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 |   The only blog that will put hair on your chest... |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Turning from the Dark Side ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** < This is where I'll insert a cool new blog description. Someday. > |
| The lack of blog comments lately is immensely disappointing. The fact is I only blog for the comments. All my "serious" writing is restricted to group-only access, and this schtick I do here is just for shits and giggles. If no one is shitting or giggling, it's pretty pointless. People's sudden disinterest makes me wonder if I should bother blogging. I actually just considered giving it up to pursue some serious writing again. For a minute. Then I realized this sort of "writing" is more fun and I'd miss it. Without the feedback of everyone wondering at my class and sanity though, it's kind of depressing. That's why I have a proposition for all of you. For the next two weeks I'm going to give out GP prizes for blog comments. The value of the prize is directly proportional to the value of the blog comment. Lameass comments will not be rewarded, and I will in fact mock, belittle, and otherwise chastise that blog commenter in the very next entry. However, GPs will be headed your way if your blog comment doesn't make me wish I hadn't wasted my time reading it. (Anyone who can decipher that double negative sentence is eligible to win more GPs.) I figure this is a good strategy considering the GP whoring status of most of my readers. There's only a few stipulations. You can only comment on blog entries no more than a week old. Also, you only get awarded for one blog comment per blog entry. So if you post two comments for the same entry, only the first one earns you the GPs. Finally, by accepting this challenge you are effectively signing away any right to bitch, complain, or whine when I totally make fun of you for posting lameass comments or being an uber GP whore. So post away! |
Moody Blue: Needs an Upgrade  challenged me to write about my first day of high school in "Invalid Item"  . Ask and ye shall receive.
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| Some people would say I'm mentally unstable. Some would say I'm totally fucked up. It's probably true, but there's a bigger picture to consider here. Like any normal human being, I can explain my bouts of oddness, insanity, vulgarity, and scatalogical fascination. I can account for my eccentricity like so many others: by blaming it on my family. A couple entries ago I wrote a little about my mother and father, but the weirdness is much more far reaching. Since I know you're all so fascinated by this kind of stuff, I've decided I'll start writing some tales from my youth to illustrate why I'm so messed up now. Inspired by Mia's dead bird story, here's one. My grandfather used to play host to several kinds of animals at his house, mostly livestock. However, he did not have a farm, he just had animals. There were always free range chickens running around, which would be snatched, beheaded, and eaten whenever the urge struck them. (And yes, chickens do run around with their heads chopped off. More disturbing though is the head continuing to squawk for several minutes after its removal.) Besides the live animals running around, in true redneck fashion, he sported a wide variety of dead, rotting ones. The beavers he trapped would stack up on the kitchen floor until finally he would skin them out on the dining table and tack up the furs all over the house. (Most were hidden though by the enormous underwear my grandmother dried by hanging them from the living room ceiling.) The carcasses would be thrown into the garbage until they stunk so bad my grandmother would secretly ask my brother or I to dig a whole to bury them. That smell was mild though compared to the stench of rotting snapping turtle in the aluminum trash can. He used to stop his truck and pick up snappers crossing the road. He'd tell his passengers, "Put your feet on its shell so it can't snap at ya." As terrified I was at the prospect of having a toe bitten off, I drew the line when he wanted to pick up the rattlesnake he saw crossing the road. I was already crawling out the truck window and into the back when a biker came along and he had to abandon the snake. He was a grizzled old backwoods kind of guy, a true man's man. Just listening to him talk put hair on your chest. Now I'm rambling though and that's not where this entry is going. This entry is about a turkey. Back in my formative years, the Division of Fisheries and Wildlife picked up a wild tom turkey that was hit by car. They kept it alive but needed to nurse it back to health before releasing it into the wild. They decided to leave it with my grandfather, because that's just the sort of thing he did I