Skybound Wiener

           

            As you are all well aware by now, Bryan is mere weeks away from taking the matrimonial plunge.  As a direct result of this, I sit here before you, typing with sweaty fingers. Not because I’ve spent the last hour exercising my duties as best man, scouring the internet for discount bachelor party strippers with minimal venereal diseases. No, it’s because I just booked my flight to Denver. On an airplane. And I don’t fly so well.

            You know the guy you sometimes sit next to on the plane whose eyes are shut, and would almost look asleep were it not for every muscle in his body rigid and clenching like a junkie who’s just gone cold turkey? Yeah, that’s me. Thank god for the airport bar. Otherwise, I don’t know that I’d ever be able to board that winged, jet-powered sky dildo. I wasn’t always such a wiener, though. I had kind of a bad flight once...

            Fortunately, once the space squid got done humping, he wandered off and left our aircraft awash in a sticky mess of what looked like green pudding. Needless to say, the experience put me off sky travel quite a bit. And I can’t order calamari anymore without feeling both slightly aroused and a little violated. But, atmospheric monsters be damned. I’ve ordered my plane tickets, and come hell or high water (or octo-spooge), I’m determined to make it to that wedding in one piece, even if they have to pour my inebriated ass off the plane when we land.

Cheers!

-brandon

Beer: Amstel Light

Music: Muddy Waters

           

Scott Pilgrim vs. This Blog

      So I finally saw Scott Pilgrim vs the World... and I'm sad to say that I enjoyed every minute of it.
      When it first came to theatres, it was a financial flop. It didn't help that the ads they kept playing over and over showed the timid, 98 lb Michael Cera nerding it up with punches, kicks, and deadly magic guitar riffs used to defeat some emo-looking girl's "seven deadly exes." One of whom was Chris Evans, by the way. I mean, are we seriously supposed to believe that Michael Cera, who possibly has to wear weighted shoes so he doesn't blow away in the wind, kicks Chris Evans' ass?

Michael Cera, looking back at Chris Evans in shock, because he can't believe they're both wearing the same size shirt. Shortly after this picture was taken, Chris Evans raised his arms above his head and snapped his size XS shirt in half.

          Since then, I've heard nothing but good things about this movie, and I've also heard that it was based on a pretty cool comic book graphic novel whatever you want to call it to justify being a grown man reading comics. So I watched it. And I'm glad I did.
          First, the movie was surprisingly good, if you accept that it's basically a live action comic graphic novel.
          Second, if you haven't seen the comic graphic novel, it looks like it was drawn by a 10 year old.

         Speaking of which, if any movie executives are reading this, I'm pretty good at MSPaint, I tell lots of funny stories, and I can make a full length and full color MSPaint comic (sorry, graphic novel) as soon as you need it because I'm unemployed always available. Just sayin.

         Anyway, I liked the movie. I thought it was a lot of fun, and I thought it had a great message. Maybe I'm just reading more into this than I should be reading into a comic book/action movie/anything starring Michael Cera, but I thought the story used some great symbolism for overcoming your past when going into a serious relationship.
         Let's face it, unless you move to Antarctica (and haven't hooked up with any of the penguins [she was asking for it]) you're going to either see, run in to, hear from, or hear about an ex. Now, we all hear this PC bullshit that the past doesn't matter and all that matters is the future... but is that true? Is it the same if the person you're going to possibly marry was single for 2 years before meeting you and 'waited' for you, or if they dumped their 3-year fiance the day after meeting you? Is it the same if your current love's ex-love was a fat, ugly, out of work slob, or if they were an Abercrombie and Fitch model with a million dollar smile and a wallet to match? Is it the same, guys, if your lady had a few one night stands, or if she's had more wieners in her than this guy?

This man loves wieners inside of him way too much

        It might be. It might not. That's not for me to say. However, I know that once we got engaged, the missus and I talked about our past encounters.

