Here in the study of Jimmy Flashdance, good friend and post extraordinaire,
I can’t help but feel dwarfed by all his trophies that lay strewn about the room like underoos at a Michael Jackson "Boys Only" sleepover. Hand modeling championship
cups tower over me. I type in their shadows. Who knew that Uncle Flashdance was
once an acclaimed digital model? Not I… That came from left field, I know this.

Today, we’ve been dabbling in the world of HTML in hopes that we’ll learn how to color text pink and upload our very own pictures. We have the text coloring down, but this image-uploading thing is a biatch. (It’s actually pretty simple. I’ve been erring the text to throw “you know who” off. If Flashdizzle figures it out, they’ll be more pictures here of me streaking then I’ll be able to handle… seriously. Well, the secret is out now! Learn on your own… Meat gazer.) I’m still hurt by the Billy Bob Thornton dig… not really. I kinda just wanted to bring “meat gazer” out of the archives because I haven’t used it in a while. I smell a tangent coming on.

… And here it ‘tis

Yeah, so these streaking pictures-- All I know is that roommates pull some underhanded shite with their web cams when you dart into their rooms wearing nothing but a black New Orleans Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. hat and a pair of navy Armani dress socks. I remember one incidence in particular that happened about a month ago. The mark was my roommate Jermaine. He had passed out on his bed after he got home from work. Being the courteous roommate that I am, I decided that I was going to scare the hell out of him by flicking his light on and shimmying around his room like a Leprechaun. A Leprechaun who incidentally forgot to put on his entire Leprechaun garb. I carried out the plan impeccably, however, I ran into two snags. When I was halfway through the door I managed to snag the sock on the door handle, and that put me in a compromising position. I did away with the sock and continued as planned. Then, halfway through my Irish jig and ditty I ran into snag two. Jermaine woke up and gained his nimbleness way too fast for this drunk Leprechaun to proceed safely. Jermaine's disgruntled countenance seemed to shout, “If you’re still in here by the time I get my belt off, I’m whooping your white bread ass!” I took the hint and dashed. I heard a flashing sound that night as I ran out of the room in all my bare-assed glory. Given that I was in an alcohol-altered state, I dismissed the noise and retired for the night. The next morning, I woke up only to find captioned pictures affixed to various surfaces within my apartment. Each picture showed me clicking my heels in mid-air as I exited Jermaine’s room. The captions underneath read, “Who am I? Midnight Nudist.”

I have since embraced the nickname Midnight Nudist, written a 5-volume comic book series entitled Midnight Nudist The Chronicles of a Vagrant Leprechaun and His Search for Gold, and contacted numerous networks about a possible sitcom. All but FOX declined. Who would have guessed that FOX would be interested in my shitty idea? FOX shows are all so exceptional, like the upcoming 93rd season of Survivor. I think it’s called Survivor South Los Angeles. Contestants will wear Red doo-rags and walk through Crip-run territory from 65th Street (north) to Century Ave (south) between Vermont (east) to Western Ave (west). The only contestant not mortally wounded will be declared the winner. In future news, Survivor South Los Angeles started and ended on the same night. It aired for 20 minutes. There was no winner. When asked about the show’s brief run and many casualties, the show’s producer had this to say, “Um, we’ve never been really good at the whole TV show thing… and we didn’t see this coming. I don’t know what to say… Our bad.”

…In other news, I will never post if I’m this exhausted ever again. I don’t remember anything I wrote. Now if I could just find my blue doo-rag…

Note: If you believe the part about my sitcom pitch then you're about as bright as the pud who managed to do this.