A good time was had by all at Jason's 2nd birthday party. Toy trumpets were blown. Elmo cake was eaten. High-pitched screams echoed throughout the suburbs. And that was just Nate. (rim shot)

Now, it's time to shift gears in to full out rock-and-roll mode. As I mentioned earlier this week, my sometimes cover band French Lick (featuring a few ex-Fooled By April members) will be playing a charity show tomorrow night. The charity is Lovelane - a therapeutic horse riding center for children with special needs. We're opening for Gregg Allman. Sure, that should be happening to me. Not ridiculous at all.

Weirdly enough, I'm not as nervous as some of the other band members about opening for a legitimate rock legend. A few of the guys are starting to have little baby freak-outs during rehearsal, saying things like "We can't play Baba O'Reilly that badly - what if Gregg Allman hears us?"

First off, I doubt Gregg Allman will even be awake during our set. I'm guessing he's probably still tired from the 70's and takes some monster pre-show naps. Secondly, I guessing in his 40+ year career, the guy has had some gawd-awful opening acts in his day. We'd have to take a pretty spectacular and unique dump on the stage to even break into Allman's bong resin-filled consciousness.

In fact, that'll be my goal for the evening - do something on stage so bizarre, so tasteless, so unexpected that it makes even the most jaded, "seen everything" rock star stop in his tracks and say, "Dude."

It's all for charity, folks. I'll give you the full report next week.

Second only to my own, today is probably my favorite birthday of the year, as a certain little gentleman (shown below explaining basic finger-counting technique to yours truly) just turned two. Hip hip!



I know I'm a biased uncle, but it's clear to me that Jason isn't just your average two-year old. He has proven again and again to be way ahead of the curve on a lot of things. He...

... can tell the difference between Mike and me. Most in the Boston rock scene haven't figured that one out yet.

... can keep a relatively steady beat on drums. Most of the drummers in Scamper haven't figured that one out yet.

... flawlessly sings Mozart, the Beatles, a few selections from Scamper and (for some strange reason) Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Put 'Em On the Glass."

... manages to find my number on the speed dial of Keith's phone at early hours of the morning. Occasionally, he has been known to cry when it goes to voice mail. Most of the creditors that are calling me at that hour do the same thing.

... would murder us all if Elmo instructed him to do so. His devotion to the little red monster is unrelenting.

... is the only person in the world I would actually let rename me.

... brings more joy and laughter and love into my life than I ever thought possible.

So Happy birthday, Jason! When you get old enough, I'm corrupting your ass! (I've already booked the flight to Vegas on September 28, 2022. Don't tell your mom.)

Good morning, internet commuters. Thank you for stopping by my little corner of cyberspace for a hot cup o' Brendo on your way to your dirty, dirty final destinations.

Speaking of commuting, check this article out from this morning's Boston Globe. Apparently, the MBTA (those are the folks who run the trains and buses around these parts, for those of you out-of-town readers with no ability to deduce things through the use of simple context) is trying to encourage friendly and courteous behavior amongst the passengers and staff during commuting hours by giving out gift certificates to reward acts of kindness.

Naturally, we're grumpy Bostonians, so most people's immediate reactions to this new program are along the lines of "Make the fucking trains run on time and I'll be courteous as all fuck-out." But I think accountability and the rewarding of good behavior is a good idea - I just think it doesn't go far enough. Hear the crazy man out...

Instead of free coffees from Dunkin' Donuts, courteous T commuters should receive "punch another commuter in the face consequence-free" cards. By proving to the MBTA that you are a kind and respectful individual, you are given the legal authority and moral high ground to knock that teenager on the cell phone that stole grandma's seat into next Tuesday. When the cops show up to arrest you, just present the card and go upon your merry way.