           After that fun 10 second talk, we discussed our past relationships. It was a little weird, but it was good to get things out there and bury the past.
           Evil exes included.
           Because while it's fun, ridiculous, and a good laugh, I think Scott Pilgrim vs the World has a valid point, that the past often does matter, that any exes and any emotional baggage belong in the past, and that if it's a problem, it's better to fight it head on with the one you love than keep trying to run from it and avoid it. And sometimes, if an evil ex keeps popping up, it's best to just bury them in the past too. Metaphorically, of course. Unless they're persistent and manipulative, in which case you might end up buying the biggest shovel you can find and taking literal meaning to burying your past.
           So did anyone else see this movie or read the comic graphic novel? Did anyone else get that message out of it? And what do you think about overcoming your past/overcoming your exes in a relationship?
            While you think about it, I'm going to go shred on my guitar.

Or maybe I won't.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

          
        

Rancid Rock

So, I went to a pretty good concert last night. Good meaning that it punched about five years off the lifespan of my eardrums, and the high music quality made it a fair trade. Last night the bands were great, but sometimes it’s a crapshoot when hitting up a rock show; there’s always a decent chance that the bands on the playbill will assault your ears with the instrumental equivalent of prison rape.

There’s nothing worse than bad live music, and despite common practice, increasing the decibels doesn’t mask a lack of talent. Nothing against the guys who are just trying to get their stage practice in, but as with any art, sometimes people just suck. For instance, while I’m a music junkie, I gave up any aspirations at rockstardom years ago. Maybe it’s because I’m too lazy to practice. Maybe it’s because I pick the wrong instruments. Or maybe it’s because I’ve got the natural rhythm of a crackhead with cerebral palsy. Either way, I’ve appropriately given up my share of instruments over the years.

First: the trumpet. In second grade, I huffed and I puffed that horn for all of three days, with the only result being a blown blood vessel in my eye, and the ability to do a passable impression of Rosie O’Donnell before feeding time.

Second: the bongo drums. Since I went to college in Boulder—neo-hippie capital of the world—of course I had to take a stab at the art of handslap percussion. Once the party haze cleared, and sobriety eventually shed light on my skills, I quickly discovered that neither I nor the Grateful Dead sounded quite so talented anymore.

Third: As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, I still try to play the harmonica. I’m no Charlie Musselwhite, but I’m not godawful. But, that doesn’t mean I’ve got aspirations for getting up on stage and torturing anybody with my rendition of Copacabana anytime soon. No, I save those pretentious superstar daydreams for thoughts of sitting at a signing table in front of a mountainous stack of books filled with my drivel, a beer in hand, and a line of fans wound around the building.  A guy can dream, right?

Cheers,

-brandon

Beer: Hamm’s

Music: Counterpunch

This Gym Ain't Big Enough for the Two of Us

           Lately, I've been feeling lazier than a stoned hippie. Which is why I've been hitting the gym even harder than ever these days. I go once a day, every day, for at least an hour, but lately the population has gotten extremely heavy, and I'm not just talking about the fat girl that's trying, God bless her, but won't put the Twinkies down long enough to make that 15 minute treadmill walk worth it.
             No, I'm talking about a big slew of people working out at the gym, and after studying them, I've concluded that at least half of them are just wasting valuable space, taking up machines that people who really want to work out (like myself) could be using instead. The following is a list of those people:

Meet Cankle Sally. She walks on the treadmill for 15 minutes, and lifts weights that aren't even as heavy as the drumstick she's going to shove into her face 20 minutes after leaving. Calories burned? 100. Calories taken in after the gym? 300... per Twinkie. And there's 6 in a box.

This little beauty likes to complain that she's fat and goes to the gym ALLLLL the time, but she actually goes to the gym 2-3 times a week, and hits the buffet 4-5 times a week. Look for this one to possibly sport a tiny tight sports bra that accentuates her flap jack boobies and stretch marks.

Meet Cellphone Suzy! Her legs are crossed because she's too busy talking on her phone to actually waste her time pedaling the bike. She will be glued to her cellphone the entire hour she's there, and will constantly remind her friend that she's 'working out SOOO hard.' Also, because she's a loud and obnoxious cellphone talker, if you're on the machine near her, you'll get to hear lots of skanky stories about how she "really" earned her A+ in science class, or about the pizza guy's crooked schlong, or about the blackout sex she's not quite sure she recalls having.

The muscles in her legs are atrophied and weak, but the muscles in her mouth are strong as ever!

Meet Sweaty Stan! He comes in a variety or young or old, tall or short, skinny or fat, but one thing unifies them all: the commitment to failure! What's that? I worked out 3 times this week, ate McDonalds, and I'm still not built like Bruce Lee? Well forget this, I'm quitting! Because working out is hard work!

