I have a confession to make. I gave up drinking.

I know, that's crazy talk. I'm sure I will get very many angry letters from readers that support alcohol consumption. "Steve," they will say. "I'm not dunrk AT ALLllllalalal! You have to trythis. I dunno what's init, just tryit. I love you man!"

I don't think drinking is wrong. Frankly, I love it. Even when I don't drink, I have a great time going out with my friends and watching them get plastered. And I'm funnier when people are drunk. Go ahead and get smashed now, I'll be hysterical. Though I can't imagine it is much fun to read humor columns while you're drunk. (Drunk instant messaging, however, is awesome).

I gave up drinking because it was cutting into my life instead of enhancing it. I've been sober for two months, which is the longest I've gone without drinking in seven years. Wait, my mom reads this column and can do math. Uh, I mean I've been drinking lots of sacramental wine while praying. Okay, maybe not, but drinking has caused me to do a great deal of kneeling.

The last time I got drunk was after a show in upstate New York. That was a special night, because I also came down with the flu. If you think throwing up from the flu is bad, try being wasted at the same time. I spent that entire night on a strangers' couch simultaneously shivering and sweating, apparently the two great tastes that taste great together.

I cancelled my show for the next night and went home. Once I regained consciousness three days later, I made the pledge we all make: "never again." I don't know how often you've said, "never again," but that was my fourth time this year. So I didn't expect it to take.

I remember the last time I promised to stop drinking. I don't really remember it, but it's been retold to me. It was early September, and I was stumblingly hitting on a platonic friend. After she went home with a guy who could stand up straight without the aid of a wall, I took a drunken two-hour subway ride home. It was only an hour train ride, but due to delays and my inability to run for the train I missed, it took twice as long. Two hours of almost throwing up in the subway after having been rejected by a girl I shouldn't have been hitting on in the first place. Weeeee!

"But what the hell," I said the following week while having a beer, "that night wasn't so bad. I'll try it again four to five days a week for the rest of my life."

As a standup comic, I don't usually pay for alcohol. Often people buy me a few after the show, or free beer is part of my contract. And as a standup comic, I rarely go more than a few days without a six hour drive. Hangovers are bad. Hangovers are terrible on the interstate. And that's really why I stopped. The nights were fun - but the next mornings were absolutely terrible.

Free beer is usually just implied in my contract - but how cool would it be if that clause was actually there.

"Whereas the comedian enjoys libations, and we receive them at wholesale prices, therefore be it resolved we will make sure at least two of his sheets and as many as four are, completely, to the wind."

There are two types of next mornings when you drink. The amazingly fun recounting everything that happened with your friends, and the solitary "why does someone keep smacking me in the back of the head" feeling. Since I am traveling right now, I am always in a different place than the people I drank with the night before. So all I am left with is someone continually smacking me in the back of the head. On the interstate.

I don't know if this current non-drinking streak will last, but it has a better chance of lasting than my others. Because I have still been acting drunk. To get the effects of alcohol without spending the money, just become a standup comedian. If you thought alcohol lowered your inhibitions, try telling jokes to strangers every night. In the past two months, I have helped close a bar in Kansas, danced on one with five girls in Indiana, and had dinner at one with three strippers in New York. My sober stories are starting to beat my friends' drinking stories. Of course, the coolest drinking stories most of them have involve Taco Bell at 2AM.

"Dude, they were totally out of chalupas!"

"Wow. Maybe I should ask my new stripper friends what they think about that."

I'm kidding, of course. We haven't really stayed in touch.

I hope I can keep the promise I made to myself. Maybe I can stop destroying platonic friendships by hitting on everyone, buy something nice with the money I save, and actually get through life a little less hung over.

I'll drink to that.

I don't dislike Starbucks - they're actually pretty smart. I just think that people who drink there are silly. Ordering a Vente Colombia Narino Supremo? I am not a coffee guy so maybe I just don't understand, but I don't think the caffeine could possibly be worth that much dignity.

I have, however, been going into Starbucks lately. If I buy anything, it is a black and white cookie rather than a $4 small coffee.

There were three things wrong with that last sentence: Starbucks' small is called "tall," they don't sell just "coffee," and if they did have a small coffee it would cost more than $4. But there internet is free.

Starbucks' internet costs money. But Starbucks locations in major cities are usually close enough to other stores with free internet that you can pick up while in Starbucks. So you can sit in their store all day while they think you're paying for their service, order nothing, and use any computer with a wireless connection to check your e-mail and write columns about why you don't order anything from Starbucks.

