It's that time of year again. Which is a dumb phrase to use, since every time of year is technically that time of year again. Except perhaps February 29th, which only happens once every four years and in way too many movies.

Why is it that February is such a short month, anyway? I'm guessing it really has to do with the sun or moon or President's Day Sale and is not completely arbitrary. I remember, as an eight-year-old kid, being asked by a clever 10-year-old how many months have 28 days. I told him it was just one, to which he said, "no - all of them" and laughed hysterically before I punched him in the nose.

Okay, so I didn't punch him in the nose, but I should have. And I'm sure someone did eventually.

So it is that time of year again. You can tell a lot about yourself by what time you think I'm talking about. The holidays, college football bowl season, finals, Winston Churchill's birthday - it is obviously that time of year for many things. But specifically for me, it's the time of year that I get so delirious on Sudafed that I write long winded columns about times of years and punching 10-year-olds.

I'm sick again. Miraculously, I have not been sick for an entire year. I had a day of sniffles back in October, but they went away very quickly so they don't count. For those of you who have been with this column for at least a year (happy anniversary, sweetums!), you might remember that I was so sick last year that I slept through Thanksgiving. Not the celebration - the entire day. To catch you up on what happened afterward, I was bed-ridden for two weeks, and by the time I felt "better," I'd lost 30 pounds and was too weak to stand for more than ten minutes at a time. But on the upside, new clothes were much cheaper since I needed so much less fabric.

After two months of a strict peanut and olive oil-based diet, I got back to normal. And I have been healthy ever since (except that day I finished an entire jar of peanuts). I started working out again, eating better, and I hadn't bought a new box of tissues in months.

And then came Flagstaff. On the way to my eventual Los Angeles destination, we stopped in Flagstaff, Arizona. If Arizona is supposed to be hot as hell, it must have frozen over the day before we arrived. Flagstaff is in northern Arizona - where every November 25th (or at least the one I was there for), it gets down to 17 degrees at night.

I woke up the morning of the 26th sneezing. A lot. I grabbed the roll of toilet paper from the motel bathroom and headed to the car, but the housekeeper stopped me.

"Is that from the room?" she asked.

"Yes, but I've been sneezing all morning and last night the heat wasn't entirely, well, on," I answered. "I would really like to be able to blow my nose in the car, and the room didn't have any tissues."

"Okay," she said as she took the roll from me and walked away.

I wished she was more considerate, or at least better versed in the meaning of the word "okay." Left with no choice, I raided the napkin supply of a local Subway, and was forced to blow my nose into what could have easily doubled as oak tag.

Four days and an economy-sized box of Sudafed later, I am still sick. In fact, it's worse now. Not just because I am sneezing more and the Carpathians and Russians are fighting for control of my head, but because my nose is almost gone. My nose is so chaffed from the oak tag tissues that when I heal, I am going to need a replacement. Good thing I'm in LA.

I have done what I can to get over this. I am hopped up on medicine, so much so that I use the phrase "hopped up." I have raided the local supply of orange juice, and have used a redwood worth of paper products (again, good thing I'm in LA). But this cold has shown absolutely no signs of letting up. I'd punch it in the nose, but if it's anything like me, it doesn't have one anymore. Also, I can't lift my arms.

I am, of course, kidding about not having a nose. I still have one - it's just a big red nose. Which is fitting, since it's that time of year again.

You know, Winston Churchill's birthday.

This Thursday, families across America will gather together and discuss what they are thankful for. And since I will be in Las Vegas nowhere near my family, I figure I'd get it out of the way now. Because the only turkeys I'm going to be near on Thursday are the ones I smoke at Texas Hold Em. (Get it, smoked turkey? Badum! Oh, nevermind.)

I am thankful that Michael Jackson could finally be going to jail. I am also thankful that my parents had the sense enough never to send me to hang out at his place.

I am thankful that Sportscenter can be seen 47 times a day. I am also thankful the same can no longer be said for Sister Sister.

I am thankful that Arnold Schwarzeneggar was elected governor of California. And that is a thank you on behalf of all stand-up comedians, humor columnists, and people from states no longer stupider than California.

I am thankful that George Bush may NOT get reelected next year. I am also thankful that I have renewed my passport in case he does.

I am thankful 2004 is a leap year. It gives me an extra day to sleep in.

I am thankful that Paris Hilton's life isn't quite as perfect as it was a few weeks ago because of a stupid choice she made. I am also thankful for DSL.

