Idea: Operation: Snake Attack

Hey readers, Matt McClane here.

So apparently I've accumulated 37 hours in three days at work, hence the lack of ideas. Ideas are best thought up in your spare time, I always say. I really don't have any spare time, although I made some tonight, though... since you people seem to be craving my ideas like a delicious pipe full of freshly-stewed smack. Not that I even know what the hell that is.

The majority of my ideas come to me in the shower, somewhere in-between the shampoo, the soap, and then the shampoo again because I forgot if I already shampooed. (I'm not a morning person.)

Anyway, in this special chapter of my "IDEA" series of blog postings, we're going to talk about snakes.

Lots of people can't stand the damn things. It's an interesting phenomenon, this snake business. I guess I could go into the fears of people and animals for hours, but instead I'll type a few paragraphs about it.

When you ask your common person why they hate snakes so much, you're liable to get a lot of different answers. I'm sure your fear would stem from any of these categories:

1. They're gross.
2. They're creepy because they have no legs.
3. Once a snake killed your dad.
4. They bite. With big fangs.
5. The way they move around gives you motion sickness.
6. Steve Irwin told you they're dangerous.
7. They're slithery and fast and kill for fun.
8. They kill cute animals that you're not afraid of.
9. They sneak in, eat all your steak and ruin everyone's lives.
10. They're the ninjas of the animal world.
11. They'll strike at you without warning.
12. They'll strike at you with warning.
13. They eat children.
14. Movies have made them out to be evil.
15. They're evil because of that whole Bible business.
16. You live in Australia.

I suppose those are all pretty valid points. However, I believe that every single one of those points is very, very interesting. For example, if a snake were to slither up to me and encourage me to eat a delicious healthy fruit, I'd sure as hell do it. Also: they have no legs and manage to move faster than certain animals with legs.

Like me.

Interesting? That's a big hell yes.

I believe that even though people are terrified of these things, they're still mystified. It's the same type of situation when you see Jean-Claude Van Damme do one of those mind-bending splits when he's naked.

___________________________

Editor's note: Why are directors so prone to agree to his wishes to be naked in films doing those types of things? Here's a quick scenario for you:

Director Mark DiSalle: "Let's get this scene rolling, Jean-Claude. In this scene you'll be doing your split on two chairs."

Van Damme: "I got a good idea for this, Mark. Let me get naked."

MD: "I'm not really sure that's going to illustrate this scene any better, Jean-Claude."

VD: "You son of a bitch!! I'm running this monkey farm now, and I say I'll be naked. Without me, there is no Kurt Sloane!!! Kurt Sloane had a great ass; so do I... shoot my ass!!!! NOW!!!!!"

MD: "Action."

___________________________

When you see Jean-Claude Van Damme's ass doing some mind-bending split, you immediately wonder how in the hell he's pulling that off. You're terrified, but mystified. That's the magic of a snake.

I had a wonderful pet snake that I adopted from my good friend Adam Skelton back in late 2004 named Riley, and he was one of the greatest pets I ever had the pleasure of owning. He was such a great guy. Fun to watch, interesting to study, and he really loved those mice, man. Sadly, though, Riley passed away from Inclusion Body Disease, and it was one of the more tragic things to happen last year. He was an awesome pet.



Now that I say that, you can obviously tell that snakes have a special place in my heart. I absolutely love those guys. That brings me straight to my next idea:

Idea: Operation: Snake Attack

First you need to hit up your local Wal-Mart, toy store, or any place that would sell giant rubber snakes. The key is to find one that's as realistic as possible—not super coiled up—and is made of bendable, loose rubber or plastic instead of the hard, stiff kind.

While you're wondering aimlessly around Wal-Mart carrying your big rubber snake, swing by the outdoor section and pick yourself out a cheap fishing rod. Also pick up some pretty heavy-duty, high-test fishing line. You don't want that line breakin' on ya in the heat of the moment.

Finally, purchase a large metal barrel from somewhere. Don't ask me where to get a big metal barrel!! What am I, your personal reference tool? Test your resourcefulness! Be pro-active! Take initiative!!! Get that big metal barrel!!!!

Head on back to your house and try to get yourself pumped up. You should be really, really pumped up. If you feel that you're not pumped up enough, go here and get yourself ready.

After pumping yourself up, you'll need to own a house that's close to the road. I don't care how you make this happen. If your house isn't close to the road, you need to re-evaluate your living situation. The market isn't so awesome right now, but don't that that detract you. There are plenty of options, though, don't be discouraged right away. Take a look at the MLS directory, or get a local Realtor. In case you don't have any luck right away... here's a nice place you could call home:



After you've got a house that's close to the road, be sure it has a porch, or bushes, big enough to hide behind. Hiding is key, because with this idea, you must not be seen by the naked eye.

Take your rubber snake, tie your fishing line tightly around its neck, and throw the snake across the road. The idea here is to reel it in as fast as possible when a car approaches... so that it looks exactly like a huge snake is crossing the road right in front of them.

Pull it quick, pull it fast, and pull it true. You'll soon discover that people will be absolutely mystified by this snake idea. All sorts of reactions are possible. Since we're doing lists tonight, apparently, here's a short list of things that might happen: (I speak from experience here.)

1. The car will slow down to see if they can spot the snake. (Impossible for them, since you will have reeled it all the way back to you at that point. From your hiding place in the bushes or porch, you'll be able to laugh at their stupidity.)

2. The car will swerve to miss the snake, possibly causing an accident (or it might possibly hit another oncoming car...maybe even killing somebody).

If this type of thing happens, you'll also be able to laugh it off as you're running with your snake and fishing pole back into your house, directly to the back yard. It is here that you'll have set up your giant metal barrel, complete with random pieces of trash that you've already set on fire. Throw the evidence into the fire, and when the cops come to find out what happened, you'll be hanging out in your back yard, simply burning trash. When they ask about the wreck, act surprised and say (exactly this way): "Sorry officer, I was so busy thoroughly burning this trash here that I completely missed the accident. Was anybody harmed in this senseless act of God?"

3. They will stop completely, roll the windows down, and scream profanities such as: "Did you see the size of that bastard??" Or: "That was the biggest fucking snake I've ever seen in my life!!!" Or possibly even: "SHIT!!!" (However, more than likely, they will not exit the car. Face it, these people are scared.)

