And this is why�

dumb
adj. dumb�er, dumb�est

Conspicuously unintelligent; stupid. See pat.

ass
n. pl. ass�es ( s z)

A dull, heavy, stupid fellow; a dolt. See pat.

Therefore the definition for Dumbass is: A Conspicuously dull, unintelligent stupid pat that is also a dolt. I am pat�therefore I am a dumbass, and this is why�

I have been a dumbass for about 27 of my 32 years on this planet. The way I see it, the stupid things I did in my first 5 years cant be considered conspicuously unintelligent since they are typical of a lad of that age. But every stupid thing I have done since has been both. I take you back to Springfield VA, circa spring 1979. A beautiful day sun shining bright, not a cloud in the sky. My brother John, my sister Karen and I were walking home from the bus stop. We raced home in excitement, happy to be through with an exhausting week of science, arithmetic, catholic brainwashing�uh, I mean doctrine, paper football, pencil fights, social studies, and ugly uniforms. I arrived at the front door first. John and I were ready to log a good 4 hours on the Atari, Karen was itching to roller skate to her M record when all of a sudden I realized I didn�t have my key. �Karen I forgot my key can you open the door?� Karen had no key��John, open the doooooooooor you have a key!� John had no key either. We were LOCKED OUT!!!

So the first dumbass thing I did here was NOT go to the bathroom at school. The second dumb thing I did here was NOT bring my house key with me. But the third dumbass thing I did here, was the worst. I had to go to the bathroom bad, Karen just didn�t want to be outside with her two annoying brothers and john was cool. We went around and checked all the doors and windows�all locked. Finally we arrived at the side door that led to the kitchen. I triple checked the handle and it was still locked somehow. So I figured the best way to handle my 7 year old rage was to put my fist through the window. Fortunately, I did not break any tendons or even cut my hand in anyway. Unfortunately I had a Dad. As anyone that has a Dad can testify, Dad�s don�t really appreciate their sons punching out their windows. Dad didn�t �understand� HOW BAD a day I had. He didn�t �understand� that Jason Carlin kicked my ass 7 times in a row at paper football, thus downgraded my social status from dude to dork. Dad didn�t �understand� any of my totally reasonable reasons for abusing his $50 precious little window pane. Dad DID however, understand punishment. And he DID however take away my allowance for about a year and my Atari for a couple weeks. What a dumbass I was.

So you�d think I would learn from this experience. Grow from it. Be a better kid because of it. Well I did. I never ever ever punched out another window again. Lesson learned. Unfortunately life has about 840384093809483028409380943820432840328 lessons, and I, at age 7, had only learned about 6.

I take you to that very kitchen, where only months prior I knocked out its window, Summer circa 1979. My parents were out on one of their �choir practices�. Choir practices mainly consisted of jugs of wine, beer, cocktails, Doritos and an organ, (and on one occasion a naked 4 year old boy running around like a madman�. But that was lesson 2). Karen my lovely and oh so kind, 13 year old sister was given the responsibility of watching John and I for the duration. Like every good, young Irish catholic boy, we liked candy (well john liked Candy Kramer), video games and sports. So when Karen beckoned us to the kitchen with �John! Pat! Come here, FAST!!!! Look at this CANDY!!� we rushed to the kitchen with a reckless abandon that would make Blink 182 proud. �Candy? What? Where? Give me give me!� To paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld, kids are such candy morons. We will do anything for candy. We strap on crappy looking plastic masks in 30 degree weather, walk for hours and hours, just for the sole purpose of getting candy. So when Karen held up that shiny brown box with the glorious word HERSHEY written on it in beautiful white, Arial Font� we were ready to inhale! So she gave us each equal bars and I remember throwing it down, in all its succule�.�wait� something�s not right�, I remembered thinking. �It�s different. There is no� no �.� Spit spit cough cough, �what the heck?� I remember asking my wicked witch of a sibling. The laugh on her face, I can remember to this day. Her wicked black eyes staring down at her two innocent, darling, sweet brothers, as they sat spitting out the UNSWEET chocolate. �Its COOKING chocolate�. Hahahahahahahahhahahahhaha� she informed. I had no clue there was such a thing as cooking chocolate then, and im not even sure that it exists now. But cooking chocolate tastes like cooking crap. It�s unsweetened and flavorless and when you are 7 that�s a terrifying combo. My sister was mean as hell for pulling that stunt, but I was a dumbass for falling for it.

