Speaking of season finales, The Princess and I last night cooked some dinner, got into our PJs, and watched our third favorite non-writers’-strike-affected TV show, Beauty and the Geek.

This is what living with a woman will do to you. As a bachelor with my own (dirty) apartment in Adams Morgan, I used to do my best Charles Bukowski impression every night, staying up all night, drinking myself into a coma, and watching all the free porn I could find online.

But moving in with the love of your life has a way of changing you.

When we first started watching Beauty and the Geek this season (accidentally, I still maintain), I would roll my eyes and ridicule the saturation of reality TV. Now, I care about these people, these reality stars named Dave, Jasmine, Sam, and Nicole, as if they were my friends and their beauty and/or geekiness were more important than the fate of the world itself.

Some may consider this sweet — a couple indulging in some trash TV and bonding on the couch. On the surface, it probably seems that way. But you have to understand just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

I not only watch Beauty and the Geek, last week I voted online for the Beauty and the Geek winner.

Have those words sunk in yet?

After the penultimate episode last Tuesday, the show told us to text our vote (99 cents? Yeah, right) for who should win this “social experiment” OR go to the to vote there.

I voted for Dave and Jasmine, who were crowned the winners last night during a cheesy episode that looked more like a Mad TV skit. I used absolutely no rational thought or logic behind my vote except for the fact that Dave’s skills as a LARPer made me feel exceptionally cooler by comparison.

The online vote form asked me for my home address, though, which I was not about to give them. So I e-mailed Baby Bien:

Arjewtino: “What’s your address?”

Baby Bien: “I’m scared. Should I be scared? I guess I’ll tell you anyway.”

–provides address–

Arjewtino: “You probably should have been. You just voted for the winner of Beauty and the Geek. Well, technically, I voted using your name and address. I didn’t want any junk mail sent to me. Sucker.”

Baby Bien: “Screw you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

This means I have become one of “them”. I am one of those people who cares about a reality show and knows what a is. This is more embarrassing than singing Lee Grenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” in a New York City karaoke bar (I’m actually kind of proud of that one).

You think my devolution ends there? You are sadly mistaken.

I also have started watching Season 2 of Project Runway on DVD. The Princess asked me to Netflix the series with the promise that I would see Heidi Klum naked, which has so far failed to materialize (though I did enjoy watching her with her knockers).

We have watched eight episodes so far. I know who Santino is now. I have opinions on backless dresses. And I think Michael Kors has good taste.

This means I have learned more about fashion since I started watching this show than I have ever gathered in a lifetime of shopping for clothes at the Salvation Army.

might be proud of me for this enlightenment, considering the night I met her I told her I don’t know anything about “fashion and shit”. But to me, it just means I’m in dire need of a total guy makeover (see?).

I need to read more Bukowski, or get into a fistfight at a bar, or spend a whole day watching old Bruce Lee movies. Maybe I should pin up posters of Scarlett Johansson in my room, or drink nothing but 15-year old malt scotch for a month. Watch a boxing match (live), attend a monster truck rally, do a keg stand, buy a gun.

Nevermind. The next Project Runway DVD is coming any day now.

As many of you and Wonkette’s readers now know, I have never been in a fistfight. If I ever was in one, though, I’d like to think it wouldn’t be as lame as Slater’s and Zach Morris’ on “Saved by the Bell” but would be more masculine yet highbrow.

Thank Jehova for chess boxing, a hybrid sport that combines the mental skills of chess with the physically taxing activity of beating the crap out of each other.

Chess boxing is split into 11 four-minute rounds of chess and boxing, starting and ending with chess. Competitors can win by knockout or checkmate. The sport, though, is inherently flawed because any semi-talented fighter can breeze through the opening chess round and then cream the living shit out of his opponent in Round 2.

For the visually challenged (you’d such at the chess portion of chess boxing), it looks a little something like this:

Right jab!

Don’t take my pawn!

Here comes my uppercut!

Checkmate, bitch!

The sport is the brainchild of French comic book artist Enki Bilal, who conceived of the sport (I’m guessing as a joke) in his 1992 book Froid-Équateur, completely unaware that it would become a reality 11 years later.

It is governed by the but is most popular in Finland, where boxers/players are best able to balance “pawn structures” and “zwischenzugs” with “bolo punches” and “uppercuts”.

