If you've ever wanted to know stuff about me or about him, here's your chance! This Friday January 25th at 1:00 EST, we will be entertaining your questions. Ask anything you want! Nothing is off-limits!!! (Off-limits topics include: politics, sex, religion, food, music, and herpes.) For more info click here:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/discussion/2008/01/22/DI2008012201651.html

You know that song "Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend?" That's my theme song. All week I've got my nose to the grindstone, but from Friday at 5:01 pm until Monday at 8:59 am, I am officially "on swerve." Nobody parties with more intensity or focus than me. For some people, partying is what you do to unwind. Not me. For me, parties are my creative outlet. Parties, for me, are serious fun.

How do I party?

With exuberance.

With ferocity.

With a fierce desire to win.

What does it mean to "win" at a party? It means having the BEST time, eating the MOST canapes, throwing up the MOST throw-up. It means showing up alone, but going home with the HOTTEST girl who is the LEAST conscious. THAT'S how you win.

This was my weekend:

After work on Friday, I put on my Axe body spray and headed out into the night. This was a warm-up foray into the dark heart of party. I started at TGIFs. "Party of one?" the hostess asked. "I don't plan on partying for one very long," I responded. Within minutes, the hostess and her two smokin' friends were sharing a heapin' plate of potato skins with me and alternately downing copious amounts of peach liqueur. Potato skins and peach liqueur? Maybe it's not a combination you're familiar with. That's because it's expert level partying. The kind they do on the Greek island of Mekonos. And trust me, once you've gone Greek, you don't look back. Unless it's her back you're looking at while you're drilling her and her two friends in the employee's break room at the TGIF, which is what I was doing about twenty minutes after I arrived.

I strolled out there after paying nothing but getting everything in return. The night was still young, so I drove over to Applebee's to see what was cooking over there. Turns out A LOT! The game was on, and I'm not talking about the football on TV. I met a couple of honeys who had a taste for the finer things in life. Like nachos and my dick.

After Applebee's, it was over to Bennigans for some late night shenanigans. At this point, I was no longer hungry, but my whistle needed some wetting. I ordered a couple shots of Jaegy, and then did my thing with a divorcee who was looking for a little do-re-mi. We hit the dance floor HARD. Creed was on the stereo, and I got a little crazy when Scott Stapp told me to take it higher. I did. Higher, longer, and harder. It was all I could do to keep it in my pants. So I didn't. I twirled it around like a baton and let the majorettes fight over it. Which they did. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. T'wasesome! (Shorthand word I invented for "It was awesome.")

Saturday was pretty much a repeat of Friday. Only instead of TGIF, the Bee, and Benny G's, it was Houlihans, The Cheesecake Factory, and Pizzeria Uno. And instead of hostesses, honeys and a divorcee, it was a kindergarten teacher, a nun, and some dude named Larry. Plus a round of mini-golf with the kid I mentor. And that was just the morning. The afternoon and evening were even SICKER. Lunch was at the Olve Garden where I got my breadstick dipped in a juicy dish of olive oil. Followed by a double order of tiramisu (in this case, not a euphemism for sex), topped off with a cordial consisting of one part brandy, one part peppermint schnapps, three parts black chick riding my cock. Then it was on to Planet Hollywood for my weekly Saturday night blowout.

Hollywood memorabilia competed with my red sequined jumpsuit for attention. I don't need to tell you who won, but I will anyway. I did. I won. It's a good thing co-founders Sly Stallone, Bruce Willis, and Arnold Schwarzenegger weren't in attendance at this particular PH at the Cherry Hill Mall because their stars would have dimmed considerably next to my own galactic luminescence. The Planet spun a little groovier that night, let me tell you. If you've never done it on top of Herbie the Love Bug, you don't know what it means to live. (Unfortunately, I found out later in the week that I contracted my own "love bug" that night. Nothing a strong course of antibiotics won't fix.) I didn't sign any autographs that night, but I definitely made my mark. All over Harry Potter's cape.

