And now, the definition of "stress," courtesy of the American Heritage Dictionary:

A mentally or emotionally disruptive or upsetting condition occurring in response to adverse external influences and capable of affecting physical health, usually characterized by increased heart rate, a rise in blood pressure, muscular tension, irritability, and depression.

Just thought you’d like to know that, what with taxes being due by Thursday and all.

Got mine out already.

No stress for this cowboy.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I stress about six things.

The first two, money and death, take up 99.4 percent of my waking hours.

The rest?

In no particular order, then:

Having only two beers in the fridge: There is nothing that gives me more agita than the realization there’s only a pair of Heinekens staring back at me.

Two beers is just not getting the job done.

If I’m going to kick back with a few brews and a little SportsCenter, three is the magic number.

Two just makes me want to have one more, whereas four makes me wish I had one less.

Ergo, three.

So when there’s only two beers chilled and waiting, it means I have to get in my car and go buy some more.

This usually results in the lovely wife saying something along the lines of: "Where are you going?"

When I respond I’m going to get some beer, she then says something totally crazy like,"But there’s beer in the fridge."

Then comes me saying, "There’s only two," her saying, "Two’s enough, isn’t it?" me saying, "Actually, three is preferable," her saying, "Do your really need three?" and round and round.

Lunacy, right?

My heart is pounding just thinking about it.

Going to the video store with a second person: I don’t care who I’m with — going to pick out a video with a second person is recipe for disaster.

No two people can ever agree on what to rent.

I’ve nearly killed my brother, divorced my wife, and, as a child, emancipated myself from my parents as a result of video store issues.

Word to the wise: I will not watch anything starring Sarah Michelle Gellar or Freddie Prinze Jr. Ever.

Poor gas station etiquette: Or, as I like to call it, shortest way to give me a heart attack.

Here’s the deal: I pull up to the gas station, and some shmaroon didn’t pull up to the second pump.

So there’s an open pump in front of him.

Normally, I’d drive around this cretin to get to the front pump.

But when there’s another car at the pump opposite, I’mprevented from passing the first guy.

So now I have to drive all the way around the second guy, come at the pump with my tank on the wrong side, thereby forcing me to make a K-turn to get to the pump.

Kills me dead.

And lastly:

The fact there’s only 17 episodes left of "The Sopranos" before it’s all over: That’s right. Only 17 episodes before "The Sopranos" call it quits.

Seven more this season, 10 next year sometime, and then the show goes the way of Big Pussy, Richie Aprile, Jackie Jr., Philly Parisi, Ralph Cifaretto, and countless others.

As in, gone.

I don’t know how I sleep anymore with that knowledge.

One last thing, off-topic: So was that Carmela’s butt or a butt double? Discuss.