4. They will slam on their breaks, causing a twisted-metal pile-up. (If this happens, resort to method #2.)

5. They will pull into your driveway, exit the vehicle and search your entire yard for the runaway cobra. These kind of people are relentless; they're obsessed, and most likely professional wrestlers. They're at least college wrestlers. Take it from me (again, from experience), get into your house ASAP and burn that stuff. It's just not worth it to take unnecessary heat from a pissed-off wrestler. Especially if you have to tell them it was all a Matt McClane idea you read on the internet. They will not be pleased. Plus, I owe those guys money.

6. They'll pull into your driveway, approach your front door, knock, and then proceed to warn you that a giant snake has just entered your home. If this happens... at all costs.... do not laugh in their face. It would seem natural to do so, but it's important to let them leave your driveway truly believing that they just saved your life from a deadly viper. Give people a reason to live, yo.

So any of those things might happen, but really... who knows? Pulling a rubber snake across the road in front of cars in order to trick them into thinking a real giant snake passed directly in front of their cars can cause any kind of spontaneous response. Enjoy it!!!

This idea was originally conceived by Jared McClane and myself, and it became a crack-like addiction for us in 1998. It was, without a doubt, one of the best ideas we ever had... and it paid off... big time. It brought an entire group of people together, and it binded our friendship tightly together that summer. Pulling a rubber snake across the road in front of cars in order to trick them into thinking a real giant snake passed directly in front of their cars left us with a lifetime of love and special memories that we'll all dearly cherish.

Tommy Forrester, Chris McAdoo, Mark Bernard, Jared McClane and myself can all testify to this. It's just worth it.

If you don't think that pulling a rubber snake across the road in front of cars in order to trick them into thinking a real giant snake passed directly in front of their cars is the one of the best ideas you will ever have... you're not even human, are you? Buy yourself a new crib, because you're officially a baby. A tiny, non-human baby animal. An animal that stays in a crib all the time because it's so lame.

Give it a shot, bud. You won't regret it.

-The Phantom

Idea: Shoot yourself in the face

You never know, it might be therapeutic.

-M

Idea: The Lost Bucket of Chicken

Understatement: back in 1996, there wasn't really a whole lot to do in Jefferson City, Tennessee.

Hey readers, it's me, Matt McClane, and here I am with yet another mind-bending entry in my ongoing "IDEA" series of blog postings. For this round, let's take a close look at human compassion.

You guys remember that stuff, right? Human compassion?

It's not exactly the same kind of compassion you'd feel for your mom if she was burned in the hands by deadly acid... or the same kind of compassion you'd surge with when faced with a picture of a starving child offering to wash your car windshield for five bucks. No, reader, what I'm talking about is simply giving a damn about that guy you pass on the sidewalk tomorrow. This whole theory of giving a damn about total strangers is always slipping away like creativity in Hollywood... but that shouldn't stop us from doing what we can to help out our fellow humans. Right?

Right.

So with those thoughts in mind, let me take you back to 1996 where, in Jefferson City, Tennessee, a group of young men decided to take the power of compassion to a whole new level. This idea has been tried, proven and well executed, so trust me that when I say it's a great idea.... it's a helluva damn great idea.

Idea: The Lost Bucket of Chicken

To test mankind's lingering sense of human compassion, follow these simple steps for success.

1. Go to KFC (the genetically engineered chicken factory place) and purchase a giant family bucket of chicken. In case you didn't know, KFC serves their extra-crispy or original chicken in this huge ass bucket. The concept of eating food out of a bucket has always interested me, mostly because it's hilarious... but also because it's sort of raw and primeval. In fact, after reading this paragraph... if you DON'T have an immense craving to eat some kind of meat out of a big ass bucket... you're not even human, bud. You know that little yapping dog next door? Take this opportunity to grab that old paint bucket from your garage and do what needs to be done.

Anyway, after you purchase your chicken in a bucket, tell the person in the drive-through window that you need an extra bucket, because you and your friends are going to divvy up the chicken after you part ways at the haunted amusement park. Perfect. Now you've got two buckets... one for your chicken and the other for later.

2. Track down a dedicated redneck with a penchant for CB radios. You've seen these guys around, especially if you're from East Tennessee. These guys love their CB radios, and they love to communicate on them. They use awesome handles and spit one-liners. Some of them are just as cool as Jack Burton... handing out advice and life lessons while driving to the grocery store... but others are not. Others just use their giant CB radio antennas to look cool and potentially pick up chicks. Chicks in the McDonald's parking lot.

However, none of this matters to you... because all you want is their giant, powerful magnet that holds their massive CB antenna to their bumper:



That's right, these antennas are mounted on their trucks and cars with massive magnets... and it's your job to stalk one of these dudes until you can sneak in, remove the magnet and run away into the night with it. Don't ask me how you'll pull it off... this part is all up to you.

3. Take a good pair of pliers, or perhaps a hacksaw, and remove the antenna part from the magnet part.

4. Now it's time to pull it all together. Head on up to a populated area. Back in 1996, we'd travel a few miles up the road to a little town called Gatlinburg.

You might have heard of this place, apparently it's where crazy people go to walk around, stare at stuff, and buy various and sundry trinkets... like gnomes or glass fairies, for example. Some people enjoy the fudge. Others enjoy the God-sized Aquarium. Some people, like me for example, love that awesome ninja store that's above that bar. You know the one. Trust me... if you've got a few grand to spend and you have the urge to kill a man with a wide variety of throwing stars, blowguns, knives, swords and bo staffs... get your ass up there, man. You will NOT be disappointed in the selection of killing tools. Once I bought, for some reason, this awesome super-reinforced black "night stick"—the same model that cops always tote around on their belts. I've only had to use it once... and only for self defense. From a timber wolf.

Anyway, after you've bought as many shuriken as you can carry, park your car in an inconspicuous place, and let the genius begin.

Take out your bucket, place it on your vehicle's roof, and then use the high-powered magnet to physically hold it in place. That bucket is not moving, bud. Now it's time to test humanity's compassion.

5. Drive around with the bucket of chicken on the top of your car. Drive up and down the strip, around back roads and up and down turning lanes. Go anywhere that you see people. What we're doing right now is testing their compassion.

Will they stop, notice your completely idiotic move of forgetting your freshly-purchased chicken on the top of your car... or will they just laugh and go about their way?? I think you'll be surprised at the results. The more you drive around with the chicken on your roof, the more you'll begin to understand how compassionate people can be in today's age.

