I ended up on the moon.

Alright. Very funny. You got me, I admit it.

Now will someone please come and get me off the moon?

I guess I had it coming, huh? I did get pretty drunk last night. I must have passed out and you guys pranked me by shuttling me 238,857 miles from earth and abandoning me on the moon. Good one.

Last thing I remember I was hitting on those women who kept telling me about their kids and they wouldn't give me their cell numbers and then I had another shot and now here I am close to suffocating in an atmosphere one-thousandth as dense as earth's.

Whose idea was this, anyway?

Sure, I know one of you guys might be mad at me or something if I ever messed with you in your sleep. but I really don't think I deserve being ditched in some 200º F lunar crater. And I'm totally sorry if I was ever a dick to you, but this is way worse than drawing a dick on your arm, dudes. Not cool.

How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow? I can't phone my boss up and tell him I'm stuck on the moon because everyone already calls me "The Boy Who Cried Stuck-On-The-Moon." Poor planning on my part.

But, then again, I never really imagined I'd actually get left for dead on the surface of the moon.

I know I'm supposed to be a good sport and have a good laugh at myself but I think if I sound a little P.O.ed it's because I deserve to be and it's not because I can't take a joke. I know people say I can't take a joke and maybe it's true sometimes, but damn I wish you assholes hadn't left me on the mother-effing moon.

I've got an appointment to get my cast off on Monday and if I miss that I'm gonna be so mad. And, while I'm talking about the cast, I just wanna say that being in one-eighth earth's gravity doesn't feel great on my healing hand.

It's pretty inconsiderate is all I'm saying.

Some one come pick me up. And bring some clothes. Can't find mine.

I had a simple costume.

You got it! Thank God, someone finally got it. I'm dressed as an AMISH person. What's so hard about that?

It's a simple costume.

Look, I've got the suspenders, the beard, the straw hat, the blue collared shirt, and the black work pants. I'm totally Amish.

I was worried that some people would see my right hand in a cast and think that the cast was part of the cosume. It's not. I'm not Amish-Dude-With-A-Cast. I happen to have a cast during Halloween and I'm dressed Amish. And you saw that in me.

I also got a more than a few curious glances at the pistol I have on my waist here. I'm sure those children were just trying to figure out how the gun played into the costume. Silly kids! The gun's not part of the costume. It's for protection! Have you seen the crazy people out in San Francisco on Halloween? A man's gotta protect himself. I keep the safety on most of the time anyway.

And the syringes sticking out of my pockets? I heard some people asking about those, too. Relax, people! No need to get so scared of the Amish guy with all the mismatched syringes hanging out of every one of his pockets! They aren't part of the costume. They're for me! To take a little bit of the edge off! Who knows what's in 'em, but they sure do wonders. Halloween can be so stressful, what with all these little kids screaming and running away from me just because I'm an Amish man with a cast, syringes, and a gun totally covered in blood.

Am I the crazy person here!? I mean, so what? Can't a guy covered head to toe in blood just be dressed as an Amish person without having every passerby pull out their cellphones to call the police as he limps by?

Nearly every last drop of blood on me is my own! I was hit by a car downtown earlier tonight. It sure is hard navigating all those confusing one-ways around Market St. when you're super high on a grab bag's worth of syringes you got from a guy named Scratcher in an abandoned warehouse. I tried to get the driver's insurance information, but once I pulled out my gun and let out a few warning shots, the guy just drove off! Can you believe it? A hit-and-run. Some people, man. Really makes you wonder.

Oh, no, don't worry. I'm feeling fine now. I've re-set most of the broken bones now myself, and I have had quite a lot to drink since then. So I feel surprisingly good for suffering such apparently-massive damage to the entire right side of my body. I myself am surprised I'm still standing.

Yeah, my doctor said I shouldn't be drinking while I'm on these pills he gave me, but thank God I ran out of them three days ago. Where's the fun of Halloween if you can't drink because you're still on your anti-psychotics? LET'S DO SOME SHOTS!

What are you supposed to be, anyway?

Zombie Michael Jackson?

Not cool, dude. Too soon.

Me and a little piggy. Before all the blood and most of the drugs.

I think my boss is the devil.

Me: *Knocking*

Boss: Who is it?

Me: Hi, boss. It's me.

Boss: Oh, hey, Tony. Yeah, yeah. Come in, bro.

Me: You wanted to talk to me?

Boss: Yeah, Tony, yeah. Wanted to talk to you about your career.

Me: Oh, okay. What about?

Boss: Well, to be honest, Tony, your numbers really leave something to be desired.

Me: What? What numbers? I'm selling well, getting corporate account leads. I'm bringing in a lot of money here.

Boss: Tony, sometimes it's not about the money, dude. *Pause* Sometimes it's about the virgin sacrifices.