Sweaty Stans will use horrible technique, will stop their set at the first tinge of pain, and will repeat this useless display for weeks, wasting an amazing amount of space in the gym. In the end, he'll decide that working out is way too difficult and will quit and happily return to a life of unhealthy food and inactivity.... until next year's New Years Resolutions roll around, that is.

And lastly, meet Prom Queen Patty! She's not actually here to work out, as evident by her French manicured nails, uncomfortable (but cute!) shoes, and heavily caked on makeup. She's just here to sit idly on machines, posing and looking pretty, until her Knight in Shining Armor comes up to her and proposes to her. She's 19 and unmarried, which to her is a huge sign of failure, so she's going to settle for any meathead prettyboy she can sink her fake nails into.

She's not currently on the pill, but will swear that she is, because she's got baby fever and that's how her mom met and fell in love with trapped her dad. She is pictured here with the Shake Weight, the only workout equipment she's remotely 'familiar' with.

All of them? Useless. And a waste of good gym space, at that. There are probably some others I'm missing, but I'm sure you guys will point them out. Are there any other gym goers here? Anyone at the gym that particularly annoys you?

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Pumped up
Beer: An after work out beer is SO refreshing
Shower: Alone, at home. Community showers are not my thing

Latex Love

First off, big thanks to all you folks who wished me luck with my thesis project. With a little luck and a lot of Tanqueray, by the end of this quarter, I will officially be a Master of bullshit.

And to Bryan—my unfailingly supportive cohort—thanks for this weekend’s inspirational cartoons. To show my appreciation, I decided to send your wedding present early. It should be coming in the mail tomorrow. I hate to ruin the surprise, but it’s a giant box of celebratory condoms.

I bought the whole hand-selected collection off of the burrito guy who stands outside my favorite bar. Apparently, his cousin used to make them in Mexico until there was some kind of health inspection snafu and he had to shut the plant down. Bullshit, right? Who knew they had health standards down there? I mean, I thought Spanish Flies were supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Anyway, it looks like a pretty exotic assortment of rubbers.

Personally, I hope you’ll enjoy “The Habanero Hammer.” They bought the lubricant for these babies from the same company that grows chili peppers for Tabasco.

Among the gay community this brand is also popularly known as “The Ring of Fire.”

Also included is a box of the bestselling “Sneaky Pedro.” Don’t worry about all the pinholes in the latex; those are for speed.

The burrito guy happily assured me that these are the only contraceptive devices ever to have been approved by both the Mormon and Catholic churches. Ole!

               There are plenty of others here, like “Thorny Cactus,” the extra-rigid “Tequila’s Little Helper,” and, of course, “Burro Burrito” burro-skin prophylactics for those hypoallergenic folks, and that all-natural barnyard humping feel.

           

Have fun, amigo!

            -brandon

Beer: Bells Two-Hearted

Music: Infected Mushroom  (appropriate?)

The Thesis of Death (La Tesis de la Muerte)

          The other half of this blog, Brandon, was slated to post tonight, but is regrettably consumed with his thesis for school, which is due on Monday. Since I am also busy, being unemployed (which is a full time job in itself, amirite?) today's post will be short and sweet.
         So let's go and check in on Brandon, who is currently studying very, very hard for his thesis.

           I would say to wish him luck, but we all know his hard work is going to pay off come Monday.

            So drink up, buddy, and enjoy that sweet brew of the gods as the warm shower water washes away the tears of defeat.
           Also, as my mother once told me:
           "Don't fuck up."
           
Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

It's the End of the World As We Know It

          First off, I just wanted to say that Brandon and I are 55,000 words into our new novel, and I'm at 15,000 words with my own individual novel, which is getting more and more readable as time passes. With enough work, it may be in a book store at some point in its life, rather than crumpled up in a trash can in frustration (which is already piled high with some verbal abortions I once thought were gold).
          Also, I wanted to share some more wedding news with you guys. No, I'm not gonna be overdoing it with wedding stuff until you're disgustingly sick of me, but this news is just too good to pass up.
          Our wedding day is May 21st, 2011, which is also, according to a new group of Christian nutjobs, the day the world ends! Judgment Day!
         http://www.familyradio.com/index2.html
         Check it out! "The Bible guarantees it!" Not only that, but these nutjobs have taken out billboards all over town, and are making headlines all across the world.
         If you don't feel like reading the website, and I don't blame you, there are a lot of amazing mathematical equations coincidences that point to everyone's imminent death happening on my very wedding day. See, the Bible says that a day with God is as 1000 years, just as 1000 years is a day, meaning firstly, that God is apparently bad company, because hanging out with him for a day is like hanging out with him for 1000 years (which I think is bullshit, because anyone who created this is definitely someone to grab a beer with). Second, since God warned Noah he would destroy the world in 7 days, and that was 4990 BC, if you turn 7 days into exactly 7000 years that's May 21st, 2011. Sounds concrete, right?
         Anyways, stop by and check it out. The site also contains the gem: "Gay pride: planned by God as a sign of the end." Definitely worth a chuckle.
         And in the meanwhile, I thought, okay, what IF the rapture happened on my wedding day? Could we at least get married first? Or would Jesus just come in, kicking ass and taking names?

Currently wielding: Barbed wire covered spear and safety scissors

        Not the reverend! We paid good money to get him ordained online! Is no one safe?

Exchanging vows in my snazzy banana yellow tux

Currently wielding: a scimitar and the 4 Fondue Skewers of the Apocalypse

             He cut off the better side of my face, fondue skewered my brain, AND cut off my tits? Man, this is not a good day. How is my blushing bride holding up?

Currently wielding: The Cat of 4 and a Half Tails and the Holy Soup Ladle of the Apocalypse

  

           And where's the best man? I think I saw him wander over to the bar. Is he safe?

Currently wielding: Double-barrel shotgun and my fiance's severed head

Just as in life, Brandon spends his death soaking up alcohol at the bar

           If anyone is interested in attending, we are registered at the Seventh Circle of Hell, and the reception will be hosted at the Pit of Smoldering Pain and Torture. Hope to see you there!

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan


Mood: Blown up
Beer: I'm trying to drink it, but it keeps leaking out of my stab wound
Shower: A lot redder than I remember them being

Ye Olde Birthday Suit

            Well, it’s that time of year again. Time to break out the shamrocks, chug green beer, and act a complete fool in the name of holiday spirit. The holiday in question, of course, is not St. Patrick’s Day, but my birthday today. No disrespect to St. Paddy, as my ¼ Irishness qualifies me for ample Guinness indulgence later in the week, but that old bugger doesn’t get to take all the limelight.

            So, in honor of my having survived another year and the impending St. Patrick’s Day, I’d like to share a little story with you about why I no longer trust leprechauns…

            It was a birthday night like every other when I was in college; I was drunk, in a crowded bar, and raising hell on the pool table. The only exception on this night was that I didn’t have to rely on my unruly facial hair and my fake ID to get in, because I’d finally turned twenty-one years old, and was now a responsible, upstanding, adult citizen. Which is why the bouncer was so respectful when he asked me to climb down from my pool table victory dance and to please put my pants back onto their proper appendages.

            I’d barely just refastened my belt when the little man in the green top hat and waistcoat showed up and slapped a twenty dollar bill on the table.

            “Holy shit, a leprechaun! Take me to your pot ‘o gold, you wily ginger midget!”

            He bashed my kneecap with his miniature pool cue and challenged me to a dangerous duel of Nine-ball, in which every ball pocketed called for an opponent to take a shot of Jameson. The wee bastard was quite a good shot, I’ll admit, as he literally “ran the table” on his stubby little legs. He cackled like a madman and did a douchey little riverdance every time he sunk a ball. I tipped back shot after shot of Irish whiskey as the race to seven games wore on, and I realized that I was only getting out of my seat to re-rack the balls. It was at that point when my slurring neurons figured out I’d been bamboozled, and that this Lucky Charms reject’s tiny pool cue was really an enchanted shillelagh.  

            I had just hoisted my stick to bash that Irish pixie like a piñata, when I recalled those sage words of wisdom imparted to me by the old Catholic priest of my childhood. “My Son, let us practice the vanquishing of the trouser serpent—” Oops, hang on. (rewinding noise) There it is. “My Son, if ever you find yourself matching wits with a leprechaun, remember that the only way to defeat him is through trickery. And, look, the trouser serpent has once again arisen!”