As most things I know very little about, I instantly decided that I would be great at chess boxing. Sure, I’ve never been in a fight, but I did take two boxing classes at my gym a few years ago before a hernia took me out of the ring. And of course I couldn’t beat any of the weekend chess players in Dupont Circle, but I was a reluctant member of the Chess Club in junior high, where I finished 2-2 in a local tournament.

Luckily for me, I still qualify. The WCBA is looking for new chessboxers, especially in the U.S., to compete in “Europe and Russia” soon. The qualifications:

• Under the age of 35
• “Some” boxing experience
• An (estimated) ELO rating of 1800 (expert) in chess

They’re seeking both men and women and you can download a Fighters Form .

Hikers scale boulders at Great Falls

The Princess and I spent Labor Day communing with motherfuckin’ nature and hiking through Greats Falls. Because my friends like to be mentioned on my blog, I’ll tell you we went with (in order of longest I’ve known them) B-Fab, Dr. Vargas DDS, Cagey, and Average Jane.

There are a lot of people in DC who have never heard of Great Falls. I don’t know how you live here and not know about this place. I’d call you a certain name implying mental retardation, but The Princess doesn’t like that word, so I’ll just call you a rucking fetard.

Great Falls is a national park site popular with kayakers, hikers, and tourists with teenagers who whine about walking in their flip flops. And since I hate jogging or lifting weights but love feeling like a grizzly bear, we went to the Maryland side of the Falls on Monday.

About a third of the way through the first leg of the Billy Goat trail, I spotted a path that led down to the Potomac. I led my troop through bushes and found a beach clearing, where we saw four underwear-clad people had swam across to the Virginia side.

I suggested everyone strip and jump in the water. The girls were happy just dipping their toes in the tadpole-infested water. But I, infused with the heart of an insane Orca, undressed to my underwear.

I took off my clothes as The Princess whistled and cat-called. I jumped in the river. It felt amazingly refreshing and warm and reminded me of swimming in Lago Atitlán in Guatemala.

The Princess warned me about the deceptive dangers of river currents, having grown up in the Midwest and seeing first-hand the power of the mighty Missouri River. I scoffed and stubbornly started to swim hard to the other side, a distance I estimated at about 17 miles.

Why do I jump into bacteria-infested waters? I cannon-balled into the C&O Canal in Georgetown several years ago when I lost a one-sided bet to Tits McGee. It took three showers to get the stink off. It must be a sick desire to conquer the elements. Or just a sickness.

I landed on the rocks of Virginia panting and gasping for breath. I looked back to Maryland and saw my friends yelling for me to come back. I rested for a few minutes, then jumped off a rock and started back toward the Old Line State.

Shit, I realized after a few seconds, this current is tougher than it looks. The Nation’s River pushed me downstream as I fought to stay on a straight line to shore. Great, I’m going to drown in my fucking underwear, I thought.

I flipped over and swam on my back, kicking the waters with my feet. After a few seconds, I looked up and saw that I was swimming in place like a stranded buoy.

When do men summon their strength in times of need? When women are watching.

I turned on to my stomach and beat down on the waves with my arms, pushing myself against the devouring current and slashing through the river as fast as I could. I landed on a mossy Maryland boulder unable to breathe yet proud I survived the mammoth waters.

“Is your skin bubbling today?” AJ asked me yesterday over e-mail. “Did you have diarrhea last night?”

No, I told her, adding: “Maybe instead of infecting me, the river gave me superhuman strength, much like the radioactive spider gave Peter Parker his powers. Maybe I’m now a superhero.”

Yes, a superhero. You may call me Potomac Man.

Alarm clock didn’t go off. Trains were slow. Passengers were rude. Early meetings were scheduled.

I hope my day ends better than this guy’s:

Click to enlarge. Via Yadogg.

They’re synonymous with “vagina bundles” in England and would protect me from evil Guatemalan thieves. But they’re still fanny packs and I’m pretty sure would stop talking to me if I ever owned one.

If I were to wear a fanny pack, though, it would be this one, recommended to me by Gen, who lives solely to see me in humiliating situations:

Aside from the Brazilian, German, and British flags, I think it’s awesome. If anyone wants to buy it for me, the Buy It Now price on eBay is $2.99 plus shipping.