It could go even further - if you collect ten "punch in the face" cards, you can trade them in for a "kick a rude T employee in the nuts" wristband. That'll have the double-edged effect of cutting down on extraneous face punching (after all, wouldn't you rather save up you face-punches for a good nuts-kick?) and motivating the T employees to be an extremely helpful, smiley bunch of mo fos. Imagine the kind of service you'll get if you're walking around with a wrist band. I think Will Rogers said it best: "Nothing strikes the fear of God into folks like a steel-toed boot to the gonads." (Maybe it was Mark Twain, actually. I'll have to look it up.)

But there's more: if you collect 100 "punch in the face" cards or 10 "kick in the nuts" wristbands, you can turn them in for a "give the governor a titty twister in front of his/her family" certificate. Which also comes with a free blueberry muffin. Now THAT would create some gosh darn courtesy. Our trains and buses would be like little exhaust-spewing Disney Worlds.

That's the thing about me. I've got ideas.

Last night was full of tragedy.

First, despite the heroic efforts of Drew Brees in the New Orleans Saints' victorious homecoming, my fantasy football team suffered its first of what is sure to be many humiliating losses of the season. First Hurricane Katrina and now this. Haven't the people of New Orleans suffered enough?

But even more tragically, my Monday night class schedule prevented me from watching WWE Monday Night RAW for the first time in probably 20 years (I know, I know - RAW hasn't technically existed for 20 years, but I also never missed an episode of its predecessor Prime Time Wrestling starring Gorilla Monsoon and Bobby "The Brain" Heenan before that, so get out of my ass, Johnny Technicality).

For most of my teenage years and adult life, I have literally planned my schedule so that I would be free on Monday nights. At times, I took it to fairly ridiculous lengths. When I was directing theater in college, some of my actors figured out that the "no Monday night rehearsals" rule was strictly to avoid missing the antics of "Stone Cold" Steve Austin on RAW and the NWO on Nitro. I damn near had a turtlenecked mutiny on my hands. In all fairness to me, the early 90's are considered by most experts as the last golden era of professional wrestling. My actors were not sympathetic to this fact.

But my Mondays are booked through January. It truly is the end of an era. I don't know what I'm going to do. I guess I'll have to subsist on the four other nights a week that six more hours of first-run pro wrestling air. How will I ever survive?

It's first thing on a Monday morning and I'm willing to admit it: I wish my band were half as brutal as Dethklok. Their music is the eighth largest economy in the world, you know. (Lesson: I shouldn't fall asleep to Adult Swim on Sunday nights. I had weird dreams involving squidbillies humping mayors and I've had the Metalocalypse theme song stuck in my head all morning long).

Speaking of the most brutal band in the world, my cover band side project French Lick continues to rock the "completely ridiculous private party" circuit this coming Saturday night, as we are playing a benefit for something or other (I'll look up the charity and link to the site this week). The utterly, absurdly ridiculous part is that we're opening for the headlining Gregg Allman. No, no - not the Gregg Allman that works days at the White Hen across from the Porter Square T stop. The legendary one from the Allman Brothers Band. Yeah, that one. Ridiculous.

I don't know what happened to me. Somewhere along the line without me noticing, my life started turning up these incredible opportunities to live out childhood dreams. I've checked almost everything off the "12-year old Brendan" wish list. All I've got to do is save the World Series game 7 for the Red Sox and take a steel chair off the head from Ric Flair and I'll be ready to call it a life.

Sadly, my obligations to my real "not opening for rock royalty" band as well as juggling time with full-time work and full-time grad school mean that this will be my last show with French Lick. Luckily, I'm being ably replaced by Pete "The Applesauce Master" Galea, just in time for another ridiculous charity gig in October with Shaggy. Rumor has it that Pete is actually planning to name his first-born son "Mr. Boombastic," so he's obviously psyched.

Seriously, there are times when my life just doesn't feel real. I suspect Saturday will be one of those times. I'll be sure to give you the full report.

Big congrats to my buddy Naomi who has finally finished the three-year long journey that is documentary filmmaking. Her film Twisted is finally cut and has been shipped off to Sundance where I'm sure it will be the toast of Colorado or Nevada or wherever the fuck Sundance is. Naomi and her sneaky cohort Sara even managed to hornswaggle Jon Stewart into narrating. These girls have got moxie, I tell ya!

