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It’s Earth Day, you say? FUCK YOU, IT’S DRAFT DAY! YOU HEAR THAT?! IT’S DRAFT DAY!

Pardon the all caps, but could anything in sports possibly get overhyped and blown out of proportion more than the NFL Draft? I suppose the Super Bowl gets more hype but, c’mon, it’s the Super Bowl. It has the word Super in it.

The draft, all it is is a bunch of 20-year-olds walking up to the stage and posing with Roger Goodell for three days. Three days of this shit. Wow, catch the excitement. And I have hordes of friends who will be glued to their TVs. Why? All the draft is is speculation. So what if Sam Bradford is the #1 pick? That doesn’t mean he’ll be any good nor does it mean his team will be any better. Historically, the NFL Draft has been riddled with busts. Ryan Leaf and Tony Mandarich, anybody? Bueller?

Speaking of busts, I was looking for something to do this Saturday in lieu of watching THE FUCKING DRAFT!!! and I came upon The Grilled Cheese Invitational. It sounds like a great idea but here’s the catch: the $10 admission only gets you in. You still have to buy the sandwiches once you’re there. So basically, you’re paying ten bucks to stand in a long line with a bunch of assholes for a grilled cheese sandwich. No thanks.

So my dog, Kaylee, has the shits. The slimy, uncontrollable, larger than normal, shits, if you will. These things are epic as… shit. They’re like the size and shape of a medium-sized turtle. It probably wasn’t a good thing she drank from the community dog bowl at the park last Thursday. Shit.

Recap: Kaylee’s her first assplosion happened Saturday morning I’m guessing around eight. There’s nothing worse than waking up still drunk but also hungover ¹ and you have to deal with a blob of poop the size of Shaq’s hand. After cleaning up the main bit of evil, I reasoned that I wasn’t going to be doing any fine detailing work on my carpet at 8 AM. “Fuck it,” I said to nobody in particular. A few more hours of sleep and I’d go rent a Rug Doctor. Those things are fantagular, by the way. I had been talking about getting one for the past six months and this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Jeez, imagine if my dog shitting all over my bedroom was not the straw that broke the camel’s back. That’d be awesome.

And then Sunday was no problem at all. She went twice and both were solid and most importantly, both were outside! I figured my problems were all over.

Monday morning around 6:30, I woke up to that smell. That same damned smell that I smelled Saturday morning. A smell that tells me my morning was going to be an interesting one. I popped up and did a quick glassesless scan of the room. Granted, I’m blind as shit but a big brown blob on white carpet is a big brown blob on white carpet. And I saw nothing. Weird. I reasoned that maybe she hadn’t actually shat but instead had just farted. The smell was actually kind of faint. That made sense to me at 6:30 in the morning.

I woke up at my usual eight in the morning and stepped into the bathroom and BAM! Stepped right in it. It seems every time I step in dog shit it’s always my entire foot that steps squarely on it. It’s never just like a corner of my foot. I’ve said it before, when i step in dog shit it’s like they’re taking imprints of my foot for the Walk of Fame. There should be a ceremony with paparazzi and a guest speaker for when is I step in dog shit.

I fed her some chicken and rice last night and now, we play the waiting game.

The dust has settled. The birds are chirping. The pipers are piping. Whatever that means. I got dismissed yesterday. Not really sure why. Was it because I made a joke to the judge about how typical of it for two Mexicans to not be able to fully kill someone? Perhaps.

It’s not the DMV, it’s not the line at the bank, it’s jury duty that really gives you a cross section of the place you live in and destroys your faith in humanity. What sets it apart is, unlike the DMV and the bank, people actually have to answer questions in public. Never before have i ever seen so many people who don’t understand the concept of innocent until proven guilty.

In the “Cape Feare” episode of the Simpsons, arguably one of the best Simpsons episodes of all-time (the one where Sideshow Bob keeps stepping on rakes), there’s a scene where the FBI agents are trying to teach Homer his presumed name and he never quite gets it. That’s exactly how frustrating the jury selection process is. Ugh.

Bad: I’ve been stuck in a courtroom all day listening to a judge explain presumption of innocence to people who barely speak English. Good: one of the potential jurors looks like Chet at the end of Weird Science.

11:43 AM - goddamnit, why did I pick today of all days to download Con Air?

11:41 AM - iPhone dying. Shit.

10:42 AM - Samir Nogga, Nogga, Not gonna serve on this jury.

10:35 AM - the way this room is set up, I keep imagining David Stern walking up to the podium and annoucing a draft pick.

9:47 AM - note to self: don’t ask any of the court staff where the nearest bar is when they dismiss us for lunch.

9:20 AM - need food. Yay group break.

8:56 AM - when the judge asks if there’s any reason why I can’t serve, should I tell him I’m high?

8:40 AM - Hey criminal justice system, fuck you! Asking a juror to report at 7:45 might not be in the best interests of the criminal justice system. Because, right now I don’t care who the defendant is or what they are accused of. I will take them down. All the way to Chinatown.

Hi, my name’s Doug. This is my motherfucking sandwich. A quick rundown of ingredients: wholewheat flaxseed bread, mayo, mustard, chili con queso, pastrami, white onion, peppered turkey, beefsteak tomato, heirloom tomato, honey ham, orange bell pepper, pepperoni, pickle, lettuce and brass balls.

Why did I make such an audacious sandwich? Well, to quote JFK, “There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why. I dream of things that never were, and ask why not.” The stars were aligned with this sandwich’s creation. This sandwich was a perfect storm consisting of 30% necessity, 30% ambition, 30% improvisation and 30% inspiration.

But Doug, that adds up to 120%. I know.

This sandwich was the highlight of my day and maybe even my year. Meanwhile, a 13-year-old boy is planning on climbing Mt. Everest. Fuck him.