I was recently sitting quietly in a corner of the Starbucks in Union Square, an area of Manhattan consisting mainly of NYU students and people who protest wars in countries they can't locate on a map. I was there killing time between dinner and a show, and it was Passover, so I couldn't even order a black and white cookie.

I sat behind a pole so my phone calls wouldn't disturb anyone. I may enjoy stealing internet, but I am not rude. After a half hour, I was approached by a woman. Rather, my table was approached - she pretty much ignored me.

She put her stuff down on my small table. A table so small it wouldn't have comfortably fit two people who showed up together, let alone the rudest woman in the world and a humor columnist. After a solid 30 seconds of her spreading her stuff out and taking off her jacket, she noticed the quizzical look on my face, and said, "Is someone sitting here?"

I really wanted to say, "Yes. Someone horribly rude who didn't ask me if it was alright to sit at my table." Or, "no, and I prefer to keep it that way." Instead, I said, ""¦" Though it may have sounded more guttural.

I warned her I'd be on my phone a lot, hoping it would cause her to move. And she did. But as I started to smile, she looked at my frappachiamoccha-less table and said, "you can't sit here! You're not even a customer!"

I can understand that it was a busy day, and she probably had a large number of wars to protest. But the vast majority of people who sit in Starbucks are not customers. That's why the store can sell coffee for so much - because the people who buy it are convinced that the store is twice as popular as it really is. (If you don't believe me, check out how many people are sitting down and how few people are on line).

I told her that Starbucks also sells internet, and I was surfing the web on my computer. I was careful not to say I was paying them for it - I may enjoy stealing internet, but I am not a liar. She then asked a few questions about my use of the computer. Some were normal, like "how much does it cost?" and some were ridiculous like, "Do they keep the computers behind the counter?" She finally walked away, but not before forcefully slamming her oversized purse into the head of the girl at the next table.

"Oh," she said, as she glanced at the girl and turned her back. She then proceeded up and down the aisle, getting ushered away from each table she put her stuff on before asking if it was okay. One guy, after watching this debacle, threw his arms over the rest of his table and said, "Noooo!"

Maybe she thought we'd all leave if the music got worse, because the woman then approached the counter and asked if she could see their CDs so she could pick something else. And the oddest part happened next. She left the store, only to come back with a folding table. I don't know where she got it from or if she thought she'd be able to use it, but she put it next to me, still folded, and said, "watch this for me" and left the store again.

When she got back, she grabbed her table without saying a word, and tried to put her stuff down on the table of the new people next to me. They refused, and I suggested she just set up her own table in the back.

"Perhaps," I said, "they keep some extra chairs behind the counter."

The story you are about to read is based on truth, but if it was just straight truth that'd be boring.

I am constantly being asked questions about what it's like to work for CollegeHumor.com.

"How many t-shirts does Jake own?"
"Is Ricky John Mayer's brother?"
"Is Josh really in Menudo?"

That's a resounding no. Ricky just looks like John Mayer, but they're not related.

Really, working for CollegeHumor.com is awesome. And Josh isn't in Menudo. Anymore.

Anyway, I'd like to answer all these questions and more and tell people about the dudes behind this 4000 sq foot warehouse of flash games, drunk pictures, porn, and the occasional humor column.

Rick, Josh, Jake, and Zach are the men behind everything, which you already know if you are smart enough to ever click on the "about us" button. I get to be listed near the top dogs, too because I've been around longer than most. Also, because I know some people that break kneecaps. Figure skaters, mostly.

I'm what's known as the "head writer" - but my business cards say "guy who crushes dreams of kids who think they can write, too." One day, I hope that will read "Dr. guy who crushes dreams of kids who think they can write, too. Esquire."

Rick and Josh are high school friends, who met Jake while he was interning at NASA, outfitting the new rocketships to receive the Spice channel. Rick then met Zach while they were undergrads at Demon Deacon School for the North Carolinically Challenged. By day, they are four kids in their early 20s. By night, an elite team of safe-crackers, each with a last name easily turned into a noun. And they have a cool website.

The four currently reside in San Diego, except for Zach because he's only eight years old and thus still in school. If you've ever flown over San Diego, you have seen the massive Collegehumor.com office building. You can easily spot it because it's the only one in the skyline I just made up.

This summer, CollegeHumor dudes are living in New York, while I go start a satellite office in Los Angeles. I know, I'm moving from New York and they're moving to New York. It's very Gift of the Magi. Later on in the summer, I plan to sell my hair to buy nice chains for their pocket watches.