One woman, in particular, chased us all over Gatlinburg, screaming, shouting and flailing her arms around, screaming, "CHICKEN!!!!!! CCCHHHHIIIIICKKEEEENNNN!!!!!!" over and over again. Of course, we completely ignored her and acted like nothing was wrong. At one point, she had her husband pull up beside us at a red light and do everything but physically tap on our window to save our chicken from possibly falling off the roof.

This woman cared about us, and she cared about our chicken.

Now that's compassion, motherfuckers. Compassion.

Most of the time, we drove Rob O'Keefe's busted blue Toyota Corrolla around, and you wouldn't believe the compassion that we received. Once while driving on the dangerous "Spur," the super-curvy mountain road connecting Pigeon Forge to Gatlinburg, a woman came out of nowhere to almost sideswipe us... warning us of our forgotten chicken.

"CHHIICCCCKKKKEEEEEENNNNNNNNN!!!!"

We eventually looked at her and stuck our fingers inside our cheeks... to indicate that she'd been "suckered" or "reeled in," if you will, by our test of compassion. We also called her a "fish head," which represented her folly in falling for our test. She was not pleased.

So I think you'd be surprised at how people truly DO care about one another when carrying out this idea. It's important, sometimes, to remind ourselves that compassion and caring for one another is not a lost way of thinking. It's alive and it's honest. It loves genetically-engineered chicken. It's out there.

Grab your bucket, reach out there... and take it.

Compassionately yours,

-Colonel Sanders

Ledger.

All respect.

Idea: Become the Bear

Readers! Hey!

It's me, Matt McClane, with yet another idea for your consideration from my IDEAS blog series.

For this entry's idea, it's important to state that I've had this one in mind for many, many years. In fact, my sister Amanda and I actually cooked this one up in the late 90's when we took a day trip up to the Smokies. Why I've never really sat down and put this in writing is pretty much akin to why I haven't bought that pet octopus I've been talking about for so long: I just keep forgetting about it.

Luckily, all concerns should be alleviated, since I've posted some super-sweet reminder notes all over my refrigerator to help me achieve all sorts of ideas I've had over the years. (See below for reference.)




Before you can even attempt to try this idea, you have to have a serious love for wildlife. This kind of love does not (and should not) involve chasing cobras around some abandoned back alley for a photo opportunity, or explaining to the doctor in the emergency room that the situation with your blood-spilling severed legs is totally forgivable because you love crocodiles with all your heart and soul.

No, this kind of love means sympathy. In this case, let's take your common black bear.

Black bears are sort of like the Dolph Lundgrens of the bear world. While the Grizzlies are your typical Sylvester Stallones and Arnold Schwarzeneggers, Lundgren's black bears are potentially just as cool... just not at all commercially viable.

People will pay serious money to see the Grizzlies... just like your typical VHS copy of "Total Recall." However... when you find that the last copy of "True Lies" has been rented out... THEN you MIGHT consider picking up the dust-covered copy of "Red Scorpion." Maybe. There's still a chance you'll just go home and look at internet porn.

Even though they might not be quite as muscular, enormous and commercially viable as their shaggy-haired, northern cousins... the black bear is a fantastic creature. They have a near-and-dear place in my heart, especially, since my very first toy in the world was a black teddy bear named (appropriately) "TED," who—to this very day—hangs out with me in my apartment.



Editor's note: if you even try to criticize me about my well-taken-care-of family heirloom and simultaneous best friend I've ever had, go ahead and schedule a time for me to stop by your house and guzzle-chuck you in the damn throat.

So if you haven't figured it out by now, get with the program, bud. I love black bears.

A few years back, while my sister and I were cruising around Cade's Cove on a sunny weekend, we couldn't help but notice an enormous crowd gathered on the side of the road ahead of us. When we got a little closer, we discovered that this massive group of people had a poor black bear pinned high up in a tree. It was like a village full of bloodthirsty townspeople with pitchforks and torches chasing a misunderstood and very, very frightened Dolph Lundgren.

This seriously angered me. These never-seen-a-bear-in-their-lives morons had their cameras out to get that life-changing shot they've always wanted: a terrified ball of black fur shaking with fear—wedged under a bunch of leaves—25 feet above them. Yeah, morons, that's definitely a shot for the living room. Frame that bitch up and show it to your grandchildren.

"See that big ass black pile of laundry surrounded by those oak branches, Billy? That's the bear that I chased down with my car, yelled at, and then—with 30 or so other tourists—trapped in a tree."

Of course, we were helpless to do anything about this situation, which brings me to my fourth entry of the series:

Idea: Become the Bear

First, begin your quest by perusing your local costume shop. You'll be surprised to learn that a lot of costume shops will, in fact, carry gorilla suits. If you have trouble finding one of these, consult a gorilla suit professional. If the thought of putting on a gorilla suit offends you, or strikes you as being odd... or if you'd rather kill yourself than wear a giant, black, hairy suit... visit this website for tricks and tips on how to achieve your goals.

After you've put your fears aside and committed to wearing the suit, pour a bunch of vegetable soup in a big ass Ziplock-style plastic freezer bag. That's all the gear you'll need, unless you want to also pack a handgun or a knife to be used later in the evening. Have a friend come along to help out with some minor technicalities, and you're ready to get this idea off the ground.

Head up to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park early in the morning, preferably before sunrise. Waste no time in finding a large tree, possibly beside a heavily-trodden roadway or path. Suit up, get your soup ready, and climb as high as you can up into the tree. You'll have to make it higher, obviously, than 25 feet or more to ensure your likeness to an actual black bear. The next part is easy... curl up into a ball and wait it out, using your vegetable soup to sustain your hunger.

In the mean time, have your friend drive around inconspicuously and then stop his or her vehicle right in the visual path of other oncoming tourists. Next, instruct your friend to pull out his or her own camera, and act extremely excited. The more powerful your friend's excitement will directly affect the believability and positive energy of the crowd. It won't take long for people to stop and pull out the cameras. In fact, in only a matter of minutes, you could have a group of people larger than your high school algebra class obsessing over you.

All you have to do at this point is move around a little bit, to prove that you're the real deal, and remain tightened up in your little ball. When a pre-determined amount of aggressive tourists have gathered around your tree-home, it's time to make the magic happen.

It's not widely known that black bears do not growl. They just don't. These bears will typically make grunting noises and sometimes show their teeth like a canine before they make any noise at all. However, you're going to play against your common tourist's idiot-ness when you start growling under your voice like a gorilla-sized mythical dragon. Give it a few grunts too... and that'll get people even more excited.

