. But, hey, it killed me. And Beth got it, because she’s been married to me for too long.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Elvis tattoo is leaving the building. La Grange, you can keep your southern, drawling, inbred, NASCAR loving, bickering, “I don’t get it, that’s stupid,” complaining redneck attitudes to yourself.

(But thanks for the Waffle House coffee mug!)

Me?

I.

Am.

OUTTA HERE!

Good God, I’m tired of traveling. I’ve been on the road for my job for roughly two weeks of each month for the last three and a half years. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

This trip seems longer than usual. Maybe it’s because I managed to get home over the weekend last month, I don’t know. This one just feels interminable. I’m ready to be home. Really ready.

All morning long, I’ve had a line from Bruce Springsteen’s Valentine’s Day running through my head: They say he travels fastest who travels alone / But tonight I miss my girl mister tonight I miss my home.

I’m ready to be home.

This is just a hunch, but I’m pretty sure that spending the entire evening holed up in my hotel room watching I Love The 80’s on VH1 wasn’t really the best possible use of my time.

But I really do love the 80’s…

I feel badly for Beth sometimes. She loooves to talk on the phone. Loves, loves, loves it. Me, I hate it. The only thing worse than having the phone ring is being on it already when another call beeps through on call-waiting. So I feel badly for her because our telephone conversations are, well, nothing to call home about.

Here’s a transcript of one of our recent calls from my end:

Ring!

Hello? Hey.
…
Yeah.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Okay
…
No.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Yeah, I know.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Ha ha ha.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
All right, bye. Love y–
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Okay, I’ll talk to y–
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
All right, by–
…
Okay.
…
Okay.
…
Bye.

Hang up.

I honestly wonder sometimes why she married me … and why she keeps calling.

One of the program directors here is a huuuuuge Hanson fan, and she’s (rightly so) very defensive about it. She was expounding on their virtues, which include the fact that they write their own music and play their own instruments and produce their own records and blah and blah and blah … and then the poor girl just flat-out lost her damned mind.

“They’re just like the Beatles!” she said.

Oh, how we laughed at her.

Just in case anyone’s been looking, someone is offering “over 300 used wine corks for the taking” over on Craigslist LA.

Don’t thank me — I’m here to help.

You just can’t make this shit up.

I scored the ultimate souvenir tonight, one that I will always cherish as a memento of my time in Georgia. Instead of giving you a clickable thumbnail, I’m going to link directly to the full-size image. This thing is too cool to disrespect with a weenie little thumbnail.

If I had Photoshop on my laptop here, I’d edit the picture to bathe the item in a golden backlit glow. If I had sound editing software, I’d rig up an angelic chorus to play as you click on the link. And if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.

But I don’t have those things. All I have is this, and that’s best of all.

Aaaahhhh…..