What is This Place? 100 Posts of Nonsense

Survival: Jamaican Style

I just returned from Montego Bay, Jamaica (with two other Babelers to be named later), and Babeled is still intact. I’m not sure if that is a blessing or a curse… Jack still can’t use spell check and bashes the liberal agenda with impunity; all must be right with the world. Anyway, while I was shaking out the cobwebs and calming the shakes from detox, I realized this will be my 100th post on this here blog. I tell you, time flies when you’re writing garbage.

In honor of my futility I thought it appropriate to remind everyone of some of my ‘gems’ (in chronological order of course).

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Who can forget the time I went to Germany and brought with me 17 days of rain? It was at this point that everyone began to understand the Freedom Cloud.

What about the moment when my absence of personal dating experience prompted me to muse about the ethereal UDD? Without these little guys hapless losers like me would never have a chance.

My erratic, non-niche rantings have also broached the topic of my not-so-secret hatred of Joe Buck. This useless, pencil-necked piece of garbage no talent ass-clown pisses me of so much it’s not even funny. And, of course the post is not even funny.

At other times, when I have nothing to say yet need to write a post, I may or may not bring a cellphone camera into the bathroom. One never knows what hidden treasures await in a public restroom.

Not one to shy away from embarrassment and storytelling, I once serenaded readers with the exciting tale of the time I drank piss in college. Really.

Continuing with the restroom theme, we contemplated the merits of the Upper Decker as an appropriate and acceptable form of revenge. Afterward, it was not long before I quickly justified my existence with news from several, yet entirely unreliable websites that supported my bombastic claim.

In the not so distant past I expounded upon the great merits of motorboating as I weaved a tale of ethical struggle and strife that was the evolution of motorboating in the United States.

There was Jack, the Shit Box.

And how can we forget little Alec Greven? Thanks to the sagacity of a coworker and the wisdom of a 9 year old, I still can’t talk to girls.

Here’s To One Hundred More

All in all it’s been a great ride filled with laughter and tears, mostly tears. Somewhere along the way I may have sprinkled in a legitimate post that takes a more serious tone, maybe. And if at any time someone was able to derive even an ounce of satisfaction from my drivel, well then it has all been worth it.

Thanks for reading.