Karl Went to BlogHer and All I Got Was This Lousy Guest Post

I’m Whit, and I’ll be your captain today.  That’ll be $15 per bag, thank you.

Apparently a lot of people have been sweating to the oldies over the pressures of guest blogging for Karl. Me? I’m as cool as the other side of the pillow.  I have this thing about never letting them see me sweat.  I take no stance on letting them hear me fart.  It’s a free countries.

Truth be told I didn’t sweat it because I didn’t give it a lot of thought (as you’ll soon realize).  This isn’t a sign of disrespect to Karl, I’ll do that later.  No, it’s just how I roll.  If you’ve ever been bored enough to check out my blog then you know I’m not much for points.  I think round is funny.  This is why you’ll actually enjoy all of the other posts while finding this one to be a bit “lacking.”

The thing is, I was born a rambling man.  I’m trying to make a living, just doing the best I can.  Karl said to make ourselves at home, so I have.  That being the case I’m going to open a beer and get to work on my not having a point.  It’s harder than it sounds (Yes, that really is what she said.)

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Did you know that Karl went to BlogHer?  I understand they make you check your penis at the door.  I’m sure that was no problem for Karl, he’ll check his penis anywhere.  And often.

I almost went.  Hell, I even tried to invite myself to carpool with Karl and Ms. Hilly (and offered to stay on their floor- for FREE!), but they wouldn’t have it.  They needed all the extra room for Karl’s t-shirts and his weed.

It’s just as well.  Karl needed a wingman and I’m more of a kamikaze drinker/pilot.  I picture Karl as more of the fly over type- the kind of guy that wouldn’t think twice about buzzing your tower.  Whatever that means.  I wouldn’t have done much for his game.  He’s all about the approach and I’m all about the landing- or something like that.  We’d be like Iceman and Maverick.  Of course the real loser would be the ladies (and Goose).

Besides, my wife said I could only go if I promised not to have sex with anyone.  I know, that’s bullshit.

Hence, I stayed home and got some work done.

For instance, on Thursday night, just as I should have been checking into my friends’ San Francisco hotel room and getting my blog on I had to go cover a party for one of my jobs.  That’s right, I have multiple gigs.  I’m a freaking catch.

I had to go sit in the sun on the Santa Monica Pier and interview a Victoria’s Secret model.  It was almost 80 degrees out!   What the hell?  Working sucks.

Then they made me stand around in a VIP tent for hours and drink free beer.  Can you believe that shit?  Who the hell do Victoria’s Secret think they are?  Hertz?

I actually did have one serious issue.  At one point I was unable to get to the open bar because Fall Out Boy was standing between me and an icy, cold one.  I had to wait 15 MINUTES while Pete Wentz talked about something and Ashlee Simpson adjusted her headband.  Christ, Wentz, that beer wasn’t going to drink itself.

Still, the weekend wasn’t a total loss.  I did get to see Space Chimps.  I took my boys and between the three of us I believe we actually bankrolled the entire movie.  The chimps themselves were drawn well and their dialogue was funny enough, although none of the other adults in the theater seemed to get the David Bowie jokes or Airplane! quotes.  No accounting for taste.

The rest of the movie looked, sounded, and felt like it had been created by a bunch of 3rd graders with finger paint and just a touch of acid.  It was shocking how crappy most of it was.  Look, I’m as spoiled by Pixar as the next guy, but at least try.

Of course it featured the obligatory voice work of Patrick Warburton who better be careful or he’ll soon find himself picking up all of Eddie Murphy’s discards- which I can only imagine are better than what he’s been making.  Meet Dave?  That ain’t Delirious.

I’m thinking about having Warburton come hide behind my couch and make guests think that my dog can talk.  I have no doubts that he’d do it, it’s just a matter of convincing the dog.

I also saw some movie about a guy that dresses up as a bat.  Like people will pay to watch that crap.  Hollywood is way high.  Like Karl high.

So now the weekend is over and I’ve eased back into my work week, unshaven, unshowered and unpantsed.  You know, the uniform.

Karl is just a little more than a hundred miles away right now and I can’t help but think that he might call.  We could grab a beer and wear t-shirts together.  I could let him listen to the Victoria Secret’s model on my voicemail.  He could hear my dog talk.  We could even take acid and finger paint a sequel to Space Chimps and count how many times one of us says, “Your days of finger painting Mary Jane Rotten Crotch through her pretty pink panties are over.”  Guy stuff.

Bottom line, if I had tits he would have been here an hour ago.

It is now safe to move around the cabin.

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