In "quite possibly the greatest thing that ever happened" news, Vinny informed me this morning that the giant 300,000-employee company that he works for that shall remain nameless (let's just for the sake of argument call it "IBN") made a bit of a boner this morning. Apparently there was a newsletter sent out to hundreds of clients with a mistaken phone number on it. Now, when people call for tech support, they actually get...

wait for it...

wait for it...

A phone sex line.

Just when you think the world is shallow and meaningless, something like this happens. It's literally the most completely awesome thing that has ever happened in the history of the recorded universe. And I will stand by that statement to my grave.

Seriously - name something better that's ever happened. Polio vaccine? Psshaw! Ted Lilly fighting his manager when he took him out of a baseball game? Close, but not quite. Nothing can touch the pure unadulterated awesomeness of this morning's events at ol' IBN. I challenge you to prove me wrong, friends.

Big thanks to all of you loyal Scamps who decided that the idea of getting a good night's sleep on a Tuesday night is for pussies. Why sleep when you can rock your balls off with Scamper at TT the Bear's? On this point, I whole-heartedly concur. So thank you all for coming - as always, we appreciate it more than you know.

Sorry I missed yesterday's journal, but as advertised I slept most of the day away. I did manage to roll out of the womb of my bed long enough to experience my first manssage (that's a massage by a man, for those of you not familiar with made-up words).

Let me tell you - even the slightest threat that the act of having a man touch my naked flesh would remotely enter into the sphere of sexual was immediately obliterated when Sam dug his thumb halfway into my lung tissue and drove the point of his elbow deep into my soul. I don't know much about the gentle art of massage - are you supposed to bleed from your eyebrows an hour later?

In other news, I'm pretty sure the people I voted for in the primary won the election. (Haven't had the chance to check a newspaper, as I'm still gaining parts of my vision back from Sam's assault on my nervous system.) Back in my younger more idealistic days, I used to research the candidates and make decisions based on the issues. As a result, the people I voted for always lost. I mean, always. I never failed to back a loser - in fact, I'm pretty sure I voted for the Cleveland Browns for ombudsman at one stage.

Then, I discovered my secret weapon: my friend Christine. Now, I just ask Christine who I should vote for and follow her instructions blindly. Sure, she argues with me for a few minutes, saying things like "It's your voice, you should vote your conscience, blah blah blah." But eventually, I wear her ass down and she tells me what to do. I scribble the names on my hand like crib notes and voting only takes but a minute. Yay democracy!

Think about it - if I have car trouble, I call my little brother because he knows way more about cars than I do. (My solution to most car-related problems is to coat the steering wheel with a layer of mayonnaise. Rarely works.) If I need a recommendation for a mansseuse that will scrape the dead cells off my kidneys, I'll go to my most metrosexual friend Vinny. When it comes to voting, Christine is my woman.

You see, Christine is way WAY smarter than me. She's the sort of woman that I want making important decisions for me. Because I'm a moron and I'll vote wrong. America is a much better place if someone like Christine gets two votes, whereas someone like me gets none. It's justice, people.

First off, let me apologize to anyone who was trying to IM me yesterday. Apparently, I was logged on all day even though I wasn't anywhere near my computer. I'm no Nancy Drew, but I suspect it might have had something to do with letting a certain unnamed someone use my computer while I was out. I don't want to get into accusing people of things in such a public forum, but let's just say I came back to my house to find the window jimmied open and apple sauce everywhere.

Update on my mini-vacation: while the rest of you poor shlubs ground your hours away at unfulfilling day jobs, I spent yesterday in my dad's recliner with my feet up, watching six solid hours of the show Firefly on the SciFi channel. I've got to tell you - I don't know how I missed this show the first time around, but I'm reasonably sure it's the greatest thing that has ever been on television. Every second of the show is just perfect and exhilirating. It was very short-lived, so it won't take you long to see them all. Just amazing.

