DaveRox: Rocking Your Lame Ass.

DaveRox: Best legs in the Midwest

When the mood strikes, I write something. And, well, the mood really hasn't struck me too much lately. I apologize for that.

So, for Halloween, Marty and I went as Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble. We looked like shit. I wore a woman's adult small costume (nothing bigger at the store) and the little fella wore a woman's medium. For some odd reason, we thought they wore heels. We were, um, wrong. So we blew twenty senseless dollars on 4-inch stilettos. Apparently, they walked around in bare feet. Why did I forget that? Maybe I just wanted to wear pumps. Anyways, after many beers and nearing the end of the night, I decided to slip and fall on my elbow. I must've fallen into some dip, too, because I had a lot of food all over my dress. And I guess I told Marty at the time that Tommy pushed me. Yeah, he was like 30 feet away macking on some girl he'll probably have a text message relationship with.

But I digress. I got up, grabbed my elbow, and saw a lot of reddish plasma oozind and squirting, as well as some skin flapping in the wind. Two and a half hours later, I had three stiches. Should've been like seven -- so I've told everyone that's how many stiches the doctor threw into me.

Which reminds me of other stupid Halloween stunts. Like when I was 11 at a friends house and only had to walk across the street to get home. I strutted past a part of high school seniors who yelled at me and told me to run. Like any weakling nerd at the time, I abided to these calls. Two houses later, I fell to the grass in a huffle with egg yoke all over my back. I ran inside crying and had to anchor my mother's leg so she didn't go outside and give the kids what for.

I think I dressed up as Gumby that year.

I've dressed up as a Smurf, Oompa Loompa, Old Man and Mike Ditka. But never have I needed stiches. I remember Tommy puking one year when we were Smurfs, but don't tell anyone that. The last time I brought it up when we were 25 he got mad at me and tried to steal my shoe.

When I was younger, my mom used to like to dress me up in makeup and girlish costumes. I think that might be why I had the presdiposition this year to throw on women's shoes and paint my nails. Who knows. What I do know, though, is Halloween kicks ass. And I'm going to continue to make a fool out of myself every year.

It's a Spice World and we all just live in it...

So like every other 30 year old, when I heard the Spice Girls were reforming I was beyond ecstatic. Baby Spice! Posh! Ginger! And the other two no one really finds attractive! They were all coming back.

Like any normal male, I always had left a space in my heart for the girls to come back and reside.

Except in my excitement, and the jumping around, I forgot that my jeans were on the floor. Stop being a perv -- I will let you know, before we go any further, that I was wearing some type of clothing -- shorts, to be exact, and a Bill Shelhart, Democrat for County Commissioner shirt. The jeans were something I had worn the day before. Or maybe the day before that.

In my elation, though, and flopping around like when I was 14 and first had a girl slightly touch my package, I planted the bottom of my foot down onto my belt which was in my jeans, and the piece that goes through the belt holes poked right into my arch.

Fuck. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain like watching From Justin to Kelly. Pain like when somehow someone punches you in the balls and isolates one of the boys. Pain like when you work at Little Caesars when you're 15 and wonder why oh why your face is greasy.

And it bled. And continued to bleed through the band-aid, since such appendages are not meant to be stuck to the bottom of your foot. And now, I've got a nice piece of flappy skin on the bottom of my foot, courtesy of my need to Spice up my life.

I feel like this story needs to be told on that MTV show Scarred. Please, if you would, submit it for me.

Ugly Davey...

My grandmother loves ceramics. Her basement is a testament to that love. Two kilns, tons of greenware and a shitload of molds.

If she had a mold for what cool was in middle and high school, I definitely didn't come from it.

I didn't exactly slay the ladies, ok?

There's probably a couple reasons -- and when I saw this picture from Ugly Betty, well, I was reminded of a few of them.

First, for some reason, or because I have bad genes, I wasn't able to get braces until my junior year. Most people get braces when they're in 7th or 8th grade. Not me. My Ortho wanted me to wait until he made my palette bigger, which meant I had to wear this device on the roof of my mouth and expand it with a key daily.

At the end of that process, I had a gap in between my two front teeth about a half inch long. Yeah. Plus I had pimples, bad hair, an even worse wardrobe (I think my mom still dressed me, so that meant I was wearing mock turtlenecks) and a plastic thing in my mouth that would catch food in between it and my palette so I'd have to make sucking sounds or force air through it to get said particles out.

Back to the braces. Eff. For some reason, and this is back to the picture of Ugly Betty, I thought it was cool to get different color rubber bands for different things. College football season is starting? Hell, Let's go with Maize and Blue. What? It's Christmas? Green and Red, folks. I'm about to graduate? School colors, my friend, school colors. Yellow and Green.

It's actually quite disturbing to think that my decision-making process was so off.