It's My Masonic Apron's Totes Awesomesauce Giveaway, Motherfuckers!

Okay, asshats, here's the deal:

To increase weekend readership, I have decided to whore my bloody, ravaged little cockmeister out on y'alls and have a giveaway. I know, I know: giveaways are the Chlamydia of the blogosphere, but, hey, don't say I never gave ya nothin'.

Now, I know I've gotten a reputation around these here parts as being somewhat anti, well, everything that's popular, but, let's face it: I'm not as antidisestablishmentarian as I drink you am. I mean, I was all over the 90-minute season premiere of "Runway" on Thursday night. I'm so fucking into it, I even call it "Runway," for Christ's sake. "Project Runway" is for the non-initiated and disaffected. True, I was not digging Heidi's bangs necessarily, nor was I into the social fuckdiot wearing the bowler hat, but I am all about "Runway," and that's popular, I guess.

Still, I haven't seen "Titanic" or "Moulin Rouge" yet, nor have I heard a Carrie Underpants song all the way through, and you'll never catch me playing Beer Pong. Maybe I'd referee, if I could wear a cool, short-sleeved uniform shirt and charcoal grey trousers.

Nevertheless, children, try as one might, it is nigh impossible to eschew everything that's popular. And, it is in the spirit of that sentiment that I have decided, against my better judgment, to host the first ever, lunar module, domestically charged, animal controlled

MY MASONIC APRON'S TOTES AWESOMESAUCE GIVEAWAY, MOTHERFUCKERS

Here's how it works:

I treat you like a Salvation Army drop-off location and dump every shitty, worthless, dust-covered, possibly irreparable item on my desk on you. You compete for the honor of winning it by jumping through a series of arbitrarily-chosen, slightly misogynistic hoops. After you have jumped successfully through the series of arbitrarily-chosen, slightly misogynistic hoops, I will just randomly pick whoever the fuck I want as the winner, and send them all my shit.

Ready? Here's what I'm giving away. Open wide, bitches:

One (1) shoulder pad, covered in two distinctly different kinds (gray & coarse, blonde & fine) of dog hair.

One (1) empty Zip-Loc baggie (purple & pink make whatever)

One (1) Original Broadway cast recording of "Into the Woods" (Baker = Chip Zien, Baker's Wife = Joanna Gleason, Mysterious Man/Narrator = Tom Aldredge). Also covered in dog hair x2.

Two (2) AA Energizer alkaline batteries (good until 03-2015!!!)

One (1) squishy stress brain (gray).

August, 2010 edition of "Reader's Digest" and before you say, "That faggot reads 'Reader's Digest'?!!!" stop yourself-- it's my wife's, and her psychologically questionable uncle gave her the subscription as a "gift."

A handwritten list of how much money we spent on fixing the PT Cruiser in the past three years. Curious? Here's the details:

Door Locks Crazily Locking & Unlocking Themselves = $50.29

Crack in the aluminum wheel = $47.70

Tire replacement = $127.20

Oxygen sensor = $285.56

Tire replacement = $108.12

Busticated tie-rod = $395.38

Beschmoigied bushings = $412.02

Bumfucked ignition wires = $100.00

Tire replacement = $137.80

Snapped off dog-bone suspension = $180.73

(Total? = $1,800, more or less. Yeah... we fuck up our tires a lot. And they always seem to cost a different amount to replace. Funny. That's what happens when Israelis fix your car.)

One (1) NYC Metrocard (exp. 08/31-- there's still time!!!) May actually have money or something on it. Who wants to see a show?!

One (1) pamphlet advertising the "Jim Henson's Fantastic World" at Michener Art Museum in Doylestown. Slightly creased.

One (1) postcard from San Francisco from Mrs. Apron's brother upon which he scrawled, "HAPPY SAN FRANCISCO!" A real four-star communicator there.

One (1) half-used tube of Neosporin.

