I have a challenge that you cannot possibly achieve.

This post is only two sentences. You'll have to click through to read them.

This post gets kind of yucky. If you are easily disgusted or offended, please move along to another web page now.

Here's what I'm listening to right now. I like the song, and the lyrics describe my mood right now perfectly. Well, maybe the lyrics have a little more anger in them than I do, but I feel that powerful.

I don't know if you have talked to anyone in Baton Rouge, so I'll give you a quick update on how it looks: pretty bad.

I watched the Democratic National Convention this week with an eye toward statistics. Here are a few tidbits for you.

I was commuting from my house to downtown Baton Rouge Tuesday morning. This is normally a five-minute proposition, but today, I can't catch anything but red lights. You know the magical device that you've dreamed of? The one where you can hit a button and the light changes to green for you? Well, it was just like I had one of those in reverse.

I heard that Michael Phelps has something like 40 or 50 million dollars worth of endorsements lined up for him when he returns home. That's an example of marketing dollars badly spent, and I'll tell you why.

Those of you who have been a regular in the Perkins overpass area over the past 15-20 years might recognize Ronny, a mentally challenged guy who has earned his keep and charmed customers at area businesses forever.

If I really think about it honestly, it surprises me that I don't blog about my poop more often. It's probably one of the most interesting things in my life. Will it be funny colored? Will it have chunks? Of what? Will it come out, then elastically curl back into the shape of my intestines (or colon, or bowel, or wherever it came from)?

I've seen a zillion pooly-worded stories in Baton Rouge's paper, *The Advocate*, but this senence from here is probably the worst I've read.

It would be easy for me to write a blog that would be enjoyed by a particular demographic of loser: say, a divorcee, whose kids are teenagers that don't like her very much, and whose ideal (and typical) Friday night includes taking a long bath, polishing off a pint of ice cream while watching Beaches, and crying herself gently to sleep.