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  WEEK IN CRAIG: BEING BAD FEELS DAMNED GOOD.  
   
   
 

I was talking to my older sister on the phone the other night when, right in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, she asked me why I don't want to move out to the suburbs and buy a house and get married and make babies. Her exact words: "What's wrong with you?"

My sister practically raised me and I don't mean to disparage her, but I'd rather be stuck in a tiny cell for eternity watching endless episodes of Wheel of Fortune with Michael Savage while an old woman pees on me than live her life. She's currently eight months pregnant, has two "special" kids who need constant attention and a job that requires her to drive a minivan around all day through the picturesque cities of Newark, Elizabeth and Secaucus. My younger nephew, Tiny Rainman, is obsessed with waving American flags and impersonates the microwave when you use it. The older one, Ritalin Boy, can't sit still long enough to watch an episode of Arthur. Their cat, shockingly, is violently aggressive towards people.

And she wonders what's wrong with me?

I tried to explain to her that I am too young, too poor and too single to buy an SUV and move to Jersey, but she insisted on reminding me that she was younger than I am when she got married, had a baby and bought a house.

Alas, I have no idea what's "wrong with me." Call me crazy, but I just don't see the appeal of schlepping around the suburbs with an army of screaming children, diaper bag over the shoulder, Pack-N-Play in tow.

Apparently, this guy agrees:

MC with sluts

I've missed out on tons of opportunities with some sluts in the past. I've become impatient and can't hold out anymore. Where can I meet young girls who would be willing to put out on the first date?

Friend, I've got an answer for you. There are plenty of perfectly mountable women out there who are more than willing to go to town without much pleading or prompting. However, the problem is that you're taking them on "dates." Every horned-up person out there knows that "dates" are not the fastest, easiest or most reliable way to get cheap sex. Alcohol is.

If you want one-stop Kwik-Chach, go to a bar. Hoochies abound. And, consider this: If you were married and living in the suburbs, you wouldn't be able to take advantage of a single one of them. Why anyone would trade in ho's for diapers is beyond me.

Plus, if I listened to my sister, Binge Drinking would be out the window as well:

The guy laying in his puke at Port Authority

This is to that guy who was laying in his puke, seemingly unconscious. Your entire arm was covered in puke. Don't you know when enough is enough? It looked like he was waiting for a bus that wasn't coming. I felt real bad for you. Wait, that was me.

Thank you Port Authority for having a utiliy closet open to clean my self off, and to take a piss in. With all the bathrooms locked, finding this closet was like finding a long lost love.

Now, some of you may read this post and think to yourself that eliminating laying in a pile of your own puke at the bus station would be one of the more fortunate side-effects of "settling down." However, I disagree. I, personally, have been absurdly shit-faced at the Port Authority on numerous occasions, before and after various concerts and sporting events at Giants Stadium. And really, it's not so bad. In fact, it's kind of fun. There's a bowling alley in there, as well as a bar. Plus, the cops there are much nicer than one might think. Overall, barfing at Port Authority earns an A+ in my mind. And it's certainly far more fun than "cooking for my husband."

If I got married and moved to the suburbs, not only would I have to give up cheap sex and binge drinking, but I'd certainly have to lay off the drugs. This poster seems to be having fun with the drugs that he's on.

You had on clown pants, and honked my heart - m4w

I only noticed you because you were topless. Then I saw the huge baggy rainbow-colored pants. I thought, "How quaint." In that 50's sort of way, when times were simpler, and alcohol was stored in bowling balls and kept a secret. You had the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, locked away behind that welder's mask. I tried to talk to you, but your monkey kept biting my left nut, a trick I'm sure you taught him to stonewall the advances of your many undesireable would-be-suitors.

And rightly so.

If you remember the average sized gentleman with the wool hat and sports bra, and think that I was "cute," or "bedazzling," please respond. I would love to have coffee with you, and discuss this large aquatic specimen that washed up on the shores of Chile. It's baffling Scientists and Marine Biologists and people at the Oreo Cookie factory.

If not, I understand. After all, you seemed to have your hands full, what with all of the Fishsticks.

Why would you want to give that up? For what? Mowing the lawn on Sunday? Going to Parent-Teacher conferences? Using something called a Breast Pump?

No thanks.

To my sister Kelly, I have to say that the suburbs are a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. And don't tell me that I'll grow up some day.

Being bad just feels too good.

 

*BT*

Amy Blair is eager to be called horrible names on Craig's List. Bring it.