I am thankful that I didn't get my butt kicked for my Halloween costume. (See column from a few weeks ago, mine)

I am thankful that Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen are turning 18 soon. Not so that they'll be legal for me, but so that all of the pathetic introverts who don't stand a chance with these Uber-rich twins will quit pretending age is the only thing that prevents them from scoring.

I am thankful to have seen some of the amazing places I've seen in the last few months, and to not live in the others.

I am thankful I will be in Southern California for a month during what could be a terrible winter. Take that, birds.

I am thankful I am not that Cubs fan who touched the foul ball, because that could have been any one of us. Actually, that could only have been people who could afford awesome seats to the NLCS, so really, screw him.

I am thankful for my readers and my audience, because without you what I do would be really pitiful.

I am thankful that they're considering making new episodes of Family Guy so I have new stuff to quote.

I am thankful that of all the physical deformities I could have been born with, my worst problems are pale skin and a small bladder that makes me have to pee a lot.

I am thankful I write in a time where I can use the phrase "have to pee a lot."

I am thankful for my education and the great conversation piece it gives me since I'm not using it at all. "Yeah, I owe $54,000 in student loans and I could have dropped out of high school and done my job. Crazy, huh?"

I am thankful for my family, even though they're crazy. Because none of us have killed each other or stolen from each other or have even been arrested for anything. Yet.

I am thankful I was never stupid enough to ship myself home in a crate, no matter how much I wanted to go there.

I am thankful I have never had a bird crap on me, because I've seen it happen to other people and it looks like it totally sucks.

I am thankful I write in a time where I can use the phrase "had a bird crap on me."

And most of all, I am thankful that I can make a living spending several hundred words a week venting to all of you. Especially when I do it in list form cause that's way easier.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My mother called me, as mothers often do to their sons, to alert me that she had found a box of mine amongst her belongings. This came as a surprise, since I thought I'd already been using all the boxes I owned as furniture.

Kidding! I don't use furniture! But I was still surprised. I hadn't lived with my mother for six years, and I couldn't think of anything I hadn't used in the last 6 years that I wanted to use now. Well, there was there was that one girl my freshman year of high school"¦

Kidding! There was no girl my freshman year of high school! If you think being a 24-year-old without furniture makes it tough to date, imagine subtracting ten years and adding 10 zits to the equation. Also, imagine trying to get a date while spending that much time doing equations.

I told my mother that the box couldn't possibly be mine, and even if it had been mine in the past, I was well past the statute of limitation on ownership. You can't claim ownership of something and just leave it sitting there for six years. I know people who don't even respect when you call "fives" during a commercial. But she, as mothers often do to their sons, had the box waiting for me in the hallway when I visited next.

The box turned out to have been mine. Though I hesitate to say "mine" because the me now and the me of this box are two very different people. And this box had the pictures to prove it. I always say I'd dress very well if I had the money. This box was proof that at 16, I was very, very poor.

Wow. Can I say that again? Wow. By the end of this column, I'll probably say it to myself a few more times because I haven't seen this much flannel since Lilith Fair. Not that I've been to Lilith fair, but with this hair and these clothes, I'd have fit right in. It wasn't actual flannel - just pictures of it. Rolls of pictures indicating exactly why there was no girl freshman year. It astounds me that there were any shortly thereafter.

But amongst the pictures of me looking like Tori Amos, I found one of my all-time favorite pictures - Fat Dead Steve. Do not be concerned - I was never fat nor dead, though I was certainly Steve. But one night at camp, my friends and I dressed a dummy like me and hurled it off a roof while people on the porch below us had a heart attack. Maybe even several heart attacks. It was a while ago, so I can't recall exactly.

It was one of those boring camp nights that make you want to dress up a dummy like yourself and hurl it off a roof. And in the perfect coincidence, we'd found a dummy used in a camp play, and realized that it wouldn't be too tough to dress it in flannel.

My friend Mike and I, as friends often do with each other and the cast of Third Rock From the Sun, climbed out my upstairs window and sat on the roof while people talked below us. But this time, we brought Fat Dead Steve and talked very loudly so everyone knew we were up there. After a few minutes, Mike cautioned me to get away from the edge, and I laughed and said I was indestructible. And then we hurled that sucker over our heads like an out of bounds soccer ball. Maybe it was more like a basketball, because that's what doubled as the head. Which was perfect, since it bounced just a bit before settling in a mangled heap.