Another one of the big dogs is Justin, known best for his potato-shaped tattoo, and worst for his tattoo-shaped potato. And Mike, who makes cartoons and movies and coffee. Also there is Russ, who handles security. Network security - let's face it, he's way too scrawny to handle real security.

A lot of us end up telecommuting because we're sprinkled throughout the country, but sometimes we have staff meetings where everyone flies in from all over the country and plays a massive game of pong. Then we mullet hunt and take pictures of those Virginia Tech girls and write on our drunk friends and blah blah blah reminisce blah.

I am not the site's only writer. There are like 40 people who do the updates, but none more named Amir than Amir Blumenfeld or named Adam than Adam Jacobi. Some of us are comedians, too - I myself have performed with Matt and Dean and Mindy. Also, we did standup. (Get it? Get it?)

Anyway, the whole reason I'm writing this update is because you might get to work for collegehumor.com, too. We're hiring three interns this summer, and though the internship is unpaid, you get to be on my team for the annual collegehumor.com pong fest. We've already got two hired, so if you want to be the third, here's what you do:

E-mail us with a letter written in broken English, with poor grammar and alternating capital letters. Then tell us why we ROCKKKK!!!!1111 and that you've loved the site ever since you learned you were 14 and learned to read. ...OR IF YOU ACTUALLY WANT THE JOB, send a real cover letter and resume to steve AT observationalhumor.com.

You might say, "Steve, you left out a bunch of staff members." Well I'd say, "that's true. But where do you get off talking back? You're not the boss of me! You're not the boss!" And then I'd punch you in your left eye. WITH MY MIND! (Props to comic genius Ben Morrison for that line).

Now excuse me while I get back to work. Mmmmm . . . dream crushing . . . gaaaaahhhhhhh.

1. There's a new issue of Ruminations called "Twenty-Five" and there's also a new issue of Observational Humor out called "Snaking Your Engine"�

2. Oh, and if you're a Maxim magazine reader, be sure to check out this month's Gear section for a profile they did of our Big Shocker. And also be sure to check out our sponsor, MagazinesForCheap.com, where you can get a year of Maxim and Stuff for $10. Yep, forreals.

3. Now go take full advantage of these hotlinks. Especially the Mario guitar one, that's really rad.

I'm officially moving to Los Angeles. Nothing changed in the last few days to make it any more official - but I've been talking about it so much that if I backed out now I'd be a real weenie.

I did two things recently that signify that I'm actually moving to LA. One, I priced cars. Two, I watched a movie based in Los Angeles to see if I could recognize any places. It happened to be the post-apocalyptic Los Angeles from "Escape from LA," but it was still Los Angeles.

"Look there!" I was hoping to say. "That guy in the cloak trying to behead Snake Plissken is like a mile from the Laugh Factory!"

For those of you who have seen the movie, Steve Buscemi's "Map to the Stars Eddie" character really does remind me a great deal of my agent.

I am torn about what kind of car I should buy. Having more knowledge of subway cars than automobiles, I am convinced that any used car being sold has something inherently wrong with it that I will only discover 30 seconds after the warranty expires. I feel the used car dealer will put a bomb in the car set to explode the engine directly after the warranty expires just so he can laugh at the sucker from New York who bought the exploding car.

"Only a New Yorker wouldn't know to look under the hood for an engine bomb," he'll say to his tweed-wearing co-worker named Crazy Earl. "Those fool Yankees and their lack of knowledge of how easily cars can explode."

Maybe that won't really happen. Maybe I've been watching too much Snake Plissken.

I know that not all used car dealers wear tweed and try to explode their customers. But that is the impression I've gotten from years of television commercials where tweed-wearing used car dealers named Crazy Earl are yelling about new models through thousands of balloons. If they're willing to do all that stuff, beheading me in a post-apocalyptic Los Angeles is well within their capabilities.

I do trust at least one used car dealer. I have a fraternity brother who used to own a few used car dealerships, and we hung out a good deal in college. And there was this one time where...wait, this story doesn't end anywhere good. It certainly wouldn't refute the idea that used car salesmen can be insane. But he never wore tweed, so that's a start.

I turned, as most consumers do for most things, to eBay. eBay is a good way to see what other people are paying for consumer goods before you end up going to a store anyway and paying much more. If you were worried about the authenticity of that Kirk Gibson baseball, what chance do you have to get an authentically working engine? About as much chance as Snake Plissken had of making it back in time to save the world, but he managed it twice, didn't he? Oh, sorry to ruin the ending for you. If you haven't seen the "Escape" movies, ignore those last two sentences. Snake, um, dies. Yeah. The hero of the movie totally dies. It's a real buzzkill. You should go see them.