            So I paused with chin in hand, stumbled, and finally snatched up the twenty dollar bill. “Sorry, laddie. BCA rulebook says you’ve gotta have at least one foot touching the floor. Technical loss by way of midgetry.”

            He sighed, beaten, and agreed to take me to the end of the rainbow to find his pot of gold. Unfortunately, he insisted on getting drunk first and passed out at the bar. So I curled him up in the bottom of a urinal and stuffed his magic shillelagh somewhere safe…and uncomfortable.

Cheers!

-brandon

Beer: Murphy’s

Music: Flogging Molly

Is There a Reverend in the Hizzy?

       If my writings have been a little sparse lately, it's because we're planning our wedding this upcoming May ... and let me clarify that when I say 'we', I mean myself and my fiance, not Brandon and I. Jesus. I can't believe I had to explain that.
       Anyways, while the lady is currently undergoing a transformation (kidding, don't eat me), I've been making calls and getting this party started.
       DJ? Check.
       Location? Check.
       Wedding cake? Check (we're having cupcakes).
       Planning for the unexpected? And how!
       A reverend?
       ...Fuck.
       So this last week I went on an epic quest to find a reverend.
       I started by looking at the Catholic church, as I was born and raised Catholic (so this blog post, as well as anything I've done in the past 24 hours is a sin, btw). That didn't turn out so well.
      

      
       I went to visit a Southern Baptist reverend after that, but I don't know, I just think he was too enthusiastic for me. I want to keep the wedding low key.

       Also, I'm a white boy to the core, so I didn't understand a lot of what he said. I tried to reach Tyler Perry to get a translation, but he was busy elsewhere being unfunny.
       Next I went to Wal-mart to see if they have any reverends, because they have everything. Hell, they even have XXXXL lingerie.

Taken with my camera phone. Welcome to America, the land of the fat! Nothing's sexier than a size XXXL heart-print muumuu. I am not making this up. The tags indicate it is a size XXXL, which my fiance and I discovered would fit both of us together.

          That's what you get when you live in America.
          So I went to Wal-Mart's preacher section, and it turns out the only reverend they have is $9.95 and was made in a Chinese sweat shop.

           After that I went to Abercrombie and Fitch, but their reverend was WAY too trendy and in my face.

              Desperate and angry, I went to the bus stop and asked around, but I'm pretty sure the last guy wasn't even a preacher.
         

           With precious little options, we came up with a unique alternative. Since it's free to become an ordained minister, thanks to that crazy bitch the Internet, we're having my good friend Jason ordain himself and write up some fun/clever/still respectful and heartfelt words to marry us.
            What do you guys think? Disrespectful? Weird? Stupid? He's a very smart, very respectful guy, so I think it'd make for a unique wedding, a very personal ceremony, a fun exchange of vows, and more than anything, one hell of a story to tell over a good beer.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: On top of the world
Beer: Gave it all to that homeless guy and he didn't even marry us. Jerk.
Shower: I smell like meth. Probably gonna need one.
      
     

From the Editor's Desk

Today I decided to extend a virtual welcome into my home. But then I realized it would mean having to pry my ass out of the writing chair. So I snared my camera, leaned back, and offer you the next best thing: my desk. Yes, it’s been one of those days. Bear with me.

Welcome to my desk. It looks relatively clean because I sort of jammed all the miscellaneous notes, bills, and overdue court summonses into the corner so you could actually see the sub-parchment treasures junk beneath the surface.  

1-      Sticky notes – When I’m actually being productive, writing that is, these help fend off the schizophrenic tendencies that come along with having a Mormon-family-sized cast of characters running loose in my head, and keeps them from obnoxiously knocking on doors of random neurons.

2-      Dinosaur – A rare species of miniature Triceratops suspended in green amber. Or is it a cheap, bent plastic toy stuck in toxic jelly? Made in China – One dollah at Target. You be the judge.

3-      Computer – An electronic typewriter that stores data, plays movies and music, connects me to anywhere in the world with the touch of a button, and fits in my backpack. Master inventor Benjamin Franklin would have shit his pantaloons twice if he’d ever seen such a thing. And he’d have loved every second of it.