Mike ran downstairs and burst out the door and yelled, "Oh my God, is Steve okay?!" I followed him close behind and yelled, "Oh my God, am I okay?!" The horrified, yet angry look on everyone's faces was well worth the many slaps on the shoulder we received soon afterwards.

On the last night of camp, we hurled the dummy off the roof again, but this time it was for a picture. And before digital cameras were commonplace (maybe even before they existed), our picture turned out perfectly. Though no one can tell exactly what is going on without the back-story, that picture is certainly worth 1,000 words. Ironic, since I'm only writing 800 about it.

I put the picture away, packed up the box, and, as sons often do to their mothers, left it sitting there to take care of in a few months when I get back to town. There are more pressing matters now - like getting a mannequin for the next time I'm bored.

I'm glad my mother kept that box all these years. But whoever I know with a two-story house won't be.

I don't usually write serious columns. I prefer to write responses to junk mail or discuss my lack of butt. But occasionally, a topic comes along that is so important I can not ignore it. Well, I can, but not if I need something to write about.

If you're between the ages of 18-28, you get the title of this column. If you're not, the quote is the first half of a memorable line from what I believe to be the bible of all shows for my generation. The quote is from Saved By the Bell. Or as Mr. Belding simply calls it, "The Bell."

I will remember November 7th and 8th for quite some time, as those are the days that I met Mr. Belding. Actually, I met him November 7th, but my exchange with him on the 8th was also very important. But not as important as remembering to take Kelly's baby brother with you when you leave Home Ec.

Dennis Haskins, the actor who played the principal on Saved By the Bell, was attending NACA, a conference that matches student activities boards with bands, comedians, speakers, and the people who rent out those really cool gyroscope scooters. The conference was in Hartford, Connecticut, which is such a crappy city that even the Whalers left town. Ironically, the convention center here houses the Connecticut Sports Hall of Fame. It's a lovely place, filled with three shelves of UConn basketball memorabilia and Bruce Jenner's headband.

There is nothing to do in Hartford. Especially after one o'clock, when most of the bars close. The police "encourage" everyone to stay inside after one, leaving the streets about as safe as Jessie was during her bout with caffeine pills. So Friday night of the convention, a few of us decided we'd hit the bar quickly, since it was closing way too soon.

I knew Mr. Belding would be there, but was so concentrated on landing a few college shows that I completely forgot until I walked right by him on the way to the bar. Despite my dwindling drinking time, I had to stop. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I was excited. So excited. Albeit a bit scared.

The first humor column I wrote that got any recognition was about Saved By the Bell. I've since re-written it, but it first hit my school's paper when I was 17, and is fairly responsible for my career as a humor columnist. I also mentioned The Bell in my book. I had to thank him for the inspiration. And for the time he went easy on the gang, even though they destroyed his new car during a multi-tiered blackmail scandal.

I really did thank him, and then quickly made my way to the bar (hey, this was Hartford). But before I did, he said he may join me there. And Mr. Belding, unlike when it came to expelling Zack, kept true to his word.

At the bar, I got an autograph for my sister, who used to be my companion in Saved By the Bell trivia-offs (held in the same manner as Saved By the Bell dance-offs). If you have ever engaged in said trivia-offs, I hope you, like me, have since found a life. If you haven't, props to the first person who can tell me, without Google, exactly where Violet Bickerstaff was hiding before her solo.

I thought that was the end of our exchange, until he asked me to bring him a copy of my book the next day. That's right - Mr. Belding wanted to see what I wrote about Saved By the Bell.

It must be interesting to be Mr. Belding. To be a part of something so integral to pop culture that you are recognized everywhere you go - for something you did a decade ago. Since "The Bell," Haskins has been on West Wing and The Practice and ten movies. But when he walked into the bar, the music stopped, the bouncer hugged him, and whispers of "Oh my god, it's Mr. Belding" filled the air. As potent as the sounds of the rockin' new girl band, "Hot Sundae." (The true fans realize that this is the third time I have referenced this episode.)

Haskins is forever type cast, and that has got to be difficult. It made me think - if everything pans out and I land on some TV show for more than just a passing frame behind the co-stars (My mom is so proud), I don't want it to be that big of a hit. Because Haskins is Mr. Belding wherever he goes, and though he is beloved and welcomed, he can never just be Dennis. He does a talk about that to schools, and I must say it's something I'd like to hear. You should, too. Right after your school books me, of course.