Speaking of short-lived, Scamper's playing a set tonight! (That "short-lived" segue works because Nate was diagnosed with a terminal case of Restless Leg Syndrome and is not long for this earth). TT the Bears in Cambridge - our set starts at 9:50 on the muzzle. Please come by if you can - it's been too long since we rocked your silly asses.

Possibly no journal tomorrow - we'll see how long I sleep. Suckers.

Good Monday, soldiers. Let's get a good solid pimp out of the way first thing in the morning: we're playing a set tomorrow night at TT the Bears in Cambridge with Duresse and The Working Title. Scamper hits the stage at precisely 9:50pm, so it's a rare opportunity to see us play this early and also to witness what will likely be the last occasion of me wearing full-length pants on stage during a show. I'd prefer if you don't ask my reasoning, but let's just say it's going to be all short-shorts and/or hot pink culottes (depending on the season) from this point forward and leave it at that. Uh uh uh - don't you worry your pretty little heads about the "whys" and "whatfors." Just sit back and enjoy the pale, goose-pimpled skin.

In other news, it's mini-vacation time for me. I'm not actually writing this from work as is my usual wont, but am in fact typing these very words on a wireless laptop from Patrick Swayze's love hovel on a secluded island off the coast of Madagascar. I'll say this about Patrick - the man is a giver.

For reals, before the really crazy time in my life starts next week (full time miserable day-job worker, full time student, full time mediocre rock musician), I'm just taking a few days to take a deep breath or two, get my head together and just relaaaaaaax. Although I'm trying to keep it all mellow and Jack Johnson-like, I do have a few plans. This vacation, I will:

- Get a professional massage from another man for the first time. Seriously. Vinny (the most metrosexual of my acquaintances) strongly recommended a guy named Sam with the only caveat being "You have to be okay with being rubbed by a bizarro version of Moby." As long as he doesn't smear tofu on my back or play that crappy "We Are All Made Of Stars" shit in my ears, I think I'm secure enough in my masculinity to make it through the experience unscathed. But of course I'll let you all know.

- Ignore all of Keith's emails and phone calls. Nothing relaxes me more than irritating Keith.

- Bring all my change into one of those machines at the supermarket that counts it up for you and give you dollars for it. Am I the only one that is absolutely in love these things? When you pour that jar of a year's worth of pennies and nickels and you get a little ticket with actual money on it - cha ching cha ching cha ching. It's like I'm in an incredibly lame version of the TV show Vega$ starring the late Robert Urich.

- Start to clean up my basement and then within five minutes become completely disillusioned by the sheer mass of crap that I have inherited from former roommates and bands that have shared the hallowed mildewy walls of the current Scamper rehearsal space. It should be noted that I have attempted to clean the basement approximately 342 times in the last two years, only to immediately give up and watch cartoons. This vacation shall be no different.

- Not write funny or interesting journal entries. (Obviously)

And... that's all I've got. Give me a break - I'm on vacation. See you all tomorrow night at TT the Bear's.

Big ol' happy birthday today to the most handsomest boy I know - Jordan of Fooled By April fame. While a pretty girl never reveals her age, I have it on good authority that Jordan is officially "fucking old" today. Like bone-creakin' old. Rumor has it that his body is comprised mostly of musty shredded newspapers from the 1920's. When he ejaculates, it makes a sad hissing sound followed by a "bwah bwah bwaaaaah" played by a tiny elks lodge oompah band. So happy birthday, you old old OLD man.

We're all getting old, aren't we? Did you guys know that this year's freshman college class were born in 1988? Nineteen fucking eighty-eight! Dukakis-Bush. Die Hard. WrestleMania IV. Straight Outa Compton. Head of the Class.

Sigh.

It's okay, kids. We can still rock like it's 1988, right? Just stop on by TT the Bears Place in Cambridge where Scamper will be playing your favorite hits from the 80's (ed. note: this is not remotely true) with Universal recording artists the Working Title and the "suburban parlour anthems" (ed. note: their phrase, not ours) of Duresse. We're not THAT old, right? We can still go out and rock on a Tuesday, no?