Now, here's what you have to do to get the swag:

1.) In the COMMENTS section of the blog (WE HEART COMMENTS!) write three haikus on the following subjects: 1.) The aesthetic virtues of the original "Pink Panther" film, 2.) The aesthetic virtues of my scrotal area, 3.) Seal-clubbing.

2.) Carve a 1/18th-scale rendering of Herbie, the Love Bug in exacting detail out of alabaster

and send it to the American Embassy in the United Arab Emirates. (I will arrange for them to send to me-- I don't trust you with my home address.)

3.) Eat nothing but hard-boiled eggs and mortadella for a period of ten weeks, keep an exacting journal of your bowel movements and send photostatic copies of your notations to the Chinese Embassy in Uganda. (I will arrange for them to send to those motherfuckers in the U.A.E.)

4.) In the COMMENTS section of the blog (COMMENTS ARE FARKING HAWT!) write a list of seventeen compelling reasons why I should be named The Free State of Saxony's Man-of-the-Year.

5.) Take off all your clothes and run around your neighborhood like a fucking idiot screaming "ALL I WANT IS A MASONIC APRON AND/OR A SMALL TEDDY BEAR TO WIPE MY ASS WITH!"

6.) Get arrested. If you do #5, this one should come pretty easy.

7.) Write me a love letter. But, like, not a really hot one, 'cause I'm married and shit.

8.) Write me legal subpoena. But, like, not a really hot one, 'cause I'm married and shit.

9.) Go to a Quaker Meeting for Worship. Fart. Loudly blame the elderly lady sitting next to you named Fran.

10.) Smile, because it's Saturday, and, hey, you're cool in your Ray Bans and madras shorts.

Hey, thanks for participating in "My Masonic Apron's Totes Awesomesauce Giveaway, Motherfuckers." I'll be sure to contact the lucky winner whenever I feel like it. And, if you're really lucky, I'll throw in a crumpled Post-It note with the username and password for my father's business Facebook account that I created for him last year and then forgot to ever update.

My Masonic Apron's AWESOME GIVEAWAY!

Hahaha! You clicked to read this post thinking I had some cool promotional item to give away to a randomly-selected reader in order to drive up my readership statistics.

That's funny!

Yeah, I don't have shit for you.

What I do have, though, is a blog post-- because that's what a blog is supposed to contain, right?

Right.

Have you ever stopped for a moment to consider what is on your desk, and what those objects might say about you and your own personal little world? Personally, I'm a little afraid of revealing to you, gentle reader, all of the items that are sitting here in front of me, but I think I'm going to, because I think you deserve to know. Not only that but, I think, most of you know me well enough by now to know that I believe in an overabundance of disclosure.

I think it brings us closer together.

Ready? Here we go:

I'll start with the obvious-- the computer monitor. It's a 19-inch Westinghouse flatscreen that we purchased as an "Open Item" from Worst Buy a few months ago when my wife's butt-monitor of the Bush, Sr. era finally blitzed out. I had been advocating for a flatscreen monitor for months and months prior to that event, ironically, to conserve desk space. You'll see why that's ironic soon.

On our desk also sit two boxes of checks. I'm always petrified of running out of checks. We don't usually run out, we usually just lose them. Even though most of our bills are paid in cyber-space, we still use checks to pay the mortgage and the car payment. There are three hundred checks in the two boxes on the computer desk.

A huge Mag-Lite flashlight. I bought this flashlight many years ago, for one reason: because it's a cool cop-like toy. It's the kind the police used in the 1970s to beat the shit out of suspects when they couldn't reach for their nightsticks in time.

There's a pedometer, too. When my wife and I go out walking or hiking, she likes to know how far we've gone, for reasons of personal gratification. We always forget to attach it to her waistband whenever we go walking or hiking.