guess. It's like in Christmas Vacation when the squirrel jumps out of the Christmas tree and Clark says, "Where's Eddie? He usually eats these things!" He of course took the turkey, though he really had no good reason to do so. He let it have the run of the yard, and it quickly took up residence in my little cousins' playhouse. It was one of those gaudy plastic houses Kaybee Toys loved to sell in the 80's and 90's. The turkey chased the young'uns out of there and turned it into poop city. I truly had no idea turkeys eat and sleep in the same place they crap. There was white plastered all over those walls, inside and out. Made me wonder if turkeys fling their poo or something. How freakin' cool would that be? Most of the time he'd strut around the yard looking for a hen to breed. He apparently had an overactive libido because he wasn't the least bit picky. In fact a nice fat stump could just as easily double as a sex toy for that tom. Family picnics involved sitting high on the picnic table or kicking the turkey, lest your leg get ridden turkey style. He'd puff out his chest and chase the dog back into the house, and to this day no one knows if he would pecked out her eyes or dry humped her. Also reminiscent of National Lampoon's Cousin Eddie, my grandfather would laugh and advise to "just let him ride it out." He stuck around all summer, that horny bird. He'd sit on the hatchway, just outside the front door, and start squawking and chomping his beak at anyone that came out the door. I was probably about 10, and I had to run out quick before he'd attack me. Looking back on it with a bit more adult information, I don't know if he was going to attack me or rape me. He looked awfully mean. I'd freak out a little in the doorway, and my grandmother would start smacking him with the broom. It only provided me with a diversion though, because he would attack the broom. And then hump it. I can't remember if the turkey had a name. I only remember that everyone hated it. Everyone except my grandfather. He thought it was a collosal joke on the rest of us. Of course, he was fearless, whether it was a rapist turkey or rabid grizzly. He'd kick the bird halfway across the lawn when it tried to hump his leg and then have a beer. He thought the whole thing was hilarious, even more so that the bird never left, and he was the only one disappointed when raccoons finally absconded with the tom. I daresay I have his sense of humor. I must, because how else could a story about a horny turkey make me miss him? |
| For the last several weeks I've been so busy at work that I haven't been able to be very active on Writing.com. Most of my fun time and all of my blogging time spent here are during slow times at work. Since I haven't had any of those lately, I haven't had much of a presence here. By the time I get online at home, I have just enough time to get caught up on blogs and emails. But now I'm back, and I'm waiting for Writing.com to entertain me. I wrote a blog entry yesterday, half of which was utter nonsense and half of which was completely true. I'll leave it to you to figure out which is which. Nevertheless it was the sort of entry that usually spawns all kinds of blog comments, usually along the lines of "you're mental" and "what a geek." I got only two lousy comments though. Though appreciated, it just wasn't the same as a horde of readers telling me I'm totally fucked up. Now today I'm refreshing the IM console and My Favorites over and over, waiting for something, anything, to happen. You people are damn boring! Where the hell is all the fun shit that used to happen on here? Where is everyone? People are blogging less, and when they do, it's usually boring crap I'd only find entertaining while I'm on the shitter. Is everyone truly that boring? And why is everyone writing about the same crap over and over these days? The blogs are stagnating, and it's frustrating to no end. Surely there's something in your lives that isn't exactly the same as yesterday and the day before that! C'mon, folks, make up shit or something! Hell, I do that all the time. I owe it to my readers to not write the same boring crap every day. And you owe it to me to do the same!. And where have all the stupid people gone? They used to hang out in scroll all day, right there for me to make fun of them. They've been replaced though, replaced by a horde of inane, oblivious juveniles. I can mock them all day long, and they don't even get it. They just carry on in their usual annoying manner. What's worse is they're driving out the regulars with their publicly private conversations and incessant plugging. Now when I mock 'em, there's no one there to laugh alongside me. Not being able to make fun of stupid, annoying people is downright depressing. No one is ever around to IM with either. Did you people wake up and get lives or something?! Shame