Last night, Vinny and I were enjoying a typical guy night as we've done hundreds, nay thousands of occasions before: drinking beer and watching Venture Brothers on cable. Beer, cartoons - it was all very manly stuff. Right before the neckrub portion of the evening, Vinny throws me a curve ball: "We have to change the channel - Project Runway is on."

After briefly questioning the strength of one of my oldest and dearest friendships (to be fair to me, earlier in the evening he pointed to a vase in his living room and asked, "Do you like those flowers? I arranged those."), I decided to give this Project Runway thing the kids have been talking about a chance.

I lasted about 20 minutes.

It's not so much that I thought it was a terribly-made program or anything, but mostly, I felt bad for ruining the pleasures of the show for Vinny by having the following conversations:

Vinny: Oh, she's back? I hate her.
Me: Yeah, I hope they all get their faces sliced up and then die in a fire.
Vinny: Wait - which one?
Me: All of them. The models, the designers - all of them. I want them all to suffer and then die.

Clearly, I am prejudiced against this show, as I think anyone even remotely involved in the fashion industry is utterly useless to humanity and should be used for live-action prison rape demonstrations to scare kids straight. The entire fashion business caters to the junior high kid in all of us - that lovely mix of envy and insecurity that makes the desire to be one of the cool kids the most important goal in life. It fills me with nausea.

Also, I'm reasonably sure that fashion "experts" don't have actual opinions. They're just saying whatever it takes to hornswaggle us into thinking there's actual thought put behind whatever random crap they drape around their eating disorder-riddled models this week. They're basically just squawking unadulterated bullshit and they're deemed "experts." (The Bruno character on Da Ali G Show had a few segments that exposed this hypocrisy brilliantly, by the way.)

When the rapture comes and I am finally allowed by my lord and saviour to kill with impunity, the streets will run red with the fashion industry's blood. Actually, I think they'll rank slightly above "celebrities," but still below "people who report on celebrities on TV" on the "People Brendo Will Beat To Death With a Pinto Hubcap" list. Imagine that's your life's work - getting on E! and commenting on Leo's new vacation house? That's what you do. How do you wake up every morning and NOT jump in front of a speeding Us Weekly delivery truck?

So... how's everyone else's morning going?

I was going to spend the morning annoying Keith Daddy (as I did most of yesterday via email), but I decided to be nice today, as he is a sick puppy and having a horrible day so far. The following is a top secret private conversation between us this morning that I am reprinting here without permission:

Keith: Question: when you are sick, should you stay up all night working?
Me: Absolutely. It's nature's medicine.
Keith: Oh, so it's a good thing?
Me: Yes, you feel much better now.
Keith: And the fact that I was in "firefighting" emergency mode and completely stressed out - that helps too, right?
Me: You didn't tell me that part. Not only are you completely healthy, but you actually have developed superpowers.
Keith: This is great. I'm glad I asked.
Me: Let me check the handbook... well, it turns out your superpower is the ability to tell the difference between decaf and caf coffee - without even tasting it!
Keith: That will come in handy. I guess.

So let's all cheer up our fallen comrade. Anyone have anything nice to say to Keith today?

You know what Keith really likes? When you come to his show this Tuesday at TT the Bears with The Working Title and Duresse. He loves that shit. Perks the little monkey right up.

Holy crap, my fantasy football team actually won. On paper, it looked like quite possibly the worst fantasy team I have ever fielded. Just to give you an idea the depth of that statement, here's a brief history of my fantasy teams:

- The Generals (all General Studies majors in college)

- Hey, Nice Johnson! (all guys named Johnson)

- Captain Oreo and the Beige Riders (all white guys that look black and black guys that look white)

But still, this team had the potential to out-suck them all. The worst part is that it wasn't even a themed team, so I couldn't claim the moral high ground of comedic integrity. It's just an out-and-out shitty team. Not shitty in a funny way. Just shitty.