4-      Harmonica – What can I say, sometimes I just get the Blues on me and the only thing to do is howl at the moon in C sharp. And let me tell you, you’ve never known the Blues until you’ve heard this gringo writer wailing on a mouth harp. Neither you nor your ear canals will ever know such misery again.

5-      Beverage receptacle – Coffee in the morning. Black tea at night. Beer interwoven as necessary. Sometimes I even wash the mug. A mini fridge, purchased at a good price from Sears (for quality!), would be an ideal desktop addition.

6-      Reading Material – It’s not just for the toilet anymore. Thanks to my mad procrastination skills, I usually go through a book or two a week. Unless Waldo starts to get crafty with his hiding places.

7-      Notebooks – Once I’m a long dead bestseller, what better way to prove to the world the extent of my deep psychosis genius than the rambling and illustrious collection of my handwritten notebooks? Six of the damn things are visible in this shot; four more are buried in the corner pile.

8-      Last, but not least, is my plastic Mr. Jesus, who remindeth me in my darkest hours that society still appreciates the power and necessity of fiction, and that if I was smart, I’d go the way of L. Ron Hubbard and Joseph Smith: kick back with a joint and a bottle of scotch and start myself a new religion.

As you can see, the list could go on for quite a while, and still not manage to hit anything really meaningful, but I hope you’ve enjoyed this voyeuristic peek into the void which devours so many hours of my existence.

Cheers,

Brandon

Music: Amanda Palmer

Beer: Honker’s Ale

Your Baby is Ugly

            Today's entry is inspired by a fellow blogger and friend, who shall remain nameless, as we don't want her to be ostracized by the female community. Even the term I'm about to use is cringe-worthy, but it's one that needs to be said. Women with high levels of estrogen, I suggest you waddle out of the room.
            Today's topic: ugly babies.
            Let's face it, not all babies are born disgustingly cute. Some are just born, well, disgusting. Maybe it's genetics. Maybe it's karma. Hell, maybe it's both. But just like there are good looking people and ugly looking people, there are cute babies and there are ugly babies.
            Some people see this term, 'ugly baby', as an oxymoron. Find the right woman, biological clock in full swing, and she'll tell you that all babies are cute--their smooshy cheeks, their googly eyes, their erratic giggles when they drop a 2 lb surprise into their diaper. It's so disgusting, it's making me want to get a vasectomy as I type this.
            It doesn't help that anyone who's undergone the arduous task of making a baby will argue that their baby is the cutest thing to grace our planet earth, even if it looks like it could be hung from the back porch to scare away badgers. It's burned into our DNA, so we don't pop one out, say 'God what the fuck is that?', and bury it in the backyard next to the family dog.
           Instead, we find it cute. Adorable, even. Charming. Which is fine. But it crosses the line when they genuinely think this little monster is cuter than OTHER babies.
           For example, the worst thing to ever happen to the ugly baby: Facebook.
           You know you've all seen it before. A particular friend or relative has a baby, and thinks it's just the cutest thing ever. It's not. It looks like it should be wandering the sewers feeding on mutant rats. But they send you pictures constantly. You log onto Facebook, and every 10 seconds you see new status updates with more horrific pictures of this newborn abomination, lauded as the baby Brad Pitt.

           He's angry because he looks like Shrek walked into a nuclear holocaust. And now I'M angry because I'm sick of seeing 200 pictures, daily, of your ugly baby.
           Even worse, I hate when a woman with an ugly baby asks you this dreaded question:

            I'd never say that, simply because I know better than to offend a hormonal woman, but what do you say to that? "Yes, he's the cutest Sloth impersonator I've ever seen."

            Or how about when they ask this one:

          

            Nothing's worse than a hot mom with an ugly baby. Such a shame. Sometimes, though, ugly genetics just can't be helped.

           

         
             So what do you guys do when you see an ugly baby? Do you give them the truth, or do you lie your ass off? Me, well, I like to cop out and use this little winner.
             "Isn't he something?"
             Because sometimes, "something" is the only word to describe the godawful creature that should be posted on your front step to ward off swamp monsters.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Not hungry anymore
Beer: Do beer goggles make ugly babies cute?
Shower: Kinda feel like I need one now

Good job, Poopsy. Make daddy proud.