When they're at the peak of their excitement, and when you can physically see more than five flash bulbs popping at once, drop the dynamite on 'em. Start to vocalize.

Begin with a low growl, and then work up to an "MMMMM" noise.

Have your friend stand at the very back of the crowd, next to his or her vehicle, and have he or she scream, "HE'S TRYING TO SAY SOMETHING!!!"

Then just utter the words: "MMMYYYY NAAMEEE ISSSSSSS JIMMMMMMY."

Instantly follow your bear vocalization by unzipping your plastic sandwich bag... making a huge coughing, gagging noise, and quickly dump the entire bag of soup on the crowd below.

Special note: Somewhere in between the name dropping and the fake vomit, it would be a great idea for your friend to get the hell out of there.

Congratulations! Not only have you chalked one up for the bear kingdom (and subsequently earned their trust... if you should ever need to go on some mythical quest, or fight against some wolverines or something), but you've also succeeded in pissing off a bunch of dicks!

It's anytime after this when you should feel free to use the gun, or possibly the knife, depending on how dangerous the crowd looks following the aftermath of your idea. For example, if it's predominantly old men and women that you've pseudo-barfed on, you'll be fine. They back down pretty easy when looking down the barrel of a pistol. However, please be on the lookout for potential mustached rednecks. These men wouldn't hesitate to shoot you if you were a bear, a gorilla, or Dolph Lundgren.

It has its perils and dangers, sure, but it could potentially be one of the best ideas you've ever executed. At least give it some thought before you go to bed tonight. My man Wayne Lynch said it best:

"Bears keep me humble. They help me to keep the world in perspective and to understand where I fit on the spectrum of life. We need to preserve the wilderness and its monarchs for ourselves, and for the dreams of children. We should fight for these things as if our life depended on it, because it does."

Fight for them, guys. Fight for them.

-M

Idea: Eat an Anaconda

Hello there ramblers... let's get rambling.

McClane here, with another handy idea in my series of "IDEA" blog postings. From hell.

On this go-round, let's take it to the next level and push our very perceptions of reality. Let me start by saying how much I love George Foreman. This guy stands out in a crowd like Hannah Montana at a GWAR concert. (See below for reference.)





Foreman created a device like none on Earth. He created a device that would allow guys like me with really, really busy schedules and torturers who torture people with hot iron plates of pure blood-steaming pain to come together for wonderful, easy-to-prepare, healthy meals. For example, tonight I came home and cooked a whole ton of chicken tenders. Does this make me Rachel Ray? I like to think so.

Back to the point (somehow): I grilled up some damn tasty chicken. That brings me to my newest plan:

Idea: Eat a Deadly Anaconda

The idea is pretty easy. The first thing you have to do is cook the chicken. Or man flesh, whatever. After you scrape your delicious meal away from the coal-black hot metal plates, put it on a piece of wood that you've collected from the bushes outside your apartment.

The wood will make what you're about to do seem much more authentic.

Finally, crouch down in the corner of your living room and live the dream: You are a death-dealing Asian warrior who's escaped into the jungle... far away from both civilization and your deadly terrorist captors. You hunt with your bare hands. You breathe the jungle. You're ready to eat anything that moves. You're a silent, deadly killer who has just wrestled a 15-foot anaconda into submission.

Okay, here's the tricky, optional part. If you want to take this as far as literally wrestling a hose from your vacuum cleaner, or perhaps a bed sheet rolled up... or maybe even a broken-down cardboard tube from old, unused roll of Christmas wrapping paper... that's really going to make this whole thing a LOT more realistic. Give it a shot if you feel like possibly getting into your central-heat-and-air unit and shake one of those aluminum foil tubes around. Shake 'im around... looks like he's killin' ya.

Anyway, back to brass tax. Get in that corner and believe with all your heart that you've just ripped out a giant snake's throat and you've finally found a small cave to devour your meal. Pull one of those chicken tenders apart. You see that fresh, raw, sinewy meat just waiting for you to rip and tear it to pieces? You see how the blood is almost still pumping through the capillaries in the muscle tissue? YOU WANT THAT MEAT!!!! PUT IT IN YOUR MOUTH!!! TAKE IT!!! TAKE THE PROTEIN!!!!

Afterwards, you might want to sleep for a while and save your energy. It's a long walk back to civilization. That is, of course, if by "civilization" you mean your kitchen. Don't forget to unplug that Foreman grill. That's a fire hazard, bud.

Until the anaconda gets the best of me, I'll be....

-McClane

Idea: Walk on Lava

Hey team, McClane here.

In the second installment of my "IDEAS" series, I've decided to get really experimental and push the proverbial envelope. This might be a tough one, but I think if you give it a shot, you might be surprised at how exciting it makes your morning.

Idea: Walk Across a Deadly Lava River

This morning on the way in to the office, the first thing I noticed was how completely unhappy I was that it was 7:56 and I was walking out of the parking garage. If there's one thing I hate more than anything, it's getting up early. You know what I mean, right? To hell with that urban legend that people actually like getting up in the morning. This is not lucid, and it's only a myth. If somebody tries to physically tell you that they "enjoy" getting up early, they're nothing but a liar, and they should have a giant "E" burned into their chests.

(The "E" would not only stand for "early," but also for "ENIGMA," that hilarious Michael Cretu-created music project from 1990 that sang that awesome "Return to Innocence" song.)

Editor's note: the first time I ever saw the ocean was (seriously) while simultaneously listening to Enigma's "Return to Innocence" which was playing on a busted hotel TV on VH1. This has no bearing at all on this blog posting, but you'll just have to go to hell if you have a problem with me reminiscing about the Atlantic Ocean in 1992.

So it was early AND it was cold. I decided right away that nothing would make me happier than if the entire parking garage floor was actually a giant river of flowing melted, deadly magma. I quickly jumped up on the curb when I saw how dangerous the lava looked in my brain.

I knew, right then and there, that if I fell off that damned curb, there would be nothing left of my body. If you try to tell me that your skeleton or teeth or something would withstand that kind of intense heat of the parking garage, you're clearly an insane person. That lava would melt the heart of Ronnie James Dio himself.

There would have been no dental records, no possible way to have identified my body. I would have been melted down with the likes of the Terminator... that guy who played Darth Vader as a teenager....or even that creepy Gollum guy. Come to think of it, I guess the guy who played Darth Vader didn't exactly melt in the lava. However, the lava did melt off a bunch of shit on him... turning him into some twisted cyborg with a kickass voice.