Me: Yeah, been meaning to talk to you about those...

Boss: This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, Tony.

Me: I know, I know. It's just... I'm still not really sure how I feel about sacrificing virgins.

Boss: Okay, well, how many have you got under your belt now?

Me: Um, zero, I think.

Boss: And how many did we agree you should be sacrificing each month?

Me: I think you said the corporate minimum was seven.

Boss: So... that leaves a... shortfall of... seven. Thus far.

Me: Yeah. Good math. But I was talking to some other managers and they were saying there's no company policy on virgin sacrifices.

Boss: *Booming, gravelly voice* WHO DARES DEFY ME?

Me: Brendan. From accounting.

Boss: That d-bag.

Me: But I'm doing great at my goat's-blood-drinking.

Boss: Great. How many pints a day?

Me: Four or five. At the very least.

Boss: Good, good. And the snatching-babies-from-open-windows?

Me: Two so far this month.

Boss: Excellent. Quite excellent. The dark lord is pleased.

Me: *Blushing* Thanks...

Boss: You know, Tony, if you just threw a few more bricks through church window, I see no reason why you couldn't be doing my same job in a thousand years.

Me: You really think so?

Boss: No. I'm leading you on. I am pure lies and confusion.

Me: Oh. So you didn't really like my tie last week?

Boss: That tie made you look fat.

Me: How can a tie make someone look fat?

Boss: I don't know. But you found a way with that tie last week. And gay. It made you look gay, too. Tony, all I'm saying is that you've got to really want it.

Me: Want what?

Boss: The destruction of all that is good and holy and decent.

Me: I'm beginning to think maybe this job's not for me.

Boss: You can't ever leave, Tony. Ever. EVER! Mua ha ha! Ha ha ha! *More maniacal laughter*

Me: Really? Ever?

Boss: Well, two weeks. We'd need two weeks notice.

Me: Oh, that's not so bad. Okay, so here's my two weeks notice.

Boss: And there will be exit interviews! *Self-consciously spooky voice* Exit interviews! And paperwork! Mountains and mountains of paperwork! Mua ha ha! Ha ha ha! *Still more maniacal laughter, but this time it's obvious he feels anxious that I'm undaunted* Scared yet?

Me: Um, gosh. No. No, I'm not.

Boss: And you'll have to meet with Cheryl. FROM THE FIERY DEPTHS OF HUMAN RESOURCES!

Me: I like Cheryl. Cheryl's nice. What's wrong with Cheryl?

Boss: No reason. *It's clear that he's really hiding some pain behind his coal-black eyes* No reason.

Me: It's okay. You can tell me.

Boss: The... The bitch turned me down for a date.

Me: What? You? Why? You're suave. You're a good talker. You possess mind-control.

Boss: She said I reek of sulfur.

Me: *Pause* Noooooo...

Boss: Really? You don't think I reek of sulfur?

Me: You... I hardly ever noticed.

Boss: I tried covering it up with some Old Spice. Does it work?

Me: Well, you're not using too little Old Spice. I will say that much.

Boss: Shoot, man! I can't do anything right! I drive such a nice car, I go to such hip dance clubs, I am the creator of famines and plagues. And still, I can't get a nice girl. *Wipes what appears to be a tear from the corner of his eye*

Me: Hey, listen. It's been great. I'm gonna go back to work now, alright. But my two weeks notice is in, okay? Do you want me to be the one to e-mail Cheryl?

Boss: Sure. You know what? You wanna grab a drink tonight after work?

Me: Oh. Me? I'm... I'm real busy. I've got to walk my dog and do some grocery stuff.

Boss: No prob, no prob. Just some time before you quit, alright? The two of us. Out on the town. Chasing skirts! Eat some souls? I know this great place to steal some souls.

Me: Definitely. Definitely. For sure. Chasing skirts. *Backing out the door*

Boss: Alright! You're not just leading me on, are you? We're gonna get drinks? *Really desperate, sad, and pathetic looking*

Me: Yeah, man. For sure. It's gonna be fun. *Inching closer and closer to the exit, one foot actually out the door*

Boss: You're the best! The best! Oh, this is gonna be awesome!

Me: Awesome, for sure. Hundred percent.

Boss: We're bros! Bros for life!

Me: Bye. *Out the door, closing it behind me*

Boss: It's good having a bro. *Presses play on his computer. “Birthday Sex” comes on* This my jam!

I love wine coolers.

I LOVE WINECOOLERS!!!1!

i Don't eevn care who konws about it because they are sooooooo good. Im a bad adult or whatever ths stupid blog says so i can like win e coolers and pass it off like its funny and not effemnate.

kI dont wanna go to work anymore i just wanna drink wine coolers all the time.