Sunday was just a blur. IHOP, Chuck E. Cheese, Dave and Buster's, the library, the Hard Rock Cafe, Perkins, my mom's house, Sea World, The Ground Round, Larry's house for a little blow, Wrigley Field, your mom's house, the Space Needle, every brew pub in the world, outer space, Houlihans again, and of course, what weekend would be complete without a stop at Hooters?

A lot of people think Hooter's best days are behind it. Not me. The brew is still cold, the wings are still hot, and the ass is still young and fat. There's a misconception that there aren't any fat ass Hooters girls. Wrong. And those are the ones you want to target. The best-looking Hooters girls know they're the best-looking ones, but the fat assed ones need a little reassurance that they deserve to wear the mantle. So you compliment them. You butter them up. You let them know that you came for the burgers but you're staying for their muffin. Then you go in for the kill. (Not literally, unless that's your thing. Partiers don't judge other partiers.) My server was named Patty. Patty the Fatty. Did I make that Patty melt? You know it.

The weekend ended at exactly 8:59 am, at my desk, in my cubicle, a spreadsheet in front of me. Believe me, I did a lot of spreading on a lot of sheets that weekend. And a lot of thinking. Thinking about how incredible it is to live in a country where you can live free and party to win. The weeks might be tedious. After all, I can only save so many refugees doing my job at the U.N., but the weekends? T'wasome

Well, it's almost midnight, which means it's time to start making plans for tomorrow. First things first - I HAVE to finish my latch hook rug! I've been trying to finish it for about six weeks, but every time I sit down with my latch and my hook, the phone rings or the fire detector goes off or somebody shoots something. My wall is in desperate need of a kittens in a basket latch hook rug and come Hell or high water, tomorrow is the day wall and rug finally meet.

Also on my agenda for tomorrow - grocery shopping! We have been out of mayonnaise for about two days now. That may not seem like a big deal, but around my house it's an emergency. Pretty much everything the wife cooks has mayonnaise in it, and when we have to do without, everybody is pretty crabby. Tonight for example, we were SUPPOSED to have fried chicken. But how are you going to eat fried chicken without mayo? Answer - you're not. I just threw mine at her and made her clean it up. Later I apologize and offered to pick up some of that good whipped spread at the grocery store tomorrow.

Third: exercise. I have promised myself that I am going to get into my exercise regimen. For me, that means getting the old recumbent bicycle out of the garage, dusting it off, and putting it to use. I got my Exercycle from the gal down the road. She was selling it on her lawn for twenty bucks. I jewed her down to ten and then let the thing collect dust in my garage. Starting tomorrow I'm putting that fucker to work. All that extra Christmas mayo has got to come off.

Finally, tomorrow is the day I start loving myself.

It's also the day we put the dog to sleep. I'll probably put the dog to sleep before I start loving myself, just so I can end the day on a positive note.

1. Quit smoking. This one is easy because I don't smoke.

2. Lose weight. Also easy because I am anorexic.

3. Kill at least one large animal. Kind of a weird resolution, I know, but I figure killing a large animal (elk, moose) is something every man should do at least once. I'm going to do it this year. The twist? I'm going to use anthrax.

4. Get the tires rotated on my car. Self-explanatory and, again, easy.

5. Make interstellar travel a reality. This one is a little more ambitious considering my limited skill set (see my earlier post: "When I Finally Build a Robot…"), but somebody's got to do it, and it might as well be me. It seems like the key is figuring out to how to get around the fact that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. Once I do that, the rest should be a piece of cake.

6. Stop referring to my wife as "my little homunculus."

7. Fewer rampages.

8. Give Katie Couric a shot on the "CBS Evening News." She's been struggling in the ratings, and I certainly haven't been doing my part to help. Besides, it's very hard to jerk off to Charles Gibson.

9. Start using Axe Body Spray.

10. Go deep undercover. Even if it's not for any particular purpose. Just infiltrate some organization. Any organization at all.

11. Learn typesetting and harmonica.

12. Take more photographs of morbidly obese people at water parks.

13. Witness a murder.

14. Start collecting ivory. So beautiful and increasingly hard to collect. Prices will undoubtedly skyrocket if elephants go extinct. Kill elephants (would also take care of resolution 3).