I really wouldn't want that shit to happen to me either. How am I supposed to pick up chicks looking like a reject from a Daft Punk video?? The voice part wouldn't be all that bad, I guess. And if I could choke guys from across a room, it wouldn't be so bad either. Shit. Come to think of it, maybe the whole lava thing wouldn't be too horribly bad.

Anyway... nevertheless, it was dangerous. I walked my way all the way through the garage without missing a single step on the curb. I felt like Steven Seagal.

Basically, this is more of a challenge than an idea. I challenge you to walk across that lava on that tiny little curb bridge. If you fall... and let's pray to God that you don't... for your mom's sake.... your skin will pretty much be turned into runny eggs that are on fire.

HOWEVER.... if you make it across in one piece... if you make it to safety, it's pretty much a guarantee that you'll have the best day of work imaginable. You'll be so thankful to have made it to the office in one piece. You will have tempted fate... and succeeded. You will have finally made your father proud, and now you'll be free to pursue all the things in life you've never had time (or motivation) to try.

If you do fall, though... be prepared to have your soul devoured by one of the Inhumanoids.



Was that Darth Vader's voice moaning in that video?

Good luck and God be with you. The deadly, life-threatening lava garage beckons your call.

Muah.

-McClane

Idea: Tear the Building Down

Hey guys, McClane here.

It's obviously late as hell, and I have a very long day tomorrow... however, while lyin' in bed thinking—as I always do—to the point of insanity sometimes—I just had this great idea for a new series of blog postings.

I'm always having random ideas for things—not really important or practical things, but just random ideas. This will be the beginning of my "IDEA" series, where I'll share some great ideas with you (hopefully original ones) that you can try... or maybe not.

Idea: Tear the Building Down

A few weeks back at work, Jon and I were discussing something important... or something, I'm not sure. When leaving his office, something came over me, and I started jumping around, randomly kicking the wall.

This felt very refreshing to me. It was exciting, and most of all.. different. It took a moment that was usually spent walking. (Basically, I go into Jon's office, talk about something semi-important, and then just ramble on about some random bullshit that typically serves to annoy the shit out of him.... then walk out.)

When it got to the point to where I usually just... walked... I began jumping around and kicking the wall. Not just one side of the wall, but both sides. Then I ran back and pretended that I was going to physically run up the side of the wall like Keannu Reeves in a bathrobe in The Matrix. In retrospect, this wasn't such an awesome idea... but I ended up spinning around in sort of a Kung-Fu-type move to where it might have looked like I meant not to run up the wall. The important thing is that I put forth a legitimate effort to try to make this happen.

Not only did I do that, but I also said in a semi-calm-but-pseudo-screaming voice, "I'm gonna tear this motherfucker down!!!!! WITH MY FEET!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I realize this makes no sense at all.. especially since, unless you're Jackie Chan or that chick from X-Men 2 with the claw-hands, there's no physical way you're going to tear an entire building down. Even the Burwell Building on Gay Street. However, the important thing is that in that moment... that single moment.... I believed it.

I truly believed that I could kick down an entire building from the inside-out with my feet.

If you don't think that could change your perceptions and give you something different to do tomorrow at work... you're not truly living, bud.

Give it a shot. It's an idea.

Mucho Love-o,

-The Absorbing Man

He never finished his crossword puzzle.

I woke up late and had a craving for steak.

After peeing, and taking care of other various necessary morning/afternoon activities, I resolved to get my ass to the Waffle House as soon as humanly possible. I realize I'm becoming a bit of a Waffle House obsessive scribe, but that's just how it is. For other adventures in the world of steak and eggs, click here or here.

It was a mild day, thank God, and some sunshine was shining through the clouds... which made me smile more than usual when walking through the door. The bell jingled, the plates crashed together and the grill was going, but something was slightly off. There was no yelling. Hell, there wasn't even any talking. If you've ever set foot in a damn Waffle House, you know that this kind of thing is super weird. It's sort of the equivalent to bombing on stage at a comedy show, or the first time you get naked in front of a chick. You know that dead silence noise, right?

I walked over to my usual spot at the counter, pulled off the coat and sat down beside this hilarious old man wearing a genius hat and giant glasses. The most noticeable thing, however, was this gigantic white beard. It was one of those classic "Uncle Jessie" beards, the kind I'd like to have after I've lived in the mountains for a few years. (Something I'll do before I die, if I can help it. After I'm like a millionaire. Also, after I save the world from fighting off some giant monster that's attacking the city. The American public will want to give me a bunch of medals and junk, but I'll be long gone by then... escaped up into the grizzly mountains, living off the land. With my beard. Just like this guy's.)

Crystal was busting her ass as usual, but she wasn't saying anything. A couple was sitting with their kid in the back corner booth. I hadn't paid much attention to them, except for the kid was wearing this cool Batman t-shirt. Behind me, in the opposite corner, was an older couple... no doubt out for a Sunday lunch date. They looked sweet back there.

I ordered my usual plate of heaven, and Travis, my favorite cook (pretty much ever) stopped my stomach from eating itself. Technically, I guess, he saved my life. Now that I think about it, I should probably send him a card or something.

While devouring my steak, the old man beside me started laughing uncontrollably. He had a full laugh... one of those real laughs. I really enjoyed it, especially since his voice was only slightly raspy enough to be genuine, and at the same time historic. It was like listening to your grandaddy's old table saw fire up in the summertime. It was poetic. It sounded like a trip back home.

"If you were being chased by a sea monster," he looks over at me and asks, "could you out-run him, or out-swim him?"

It took me a second in-between shovel fulls of hashbrowns for that to sink in. While he was smiling at me asking this question, Crystal was banging a new batch of freshly-washed plates into the shelves. It was really loud, so I began using my brain to process this kind of inquiry. Could he have said something really close to that? The plates have surely thrown me off. Maybe he said something about the Olympics. I look at him slightly confused and threw back my head with a full mouth to hopefully indicate I hadn't heard him.

"If you were being chased by a sea monster," he looks over at me and asks, "could you out-run him, or out-swim him?"

My eyes were as big as manhole covers while I said... quietly.... "out-run him?"

He laughed and slapped the table, saying, "Well of course! If he was chasing you in the water, he could out-swim you, easy. But if he was on land, you could out-run him like hell."