on you! Quit your moaning about depressing shit in blogs and log on for my personal entertainment. It's a hell of a lot more fun than being sad all the time. Where have you all gone? (Incidentally two people miraculously IM'ed me as I wrote this paragraph. Clearly God favors me.) Okay, I've had enough of this. I'm making it my personal mission to liven Writing.com up again. Well, not really, because I'm too lazy, but I'm demanding you guys liven it up. And don't include the devoted writer types; they take themselves and their writing much too seriously and cannot possible include Writing.com and fun in the same sentence. I come to Writing.com to escape work, not to endure more of it. So no serious writers, just the goof-offs like myself. Round them all up, make them dance for me, and lure stupid people in scroll. You know I deserve that. |
| Wow, I haven't blogged in more than three weeks. All of you are probably wondering where I've been. Hopefully not too many of you passed out whilst holding your breath until my return. In my time away I've noticed how dull and dreary Writing.com has become. For that I hold myself personally responsible. The ray of sunshine that is my soul has been conspicuously absent from your lives, and it's no wonder everyone has become so dreadfully dull. But have no fear, for I have returned! In truth I was never actually gone. I logged in sporadically from hotels across the country, but never for more than a few moments. There's very little rest for the weary, especially when the weary is a zombie slayer traveling cross-country during a Level V zombie outbreak. For those of you wondering what happened to your friends in Wyoming, I'll let you know right now the state was entirely wiped out. I was forced to slay the entire population. A couple cities appeared to be unaffected, but I've never been one to take chances. I didn't figure anyone would notice Wyoming's silence anyway; most people don't even know it's a state. I traveled with becke for most of my journey. He showed a great deal of promise as a zombie hunter, not surprising considering he's a ninja. Unfortunately he flipped out and terrorized a nudist colony somewhere in the southwest, and I was forced to put him down. He's in a better place now. Being that he was a Pastafarian, he's no doubt enjoying the Beer Factory and Stripper Heaven in the Flying Spaghetti Monster's heaven. I know, I know, a ninja Pastafarian doesn't make a whole lot of sense with that whole pirate thing, but stranger things have happened. I had a religious/ethnic comparison I could have made here, but that would be offensive and inappropriate. Seeing a countryside laid to waste by a horde of flesh-eating zombies changes a man. During my many trials and tribulations saving mankind, I was forced to work a 70 hour work week last week. After a major systems upgrade during a holiday weekend, I worked late into the evening each night trying to resolve days worth of system errors. I nearly reached my breaking point before the DBA determined that all the errors were caused by people logging into the system with capital letters instead of lower case. It was at that point that my zombie slaying pilgrimage began. On only a few hours of sleep, the DBA looked suspicious, with that "I want to eat your brains" twinkle in his bloodshot eyes. I did the only thing I could do. I drenched him in bacon grease and set him on fire, my next best option for dealing with a zombie when my sword is out of reach. I spent the next several days running from a horde of flesh-eating police officers, a new breed of zombie that had apparently maintained sufficient mental awareness for driving a car at high speeds. Mariposa held down the fort during my manly adventures. She spent time with my family, being assimilated much like the Borg assimilate their more human counterparts. I came back to a meaner, dirtier, somewhat unstable bride to be. It's like falling in love all over again.For those wondering where my problematic tendencies arise, you need only look at my parents. During the past several weeks, Jodi has witnessed several shining examples of my hereditary genius. From my father I've acquired my inhuman testosterone level and flair for the bodily hilarious. From my mother I've inherited a deep understanding and closeness to nature and an unbidden thirst to fight monsters. We went bowling one night, much to my chagrin, and when we arrived my father stood alongside his Dodge Durango and pissed into the snowbank. The bowling alley had bathrooms inside, and they weren't even too dirty, but he peed right there, amid a full parking lot and a horde of redneck bowlers pouring into the dive of a bowling alley. (By the way, in case you didn't realize this, there's no such thing as a nice bowling alley. Any place that hosts bowling is by definition a "dive." Barred windows or not, bowling alleys are the seedy underbelly of small-town America. Calling it anything else would be like comparing the Ritz Carlton to your favorite strip club. Las Vegas notwithstanding of course.) So why then did he pee there instead of waiting until he got inside? Is he truly that lazy? Well yeah, but that's not the reason. The answer is because he could. 