Adam's Perfect Day (and a half)

Originally sent to a group of friends about a year ago, the following details a misogynistic adventure involving money, food, sex, booze, and omnipotent power.  Also, please attempt to keep this bit of humor in its proper context.  It's only a joke.

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7:00 AM -- Awake from an evening of slumber, roll out of my custom-made double king size bed and step onto my third story terrace overlooking Harbor Town as I take a moment to appreciate the exceptionally nice weather (68 degrees, 10 mph winds, 0% humidity).

7:15 AM -- Chow down on an assortment of scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, waffles with hot maple syrup, a cheese omelet, buttermilk biscuits with gravy, blueberries, strawberries, grapes, cantaloupe, apple juice, orange juice, chocolate milk, and a Flintstones vitamin.

7:45 AM -- Return to master bedroom for coitus with Victoria's Secret supermodel Miranda Kerr.  She thanks me and leaves.

8:15 AM -- Take a 30-minute crap.

9:00 AM -- Fall asleep watching ESPN SportsCenter.

11:00 AM -- Awaken with a sudden desire to visit the Cooper-Young district to engage adherents of Left Wing philosophy.

11:45 AM -- Ride my custom Harley-Davidson V-Rod (Confederate Memorial edition) to CY and proceed to engage Liberals.  This leads to constructive conversation that prompts many to abandon their Far Left roots.

12:30 PM -- Receive a surprise call from [name withheld], who initially stammers, but eventually confesses her long-suppressed love for me despite her recent marriage.  Yet in an effort to take the proverbial high road, I talk [name withheld] out of leaving her husband because, "It's the right thing to do."

1:00 PM -- Take a moment for reflection and shed a tear (just one tear) over perhaps the most lovely woman I have ever known.

1:15 PM -- Receive text that my Gulfstream G550 has arrived from Nashville with Carrie Underwood on board.

1:16 PM -- Inform my people that I wasn't in the mood for another round of sweet love makin', as I was still worn out from layin' The Good Wood on my girl, Miranda Kerr.

1:17 PM -- Gulfstream takes Carrie Underwood back to Nashville.

1:45 PM -- Ride custom Harley to Memphis City Hall, smack the sh-t out of Willie Herenton and tell him to "Get lost already!"

1:50 PM -- Shake hands with A.C. Wharton on the way out, implore him to do better than the last guy.

2:00 PM -- Take a short walk down South Main to the Planters Peanut Shop my grandfather ran for 10 years as I reflect on playing on the 100-lb. peanut bags with my cousins in the back of the decades-old establishment; purchase a small bag of cashews like my grandfather used to bring me.

2:15 PM -- Ride to Confederate Park, leave a thank you note at the Jefferson Davis Memorial.

2:20 PM -- Arrive at Nathan Bedford Forrest Park and kiss the base of the statue in which General Forrest and his wife are interred, just as I did in front of Al Sharpton and a potentially hostile crowd on the afternoon of August 13, 2005.

2:45 PM -- Buy a new Jaguar XJ8 for no reason.

3:15 PM -- Make my usual visit to GNC for MesoTech peanut butter protein bar and grape Ripped Foce energy drink, just as I do around this hour almost every day.

3:30 PM -- Get inspired, make a few phone calls and purchase majority share of the San Francisco 49ers (Win Super Bowl XLV).

4:00 PM -- Read Bible, ask forgiveness for present and future sins.

4:45 PM -- Consume an assortment of fine alcoholic beverages with members of the League at my home in Harbor Town while reminiscing about the good ol' days as Sirius Ch. 35 ("Chill") plays in the background.

5:15 PM -- Receive an impromptu booty call from Megan Fox, which I politely decline until she agrees to gain a few pounds and lose the tattoos.

6:00 PM -- Chow down with The Inner Circle on bayou salmon, grilled chicken and pork tenderloin.  The meal becomes known as "Protein Fest."

6:45 PM -- Upon finishing off the last of Protein Fest with The Inner Circile, which included an unforeseen influx of friends and family members, I experience a sudden urge to visit Las Vegas.