I just had a red one& it tasted like a Juice squeeze and bfeore that i had a blue one and it tsted like a melted otter pop. Generic otter pops wer bad but the real ones were real good and the blue wine cooler tasted like teh real blue otter pop.

I went to some stupid praty today and ths girl was drnking a YELLOW wine cooler and i drank one to be funny aND NOW ICANT STOP DRINKING THEM.

aFter my 9th or 11rd this girl said 'tony stop drinking tho wine coolers and get out of m y house." broken bartles &jaymes bttles are good weapons and i cut her real good with it because she cant talk like that about wine coolers.

My shirt's all stianed yellow blue and green and purple cuz i 've been dirnking wne coolers all day and red with bloodcuz i think just killed someone for telling me t o stop.

If you try to go to a bar adn order a wine cooler theyl'l tel you they don't sreve wine coolers and theyll tell you "oh my god is that blood on your shirt? & whydo you have a broken bottle? someone call the cops!" and when he wont quiet down whn you tell him to quiet down youll have to cut him with yoyur broken bottle.

a good way to get more wine coolers without piaying for them at a liqor store is to be coveredin blood cuz the guy behind the counter wll know how much you love win ecoolers and he'll know its not worth it trying to stop you

a g]ood way to get a free cab ride is oFfEer the cabby a wine cooler for a ride and promising not to hurt him with a broken bottle if he drives you home.

I just added tonic water and paint thinner to windex and ti doesnt taste like a wine cooler or otter pop but it's ok and i'lll probbly drink more. i'm good at making Wnecoolers.

i wanna be a Professional winecooler taste tester but i dont no how much they get payed but that's ok because i think i have a good idea about how to not have to pay rent. it invloves a broken bottle.

I don't know how to interact with girls

The first issue I have in regards to interacting with girls is a prima facie problem; I still call them girls. Now that I'm an adult, I really need to get on the boat of calling girls by their adult names, such as "women" or "ladies." A few "women" have called me out on it and it's stopped me dead in my tracks in my path to having them let me touch them.

I went out to some bars in San Francisco last weekend. I hit it off with a girl at one of the drinking establishments I stopped by. Sorry. I hit it off with a woman. She was extra not-a-"girl" because she was four or so years older than me. Hey-Oh! Put a check in the box marked "Tony is an adult"! Four years older than me!? That surely makes me an adult! Nay, my friends, nay. I neglected to tell you that, like some depraved, over-sexed seventeen year-olds, said woman and I started making out at the bar against the wall. Go ahead and erase that check from the "Tony is an adult" box. Grab your RoseArt crayon and and childishly scrawl an X in the "Tony is a Bad Adult" bubble. And then eat the crayon. It's okay, it's non-toxic.

Okay, regardless of all that. I actually went on a date with this same woman the next day. An adult-ish date, no less. Things go surprisingly well. She's a really nice, sweet girl. Woman. She's definitely a real adult. She's got a real job in a real office and everything.

She, for some reason, finds me nice enough to invite back to her place. Fast forward a few hours and we're laying down together (don't let your dirty minds wander; it was totally chaste). I can call it cuddling, but I can't tell if that's really an adult thing to say or a childish one. But anyway, that's what we were doing. She looks at me and says, "Tony, you were in a comedy group in college. Tell me something funny."

This is where shit gets really, really un-adult. This is where someone who is good at being an adult would say something like... I don't know. I'm such a frickin' man-child that I can't even think of what a mature person would say. But let me tell you what I did say ...

"So my first job, when I was fourteen years-old, was working down at Fisherman's Wharf. I worked at a crab shack. You know, cracking crabs, boiling lobster, frying fish, selling it all to tourists. Well, at the end of every day, I would end up smelling of what I was cooking all day: seafood. I reeked of it. It oozed into and out of my pores.  I would take the ferry back to the North Bay, where I lived. Now, when I got on the ferry, it was commute time. Everyone's leaving San Francisco. I would rush on and grab a seat. And, since it was such a packed ferry, all the seats around me would get taken right away. Totally wiped from a day of dishing out crab salad to German backpackers, I would fall asleep immediately. I would awaken a few minutes before we docked in Larkspur, and you wouldn't believe what I saw... All the seats around me would be empty. Yet it was standing room only. I smelled so bad that these people would rather stand up for the hour-long ferry than sit next to me and bear my stench."

Yeah. I said that to a woman in bed. I did it. But the fun didn't end there, folks. Before she could even tell me, "That is so gross," I continued...

"Now, my dad worked not too far away so some days he would drop me off in the morning and pick me up when my shift was over. I remember one of the first days after work, I stepped into his car and I smelled so bad of crab guts and sizzling clam-oil, he said, 'Oh my god. Please fart.'"

This the story I told to a nice, attractive girl as I was in her bed. And that is a reason I'm a bad adult.

Disclaimer: The girl (hehe) in this photo is not the one mentioned in this post.