'Nuff said. Then during one of my many nightly battles with Caps Lock, Jodi visited my family and they all took a psychological analysis test. The test encompassed a series of abstract questions which in term symbolized something about their personality, their habits, their sex life, etc. One question went something like this: "You're walking in the woods. Who is with you?" Apparently the answer corresponds to the most important person in your life. Most answers made my sense, but my mother's answer? With a face of stone and a heightened voice she replied, "The Yeti." In the follow-up questions she went on to communicate with the Blair Witch via hand signals, which roughly means her greatest problems involve forest monsters and she deals with them via sign language. My father on the other hand saw a deer and shot it, which basically means he murders his problems. We're working on getting restraining orders on both of them. Well, that about wraps it up. I can't go into the details of anything because it's much too gruesome and I'm much too lazy. For those wondering about me the past three weeks, the short version is work, eat, work, eat, work, eat, sex, work, sleep, slay zombies, sex, work, sleep. Had the work part been removed, it would have roughly equated to becke's binge in Stripper Heaven. Ramen! Oh, and I've been working on a new website, one that takes us through the journey of preparing for our pirate wedding. I'll link it once it's almost done. It's mostly photos, blogs, and research material. Oh, and a great deal of rum. Yarrr! |
| Well, actually Massachusetts doesn't blow, just Boston, the seat of our capital and the obvious cesspool of the Northeast. The fact that Boston is one of the most liberal cities in the union is further proof that liberalism is for retards. And I do mean that in the worst derogative sense of the world, not just the politically incorrect term for the mentally disabled. This recent advertising "hoax" and Boston's absurd response to it is conclusive proof that morons rule our state. If you follow current events you probably know of the "hoax" to which I am referring. Basically a couple young guys who appear to be of the geeky hippie variety were hired by an advertising agency to distribute signs for a late night cartoon around the city of Boston, hereby referred to as the Shithole. In typical geeky hippie style, these guys made some pretty lame yet shockingly hilarious "signs." It was a circuit board with a bunch of lights and a few batteries. When turned on, the lights created a pattern representing a cartoon character flipping the bird. I'm pretty sure there are a couple of these in my parents' attic. It's like a Lite-Brite! Well, in typical Shithole fashion, some Shithole communist son of a bitch spotted one of these well lit, badly manufactured "signs" and called the cops. Apparently anything that works on electronics, including something that looks like a 6 year old plays with it, must be a bomb. The Boston bomb squad detonated the sign and determined it to be harmless. No shit. Turner Broadcasting, the company the runs the cartoon on its Cartoon Network alerted authorities that these signs were placed in several cities as part of an advertising campaign. Here's the kicker: they'd been there several weeks already! That means these inane signs, which only an old fart who's never seen a computer could mistake for a bomb, had been lighting up major cities for weeks with no complaints! Many people have come forward since saying they knew about these things and never said anything because they were obviously innocuous. But oh no, not in the Shithole! Boston authorities shut down roadways and bridges, brought bomb squads in, and took all the signs down. Even after learning the true nature of the signs from Turner (even though they should have been able to figure it out after the first two), they still kept looking for signs and using the bomb squad to get rid of them! In doing so, they allegedly spent hundreds of thousands of dollars cleaning up Lite-Brites. Nobody spends tax dollars like the Shithole. Other cities aren't even bothering to remove the signs. There's no point. Searching for them is a waste of money and much ado about nothing. But that's what the Shithole does best anyway. Now though two punk kids have made the city into the laughing stock of the country, which I found absolutely hilarious. Furthermore, they did it without even trying. In some lame attempt to save face, the city has thrown out big words like "appalling" and "unconscionable" and "outrageous" to describe the "hoax." Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a hoax a premeditated plan of deception? Reacting in an impulsive, paranoid, and technologically illiterate panic to an innocuous, albeit offensive, toy does not make a hoax, you Shithole dipshits. Of course these two guys have been arrested and charged. Fortunately someone in Boston has a brain. The judge already informed the Assistant Attorney General that "the suspects must intend to create a panic to be charged with placing hoax devices" and have obviously not shown any intent. Of course it has to go through a hearing anyway, one more way to waste our state tax dollars and make Boston look like the liberal wasteland that it is. At an official press conference, the two defendants refused to talk about anything but 1970s hairstyles. They would only answer questions about hair, specifically 1970s hair. Find the video online. It's a freaking riot. Of course mocking the whole situation only enraged and embarrassed the liberal Shitholers even more. These guys are my heroes. So now Boston is talking about suing Turner Broadcasting to cover the expense of finding and disposing of all these signs and effectively perpetrating the "hoax." There ya go, Martha Coakley, waste even more money on a trial so you can have even more people laughing at you. In theory I should support a finding in Boston's favor because it would mean Turner pays for this lunacy instead our money, but they'd just throw it back into the Big Dig anyway. With any luck, one of these days they'll dig so deep into that thing that they dislodge the eastern end of the state and sink it into the Atlantic. I'm going to go report a bomb sighting now. That neon light hanging in the liquor store window looked awfully suspicious. |
| For the love of God and all things holy do NOT, I repeat do NOT, click on this link! http://tinyurl.com/tmg2r |
| Is there anything better than sex followed by BLTs? I submit that there is not. |
| Wow, she's totally into it. It started as a joke last weekend, but the more we talked about it the more serious we got. Today it became very serious and even official. We're having a pirate wedding! How freakin' cool is that? Somehow Jodi is liking this whole idea, even excited about it. My mother and sister came over, and the three of them began talking about it. What began as a joke soon became serious wedding planning. Soon we were all surfing the net looking at pirate costumes and coming up with ideas for pirate wedding favors and decorations. I was apprehensive about the whole thing, because I want Jodi to have the wedding she wants (that I can afford), and I was afraid she was agreeing just for my sake. I said we'd have to discuss it privately before we made that kind of insane leap. She likes the idea though. So long as it's done tastefully, it's even better than a traditional wedding. Let's face it, I'm a nut and Jodi must be too if she wants to marry me. What better way to celebrate the union of two weirdos than a pirate wedding? We sat down and looked at the differences between a traditional wedding and a pirate wedding. It eventually came down to this: tradition and elegance vs fun and laughs, with the one commonality being love. Since our lives and our relationship together have always been about laughter and good times, the pirate wedding better represents this love we share. Sure we're going to get dirty looks. Sure our families will think we're nuts. Sure our friends will whisper nasty things about us. But what else is new? And who cares, this is going to kick ass! Even after Jodi said she was okay with it, I was apprehensive. I worried she was doing this for me. She has asserted time and time again that is not the case. She thinks it will be fun, something we and everyone else will never forget. She thinks it's right up our alley. Clearly this poor girl has been living with me too long. I daresay her transformation to the dark side is complete. Jodi's one stipulation is that it be done tastefully. She's going to wear a more traditional white wedding gown, though a bit on the casual side, and the groomsmen pirate regalia must be of classy and tasteful. I've already been scouring the Internet and have picked out several very nice pirate outfits. They are all very classy, but the fanciest will be reserved for myself. My mother sews professionally and she is willing and even eager to sew the outfits. (I refuse to call them costumes at this point.) We just have to find the patterns. For the bridesmaids, we think some more elegant pirate gowns are appropriate, but they must have at least a hint of saucy wench. Again, we have to make sure they're classy, and more importantly Jodi has to figure out how to convince her sister to wear it. I won't