Without a doubt, this was probably the best thing I'd heard all week long. I immediately started giggling like a 5-year-old girl at a "My Little Pony" convention. This guy was awesome.

"That makes perfect sense to me," I say back with a smile.

He leaned back and laughed, and then leaned in close and asked me.... "If a political writer was to write a column that started with the phrase 'Tom Delay once said,' would you even want to finish reading the damn article?"

I chuckled, remembering this fantastic article I read in Texas Monthly a while back that said, "Tom Delay: Don't Let the Door Hit You..." and said, "I don't believe I would."

He laughed and laughed, and immediately we started a 30-minute conversation about politics in the 1950's. In case you didn't know this about me: I'm a graphic designer. I don't know a damn thing about 1950's politics. Because of this short fact, I listened to this man tell me about everything.... all the way up to Jack Kennedy and ending at playwright Tony Kushner's award-winning play, "Angels in America."

As he talked, the words melted off his tongue like butter in a microwave. His voice was the most calming, reassuring noise I've heard in a long while. The sunshine suddenly broke through the clouds behind us, and rays of light came crashing through the window with tidal wave power. They covered his ears, illuminated tiny specs of dust on his glasses and made the tiniest white hairs thrown from his snow-white beard look like jewelry-store silver bracelets under a focused examining lamp in a dentist office. Everything on him woke up and came alive.

As he was talking, I noticed the glasses-case he had stuffed into his right pocket, buried under two layers of flannel shirts. This case was big enough to accommodate his over-sized glasses and also pens, pencils and numerous inconspicuous pieces of paper, jammed loosely into it's folds. The entire time he was talking and laughing, he never let loose of the crossword puzzle he was working on before he asked me about the sea monster.

He leans in close and tells me that he's trying to get a hold of Dolly Parton. When I ask him why... he says, "so she'll sing one of my songs at one of her shows."

He tells me that he's a songwriter.

He explains how he's written songs most of his life, and how... even now... he's observing. He's writing in his head. He's writing old, soulful country music. He's writing the kind that means something. He's writing mountain music.

He was a coal miner for years in Kentucky. He was there for the strikes. He was there when protesting men were shot for their opinions and when the national guard came to stop it all. He's ridden the carts far under the earth, and he tells me that every time the blackness wrapped around him, his heart surged with adrenaline. He tells me that he's never left a man behind, and how a coal miner's crew is closer than any family in the world. Then he tells me he's written a song for them.

"Don't leave me down here... in the deep black hole."

While his song began as poetry... simple lines of rhyming words... he began to harmonize under his breath... and finally began to bend his poetry into a beautiful orchestrated song. In the quiet, unmoving Waffle House on a Sunday afternoon, I had my very own private concert. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and lowered it as the high and low notes fought each other down some coal-black tunnel. I could almost hear the tones bounce off those cave-like walls, surrounded in darkness and cutting through the distinct smell of daunting methane gas.

"Don't leave me down here... in the deep black hole."

When he stopped, he looked at me and smiled. Nodding his head up and down, he punched me in the arm and asked how I liked it.

"I think it's absolutely beautiful," I tell him with an astounded look.

The truth of the matter is that it was. It really was. It was one of the most heartfelt, true songs I'd heard in a very long time.

I asked him about other songs he'd written, and he smiled. He tells me that every good performer has five or six "A" songs... the best ones under their belt. He says that when the crowd mulls and tires, you pull the "A" card... and raise the bar of the show. I can see him getting excited just talking about it. Behind his hat, curly white hair rained down like a landslide, and I wondered how much of it was jammed underneath that cap.

"I once wrote another song called, 'This funny little ring," he says. "Would you like to hear it?"

I nod, lay my head down on the counter and waited for it.

He leaned in close and bobbed his head to begin, and sang me a song... not about a ring at all... but about how all of life is a circle. He sang me a song about how things come and go... and then come right back around again. He sang about memories gone, and memories repeating. While he sang, I drifted. I started looking back on things that are coming back around for me... about the endless circles in my experience.

I didn't let him see me do it... I was sneaky. But before I could help it, a tear came fighting its way out of my right eye. I knew it was coming, and when I felt it, I covertly acted like some spec of dust landed on my contact lens. I had to get that dust off of there. Just for a second.

He smiled, and grabbed my arm with a shake and said, "Ain't that the truth, though?"

Without a doubt... it really was the truth.

He looks at me and says, "You know the secret to writing a good song?" I was intrigued. I ask him what. "You write just like you talk," he says. "You always see these people writing like they write, and nobody writes like they talk. Let me tell you something about mountain talk." He adjusts his seat and holds on to his crossword puzzle.

"Up in the mountains, all that proper grammer don't mean a damn thing. You just talk from the heart. I'll tell you about a little girl.. she was 13 years old when she was married. She never learned a bit how to read and could barely write anything at all. But I'd read her letters. I could understand every bit of it. It wasn't like writing something down, it was just like calling me on the telephone. It was like she was speaking right to me. That was my granny."

As the sunshine kept him illuminated like a wonderful stage spotlight, he sang me three more songs. He sung them quietly and with all the heart he had.

The last song he sung me was about a couple in love.

He says to me, "You're too young to feel this now, but you will. One day you'll be married. One day you'll be sitting there on the bed, and you'll realize that the woman you're with is just the prettiest woman in the world. You'll see her walk by and you'll wonder how in the world you've been lucky enough to keep her. You figure that you were pretty good at foolin' her at first. But now, she knows everything about you. She's got you all figured out. Even the rough spots. You wonder why she stays."

He begins to sing a song from him to her. He says he's old, and he's not good lookin.' He says he's broke and he's tired. He says he's not that sharp, and he's not that good at anything at all. He asks her why she still loves him.

He smiles at me and says, "And this is what she'll say." He begins to sing a song from her to him. She says he's still young. She says he's the most handsome man in the world. She says that money doesn't matter, and he's everything she's wanted. She says that underneath it all... right down to the core of everything... he's just a good man. A good man.

I can see him thinking about it as he sings, and I see his lip start to curl. He was about to be sneaky too... so I grabbed some water and looked the other way so he could clear that spec of dust off of his contact lens too. He looked down at his crossword puzzle and began a long, slow grin. "I guess I'd better head on out of here. Watch some TV. Read a little bit."

We both stood up, gathered our things, threw on our coats and looked at each other for a second. I don't know what we saw.

"My name's Bill." he said.

I put out my hand and shook it tight, told him my name was Matt McClane.