15. Write a highly successful fictionalized memoir of my drug abuse and subsequent jail time.

16. Do everything in my power to destroy Tom Hanks.

17. Finally invent "ice cream burrito." I've been talking about this for years and haven't done anything about it. One day somebody's going to get there first and I'm going to be kicking myself.

18. Either develop scoliosis or quit talking about developing scoliosis. As far as scoliosis goes, this year is definitely "shit or get off the pot" time.

19. Give panhandling a real chance.

20. Commit grand larceny. What am I going to steal? That's easy. A backhoe.

21. Apply for every credit card that comes in the mail. Ideally, I will end up with a different credit card for every day of the year. Once I have them all, I will withdraw the maximum cash advance I can on every single one and then fake my own death.

22. Ferret out J.D. Salinger in order to tell him that I think "The Catcher in the Rye" is a really good book.

23. More cornholing.

24. Compile definitive list of "Best American fudge shops." Sell list for a hundred dollars each. Sit back and watch the money roll in.

25. Playing grabby ass isn't fun for waitresses: learn the lesson.

26. Get trademark on word "crantastic," used to describe a particularly delicious cranberry.

27. Figure out a way to get legit handicapped plates without becoming legit handicapped.

28. Give strangers more advice about how to raise their children. While I do not claim to be an expert in raising children, I do have some pretty strong opinions on the subject developed over years of doing things exactly right.

29. Stop relying on my salt lick to get my daily allowance of salt. It grosses people out and there are definitely better ways to get my iodine. Note: this may increase my chance of contracting goiter.

30. Quit showboating. It only pisses people off, especially when it's over stupid stuff (tallest person in library, etc.)

31. Don't call in bomb threats to get out of dental appointments. This is, without a doubt, one of my worst habits.

32. Stop saying "zygote" when I mean "fetus."

33. Sell some military secrets to the Chinese. This one's going to be tough as I do not have access to any military secrets, and I don't know any Chinese people. But on the plus side, I recently saw "Patton."

34. Try harder to remember that tomatoes aren't the enemy.

35. Remake my wardrobe to be more "fashion forward." That means more scuba flippers, light-up bowties, and oversized hockey jerseys. Less "Boba Fett" costumes, wax lips, and compression hose.

36. If I'm going to burn rubber tires, do it when the wind is blowing away from the nursing home next door.

37. Stop making jokes in the security line at the airport. The TSA guys don't need to come away from our encounters thinking, "That guy is hilarious."

38. Don't use charitable giving as a way to feel smug. This one's going to be hard for me because charitable giving is one of my primary ways of feeling smug, both towards the people to whom I am donating and towards the people who did not give. It's two for one smugness and it has to stop.

39. Clean out my high school locker. It's been almost twenty years, and I imagine things are getting a little rank in there.

40. Cut down on my carbon footprint by making everybody come to me instead of the other way around. Let the dead earth be on their consciences for once.

41. Learn and use cool handshakes.

42. Learn and use my children's names.

43. Pitch my idea for television show, "World's Strongest Rock Star" again. This time, pitch it as a comedy instead of as a legitimate sporting event. When executive asks, "Will anybody care how far Hootie can shot put?" answer, "Yes."

44. Give serious consideration to adopting a baby, but don't.

45. Quit disparaging wallpaper. There's a lot of great wallpapers out there and when I make generalizations about "all wallpaper," it makes me look like an idiot. I'm better than that.

46. Give up the pseudonym I use when writing my radical feminist poetry. At a certain point, I have to trust that my comedy audience will embrace my radical feminist poetry and my radical feminist poetry audience will embrace my comedy. The two do not have to be mutually exclusive.

47. Write more thank you cards, but don't draw any swastikas in them.

48. Develop a taste for fine port, talk about it a lot, and then snicker when people are ignorant about the drink. Could be a good replacement way to feel smug (see resolution 38).

49. Taste and rank every Jelly Belly flavor according to how much they taste like what they are trying to taste like. Compile into a definitive list. Sell each copy for a hundred dollars. Sit back and watch the money roll in.