I’ve got a I have to own up to. I love .

These simple, undemanding, even-a-caveman-could-play-them online games created by the Internet travel company are as addicting as blogs, Gene Weingarten’s , and fantasy baseball.

They were created by Orbitz in 2005 to promote its travel service. Apparently, it’s had an effect on me since I’ve used it to buy airline tickets at least a half dozen times that I remember.

Some of these games are downright ridiculous. In , for example, you are supposed to toss a “family member” down an icy street and maneuver him onto a circle where you are awarded points. I like it better when it was called curling.

In another game, , you have to jump on a trampoline and dunk a basketball. This takes the brain power of a potato.

Here are my top five favorite Orbitz games:

When I went on a cruise with my Papi, Hermanita, and Hermano, my favorite part was playing shuffleboard. I, of course, beat my brother every time, which made him cry like a friggin’ schoolgirl. This Orbitz Shuffleboard might be the most challenging of the Orbitz games, which is like saying I’m taller than a dwarf.

Blue and I used to play our own version of paper football with sugar packets when we waited for our food at Denny’s as teenagers. Our natural competitiveness often led to full-out brawls.

This one is actually the new and “improved” version of one of Orbitz’s original games. Updated or not, it’s just too easy to smack the ball out of the park. Kind of like in softball.

This one is one of the most addicting Orbitz games. I can’t tell you why. But hand a beanbag to someone and tell him to toss it, and he always will. It’s in our nature as human beings to want to toss bags full of beans.

This game is strange but at least I can say it’s original. You toss these little blue men that look like old bananas from one virtual island to another. You need some pretty advanced knowledge in geometry and physics to get the jumps right, so make sure you bust out your scientific calculator.

I played Wii for the first time recently and found it pedantic and boring, if not physically taxing.

A friend gave me a bootlegged copy of Baseball 2007 for Playstation 2 and I felt disinterested at best.

Culito invited me over to play Xbox and I yawned.

I thought my recent lackluster response to video-gaming was a sure sign that I had matured and started acting my age. Then I sang “Milk, milk, lemonade, ‘round the corner fudge is made!” and realized I was wrong.

The real reason, I believe, is that I miss the video games I used to play. I’m not talking about the games we, as a generation, used to play — like Pac-Man, Super Mario Bros., or Q-Bert. I mean the games I loved. Here are five games I miss playing:

Cyberball, Atari.

Blue and I were addicted to this game. As teenage nerds with no girls to talk to, we would venture to the Fallbrook Mall arcade every weekend to play the futuristic football game featuring fallible robots. Sure, the science behind it made less sense than the flux capacitor, but you got to destroy robots who tried to gain yards.

Double Dribble, Nintendo.

Since even Super Mario and his brother Luigi could have beaten me at basketball (as long as they ate magical mushrooms), I had to turn to this game to feel like an NBA star. It eventually taught me how to shoot three-pointers from the corner, except in… well, you know… real basketball games.

NHL ’94, Sega.

I dominated this game. Whether I played as the Campbell Conference All-Stars or the weaker L.A. Kings or the awful Winnipeg Jets, I would beat all opponents. Even if I had a midterm I hadn’t studied for the next day and it was 2am, I always made time for this game. This was the version earlier than the one made famous in Swingers (“I can make Gretzky’s head bleed”).

Contra, Nintendo.

When people ask me where I developed my lifetime hatred of South American terrorists and alien life-forms hell-bent on human destruction, I cite this game. My friend Resnick and I used to record our games on my VCR and then watch them in order to analyze our skills and improve. Ballplayers call this behavior “watching film”. We called it “we have no girlfriends”.

Snafu, Intellivision.

This game and console are so old most people reading this weren’t even born when they went out of business. But I remember taking trips to Northern California to visit my uncle and aunt and playing this game for hours. It pretty much involved manipulating a snake-like figure that grew longer so it wouldn’t crash into itself. My sister and I fought over the controller every time we played but, luckily, I was bigger and would pound her if she took too long to play.

They say no one ever really retires from kickball.

But after more than two years encompassing five seasons, it’s time for me to hang up my cleats and flip cup.