"That's a good name," he said. "A real good name."

I patted him on the shoulder and walked out into the breezy air.

Hi Homie

One of my favorite people from the recent New Year's Eve / Matt & Karen Ultimate Cabin Wedding Weekend Party was Homie, the wedding mascot. This little guy worked the crowd, got around, and showed up pretty much everywhere. You never knew where he'd pop up next. Luckily, a highly trained team of professional photographers documented his travels. (Special thanks to Joslyn for posting these up for me!)

Enjoy the Homie rampage!!!!


































































Much love!

-McClane

A good family recipe

For the past several months, I've been obsessed with perfecting my secret chili recipe. I guess the professional chili makers of the world take an entire lifetime to perfect their chili skills and abilities. I did my research and found out some really interesting information on one particular chili maker, Baron Von Thomas Buckminster Geraldo.

It seems that Geraldo had a very interesting technique in branding his chili to perfect the flavor, consistency and longevity. Without pulling any punches here, this guy would physically masturbate in his chili. Case closed.

You don't need me to tell you this, because you probably already know, but Baron Von Thomas Buckminster Geraldo's semen was so incredibly potent and unbelievably powerful that it brought an entire town to its knees. Later in life, he would die of a horrifying case of syphilis... but not before donating his entire fortune to the Boy's Choir of Alberton in Minnesota. Just think of it... every Spring, those boys sing for Baron Von Thomas Buckminster Geraldo's semen chili.

In lieu of all that shit, let me begin the real reason for this blog posting: my secret chili recipe. I guess if I post this shit on a blog, it won't exactly be secret, but maybe if a bunch of hot chicks read this, they'll realize that I'm an awesome chef, and probably travel across the globe to simultaneously taste my chili AND me.

Moving on... here's my secret recipe for stomach-rotting delight.

Ingredients:

• 1 pound of lean, ground turkey
• 1 big ass bottle of Ragu meat-flavored spaghetti sauce
• Some random envelope of chili mix... who cares what kind?
• 1 big ass can of sweet corn
• 1 big ass can of mixed beans, all different kinds
• 1/3 cup of diced jalepeños
• 1 huge ass green bell pepper, cut all to hell
• 2 unbelievably dangerous and eye-melting habañero peppers
• A whole bunch of cheese (does it even matter at this point?)
• Shake the piss out of a bottle of Tabasco® Sauce in there
• A 1/4 cup of Texas Pete Chicken Wing Sauce
• 1/5 cup of brown sugar
• 1 severed hand of some random annoying emo kid found at any shopping mall in America

(Editor's Note: I'm not really big on tomatoes, but I guess if you're one of those pussies who love tomatoes, you can throw a bunch of those in there too... but don't blame me if it ends up tasting like some week-old fish washed up on your grandaddy's pond back home.)

Basically, the preparation is easy. You mix all that crap up in a bowl of some kind, heat it up, stir it around a bunch, and then eat it like it's the last meal you've ever had on Earth. Maybe even the best meal you've ever had in the history of time and space.

Warning: I'm not kidding, this chili will use your body cavity as a primitive laundry basket, and your intestines WILL be thrown into the dryer... and put on an intense spin cycle that will not only dry your stomach lining... but also your very fucking soul. The best thing you could do after eating this chili would be to lock yourself in a room somewhere in an inconspicuous area of your home or office. Don't blame me if you turn into some kind of werewolf. More than likely, you won't... you'll just fart so hard core that you'll want to jump out of a window. Oh yeah, you should also not barricade yourself into a room that's on the second or third floor. Keep it safe.

Basically, you'll be marveled to eventually discover that every single fart will smell EXACTLY like you're cooking another bowl of chili. It'll be confusing at first.... possibly even amusing. You'll think to yourself, "Ha. This isn't so bad at all. It smells just like chili! How funny. How funny AND somewhat exciting." However... this attitude will be your horrifying downfall when—at the fifth or sixth fart of the night—you'll realize that your entire nose has been literally melted off in a bone-crunching, brain-melting blur of complete jalepeño decimation. Be warned, son.

Following the farting phase, you'll soon feel your heart collapsing. This is completely normal, as it takes some time to fully recover from having your nose shredded like a Tom Morello solo. However, when your nose is completely gone... have your friend call your family doctor for some nitro glycerin. This deadly chemical will slowly calm your heart down, so that the paramedics can lift your body onto the stretcher without you putting up much of a fight. While the ambulance is running 80 mph down the interstate, taking you to safety... you'll rip another heart-attack inducing fart.... causing your ambulance driver to choke on thin air, spontaneously triggering the brain aneurism that's laid dormant in his cortex since he was 12.

The entire ambulance will drive straight up a viaduct wall, flip over and slide right into the side of a school bus, killing no less than 26 children on the way back from a Smithsonian field trip. Little Danny's favorite exhibit was the Stegosaurus. When looking into the eyes of the skeletal remains of that gorgeous long-extinct wonderful animal, he looked up at his teacher, shed a tear, and quietly said, "When I grow up, I want to be a dinosaur doctor."

If you don't think this is the best chili in the history of ever... I will fight you.

However, I also love you.

-McClane

A bullet to the chest = windshield wipers on.

If you're reading this, let me just say thanks.

It was one of the most uncomfortable nights of my life being trapped in that house with you on New Year's Eve. I was scared. I'm not going to lie at all, I was actually absolutely terrified. I wished I could have been anywhere else when you lost it like you did. I'm not sure if it was the chemicals, the alcohol, the night, the situation... who knows. You'd had some feelings barricaded in your brain that obviously decided to just come out. These things just happen. It was an atomic bomb set off inside you. I could see every bit of it.

All I know is that seeing you do those things and say those things was a bullet to the chest. The first few moments of 2008. A bullet to my chest. All the screaming, all the violence, all the emotion and senseless blame. It was so damn scary.

Even so, it was so very important. It was fate, you know. I didn't understand it at all at the time, but right now... getting some time away from it all, I get it. I completely get it.

It seems that for a very long time in my life, important things disguised themselves as non-important things. It seems like most times, I've been running in the totally wrong direction. I suppose most people do this kind of thing every day, sure, but I really had a rough time getting on top of it. In those final moments of 2007 into the first few hours of 2008, I saw my entire life spread out in you. I saw every bump in the road summed up by one short chain of events. Slow motion. So real.