even begin to journal the many cool pirate themed ideas we have for the wedding already. I don't want to spoil them all. Anyone who reads my blog though knows about the preparation and decoration my family does for Halloween. This will be bigger and classier. Her family is going to be stunned. And probably terrified. Hopefully they don't speak out when the minister/JP asks if anyone objects. I want this to be a serious event. So I've put a stipulation on it myself. The first thing we're going to look into is the full pirate regalia. The outfits have to be classy, comfortable, and authentic. They have to fit like real clothes and be comfortable enough for dancing. They have to make people think we walked on from Pirates of the Carribean or leapt off the label on a Captain Morgan bottle. They have to be genuine yet still formal and elegant. In other words, no dirty pirates (yeah, yeah, this is the not so authentic part) and nothing that looks like a Halloween costume. If we can't do that, back to the ol' traditional wedding drawing board. Like I read somewhere else: August 18, 2007 There will be a wedding. There will be rum. There will be PIRATES. Yarrrrrrr! |
Now there are two kinds of hippies in this world: dirty hippies and beatniks. Yes, beatniks are really just clean, elitist hippies. Needless to say, I don't care for either sort. At least dirty hippies are funny to look at; beatniks are just annoying. In case you have a hard time telling the difference between dirty hippies and beatniks, here are a few guidelines: Dirty hippies wear autumn colors (browns, greens, yellows, etc) or tie-dye. Or hemp. Beatniks wear black or white, without exception. Dirty hippies have sideburns, dreadlocks, or 5 o'clock shadow. Beatniks have goatees and very straight hair. Dirty hippies smoke weed. Beatniks sip cappucino. And smoke weed. Dirty hippies stand on street corners, protesting wars with giant peace signs. Beatniks sit in Internet cafes making complicated, long-winded, unfunny jokes about Republicans. Dirty hippies don't vote. Beatniks run for office. Dirty hippies have too much hair to fit into a hat. Beatniks wear berets. Every single one of them. Dirty hippies look like Jesus. Beatniks scoff at Jesus. Dirty hippies don't know how to read. Beatniks recite bad poetry.Okay, I think we have that covered. So today I have a beatnik story. My parents got a new Dodge Durango the other day, and I think they've been wanting to show it off. So, because it seats seven, they picked up Jodi and I last night, along my brother and sister, to go out for dessert somewhere. We ended up having dinner at a diner, but our first stop was at the Chocolate Cafe, or something like that. I took one look in the window and decided I wasn't going in. Inside I saw racks of chocolate desserts, tables built for anorexic people here and there, a Green Party member sipping espresso and clicking away on her laptop, two Democrats pointing at $9 chocolates, and a vegan playing a piano in the corner. I was staring into a bonafide beatnik cafe. Being apalled at the idea of a beatnik cafe in our neck of the woods passed quickly and was replaced with sheer and utter horror. I was not going in there. Jodi, my brother, and my sister didn't look in the window first. Poor bastards. They wandered right in. My parents and I looked first though, and we stood outside the door. As badly as I wanted to go in and ask the guy if he could play "Piano Man," I lingered outside. I began knocking on the glass door, to my mother's horror, in an effort to get Jodi's attention. We needed to leave and we needed to leave now! I waved frantically and kept knocking, but they didn't see or hear me. Now the fact of it is I'd take a bullet for Jodi. I'd jump in front of a steaming locomotive for her. I'd wrestle a pack of hyenas just to protect her. But these were beatniks, people, beatniks! She was on her own this time. Some things are worse than death. My parents worked up the courage and slipped inside. I tried to follow but the explosive smell of frappucino and espresso assailed my nostrils and left me a simpering puddle of primordal ooze. I lingered there in the doorway, frantically waving for my family and lover to return to me before the brewing beatnik juice gave me a chemical lobotomy. They wandered the shelves, looking at four bits of chocolate for $9 dollars, gold-laced chocolate for $50, flourless, vegan-esque cakes, and other beatnik concoctions. My father turned to my brother and said, "I bet they don't have hot chocolate here; they have gourmet cocoa." I trembled in the foyer, feeling my manhood shriveling and decaying as the moments ticked by. Finally my brother, perhaps fearing the loss of his own genitalia, came back to the foyer with me. "Join me a breath?" I said. "What? A breath?" "Yeah, well I don't smoke, and I don't want to be inside. So we'll go outside and just have a 'breath.'" He nodded, and we went out into the cold January air. He began telling me the horrors he saw inside. At one point a patron pointed at some overpriced chocolate and said "Ooh, that looks good." To which her companion replied, "Oh yes, and that reminds me... George Bush is an idiot. Ha ha ha!" They laughed just like that, "ha ha ha." Beatniks do not laugh, they scoff. Moments passed and he decided to go back in for the rest of the family, exhibiting a courage for which I will always be proud of my brother. "Ernie's outside," he said. "He forgot his beret." |