7:00 PM -- Having received word that Carrie Underwood ransacked the interior of my Gulfstream G550 in a fit of rage after being sent home, I arrange to have a customized Airbus A380 prepared for our arrival.

7:15 PM -- Having initially declined my invitation to Protein Fest because of numerous household chores assigned by his wife, Eddie is kidnapped by an elite group of special ops mercenaries.

7:30 PM -- Two Bell 430 helicopters arrive with a band of ruffians from Harbor Town on board.  Hooded and hogtied, Eddie arrives moments later.

8:00 PM -- Specially customized Airbus takes off.  And yes, it took longer to depart than necessary because I refused to board a jet that didn't have my preference of two 72-inch flat-screen high-definition televisions, Bose surround sound w/ tandem connection to satellite radio, leather couches and recliners, a proper assortment of only the finest and most expensive wine, liquor and beer ever assembled, and of course, a stripper pole.

11:30 PM -- Arrive at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas; half the group passed out during the trip, as the drinks and previous meal (Protein Fest) proved too much for them to handle.

11:45 PM -- Enter my Skyloft suite at the MGM Grand.  As the remaining group preps for the evening's festivities, I am given a special bath treatment by an assemblage of bartenders from Coyote Ugly.

12:30 AM -- Chow down on a midnight snack, dessert and more alcoholic delight at Wolfgang Puck, as arrangements were made in advance for the five-star restaurateur to stay open later than usual.

1:15 AM -- Those among the group who passed out earlier -- and thus, were still onboard the Airbus -- awake in time to join the rest of us for more drinking and cavorting at Tabu' inside the MGM Grand.

1:45 AM -- UFC legends Chuck "Iceman" Liddell and Quinton "Rampage" Jackson begin fighting over a woman at Tabu'.  I stop the brawl by flashing the blue-green blade of my lightsaber in between them.  Liddell runs away, Jackson passes out, and the girl (named "Candi") joins our group.

Note: As a Jedi Knight, I chose the blue-green hue of my blade in honor of masters Yoda and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

1:46 AM -- Feeling an excessively promiscuous vibe, I tell Candi to get lost.

2:00 AM -- With the group at full strength once again, we arrive at The Sapphire (the world's largest strip club).  Upon giving each man a roll of $2,500, I tell everyone to "Run off and have a good time."

3:00 AM -- Landon is arrested by Sapphire security and charged with disturbing the peace, reckless endangerment, and 14 counts of lewd conduct.  He is never seen again.

3:30 AM -- Eddie is warned by Sapphire security to stop "making it rain."

3:35 AM -- After more than three years of marriage, Eddie finally loses his virginity.

4:15 AM -- The group makes its way back to The Grand for a round of poker, blackjack, and roulette (my personal favorite).

8:00 AM -- In all, the group (now known as "The Twenty") tallies a winning total of about $3.8 million.

9:00 AM -- Receive word that about half the group will be divorced and/or unemployed if they don't return to Memphis immediately.  I arrange to have my cohorts return home while those remaining receive a massage treatment at the Grand Spa & Health Club.

9:45 AM -- With half the group now aboard the Airbus en route to Memphis per the threat of pending unemployment and/or divorce, I take the loyalists in a stretch Hummer limo to check out my new home -- still under construction -- at Red Rock Country Club in nearby Summerlin, NV.

10:15 PM -- After observing my humble abode, a modest 275,000 sq. ft. spread over several acres (rare for a country club set in the desert), Gavin screams "I want one!  I want one, and I want it NOW!"  Gavin regains his composure and tries to act as if his embarrassing cataleptic episode hadn't just occurred.

11:00 PM -- Seeing that Gavin's outburst was partially due to a lack of sleep, the crew and I return to my suite at the MGM Grand for some rest.

11:15 PM -- Because I require very little slumber, I slip out for a beverage at Wet Republic (the MGM Grand's pool area).

11:30 PM -- Become acquainted with several members of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas cheer squad.