My "Pirates of Penzance" score and libretto. Hopefully I will remember to take this to work with me today so I can use 15 minutes of my 1/2-hour lunch break to practice my recitatives, and the Act II finale so I won't look like a complete asshole at rehearsal tonight.

Lots of Post-It-type notes. Some contain online ed. class log-in information, things we want to remember, some are discolored. It's obviously not a very efficient system for remembering things, because I look at some of them and don't even know what they refer to. And they're in my handwriting.

The Boob-Frog. The Boob-Frog is a very long, sock-monkey-looking creation that my wife made, though it definitely more resembles a frog. It has two extremely large, bulging eyes that easily conjure up images of two honkin' titties, thus rendering it "The Boob Frog." It lies inert and prone on our desk, looking rather like a worn-out, empurpled prostitute on her lunch break. I mean, come on-- it's not like she'd be practicing "Pirates" on her lunch break.

A stuffed gingham turtle. I don't remember the story behind this one, but he's cute. He has two purple beads for eyes and a brown patterend shell. I like him, but I don't really know what he's doing here. I hope he doesn't get corrupted by the Boob Frog while I'm at work.

The digital cameras. Yes, there are two, because we're card-carrying members of the Bourgeoisie, and we like it. My wife's is huge and contains pictures from the infamous barn dance and less infamous wedding we attended this past weekend. The smaller camera is mine and it contains dozens and dozens of pictures from our vacation to Maine, including but not limited to pictures of us taking a spin in a real Model-T, me drooling over a 1950 split-window VW Beetle at an antique car museum, some old guy in a blue Speedo doing stomach crunches on the beach, a guy in a kilt, and my wife clutching onto the side of a sailboat for dear life on the Atlantic Ocean. All pictures have yet to be uploaded.

My Norton Anthology of American Literature "Shorter Seventh Edition." It's 2,874 pages.

A 1/64th scale replica of a VW Beetle with a picture holder attached to it. The picture that used to be in it was of me and my wife after I had just proposed to her on the porch of Mark Twain's house in Hartford, CT. The Mexican painters moved it and the picture fell off-- but I just spotted it on the dresser across the room. There, I've put it back. CUTE!

A container holding approximately 8,436 pens, most of which are probably non-functional. There's also a pair of chopsticks in there, I guess for the as-yet unmaterialized instance where we consume Chinese food while watching a TV program on Hulu. Maybe the season premier of SouthLAnd? (October 23)

A couple of random, overflow pens managed to escape from the holder and are on the desk, scattered, including my personal favorite from the Pennsylvania Resource Organization for Lactation Consultants. A nutjob who used to work in my office was also a lactation consultant and she left sixty of those pens at work when she quit. Wanna prank 'em? 610-873-9828. Tell them you're uncontrollably geysering and it's coming out chocolate.

Two free tickets to the Antique Auto Museum in Hershey, Pennsylvania. My wife makes her monthly car payments to a credit union in Mechanicsburg, PA and they just sent her these tickets, out of the blue. Finally, something free that we can actually use, and that we will enjoy. If they don't get lost in the vastness of the desk clutter.

Two bottles of nail polish-- Black Peal and Bogota Blackberry.

There's a scrap of pink fabric with little back dresses on manequins sticking out of the top desk drawer. It's mostly on the desk top, so I guess it counts as something on our desk, even though it just looks like the desk drawer threw up.

And, finally, under a chenille lampshade made by my wife which sits on top of one of our auxillary speakers, all of our mortage and closing papers from our homebuying extravaganza. The folder's too big to fit into our filing cabinet, so, um it's on our speaker.

Once, in a graduate level education class, my professor said that you can tell a lot about a person by opening up the trunk of their car. I looked down, carefully averting my gaze as I had learned in years and years of math classes.

"What about you, son?" he said to me. I looked up at him.

"Um," I stammered, "I'll pass."

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P.S.-- Still want that giveaway? Come here and take all this fucking shit off my desk. Except the "Pirates" score. You can have that once I'm off-book.