So I mature, go through grade school, learn how to read write (but not cursive), and some other stuff that I can�t recall. Then I go to high school. I don�t know what it is about high school and college but it does nothing for making one, less of a dumbass. It really only accentuates it twothousandfold. I could write a book about the dumbass things that I did from 1986-1995 but, like this journal entry, I am sure it would bore you. So I will just give you a few. Freshman year everything I did was dumb. I parted my hair down the middle�.. dumb. I thought that Kansas and Styx were the best classic rock bands ever�.really fucking dumb. Sophomore year I started to gain my stride as a Royal Dumbass. The momentum was gaining strength. I bought my first pair of acid washed jeans. I finally realized that Boston and Rush were the shit. Junior year the VA department of motor vehicles was dumb, they issued me my drivers license. Senior year was the pinnacle however. I decided that it STILL was super cool to part my hair down the middle. I learned that an all tie dyed wardrobe was totally cool! Man what a dumbass I was. I take you back to spring 1990, just before graduation. Mr. and Mrs. Gagen, gave the generous pre graduation gift that any loving parent would give their 17 year old son� they went OUT OF TOWN for the weekend!!! So this meant Pete, Pat, Pat, Tom, Pat, Marc, Mark, Chris, Jim, Patty, Maureen, Eileen, Dave, James, Mike, Elmo, Greg, Wilbur, Wally, Steve, Ken, Karen, The Sheik, Backwards Man and just about every other high school hooligan would be logging some hard core hours at the Gagen Residence. After a day of drinking, playing tennis and drinking, we decided that it would be a good idea to go for a venture into the woods of Saratoga and do some�drinking and stuff. We went out there and drank, played guitar, prayed the rosary, and bonded as most about to graduate seniors, would do. Well we were out there bonding with nature, until the crack of dawn, when we decided that it would be best to bring the party inside, as to not wake up the night shift working folk that just got in from a hard nights work. So we make it back to the house, and we are all covered in dirt. Our designated sober chaperone, Karen (last name withheld) ordered us to all take off our shoes, as to not dirty the fine Gagen plush white carpet. Being the dumbass that I was, I thought she said �Guys, now make sure you take off your clothes, before entering the house. We don�t want to dirty the nice carpet.� So of course I undressed down to my tighty whitys. Then I barely noticed all 27 of the youths at the party, laughing at me and I was embarrassed. So I did what anyone would do in that situation. I went for a walk. I need �time to myself� to gather my thoughts and reflect on the nights events. I did about 5 laps around the house, when my good friend Pat N, came up to me and said �Clarke, man its light out, the neighbors can see you.� So at that point I felt that he was right, and I ventured inside, to have a nap cap and catch some zzz.

I left out a lot of stories from my high school stupidity, but this one best exemplifies those. I will also leave out most of my stupid college stories for you, since they are even more numerous. There was the time I bounced a check for a pack of camel lights. Then there was the time that I tried to fight the 300 pound starting offensive tackle from the football team. I bet $200 bucks that Scott Norwood WOULD make that field goal. I rode on top of an SUV roof at 55mph. The lifetime ban from Farm Fresh grocery stores. I drew the attention of the entire Charlottesville Police Department by shooting a capgun at bats in a tree. I tried to convince Jim that we �totally could outrun the cops� in the school bus that we had broken into. And of course there was the time that I felt that I owed it to my buddy Marc, to spend a week at JMU. There are just too many to name for this time period. So I�ll give you a short one. I was living at the Chateau Royale with a WV redneck named Craig and my future brother in law named Greg. The trouble started early on. Craig loved to fight. He had brass knuckles and liked to get drunk and whoop ass. One night I came home from my wonderful job as �salad bar girl� at Shoney�s (the actual job title was �salad bar girl�, as no guy had ever had the job) when I noticed that there was a ruckus going on at my place. Craig had imbibed a few too many Milwaukee�s bests and so did my other friend Matt. I got back and Greg told me that Craig was all upset and that he wanted to kick Matt�s ass. I decided I could help, I could convince Craig that it wasn�t worth it. I grabbed my guitar and ran out to the pool area where they were a fighting. I started to play �The Happy Song� a song that my buddy Pete had taught me. An instrumental piece that was guaranteed to make everyone happy and bring about harmony. Craig and Matt both stopped and looked at me in drunken confusion. I had stopped them for a minute! �What the fuck are you doing Hippy?� Craig asked �im playing the Happy Song� I responded. They didn�t seem to take to it. So I played on��Hippy, I love you man� Craig asserted �but I am drunk and I will kill you� So he swung the long net used to clean the pool in an attempt to hit matt, I ducked and narily averted decapitation. I ran upstairs to the apartment, took a bong hit, drank a beer, and realized there was no hope for peace through a three chord song�. I am a dumbass.

My dumbassness grew in leaps and bounds in my post WVU life. I pondered to Jim aloud, behind bars �How come all cops are fat, eat donuts and watch Hill Street Blues ReRuns�, then proceeded to sing Kumbaya much to the joy of Fairfax County�s finest. I turned on my webcam for a female friend, after going to a wedding where I drank 90 beers, and happened to nod off for a little bit�unfortunately the webcam didn�t nod off.

These are only a few of the examples that prove that I am a total moron, conspicuously unintelligent and a dolt. I know that you all have further proof of my stupidity and I would like YOU to share with me your proof. PLEASE!!! I EMPLORE YOU!!! Send me your �Pat is a dumbass� story, via the comment section at the bottom or via email at Pat�s Email and I will post the best ones for all to see. Even if you dont really know me, read some of my journals and you will know how inane i can be, and I want to hear all about it!

I wish that I could tell you that I have learned all the 840384093809483028409380943820432840328 lessons life has to offer, but I have only conquered 124. I am still a dumbass, probably always will be, but hopefully somewhat entertaining in the process