January 6, 2006:

OK, dudes, I gotta apologize for this. I am SO SORRY that I didn’t get this in sooner, but you would not believe the last couple of weeks. For one, my broHeeb Cornelius totally ditched me – he went back to Oberlin without me right after my last (first) post! Dude’s worried about grades or some bourgeois middle-class nonsense like that. What the hell, dude. Who gets you girlie action? Who gets you totally baked? Who pays for your biggie-sized nuggets and Taco Supremes every night, man? Whatever. You are dead like Weir to me now. Next time you wanna get on my hook, I’m throwing your nappy ass back in the lake, you heard?

I mean, really, grades are so OVER. So are deadlines, if you think about it. They’re just tools used by the people in charge to stymie creativity and tie the regular joe down to a 9-to-5, pay-the-bills, buy-the-house sort of existence that perpetuates itself like some dude in Rome eating his own puke. Time and success are not a linear A-to-B types of construct, man. They are fluid like lava lamps. I can spend hours staring at a Magic Eye poster, and it seems like minutes flew by. I could write the most brilliant essay, comparing the themes of seduction as represented in Lolita and The Witches of Breastwick, and some self-appointed arbiter of what’s smart could give me a D+. That’s some melonfarmin’ bullspit, and I ain’t having any of that.

So, yeah, all of the deals that happened, they’re in the past, so me saying stuff like “lol @ Zito” or “bro, Meche, you are totally buying” aren’t worth the column space. What is worth it – dude, Steve Phillips is such a dick! I mean, yeah, he’s pretty dumb & all that, and he smells like aftershave mixed with ass sweat and rotten bananas or some junk, but he is such a big protruding mushroom-looking deeock, it’s amazing. OK, first of all, that Bonds chase / confrontation crap some folks are all up in a tit about, I got two words for you: gar, and badge.

For one, the tape doesn’t show you how Big Fancy Steve Phillips ran into me full-speed trying to catch up to Bonds. Dude made me spill my honey chai! That I bought with my own cash money! (dutifully supplied by you fine Yard Work bros – you’d never ditch me for a stupid lame-ass standardized low-common-denominationizing test, right?)

Anyway, when Barry blew him off , it was so SWEET. And I don’t blame the dude. If I were Barry, and I saw that walking douche approaching me w/ a microphone like he’s now the reporter in the fake news conference of his life, I’d give him a “see you later,” too. Dude’s here to make some bank, not swap spit with a lardy mimbo that thinks scoring runs is overrated. But, yeah, that’s not the worst of it. I’m sitting around after hours in the hotel bar, missing my bro (and flipping him off in my head – hope you ate a REALLY bad gas station cheese danish, loser!), and who should stumble into the bar, drunk like a bottle of Boone’s, but Mr. Steve “Touch Me” Phillips himself.

For whatever reason, the dude dragged his dead ass over to the bar next to yours truly and started talking about the stupidest dumb crap you can imagine. I mean, yeah, you get a few cocktails in your stomach, you start doing the dumbest crap, like picking up Beer Pong cups you’re gonna end up drinking w/ your own asscheeks. (Dude, New Years – do NOT ask. I’m just starting to eat solid food.) And maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was just me turning the other cheek, but I started feeling pity for the guy. So we bro’d down a bit, did some Jaegerbombs, talked about Kruk (lol!) and Brantley (double lol!) and Berman (lol to the lol degree!), and it was OK.

Then some local hotties happened in. God knows where they came from, but God bless him for sending them thisaway. At this point, Steve-o was in the bathroom, possibly communing with his porcelain elders, I don’t know. But this girl (Sherri), this blonde-haired pair of legs with a set of lips that’d make Angelina Jolie start stabbing herself with bee stingers, starts talking to your boy Trent. And she’s buying me drinks! Dude, I know! We are totally bonding over crap like music (STRING CHEESE AND COLTRANE BABY) and movies (EFIL 4 IKSWOBEL). And baseball! She actually had a Marlins tattoo on her lower back! Dude, I know! It was so hot – I never knew teal & fish could give me wood, but booiioioioing. So, I’m working my game, even giving a little to her cute friend Raquel (STACKED brunette bombshell, lacking a little in the schnozz dept., but not a bad 1a), and I am money like Fort Knox.

Then guess who stumbles out of the lavatory like a newborn but good old Steve-o. He rambles over to where I’m giving off the funny sexy vibe to my new lady friends, and then goes and puts his mitt right on Raquel’s left boob! Yeah! Like it’s a doorknob, and he’s trying to get inside. And he’s got this “I was the GM of a National League Champion” grin on his stupid ass face. And Raquel’s giving him the “OMG I have cancer” look! And Sherri! And me, too! So I’m like, hey, drunk bro, try and pretend that you actually know how to act around a lady – this ain’t Shea Stadium, yao ming?

And what does Steve-o Phillippe do when I offer this important bit of advice? He mushes me in the face. Like nyeah you’re ugly get out! Just mushes me! I end up slipping on a wet spot (maybe Steve-o’s urine or drool!) and fall on my can, and then Steve makes for the suckerfish on MY girl! God bless her, she kneed him right in the business. He made this totally gay little “eep” sound, and fell over like a Frank Francisco folding chair. But then she and her gal exited Stage Get The F*ck Off My Junk, leaving me with Steve-o grinning like he just traded for Scott Kazmir, and no digits! Which totally sucked. And when Mr. Suave finally came up for air, he was all WHA HAPPEN? It’s a good thing I’m not a violent man, because that dude would’ve been eating some Surf & Sullivan that night, let me tell you!

So, yeah, here I am, stranded in Florida by my FORMER bro, the girl of my dreams still a dream thanks to the king of cockfarmers. The reason I took so long for this update: I’ve been trying to find said girl. My uncle (he owns a few Kia dealerships in west Texas) hooked me up with some research money (yeah!), but I haven’t been able to get a bead on her whereabouts. Florida’s a big place, dude! It’s like California big! Anyway, consider this my sayonara to college life – I’m staying in the field. Maybe I’ll report from the trenches during the upcoming season. Maybe I’ll find the future Mrs. Trent Sullivan, and make little Sullys with her and her gorgeous self. Maybe I’ll just stick my thumbs up my ass and make like a popsicle. The only way you’re gonna find out – STAY TUNED! Peace in the Middle East!