11:45 PM -- Turn down their subtle advances, per a lack of hotness.  Believe me on that one.

12:15 PM -- Take my Ferrari 360 Modena for a cruise around the Las Vegas Strip... and beyond.

2:00 PM -- Snack time at GNC.

2:30 PM -- Realizing that most of the guys don't have the luxury of living off the interest of a ten-figure fortune, I decide that returning to Memphis is necessary, however unfortunate.

7:00 PM -- Arrive in the Bluff City.  Everyone cries; "Take me back to Vegas" is repeated almost constantly.

7:30 PM -- Treat the group to a nice meal at Chez Phillippe before retiring to my 12th floor executive suite at The Peabody.

8:00 PM -- As we kick back and reminisce, Nick notices that I have imprints of Trent and Justin's faces on my toilet paper.  Nick leaves in a fit of rage.

9:00 PM -- The last of my friends from this fantastic voyage returns home, leaving me alone to ponder the events of the past 38 hours.  "Helluva time," I thought.  "Helluva time indeed."

9:30 PM -- I return to Harbor Town where I find Carrie Underwood is sitting on my front porch.

"I guess sleep can wait."

An immigration analogy

A not-so-fictional short story --

You arrive home after another grueling day at work.  Your boss is a self-righteous jerk and you frequently have to fight off the compulsion to smack at least half of your colleagues.  But the job keeps you from bankruptcy and it beats unemployment.  You are a quintessential Republican.

Minutes later you muster the strength to pour a well-deserved Presbyterian (2 ounces Scotch, 2-4 ounces ginger ale).  A simple protein drink or perhaps a baked salmon dish from that new place around the corner would be healthier, of course, but reveling in your very own Don Draper moment is satisfying enough.

Suddenly there's a knock at the front door.  It's me.  A guest is the last thing you want right now, but always the polite one -- Do unto others, right? -- you force a friendly smile and allow me into your home.  That was your first mistake.

I hang out for a while.  I don't say much, but I feel more than free to dig through your pantry.  I eat your food, drink your beverages -- including the last sip of your Presbyterian -- pass some gas, grab the remote control, flip around to the network of my choosing, and make inappropriate comments to your daughter.

"You're looking mighty fine in that little cheerleader outfit.  Go Panthers indeed!"

I'm wildly pleased with myself at this point.  I ate and drank myself into a stupor, made at least a dozen not-so-subtle advances towards your daughter, and you barely said a word.  Jackpot!

In fairness I would have hit on your wife, too, but she left you for a lesbian several years ago.  They hiked together throughout Europe, got married in Massachusetts, but are now divorced.  Freaking liberals.

There's no way I'm leaving now.  Upon informing you that I'm turning in for the night, I plop myself down in your guest room and begin snoring like a hibernated bear almost instantly.  Assuming I have no where else to go, you graciously allow me to stay for the night.  Believe me, I slept like a baby.

Hours became days, and days turned into weeks.  I've been living in your home for years now and my presence has been less than positive.  I use your credit cards at my leisure to pay for food, gas, clothes, and strippers.  By now I'm on a first-name basis with many of the ladies who work the center stage pole at "The Purple Church" (right).  You have no idea.

But there's a problem.  I have it pretty good, but I'm becoming restless.  I want more.  I'm also catching an uncomfortable vibe from you, and I don't appreciate it.  I don't feel welcome anymore and I'm not understanding the problem.  After all, I've been here for years.  You let me in and you let me stay.  So what if you support me almost entirely?  And who cares about the occasional outbursts of violence and indignation?

Trying to ward off the unfriendliness, I call you a variety of degrading names and make baseless assertions like, "This is MY house!"  But nothing seems to work.  I even got some of my friends to protest in your front yard, but our efforts only angered you more.

After imploring you to treat me better, you finally throw me out and promise retribution if I ever return.  You're such a bigot.

Our nation, at this very moment, is under mass attack by illegals from the south and extremists from the east.  To say or do nothing will engender a future that will turn the bit of humor you just read into a stark reality.  It's that simple.