Of course, I realized how terrible I am at fantasy sports about midway through the draft and looked for a few comedic escape valves to salve the wounds of the gridiron ass-reaming I was sure to take throughout the fall and winter months to come. Almost immediately, I discovered my team captain: New York Jets place kicker Mike Nugent. The Nuge! How can you NOT want to go into battle with the Nuge on your side? I quickly drafted him up and prepared to rename my team "Damnocracy."

But then I found him, creeping around in the later rounds. Atlanta Falcons running back Jerious Norwood. What an amazing name. Right up there with D'Brickashaw Ferguson (a sadly undraftable defensive player). I snatched Jerious up immediately, just so I could say "Are you JERIOUS?" over and over again, much to the annoyance of my fellow drafters.

Football karma must have decided to be kind to me for once because Jerious is a stud! I actually won a game! Hooray for me! Yip yip!

It's sort of sad what my life has become. At least I still have rock and roll to soothe my troubled mind. Like our big show a week from today at TT the Bear's! I'm totally jerious!

Today seems as good a day as any to drop the bombshell (What? Too soon?) and announce Scamper's surprise gig at TT the Bears on Tuesday night September 19. Now, you don't have to wait until November to get your Scamper fix. Good on ya!

We weren't planning on doing any shows this month as we are in heavy-duty "go into a dark cave with a case of strawberry Quik and don't come out until you can play that riff correctly, sausage fingers" recording mode, but we got the opportunity to jump on this very cool show and couldn't resist.

Headlining the night will be the Universal recording artists The Working Title, who have been featured on MTV's Laguna Beach with their hit song "Yeah, We Can't Tell Any of These Boring Blonde Teenage Girls Apart Either." Opening the show will be the atmospheric sounds of Boston's own Duresse, a band whose haunting sparse moodiness should play an interesting counterpoint to Scamper's in-your-face confused sexuality.

So now you have plans next Tuesday. How awesome for you! I'm sure some of you are worried that you have to work the next day, etc. But Tuesday is the new... nope, it's still just old boring Tuesday. Come rock it away with us anyway and then call in sick the next day (which is what I'm doing today. Shhhhhh.).

Am I the only one that's completely sick of the "_____ is the new _____" jokes? It can be a funny bit, but it's been adopted by too many hipster douchebags. I don't know - has anyone heard any good ones?

Aaaargh. And I don't mean that in the all-too-hip pirate sort of way. I mean "aargh" in the "I just went back to lifting at the gym this week after about three months off and my musclaroos are screaming" sort of way. It's shameful to admit it, but my biceps have turned into giant pussies.

But don't you worry - I will power through the aches and pains and continue my quest to transform my body from its usual "cookie dough" softness to a more rough-and-tumble "stale, crusty cookie dough" consistency.

In other news... okay, there is no other news. Seriously, there's nothing going on this morning. I am drawing a big ol' blank. This morning, I scoured the pages of Boston.com for some issue to discuss and the top international news story was this little ditty about Lindsay Lohan losing her bag at a London airport. Someone I don't give a flying tit about lost her bag. That's the best the AP can do for me today. Now that, folks, is what what we in the biz (the steel processing biz, that is) call a sloooooow ass news day.

So I'm throwing my hands up and phoning it in this morning. It's up to you guys - who wants to be a big hero and give us something interesting to read? Anything exciting going on in the world that the fellow Scampernauts should know about? Did you guys notice how I'm ending sentences with prepositions now? It's something to annoy Diggity with.

The crisp autumn bite is in the air. The leaves are starting to fall from the trees faster than the hairs off the balding heads of the crusty middle-aged hipsters at the Model Cafe. I love this time of year.

Can you believe that football season is upon us already, kids? As such, it's time for a completely baseless NFL Super Bowl prediction. Keep in mind that my Oakland/Mets World Series prediction is still technically possible. I know many of you thought that the 2006 baseball season was over already, but technically they've got to finish out the rest of the games even though the results don't matter much to any of us with more discerning baseball tastes and inclinations.