50. Put up that birdhouse.

I am in Vancouver with my friend Ken Marino. Today is Monday, and I have to say, I'm surprised I survived Friday-Sunday because we went CRAZY!!! How's this for starters: Friday night, we go see "No Country for Old Men." A lot of guys would have called it a night after that. Not us. Afterwards we went out for dinner. What kind of dinner? Sushi, motherfuckers. Raw motherfucking fish. And not just one sushi either. Many sushis. And tea. Did the night end there? No. We followed that up by walking to a chocolate shop where Ken got a chocolate-covered frozen banana!!! How much of it did he eat? Only all of it.

Saturday rolls around and we're feeling frisky. So decided to take a walking tour of the city. How much of the city did we explore by foot? Only ALL OF IT!!! That's right. The Historic Centre, Gastown, Yaletown. The whole fucking city. Did I mention we brunched at a French bistro with a waterfront view? I didn't? Well, guess what? WE DID! Did I have grilled chicken crepes? I DID! So that's a lot of activity, walking around like that. Most people would have collapsed in their hotel rooms after that. Not us. We followed up our walking tour with ANOTHER MOVIE! And not some namby pamby sissy movie. A genuine, rated R movie that goes by the name of "American Gangster," which is what we are. American motherfucking gangsters.

You probably think we didn't have dinner after all that. WRONG! Not only did we have dinner, before dinner we had drinks. Most guys probably would have gotten a beer. Not me. I had a porter. What kind of porter? Chocolate. A chocolate porter. But wait - it didn't stop there because I didn't content myself with a single chocolate porter. It was a double. WHAT??? Yes. A double chocolate porter. What did it taste like? Freedom. Dinner was room service. Big, sloppy cheeseburgers WITH BACON! Canadian bacon? No. American bacon, which bitch slaps Canadian bacon.

That was Saturday. We still had a whole other day to do nothing but satisfy whatever sick itches we cared to scratch. And scratch we did. I woke up late and then got in a taxi and said, "Take me to the Edgewater." What's the Edgewater? Only the location of the biggest and sickest poker room in Vancouver. I sat down and played cards for SEVERAL HOURS!!! Did I win? No I did not. Did I care? NOT. AT. ALL. Got a call from Ken. "Meet me at this restaurant." I could tell you what restaurant, but that's our place and I don't want you grubby motherfuckers showing up there. So I got in a cab and met him. You probably think we didn't have Japanese food again because we'd just had it two nights before. WRONG! It WAS Japanese food. And it was awesome. We didn't even order off the menu. We sat at the sashimi bar and told those fucking chefs to bring us whatever THEY wanted. We didn't care what it was. Just bring it and bring lots of it. We ate till we were FULL! Then we went back to the hotel and WROTE A SKIT! Then I went to BED!

Pharaohs we were. Pharaohs on our thrones.

Well, I'm in Vancouver again. You wouldn't think that Vancouver would feel like a foreign city, considering it's in the American protecorate known as Canada. And yet, there is something distinctly foreign feeling about it. Maybe it's the annoying way they spell the word "centre," or the fact that they really do end sentences with, "Eh?" (Ex: "That was a pretty good blow job, eh?") Also, I've noticed that the Canadian obsession with the sport of hockey crosses over the line from fanaticism right into the territory of utterly boring. God, do they love hockey. I've learned more and cared less about this sport during my time up here than I thought humanly possible.

On the other hand, Canadians can't help but be friendly. They're like baby goats. Also, I've asked around, and it turns out that socialized medicine is pretty fucking great, despite what our politicians tell us. Michael Moore was right - Canadians are thrilled with their health care system. They don't wait days to get seen by a doctor, it's all free, and as a result, everybody smokes. Also, surprisingly, Canadian news is filled with stories about Canada. This is surprising because I was unaware that anything happens in Canada. As it turns out, I was right. Sample story from the news the other night: two Vancouverans had their specially made bicycles stolen. This story occupied about three minutes on the broadcast. How about a senseless shooting or something to liven things up, Canada?