"Lamentable Birthday"

A few years ago I wrote a short story -- a jarring nonfiction, third person narrative -- about how I spent the evening of my 29th birthday.  I turn 34 on July 25 and little has changed, so I thought sharing this little piece of literature would be in order.

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The long, unfriendly drive was not an unfamiliar one.  Adam had taken this beaten path before.  "This is not how I envisioned spending my 29th birthday."  It was a notion Adam was unable to escape.

The thought of returning yet again to perhaps the most undesirable of locales simply turned his stomach, for it would require volumes to adequately explain how the vestiges of south Memphis made for a plethora of nauseating experiences in the past.

Though he'd seen it before, Adam found himself staring in amazement as he drove by the vacant lot where a once-massive cathedral of capitalism formerly stood.  "That used to be the Mall of Memphis," Adam thought as he passed through the not-so-aptly named American Way.

Figures. Raleigh Springs is probably next.

A torrential down-pouring of finality set in as Adam approached Democrat Road.  He briefly considered his options, however few they might've been, but relented when he came to grips with the reality that there was no going back.

Perhaps I should have taken the bank's job offer after all.

Adam has held corporate-type jobs before, the most notable of which includes a 65-month stint with a Memphis-based financial institution that actually sold itself out twice before the name was finally wiped from atop their headquarters.  That's where his brazen distaste of south Memphis originally came to fruition.

The mere sight of Graceland now onsets a variety of flashbacks that compare to a corporate version of Vietnam, and it moreover supplied the basis for Adam's decision to not accept another bank position.

Surely I can do better.

It was that particular reckoning that repeatedly played in Adam's head as he sailed toward a relatively obscure setting that more closely resembled a prison than that of a work environment.

Adam parked his car behind a chainlink fence fronted by an apathetic-looking woman who apparently represented the company's finest in security enforcement.  It is doubtful she has ever done much of anything but stand in her upright box and wave people forward.

Our hero was instantly struck by the newness of his surroundings.  The area was abstruse, not at all confining; yet he couldn't help but to feel almost overwhelmingly besieged by his new set of circumstances.

Time to take my man pill.

Adam forced himself to board the shuttle designated to take the new hires to orientation.  He won't soon forget being packed in like cattle with such an over-abundance of morbidly obese individuals.

Adam eventually walked into a spacious room loaded with long faces.  It was obvious that no one was especially pleased to be present, but even more noticeable was the sense that everyone was in the same boat regardless of background, circumstances or financial standing.

The evening was filled with mostly vacuous objectives.  The long, drawn-out lectures and company produced videos (complete with only the finest in cheesy, synthesized background music) marked the beginning, middle and end of one trivial talking point after another.

Apparently many of the enigmatic rules and regulations are in place because of past employees who fabricated problems out of non-issues.  As a result employees aren't allowed to sport a piece of clothing that features a logo of any kind because someone -- an overzealous Yankees fan perhaps -- could end up offended by it.  I kid you not.

Interacting with his fellow new employees offered Adam a sense of just how unhinged our society is becoming.  Though Adam gravitated towards three guys named Justin, Kyle and Judson -- "The Country Crew" they called themselves -- one could argue that the sizable classroom encapsulated much of what our parents have been warning us about since childhood.

Adam also picked out more than a few people who had that unmistakable I've done some hard time in prison look, including one guy who must've been a registered sex offender.  Then there was Carl.

Carl was a tall, heavyset black man with cornrows. I say was because a single glance at his otherwise effeminate features could easily bring one to assume that gender reassignment surgery was just around the corner.  God help him.

The instructors didn't go so far as to tell the class that the work would be physically demanding, but Adam understood already that he could expect to end up exhausted after each and every night, which explains why 25% of new hires quit after the first week.

"So here I am," Adam thought.  "Guess college was just a big waste."  It was a defeatist perception, but Adam gets that way sometimes.  Especially when a permanent escape from south Memphis appears all but hopeless.

It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to.