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Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

My friends Rob and Sara and I had just arrived in Liverpool, England, and I had to pee really badly.

We had dropped off my luggage at my hotel and were walking through City Centre toward theirs when I spotted a McDonald’s restaurant. I told them I desperately needed to make a stop. I walked in and looked around, but didn’t immediately find what I sought. So, I walked over to a young man who was sweeping the floor and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for the restroom.”

He said, “Uhhh … this IS a restaurant, mate.”

I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Really, I loved Liverpool, and not just because of all the Beatles crap that was everywhere. Liverpudlians are wonderfully friendly – even the soccer hooligans. We attended an Everton football club match while we were there and got to see and meet real live hooligans.

The hooligan sitting next to me was quite vocal about his support for his team. The first time the official made what the hooligan thought was a bad call, he leaped from his seat and screamed, “Fuck off, ya cunt!” Of course, it sounded more like “Fook uff, yeh coont!”

You should have seen his face when I tried to high-five him after Everton scored its first goal of the match. He looked at me like I had nine eyeballs.

Later that night we were in a pub and ran into three older gentlemen who were drinking with abandon and singing American pop songs together at the top of their lungs. Two were Everton supporters and one supported cross-town rival Liverpool. (They don’t say the word “fan” much over there.)

“It’s not too bad a rivalry,” the Liverpool supporter said. “Very friendly. Right?” He was talking to one of his companions.

The tall guy with the questionable dental hygiene said, “Absolutely.” Then he head-butted the Liverpool supporter.

We were to fly to Dublin, Ireland, for the second leg of our journey, but a snowstorm blew in the morning of our flight. I got a taxi to my friends’ hotel with my luggage in tow, and by the time we got ready to leave for the airport it appeared all taxi service had been halted due to the weather. The taxi company wasn’t even answering phone calls.

So, we collected our luggage and decided to walk the 14 miles (OK, it wasn’t that far, but when you’re walking straight into a blizzard, it sure as hell feels like it) to the nearby Pump House Inn to warm up and figure out our next move. When we walked out the door of the hotel, and we got the first full blast of wind, I heard Sara exclaim, “Oh my god.”

It was an “oh my god” of epic proportions. It was a deep-down body “oh my god” that, had it been broadcast, would have captured the nation’s imagination like nothing before it. It was the kind of “oh my god” the teen-age girl says in the horror movie, just before Jason runs her through with a rusty machete.

The wind blew so hard that the ID tag on my duffel bag was making a sound like a baseball card in a bike spoke, or a bird in a fan blade. Rob and I looked at each other once, about halfway through our journey, and just laughed. We didn’t know what else to do.

But inside we were thinking, “Oh my god.”

The funny part is, when we made it to the Pump House Inn seven and a half hours later (yeah, yeah, OK) it was closed. I’d never seen Rob weep like an infant until that day. I didn’t think he would ever stop rocking back and forth like a baby chimp.

We managed to make our flight, and during our second night in Ireland we went to a late-night eatery (drunker than skunks) and ordered kebabs. They were delicious, but unfortunately mine tasted strangely like tongue. A few bites later, I realized it was MY tongue I was tasting.

Seriously, blood was everywhere. It was in my food, on my hands, in my shoe (still haven’t figured that one out). I quickly drenched all my napkins in it, so Rob went to the counter where we ordered to get more. Then he had to get more. I swear, I lost so much blood that I would not have been surprised if I started hearing angels.

Well, the bleeding wouldn’t stop, so Rob, as any loyal friend would do, decided to start taking pictures of me -- that is, when he wasn’t laughing hysterically. Then he got the guy who took our orders, who also was laughing hysterically, to come over and get in one of the pictures. It was probably the most comprehensively documented part of our trip. Best of all, I can whistle better than ever now.

But the joke was on Rob. We had dinner at what seemed like a very nice pub, and he raved about his delicious roast beef pie. About four the next morning, however, Rob’s delicious roast beef pie was raining from his mouth with about the same velocity of the blizzard we’d endured three days earlier. The poor guy did nothing but wretch for like three straight hours.

Rob later told me he thought he might have heard angels singing. (Actually, I’m pretty sure that was just Sara saying, “Oh my god” when she smelled the vomit.)

My only regret? I wish I’d gotten out of bed and taken pictures.

E-mail the writer at ohmyGOD@aol.com. No wait, it's kgramone@aol.com.