The other surprising thing about Canada is that everybody here is Asian. You think I'm joking but I'm not. It's because, for some reason, white Canadians don't breed. 1 in 3 Canadians are foreign born, and most of those people are Asian. Which is good if you happen to have a fetish for Asian girls. Not that I do, but if one happened to , it would be pretty fun. If one did.

Anyway, the other good part about Canada is that there's a casino about two minutes from my hotel. The only downside is that when you win, they give you Canadian money.

Happy Thanksgiving to everybody. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because there's no stupid songs, no presents, no mythical characters (except for Indians), no television specials, nothing except friends and family and absurd amounts of food. I also like that it's a holiday specifically designed to give thanks for what is important to us in our lives. For me, that means poker, unicorns, frozen waffles, Taco Bell, friends, family, and all of you.

Have a great Thanksgiving. And if you must drink and drive, try to drive as fast as you can to get yourself off the road as quickly as possible.

Chapter 19 of My Science Fiction Epic, "The Pirates of Dagganon 6," Which I am Only Able to Write Because of a Generous Grant from the Makers of Barq's Root Beer


CHAPTER 19
Sassalak!

Tridor slammed the qibec crystals into overdrive, but they had no effect. The propulsion force was simply too strong. Ahead, the dark planet pulled them towards it, and there was nothing they could do.

"Divert all power to main thrusters," Tridor yelled.

"She won't hold together!" barked Aga, her skin changing from a mottled green to a fiery crimson. She was even more beautiful red.

Tridor pushed the chameleoform's beauty from his mind and responded, "Either we punch this baby out of here now or we end up in the clutches of Starforce Security. And I don't think any of us want that." Aga nodded and sprinted from the command deck.

He spoke into the com. "Twi-Twi, where are you?"

The naraboo's familiar chirp came back at him almost instantly. The little guy was probably trying to figure out how to wring more power from the pneumatic crystal drive. One good thing about naraboos; they were tiny, but they sure were feisty critters.

Tridor opened up a cold Barq's root beer and contemplated his options. None of them were good. Maybe they could escape the planet's gravitational field, but then what? The qibec crystals would be depleted, leaving the pirate ship drifting hopelessly through the quadrant. Or they could allow themselves to descend to the Sassalak surface. But then what? Starforce Security would be tracking them. The moment the ship touched land, they'd throw him and his crew into a laser cell. Once in, it was unlikely any of them would ever get out. There had to be another way. But what was it? Tridor took another sip from his Barq's. The drink's sharp effervescence gave him an idea.

"Aga, Twi-Twi – get your pirate butts up here now!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the chameleoform and naraboo were at his side.
Twi-Twi whistled and chirruped in his peculiar patois: what were they going to do? Aga looked on with interest. The red skin had faded to a grayish pink. He understood the mood underneath the hue – like the rest of the crew, she was tense and anxious.

"I was drinking this Barq's root beer when I had a thought -"

"Those are delicious." whistled Twi-Twi.

"Quiet, damn it! We don't have a lot of time." Twi-Twi's furry face fell. Ordinarily Tridor hated to yell at his little friend, but they were running out of time.

"Sorry, boss," he chirped.

Tridor grunted, and pointed to the frothy glass of root beer. "Look at how these bubbles float to the surface." Aga and Twi-Twi crowded around the glass. It was true. Hundreds of bubbles floated up from the bottom. The carbonation produced air bubbles that were lighter than the surrounding liquid. The bubbles not only helped give Barq's its bite, but also provided a possible way out of their predicament. Tridor explained his idea, watching as Aga's shade turned from pink to a confused grey to an excited canary yellow. She understood!

The pirates ran (and in Twi-Twi's case, flew) towards the airlock. They would only have one chance at this. Already, the ship was beginning to jostle as it hit Sassalak's thick atmosphere. Only minutes ago Tridor was cursing his luck at emerging from hyperspace into the Sasslak system, but now he thought maybe it had been a blessing in disguise. The trio fastened themselves into their oxygen exchange suits and, with waited for Tridor's signal.

Outside, methane swirled around the ship in roiling clouds. If Starforce Security didn't know they were there yet, they would soon.

"Unidentified cruiser, identify yourself!" There they were. Right on cue. The transmission was partially garbled. Tridor tried to buy some time.

