What up peeps.  Kevin is in jail for the week or in the Bahamas or something so you're stuck with his crusty group of replacement bloggers for the next five days.  I wandered over from my own little unkempt corner to make sure his blog doesn't fall apart while he's making bail or pina coladas errrr whatever.  Enjoy!

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If any normal, rational person could get inside my head and read my thoughts, it would be a pretty safe bet that 10 out of 10 concerned citizens would volunteer me for a vacation in a room with padded walls.  I say this not because I hear lots of voices or anything, but more to the point that the one voice I do hear (my own internal monologue) is so cracked out that the only logical conclusion must be that I'm a few croutons short of a salad.

In my head I live in this world where I'm more or less the biggest bad ass to walk the face of the earth, which means, if you've ever met me you're probably mouthing the word "delusional" right now.  And you would be right in doing so.

For instance I have this on running fantasy in my head that on my way to work one day I get cited for jay walking, but instead of dutifully accepting the ticket and apologizing for ignoring my civic duty, I mouth off to the bike cops.  Usually the picture show in my brain has me calling the nice officers  tri-cycle  rent-a-cops  and telling them to go stop a real crime and stop wasting tax payer's money.  It's usually about halfway through these little day dreams of mine that the logic factor kicks in and makes me realize that about the time I got done uttering the word "tri-cycle" any normal cop would probably taz me in the face and I'd more than likely be the guy who violently loses control of his bodily functions  when a large amount of electricity  gets introduced to his body.  So pretty much I go from thinking how much I'd love to tell off cops to picturing myself rolling in the gutters with poo stained chinos. 

I also have this fantasy where someone breaks into my house in the middle of the night and I get to engage them in mortal combat for the sake of self defense (very red-blooded of me, no?).  The sequence always starts cool enough with me using like a belt or a picture frame to deflect their knife attacks and then round house kicking them through the living room window.  But wouldn't ya know it, about the time I'm trying to enjoy the limelight of having Van-Dam'd some punkass through a large sheet of glass the logic kicks in and makes me re-evaluate.  Usually I end up re-thinking the whole scenario and realizing that more than likely, I'd be on the toilet when someone decided to break into my place and instead of some swiss army knife, they'd probably be packing a shotgun or other large bore weapon. So suddenly in my head I've gone from ass-kicking urban  hero with his fists raised high doing the Rocky dance to sitting on the john with a barrel shoved in his face literally crapping his guts out.  And no, I don't think it's any coincidence that every time I spoil my own fantasies it usually involves fecal matter.  There's a metaphor in there I just know it.

Probably the most disturbing thing about my buzz kill of a rational side is that it doesn't seem to bode well evolutionarily for me.  My delusions of grandeur are totally understandable when looked at in the context of natural selection.  As a caveman I needed to be able to visualize myself taking out a whole of herd of Woolly Mammoths with nothing but a stick and some rocks...ya know...fight or flight.  Cavechicks dig a man with big dreams.  But throw in the tendency for my head to spoil all my best day dreams and suddenly I'm not the caveman whose bringing home the Mammoth bacon.  No, in fact it's quite the opposite, I'm the caveman archaeologists dig out in pieces 10,000 years later because a Mammoth decided to kick me for a field goal.

And yes, I'd bet they'd find fossilized shit in my pre-historic loin cloth.