All the bad moments and stages from my life were there, crystal clear, encapsulated in one night:

The sadness.
The anger.
The feeling of isolation.
The drama.
More drama.
Trouble with relationships.
Resentment.
Heartbreak.
The feeling of betrayal.
Not an ounce of logic.
No reason.
No regret.
No consequences.
Fire.
Fists.
Pounding.
Screaming.
Red.
Punching.
Hurting.
Tears.
Confusion.
Being alone.
Fighting.
Self loathing.
More self loathing.
Embarrassment.
Longing.
Escapism.

There it all was. It was all summed up in a few hours. Every bit of trouble, and everything I've felt and dealt with and fought and concentrated on, and was lost in. For so, so long. Just completely lost. There it was. Simply... there it was. Just like that. There you were, acting it out... there I was... like some insane, goddamn funhouse mirror.

It was emotion, completely unchecked, primal, and completely uncontrollable.

Being on a flip side to that all, I felt like Jimmy Stewart on some snow-covered bridge... beginning to see everything so clearly. With every word and every illogical, senseless arguing lashing gesture, you encapsulated me. I could have never learned so much about myself in such a short time without you. You put me in a time machine, flew me back and dropped me in all the bad spots. You sat me in the audience—front row—and acted it all out for me. With every single movement and every single troubled, manic, disturbing and terrifying breath, I got it. I really got it. I completely got it.

It was the most important New Years moment that I've ever experienced.

From now on, every time I start to slip into one of those moods... every time I start to get frustrated, or angry, upset or depressed, I will remember the way you acted that night. I'll remember every word you said, and I'll remember how completely childish, immature and illogical you were being. I'll remember how disgusted I felt when dealing with you. I'll remember how terrified, uncomfortable and sad that made me feel. I'll remember how meaningless all that violence and depression was. You set an example that night that I will never, ever forget. I will never be like you again. Every time I even start to go down that road, your face will pop in my brain and it'll serve as a stop sign for me. No way in hell will I ever act like that again. No way in hell will I ever put a human being through that. That's just how it's going to be. Nobody deserves to be the target of that much illogical violence. I didn't deserve all that. Most importantly, however you see it... neither did she.

For all the pain you endured that night, and for the dump truck loads of uncomfortable moments that night will sure to spawn in years to come... don't worry. Everything will be okay. Lessons learned, life will put itself in gear and drive you right down the next street. Kick back in the back seat and enjoy the view.

For the things I was able to see... for the massively uncomfortable situation I was thrown into... I thank you. I've never really been a big fan of talking about fate, destiny, faith and endings, but this was an unmistakable event. This really WAS fate. I was meant to be in that basement. I was meant to experience that. It was all for an important reason.

2008 will be something new. It'll be the usual new tires the usual new headlights, the usual new steering wheel and the usual new-car smell. But in 2008, I'm finally driving with my windshield wipers on. Hell, I've finally found the windshield wiper SWITCH this time.

For the first time at the beginning of a new year, there's a certain amount of awareness that's built in to this one. This is going to be a good one. For better or worse, it'll just be a good one. 1998 was, without a doubt, the best year of my entire life. 10 years later, I vote that we do it again. Somehow, let's just do it again. That would be nice.

We'll connect sooner or later (probably sooner), and when I do, I need to give you a hug. I need to thank you in person for showing me more about myself than I could have ever learned on my own. Thank you, sir. Thank you.

I'm a work in progress. I always will be, right? Teach me something else, guys. Show me something exciting. Hop in the passenger seat with me, and let's take a drive. Let's you and me get those windshield wipers on, turn up the radio, sing some Otis Redding and take the next left. No dead ends on this trip. Foot firmly on gas. Third gear. Lay on it.

Happy New Year, buddy. It's going to be a good one for you, too. I forgive you, and I'll always be in your corner.

Nothin' but love,

-McClane

I'm stuck in a time warp!!!!

Hello there faithful reader!

As you've probably noticed, my blog writing is at an all-time low. There's a good reason for this, however, and that's because I've been trapped in this time warp place called "The Holidays."

What's apparently happened is that at some point during the month of December, I was taken away to this crazy dream world of magic where I didn't do a damn thing except work on the magazine and fight enormous crowds at shopping malls.  I know this all sounds extremely weird, but bare with me.  This could happen to you, too, faithful reader.

It'll start with you realizing you haven't done a freaking thing to celebrate Christmas.  The days of wishing on shooting stars in the snow, running blindly across frozen ponds, masturbating in the snow and tricking your cousin to eat it, sledding down a snow-covered bank in your underwear and getting trashed on Christmas whiskey and walking through random subdivisions, knocking on doors and badly singing carols while simultaneously asking for money to feed your fictitious starving sister are long, long gone.

Instead we have this thing called "a deadline" where we rush like NASCAR drivers through these tiny, crowded areas on unbelievably random scavenger hunts, building up this enormous expense bill and fist fighting old women for a parking space in the lot outside.

The deadline is relentless. It doesn't give a damn about your blog... hell no.  It also doesn't care about your shaving, the amount of times you've pissed in a day, your phone calls to loved ones, your dance recital, your love of watching bad horror films, your health and your sanity. The deadline is coming... and the only thing you can do about it is cry.  That's right.  Cry.  You can't physically beat the deadline... or fight it with your knife.

I try to physically fight the deadline with a knife... but I can't connect. The deadline is too fast.  It's too fast, and too crafty.  It has its way about making you its bitch.  It knows your fighting style better than you know it yourself.  It's dangerous that way.  It will also make prank phone calls to you at 4:00 a.m., but we won't talk about that right now.

So the deadline is the king of this dream world, and once you're all done with the Holidays, the deadline sends you back to the real world and leaves you the hell alone to pick up the pieces of your old shattered life.

As for me... I've got lots to catch you up on.  I have my "2007: IN REVIEW" list coming your way as soon as I can get to it, as well as a full report from my AMAZING New Year's Eve 3-day weekend at the Matt Mitchell and Karen Kraft wedding.  (It was probably one of the best weekends of my life, in case you were wondering, and I'll have my favorite moments and some pictures to show soon.)

So consider this blog entry to be an apology for being raped by the holidays, and a small teaser trailer for what's coming soon in 2008.

Weird, huh?  It's a new year.

We'll talk about that later.

Much love, guys!

-McClane

P.S.  I want to take a second to thank Steve from upstate New York for the fantastic comment on my Friday the 13th video clips post. Steve, you're the man.  That was fantastic info, and I'm so glad you're out there reading. Keep 'em coming!