"Repeat. Repeat, please." Tridor signaled to his compatriots to stand by. Aga was beginning to turn an impatient purple. A couple more seconds was all they needed. Just enough time to break through the thickest part of the atmosphere.

"Unidentified cruiser, this is Starforce Security. If you do not identify yourself immediately, you will be intercepted and boarded."

How would he explain a ship filled to bursting with powdered carjamin seeds, the most valuable plant in the galaxy? Answer – he couldn't.

"Uh, yes, Starforce Security. We are the 'Gamma Pole' agriship from the United States of Earth," Tridor improvised as his finger hovered over the dump button. "We're carrying a load of hydropods. Our paperwork should be in order."

Twi-Twi whistled as the sky began to lighten. Any second now.

"We don't have any records of a 'Gamma Pole.' Please hover and prepare to be boarded."

"Board THIS!" screamed Tridor. Tridor flipped off the transmitter and swigged down the rest of his icy cold Barq's. "NOW!" he yelled to his fellow pirates.

Four hands and twelve naraboo fingers began feverishly dumping the ship's nitrogen and hydrogen. The dense air outside began lifting the ship. They had become like one of those carbonated bubbles in the glass of cold, refreshing Barq's. The ship rose, accelerating as it went.

"It's working!" yelled Aga.

"Not yet it's not," muttered Tridor. Soon they were in the methane exosphere. This was the crucial part of the plan. If he's calculated correctly, the thick methane would react with the nitrogen blowing from their ship, causing the ship to rocket from the planet as if it was a carbonation bubble in a shaken bottle of scintillating Barq's root beer.

"Hang on!" Tridor screamed, although the warning was unnecessary. Aga was strapped to her chair, her skin blending in with the fabric. Twi-Twi was strapped to Tridor, his tiny fingers grasping to Tridor's pant leg. The ship began rumbling, quaking. They were either going to be ejected from the planet's atmosphere or the superstructure would crumble from the stress.

A red warning light blinked on the control board. The qibec crystals were overheating! If it didn't happen soon, it was never going to happen. Tridor could also see the ship's hull contracting around him.

Suddenly, they heard a loud BANG! The ship was speeding up, accelerating past its tolerance threshold. Aga screamed. Tridor caught Twi-Twi's eyes. They were round but unexpressive. Brave little naraboo, he thought as he felt his body pushed to the floor. They weren't going to make it, he thought. The ship wouldn't hold.

And then, just like that, they were free. Far behind was Sassalak. They were back in the Ungoverned Territories.

Slowly the three space pirates picked themselves up from the floor, inspecting themselves and each other for injuries. There were none.

"We did it," said Tridor.

"You did it," said Aga, turning an expressive green. He'd never seen that color on her before, but he knew exactly what it meant. "Excuse us, Twi-Twi," said Aga, moving towards the man who only days before had been her sworn enemy.

Twi-Twi fluttered from the room.

Tridor, the confident ship's captain, suddenly found himself at a loss for words. His throat felt dry as the chameleoform approached. "Barq's?" he asked, holding up a can of the refreshing soft drink that had saved their lives that day, as it had so many times before.

"Maybe later," she said, kissing him. "You're going to need it."

Normally Philadelphia is a fantastic city for us. Great crowds, lots of cheese steaks, big, cracked bells every place. But for some reason, Philly is not showing the love this time around. We've got a show at the TLA in Philadelphia in about a week, and for some reason, nobody is buying tickets. Look, I've done my part. I actually went to the premiere of the last "Rocky" movie! I have every single Boyz II Men album on my iPod. I even went as the Philly Phanatic for Halloween this year! If that's not Philly loyalty I don't know what is. Come on Philadelphia. Come to the show. We're all going to rock out with our cocks out.

Baltimore, you are getting your chance. A lot of people would have gone to DC instead, but not us. DC is the home of hypocrites and Fugazi. Baltimore, you are home to "The Wire" and Cal Ripken. On my mother's birthday, December 16th, we will be once again rocking the Ottobar with merriment. Please join us for laughs.