Why don't I go with... a rematch of the season Super Bowl XXXVIII with the Carolina Panthers vs. the Patriots with a side order of potato salad. While I'm at it, I'll make a few more bold predictions about Scamper:

- After subjecting himself to an expensive experimental new form of brain therapy, Scamper drummer Mikey Mike will finally be able to say the word "tapioca" without rolling around on the floor in a gut-splitting giggle fit. Unfortunately, the therapy will take 5 years off his life. Totally worth it, though.

- Frustrated that Scamper has not yet scheduled the 3rd annual Moustache Show, guitarist Nate Diggity will use his freaky genetic facial hair growing skills in service of his country by luring Osama Bin Laden out of hiding for a winner-takes-all beard-growing contest. But it will all be a trick! It will actually turn out to be a corn-on-the-cob eating contest... which Nate will surely win! Because Nate's a corn-eatin' fool! Ha HA!

- At some point in the next calendar year, Scamper singer Keith Daddy will consume a grilled chicken salad. He will enjoy it.

Behold my soothsaying powers! Be not afraid, for I am rarely correct! Bwah ha haaaa!

My apologies for the unexpected sabbatical yesterday, my little corn muffins. Much to my ever-loving chagrin, the real world beckoned my undivided attention for a day. Stupid day jobs, always cramping up my mojito. Let's burn this motherfucker down! Who's with me?

I'm also sorry to keep you in suspense over the unexpectedly super-long weekend: the winner of the Lego Statue of Liberty contest in a no-contest 8-1 rout is our favorite talented little guy - Nate Diggity! With his subpar statue-building performance, it should be obvious to us all that Keith hates us for our freedoms.

It's good to read that in my absence, so many of you are willing to step up and be replacement Brendos over on the message board. I don't know why I even bother showing up in the morning some days - you guys can just as easily jot down a few over-claused sentences with unnecessary dashes, a dick joke here and there and bam! I'm obsolete. Which gives me an idea...

The Statue of Liberty contest was so wildly popular and revenue-generating for the Scamper Corporation that the board of directors has decreed: let's have another contest! Fa! That's right, it's time for the first semi-biannual Write Like Brendo Contest. Foo!

Here's how it will go: I will give you a subject about which you write one Brendo-like sentence (which you email privately to me at brendan@scamper.net with the subject line "Sentence Contest."). I will post all the sentences in this space, including one of my own. The ghost Brendo writer who fools the most readers into thinking it's me wins a special prize that I haven't thought of yet.

Okay, get your pencils ready because here's the subject: the band Phish. (Come on - you knew there was going to be hippies involved. That one was a no brainer.)

So get your Brendo sentences in and we'll have the Write Like Brendo Contest in this space very soon. Unless no one steps up to the plate. Then, we'll forget this whole thing ever happened! Yeah!

Time for the old Friday Ripoff. Today, we've got a little contest. Hip hip!

Being the kick-ass parents that they are, Keith Daddy and wifey Alena have remodeled their basement from its former use (the "Brendan Consistently Bumps The Back Of His Head On The Bookshelf Above The Couch" Room) and turned it into a playroom for the little monster. Included in this playroom is a kick-ass table made of Legos. I tried to convince Keith to make the entire room of either Legos or Nerf, but he balked. "Fire hazard" or some shit like that - I don't know, he starts up with the "safety concerns blah blah blah" and I sort of tune out.

But the Lego table leads us right into our contest. In honor of our nation's birthday (September 1, 1863 according to Wikipedia), Nate and Keith each built Lego replicas of the Statue of Liberty. So I figured why not turn this into a vicious competition to drive yet another wedge into the already tenuous childhood friendship of these two idiot manchildren?

I won't tell you which Frederic Auguste Bartholdi is which. It's up to you (that's right, you!) to pick the winner and more importantly, the loser. Sounds like fun? No - not so much? Well, tough shit - here we go.

This is Statue of Liberty numero uno:



And this is Statue of Liberty numero dos:



The winner will get a kiss on the forehead from me, while the loser will be pantsed in the town square for public derision. Who's it going to be - Keith or Nate? Come on, Scamper Nation - who do you love more?