I joined kickball in spring 2005 for the thrill of competition and camaraderie. (Also, I was told, it was full of horny nerd-girls who liked to drink.) I was captain of my first WAKA team, the Bayside Tigers, a team comprised mostly of my goofy co-op neighbors who played like the same Screech who attended our moniker’s fictional school.

I led that team to an 0-10 record. That is not a typo. Oh and ten.

I joined the Kids Who Don’t Read Good in the fall and instantly liked my teammates. I stayed with the franchise as we evolved into Slow Children at Play the following year and, most recently, joined NAKID as Captain McDreamy and the Rainbow Coalition (named such, I think, because of the higher-than-normal ratio of gay guys on our team).

My kickball career has seen some amazing moments on the field, like the time in the spring of 2006 when we, an under-.500 team, beat the first-place team in the playoffs to make it to the .

There were also some great moments off the field, like the time I Evel-Knieveled across four tables and a pyramid of beer cups. Or like last fall, when paparazzi caught me drunkenly going home with the rubber chicken and sold the exclusive photo to Wonkette.

Kickball is not really a sport or an activity; it is, rather, an event — a combination of easy athleticism and heavy drinking. As those who play it can attest, kickball centers around one thing — . We talk about it in e-mails leading up to game time, sneak it past U.S. Park Police, drink it in excess at bars that look the other way, chug it to play flip cup, and rue it the next day when we’re hungover at work.

The truth is, I’m not retiring from kickball but rather the phenomenon of kickball. The general debauchery one can expect on any given kickball night — boob flashing, grinding on the “dance floor”, ass grabbing, pantsing sorry about that, Nickels), , vomiting, watching your male teammate make out with a girl AND a guy – has worn me out.

My teammates are in denial about my retirement. Who can blame them, when I, the team’s starting pitcher, put up the following pitching stats this season:

But yes, Rainbows, I’m done with kickball. It doesn’t mean I won’t still come cheer you on against our arch-nemesis Balls Deep or drink with you at the bar once or twice next season. It’s just that kickball is a kid’s game and, at nearly 32, I no longer want to keep up with you.

A teammate asked me recently what I was going to do with my Tuesday nights after retirement. That’s what I’d like to find out.

I am now ranked first in Google searches for .

Also, I am ranked third for .

Strangely, I only rank 20th for the search , even though it was only the title of my original blog post.

I hope that whoever did these searches found what they were looking for (aside from some photos of a very angry — and very retarded — baby bird).

If you turned to Page 2 of the yesterday and happened to glance below the fold to the print ads, you might have spotted this disturbing image nestled among the promotions for Botox and Type 2 Diabetes.

Who in his right mind would ever consider Lasik eye surgery after seeing this advertisement by some outfit called ? If it manages to refer even one patient, I’ll consider it a small miracle. And having it appear in the Express’ “Eye Openers” section is just too poetic and groan-inducing not to mention.

I read the ad further (unable to ignore the punctuation errors) to figure out why the ad wizards chose to showcase their “20/20 Guaranteed or Money Back” offer in this way. But despite promises of FDA approval or assurances of safety, there was no explanation for why this poor woman appeared looking like the poster child for Graves Disease.

My natural curiosity unsated, I called I Surgeons to get some answers.

Arjewtino: Hi, I’m calling in reference to your ad for Lasik eye surgery in today’s Express.

I Surgeons Receptionist: Yes?

Arjewtino: Have you seen the ad?

I Surgeons Receptionist: Yes.

Arjewtino: Will Lasik make my eyes look that big, too?

I Surgeons Receptionist: No, it won’t, it’s a very safe procedure.

Arjewtino: Oh, so this isn’t a new trendy thing? ‘Cause I think it looks very cool. Can’t I have the doctor make them bigger?

I Surgeons Receptionist: No.

Arjewtino: So why does the ad look like that?

I Surgeons Receptionist: He probably wanted to stress the eyes [in the ad].

Arjewtino: Oh. So what are some of the side effects of Lasik eye surgery?

I Surgeons Receptionist: Mostly dry eyes.

Arjewtino: Not extreme eye augmentation?

I Surgeons Receptionist: No.

Arjewtino: Ok. Thank you.

So, Lasik-eye-surgery-considering, eyeglass-wearers of the world, think long and hard before agreeing to this procedure.

Then again, it might get you into the Express.