Non-Drunken Inexplicable Story Involving My Pants

You know those stories about the strangeness that sometimes happens after a long night of excessive drinking, where you wake up in strange places missing articles of clothing? I just sort of had one of those.

Except in reverse.

It was a long and sober night. At about 11 pm, Ben and I were on a mission to find a particular Woody Allen movie and it just wasn't happening. We had to avoid the most local Blockbuster because they seem to have gotten it in their silly bastard heads that I owe them money. Fortunately, there was another one not too far off, that according to Blockbuster's website was open until midnight. Unfortunately, Blockbuster's website is a filthy lying whore, and that store had been closed since 10, and was also inside a laundromat for some reason.

But forget all that, because it's not important.

Except the bit where Blockbuster is a filthy whore. I can't stress that enough.

What's important is my pants. You see, after Ben and I failed in our mission and took the consolation prize of watching the movie Waiting while eating apple turnovers and deli sandwches from Ralph's (which was open - are you listening, Blockbuster? You can make money by selling things to people if you're open), Ben went home and I went to sleep, after carefully removing my pants, as it was a rather warm night.

When I awoke at a perfectly ordinary hour of the morning, I stood and stretched, and all seemed to be well with the world, at first. Birds were chirping, passing motorists shouted friendly obscenities at each other, and the smell of stale beer floated in through my not-quite-closed bedroom door.

But something was deeply and terribly wrong, and I could feel it, once my senses awoke from their slumber. As I slowly looked down, I prepared myself for the worst, but nothing could prepare me for what I beheld.

My pants were back on.

A rational man might simply go on with his day, assuming that he had woken up during the night and, finding it too cold for his tastes, reclothed himself. I, however, taking pride in having never been merely rational, find it much more likely that there was an intruder last night who, upon entering my room and seeing my pantsless form, felt immediately and profoundly inadequate and left in great despair, after replacing my pants in some bizarre act of tribute to the equipment I have been blessed with, taking care to lock the door behind him.

Or it was the Reverse Pants Fairy, who left the quarter I found under my pillow.

But, which one was it?, you ask. This is important.

The world may never know, my friend. The world may never know.

In Which Nate Applies for a Reality TV Show

Some time ago, a friend told me about a new reality show involving a sort of long-distance scavenger hunt; sort of an Amazing Race kind of thing, only with motorcyclists.

The show's grand prize was to be a "highly customized Harley-Davidson", which was a bummer, but I could always sell it and buy 5 or 6 other bikes that I'd actually ride. And they were looking for applicants.

I filled out their online application, answering most of the questions with the repeated assertion that I was really Batman, and then I promptly forgot about it until they called me a couple of days later and told me they were interested, and would I please make a video introducing me and send it in?

So I called around and gathered Gavin, the man with the camera and a hell of an editor, and Jason, the tall drink of water who you'll see in the video, a bastard with a talent for writing scripts, and we made this:

Also, I apologize.