It’s been a long weekend, mes petits chous. It began on Friday, which isn’t a surprise since that’s when weekends usually begin, and I went with co-author Dave to a Cinco de Mayo party.

The first thing that happened is I drank all the rum. And then, every time someone said, “DUDE. THERE’S NO F***ING RUM LEFT,” I went into another room and tried not to look guilty. I just couldn’t help it. I mean. It was sitting there and looking so… you know. Vulnerable.

Then I ate pig, which, for me, is like huge. I hate pig. I hate pig the way I hate mushrooms. But co-author Dave and his woman-friend Sequoia brought big pig-wiener looking things to the party, and I wasn’t about to pass up a big pig-wiener thing. I ate mine, and it tasted like intestines, which I is what I think I was eating.

Anyway, that’s not the point.

The title of this post indicates that I have something to say about crazy men. While I might consider my consumption of grilled pig bowel to be crazy, most of you probably wouldn’t, so it’s kind of a non-starter. The rest of you probably think pig-ass is a decent foodstuff, fit for consumption in front of polite society, children, and the elderly.

Whatever.

What’s crazy is that, following the pig-ass eating, we all headed up to a bar that was somehow smaller than my apartment (my apartment is 0.5 square feet). It was filled with the elite and powerful members of the neighborhood, which consisted of a few wanton sluts and a Big Man who was all too willing to engage each and every one of them in a sexual manner on the dance floor, which also doubled as the standing/sitting/drinking floor. Therefore, we were all subjected at one point or another to the advances of the Big Man and his sweat-stained football jersey, which I don’t think he had changed since his high school team lost the playoffs in 1973.

But that isn’t the exciting part.

I know, I know – You’re all, “Pig ass! Big Sweaty Men! What could possibly be more exciting?”

What could be more exciting was when I was sitting at the bar, sipping a vodka ‘n Coke (at least I think it was vodka – it came from a bottle covered in masking tape that had the word “Vokcka” written on it, which is close enough for me), when a Very Angry Man ascended the stairs of the bar and attacked the bartender, the waitress, and several other people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve seen Extreme Violence, so this little outburst was hardly registering on my radar. I continued to sip.

Until co-author Dave slinked past me, doing everything he possibly could to look small, which wasn’t easy given that he was wearing a really obnoxious pair of California Highway State Patrol/Child Molester sunglasses and a rather loud Italian soccer shirt.

“What’s going on over there?” I asked, sipping my cleaning fluid.

“Oh… Uh. That’s kind of my fault,” replied the sandwich-paid co-author.

“How is it your fault?” (note that I didn’t doubt for a moment that the attack was Dave’s fault – I just wanted to know the Hows and Whys of the matter).

“I was coming back from the bathroom. The cook was walking up the stairs with a plate of french fries when he asked if I had ordered them. I said I hadn’t. Then he asked who had. I said I didn’t know. Then I said I’d buy them of of him since I was hungry, and then he stopped in his tracks, his eyes bulged out, he pointed his finger at me, got a look on his face like I was a cat zombie eating his grandmother, and said ‘FUCK YOU!’ before storming upstairs. Then he said ‘FUCK YOU!’ to the waitress. And then he said ‘FUCK YOU!’ to the bartender, who he then pinned against the wall. All I wanted to do was buy some fries. I was just trying to help.”

The cook got fired that night.

It was awesome. And, in spite of the scuffle, I still got to sing (with the cyst and the swollen vocal chords) a karaoke rendition of George Michael’s “Faith” which had all the sloppy drunk biker girls in the bar trying to sex me up in ways that I won’t describe here simply because I have not the vocabulary to do so.

That really set the tone for the next day.

Co-author Dave and I had about eight hours of video shooting to do for The New Site. The scenes involved an anchorman played by Jason Olson.

Dave was completely hungover and excused himself occasionally to “deal” with the situation. I was fine, but then I’m on special drugs from my neurologist that make me impervious to alcohol pain. Dave groaned. I smiled. It was a good balance.

During one scene, we had to dress Jason up in garbage bags, a gas mask, a WWII era German helmet, and give him a machete. While none of this makes sense right now, all will (hopefully) become clear during the first week of the New Site. It’s going to kick ass.

But, before shooting the scene, Dave and I asked Jason to just “be himself” for a few seconds for a screen test to see how his character was going to look.

I’ve known Jason for a while, but I had never suspected the man had it in him to produce footage such as the following.

Also, I learned during the shoot (not this scene) that it’s really hard to get ham out of your carpet.

Anyway, this is what I did with my Saturday (hit the start button to make the sucker play):

I'm pretty sure that nobody else on the entire planet has footage like this. I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed

Anyway, the sleeping pills are kicking in, and they're really doing the trick. Ever since I read the warning on the label that said "DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL," I've been washing them down with shots of rum, and they actually seem to work better. I fully expect to pass out within the nexe several minutes.

So. Peace out, homies. Word to your mothers. Or whatever.