On the 8th, I gave Dennis a copy of my book, and even signed it. (That's right - I gave Mr. Belding an autograph.) And before I left, he told the students around him they should check out what I wrote about The Bell, and also suggested I contact his friend at National Lampoon - using his recommendation. And that was just amazing. For the first time, someone I wrote about (that I didn't know ahead of time) read what I wrote about them. And he liked it enough to stand behind it.

Well, Dennis, I hope you're reading this, too. I wanted to thank you one more time for teaching my generation that the last three letters of principal spell "pal," even if Screech was the one to actually say that. Losing your identity to a TV character is probably difficult, but know that it is a character I, and many other people, admire a great deal. My day was certainly brightened by chatting with you.

And I got to ride the gyroscope scooter, too.

When I realized my Halloween costume would upset many people, I thought, "maybe I shouldn't wear this." When I realized I would never see those people again, I thought, "I am definitely going to wear this."

The inspiration for my costume first hit me when I was writing a column on Halloween a few years ago. Sarcastically, I wrote, "One Halloween I wore cat ears, angel wings, and carried a pitch fork, and went as every freaking girl on my campus." That quote made it into my book, and lately I've been reading that excerpt at shows. So it made sense that this year, I'd actually follow through.

What made the night much more fun was that en route from West Virginia to Albany, we took in Halloween at Penn State. If you've never been to a campus like Penn State for Halloween, go. Go now. Forget the fact that Halloween is 51 and a half weeks from now. Go now to make sure you don't miss it.

We had to wait on line at a costume store to pick up the cat ears and angel wings. (If you go now, hey, no line). Luckily, the ears came with a tail and a fuzzy bowtie--yes, bowtie--just in case the ears were not enough to give the cat thing away. We then returned to my friend's suite where her roommates were able to provide a pitchfork and a halo. I bet if we knocked on enough doors, we could have gotten the wings and ears free, too.

I assembled my costume, but not before designing the centerpiece myself. Rather than keep explaining the costume, I wore a white t-shirt with big black letters that said, "every freakin' girl on campus." It being the last day of October in Pennsylvania, the logistics of wearing a t-shirt as part of my costume should have been difficult. But it was miraculously in the high 60s outside. It was official - God thought this was funny, too.

Let's go over the numbers. Halloween at Penn State is a party with a mile diameter. Okay, I exaggerate. It's only three quarters of a mile. 90% of the town is dressed up, and 100% of those people are drunk. And of the girls I ran into, I'd say two thirds of them were dressed as one of the three costumes I was mocking.

I saw some great costumes. One guy went as Sam Adams. One guy wore a pirate costume and CDs, and went as Napster. And one guy was Jared from Subway, complete with an empty pair of gigantic pants stapled to his arm.

As for the girls, there were some great ones there, too. Charlie Chaplain, the St. Pauley Girl (she came with Sam Adams), and someone wearing a garbage bag halter-top. See, she was white trash.

But then came the angels, devils, and bowtie-clad kittens. They were everywhere. And most of them had no sense of humor. I discovered this directly after they read my shirt.

At the first party, all the guys and the girls not in those costumes thought mine was pretty funny. Even a devil really liked it. So when two angels (who came together) asked me what kind of angel has cat ears, I confidently showed them my shirt. One of them turned around and walked away. The other said, "so you think you're funny?"

"Actually," I said. "I'm a standup comic."

I'd have offered her my card for proof, but she stormed off before I got the chance.

At the next party, I got some more good reactions from the well-costumed girls, as well as the guys. One of them even said, "dude, you're my hero." That may be because I opened a beer with my teeth, but he also liked the costume. With my confidence back up, along with my blood alcohol level, I decided to show my shirt to another angel. Surprisingly, she loved it, and ran to get the friend that she came with. Who was, of course, dressed like an angel. The second angel didn't like it quite as much as the first.

"So you think you're funny?"

Yes, yes I do. But not as funny as someone who is so devoid of self-awareness that they can't laugh at being called out for choosing a costume that took 5 dollars, 5 minutes, and 5 other people in your hall to wear it first. If a girl had worn a t-shirt that said, "sarcastic guy who uses humor as a defense mechanism," I'd have found it hysterical.

At the third party, there were more angels, and devils, and cats, and nurses, and 80s people, and hoods, and cowgirls, and pirates, and other people I didn't show my shirt to. I had made my statement already (see paragraph, second) and didn't really want to offend any more people. Okay, so I did, but I simply ran out of people to offend. Maybe next year, I'll just be the St. Pauley Girl.

Who am I kidding? I'm totally doing this again.