| Before I write my real entry, I just want to comment on my new blog header, which is actually rotating blog headers. When I loaded this puppy up just now, I got the shot of Darth Problemus reading a scrapping magazine upside down whilst making good use of the crapper. Sometimes I'm so problematic I amaze even myself. But anyway, I'm going through withdrawal. I haven't played poker for real money in several months, and I'm seriously jonesin' for a micro limit online cash game. I pulled my money out of PartyPoker when they signed that heinous bill into effect last fall. I wrote little about it because I was too agitated and figured I'd cope better if I just forgot about it. Somehow I managed to cope really well, but now I'm seriously craving a game. For those who don't know, the new law prohibits American banks or credit unions/companies from conducting transactions with offshore gambling websites. Since our overzealous religious kooks in office couldn't ban online poker because the companies are offshore, they effectively pulled US citizens out of the online gaming market by stripping the ability to get our money in and out of the accounts. Needless to say the World Trade Organization is up in arms about this because it's a direct violation of free trade, but as the big bad ol' US of A we don't really give a rat's ass about that. Great Britain has legalized online poker and online gambling, regulates it, and effectively and successfully taxes it. Our nearsighted Congressmen just decided to ban it instead. After having tried to pass such a law unsuccessfully before, they appended it to an anti-terrorism "safe harbor" bill under the dubious, if not laughable, assumption that terrorists launder money through online gambling. Of course no one is going to vote "nay" for an anti-terrorism bill, so here we are months later with yet another of our liberties stripped away. What's next, fireworks and prostitution?! Seriously though I'm craving a game big time right now. I don't think it's addiction related or even boredom related. I think it's from this wedding expenses stress yesterday. When I got stressed, I'd play poker. At the table, either real or virtual, emotions disappeared, and I became a steam-rolling, percentage-calculating, odds-playing android. The only applicable emotion was aggression, and what better way to burn off stress with a few mouse clicks? Top that off with the fact that I made a profit playing the cards, the numbers, and the people, and I think I'm craving the extra income. I could have played more often and made an extra couple hundred bucks a month towards the wedding. Bye bye stress, one way or another. No poker games though. I could find some tournaments around here. Organizations are always hosting tourneys and donating part of the pot to charitable causes, thus legitimizing and legalizing the tourney and raising well-spent funds, but tournaments just aren't my style. The rapidly increasing blind structure, all too frequent all-in scenarios, and winner take all ending aren't my idea of a good or profitable time. Sure the best players profit in the long run, but the long run in tournaments is many tournaments, something for which you need a hefty bankroll. I much prefer grinding it out in a limit game, picking on the suckers until they go home broke or simply log off. And when they do, there's always another sucker ready to take his seat. I gotta find me a game. This fake Nintendo Wii poker just ain't cutting it any more. |
| Yup, sucking monkey turds. That's what I did today. Right along with Jodi, my brother, and my brother's fiancee. And not even the good kind of monkey turds, mind you. We're talking crusty, hairy, piss-marinated monkey turds. Cute little chimps didn't make these turds either, red-assed babboons and e-bola-carrying rhesus monkeys crapped this steaming pile of monkey turd all over my face. This is all a metaphor of course, because in truth I never got a damned thing to eat, not even monkey turds, which would have been delicious by comparison. Instead we went to a fucking wedding expo. Notice the accent there on the good ol' F word? Yeah, from now, there's no such thing as a "wedding expo," it's always a fucking wedding expo. I got out of bed at 8AM on