I'm deciding between getting a nice mid-sized car with good gas mileage (like a Nissan Sentra or Toyota Camry or one of the other three cars I've heard of) or a late 80s sports car. They're about the same price on eBay, and you can't get a girl with a Nissan Sentra. Actually, getting girls is not why I want the sports car. In Hollywood, you are successful when you present the image of success, and you can't do that in a Sentra.

Yes, I am the first guy to ever consider getting a sports car solely because it will help me get a job. Wait, that's wrong. I am the first guy to ever consider getting a sports car solely because it will help me get further in my occupation. Plenty of guys have tried to use their sports car to get a job. (Badum!)

The main problem, of course, is the insurance. I'll be under 25, living in LA, spending a great deal of time on the road, and driving a sports car with an engine that may or may not explode after having just gotten my license (next month, I hope). Do you know what insurance agents say when they hear about someone like me? "Ha ha ha, let's all go to Hawaii."

I hope Snake Plissken is there waiting for them.

At first I wasn't sure which is more important - that it was April Fool's Day this week, or that today is 04/04/04. But I realized April Fool's Day is more important because it is way more fun to be horribly mean to someone and get away with it than it is to type a cool date.

I have always loved pranks. Not hurtful pranks - the kind of pranks where the prankee says, "you know what? That was good." April Fool's Day is my Christmas. Since I'm Jewish, the actual Christmas is just my day after December 24th. So it's nice I have something else to celebrate.

I didn't get a chance to prank anyone this April Fool's Day because I was stuck in the Cleveland airport for most of it. ("Your plane is broken and you're delayed many hours! April Fools! Except the part about the plane being broken and the delay! That's really happening!")

Instead, I will recount the best pranks I've ever pulled off, April Fools or otherwise. I'm going to be telling these to my grandkids eventually, I may as well tell you now.

While my friends were busy unscrewing the tops of salt shakers and saran wrapping the toilet bowl, a seven-year-old Steve went for more personal gags. My sister Sharon was obsessed with a ballet tape she had. I took it, dubbed it, and used my Star Studio to karaoke my voice over the original.

There was a hot summer night that we only had one working air conditioner, so three of us huddled in Sharon's room. I shared the floor with my other sister, who somehow took up most of it, repeatedly kicking me in her sleep. She woke up that morning and got dressed in my empty room while I finally slept. Of course, she left her dirty clothes strewn all over the floor and knocked over a pile of newly sorted baseball cards. Awakening to this with only two hours of solid sleep, I calmly collected her garments and left a trail of them towards the front door of our house, which I had to open in order to hang her bra from a tree in our front lawn.

Then came summer camp. I already wrote about the time I dressed a mannequin like me and threw it off a roof. That same summer, we took every tray table from the dining hall and packed our director's office so tight he couldn't get in the door. And after a girl a year older told my friend that she didn't want to hang out with him because he was such a kid, we convinced her that he was older than all of us, but suffered from a rare form of dwarfism that made him look younger and came with a learning disability so that he'd be back a few years in school. Mean? Yes. An appropriate punishment? Of course.

The two funniest parts of that story are the name of the disease and who the friend is. We called it Polyponesia - if you used to watch "Just the Ten of Us" you might get that reference, because that's the name of the fake disease that Doozler had. And the friend was comedian Josh Jacobs, who I'm now on tour with. That summer in 1995 is how we met - I guess it's no surprise that we both now make fun of people for a living.

College was the pinnacle of my pranking, especially after I wrote an anonymous e-mail program (see extra credit, comp sci). I forged one from my dean to a friend the day grades came in that said "You fail. That's right, fail faily faily fail fail." I posted a girl on Hot or Not and emailed her sorority about it - from her own email address. And when one friend sent a disgustingly tasteless note to the published email of Daniel Pearl's kidnappers, I used the program to send a reply.

But my all-time favorite will always be the Thirsty Prank. A week before April Fool's, a few friends and I printed up 300 pictures of one of our fraternity brothers with random words on the bottom of them. They read, "Thirsty?", "Gondola?", and "Cleveland?" Then we plastered campus every day that week, concentrating especially on areas we knew he'd be. You've never seen someone freak out until they find 300 posters of themselves that they never hung.

Being stuck in the Cleveland airport this Thursday wasn't as bad you'd think because every time I hear the word Cleveland I remember that prank. Especially if it happens to be Christmas in April.

Now excuse me while I go set all the clocks in my mom's apartment to 4:04.