Maximum Chillocity

First, I would like to start by giving the fine folks at Google a big, 'thank you,' for giving me this opportunity. It can't be everyday that a multi-billion dollar company takes a chance on a 6 foot nothing, 200 and nothing, twenty nothing from Maine; riding in on perspiration and dreams, fueled only by a three day old Filet-o-Fish. That, my friends, took guts. I'll promise you right now, Eric Schmidt, you won't be getting let down.

Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, we need to get a few things straight: I'm actually 6'3. Hardly nothing. I weigh, on a good day, 225lbs. There's a good chance I could crush you in hand to hand combat. I'm twenty seven. And, truthfully, I rode in in my 4.6 Range Rover (that I paid cash for). I don't need to sweat anymore, and I only eat Filet-o-Fishes straight off drive in. I like them hot. At that perfect temperature where the tarter sauce tastes like heaven with bits of pickles in it. It's true that most people refrain from eating fish at a national fast food chain. Not me. That's something else you need to know about me: I like risks. I see one, I take it. Believe me when I say, at fast food restaurants, I only eat fish. That and the occasional choco shake. I don't like to know that me going to bed tonight is guaranteed. It gives me half stock.

And, in fact, I did dunk once. I was being modest. I like to be modest because it gives me a reason to get up in the morning (if I make it to bed). All the people that I've been modest too, by default can't know the full extent of what gets me off. So, as they say, tomorrow is, in fact, another day. Another day to let the world see past your modesty. Because modesty isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Everyday when I do get up, I listen to some band you've never heard of. I'd tell you who they are, but then you'd like them and you'd tell your friends. They would go, 'wow, awesome,' and the cycle would continue until they'd get popular. If they got popular, they'd sell records. They sell records, they get cash. They get cash, they get women. They get women, they get laid. They get laid, the music falls off a cliff. I've seen it happen. Do you want this awesome band to suck? You would want to take that from me? I didn't think so. So, until I tire of them, I will need to keep you in the dark. I'm sorry. But know, they rock. Hard.

You'll notice the name of this entry is, "Maximum Chillocity." It has come to my attention that other people have been using 'chill' in their online publications, or to describe where they live. Like Chill Land, or what have you. Here, you are getting the maximum possible chillocity. It's a ten on a scale from 1->10. No matter what Chris Guess would have you believe, there is no eleven. Ten is it, and you are here. Welcome. I don't throw modifiers around like they are pennies.

The last uptight moment I had was in 1996. I let a friend borrow my Starter jacket and some project rat stole it from them. That pissed me off. The incident didn't derail me though, I bought another one. But, a few weeks later, when someone asked to borrow that one, I said, "no way, dude," and started to walk away. I got halfway to English class and realized I was being an uptight ass prude. So, I walked back there and gave them the Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket right off of my back. Yea, MAXIMUM chillocity. I haven't slowed down since, and have no intentions to.

This was just a taste. Just a taste of what you'll be seeing in the coming weeks, months, years. All brought to you by the fine folks at Google. The day of my corporate sponsorship is here, and you will all reap the benefits of my wisdom. It's time for the first pitch of the Red Sox/A's game, so I must bid you ado. I hope you enjoyed my first pitch: Two seam fastball, low and away.