a Sunday, which is ludicrous to begin with, and got ready to go to the Wedding Expo. I was never too keen on the idea, but Jodi and I are getting married, so apparently this is the sort of thing brides-to-be do. Ever the doting and supportive fiance, I happily agreed to accompany her. Fortunately the night before my brother asked if he and his fiancee could join us. At least with another guy along, my brother and I could chill at the hotel bar and make fun of people and stuff. I figured it would be no big deal. Besides, we were meeting my family for Red Lobster afterwards! Red Lobster, people! That's like the Holy Grail of cheap-ass, chain restaurant, seafood. It nearly gave me a wet dream when we made plans for it earlier this weekend. I haven't been to a Red Lobster since high school, and for some reason I could never begin to explain, this was going to be a bigger deal than Christmas even. It's not often I look forward to things, but... well, it's Red Lobster! We arrived at the hotel where the expo was being held to discover a packed parking garage. Are you telling me other people waste their Sundays going to Wedding Expos?! And here I thought I was the only whipped fiancee dragged into this. Though in truth, once we got inside, I have to say it was about 90% women. And of course I was the only guy in the entire building wearing a baseball cap and leather jacket. Jodi nodded towards my hat and gave me that I'm-getting-whiplash-trying-to-motion-for-you-to-take-your-hat-off move. Anyone who reads this knows I'm a noncomformist, so the hat remained securely where it belonged: on my head. We stood in a milling mass of people, 80% of which I'm sure I would have loathed if I had spoken with them. After finally getting our bearings, we waded into the slithering throng, and monkey turd sucking began. I was bored 5 minutes in when I realized the line towards the vendors never actually moved. We were drowning in a sea of chatty vendors and annoying line stoppers. I eventually took charge and begin leading us around certain vendors to keep us moving. By the time we got to the fourth or fifth table, which happened to sport cavier and a whole slew of other vomit-like substances that passed for hors d'oeuvres, I was ready to go. The numbers starting whirling in my head, and I'm fairly certain my eyes turned to dollar signs like they do in the cartoons. I knew weddings were fucking expensive, but this shit was way out of our league. I wanted out, and I wanted out right then. They had all kinds of giveaways that they were raffling off at the end of the expo, so you had to select which free raffles you wanted to enter. The thing is 90% of these "raffles" were bullshit prizes that I'd sooner wipe my ass with. For example, there was a gift certificate for $500 for this banket hall that you could use for your reception. Holy shit, $500! Now that's a prize! Oh wait, in order to you use it you'd have to rent their hall, which probably goes in the range of $3000. Well, whoop-de-fucking-doo. Or then there was the $75 photography gift certificates, which obviously required you use that photographer. Total packages were upwards up $1500. I tried to explain to my companions that these prizes were worthless unless you committed to using these people, which on our budgets just isn't happening. They didn't get it though, so I was suddenly trapped in this expo from 11AM to 4PM so they could wait around to see if they won anything. At one point we neared the end of one vendor line and two engaged dipshits stood right in our way. They were heading the opposite direction of everyone else. We tried to scoot through, and they just stood there. I finally slinked through, only to be elbowed in the face by that bitch. She said "Oh, I'm sorry." I said "No you're not," and kept walking. My brother about busted a gut laughing. We finally got through all the vendors, including the photographer that was probably went by "Fat Tony" and did a cameo on "The Godfather," the gay hair stylist that sported more eye liner than his female compatriot, the ice sculpist with his M&M Nascar hat, and the two high school lunch ladies making jewelry on the side. In the process I managed to taste test some chocolate cake that made sugar ooze out of my pours and spot the world's ugliest woman. Seriously, this girl was like skin stretched over a skeleton. You could have cut cheese with her nose and used her portrait to scare drug addicts into sobriety. That was pretty much the "highlight" of the adventure. We got there at 11AM and were done with all the vendors by noon. Now we had to sit around waiting for the fashion show at 2PM. Fortunately the hotel included a pub, where we sat down to relax. My brother and I decided to go up to the bar (because the waitresses were nonexistent) and get some drinks for the four of us. It took 10 minutes for the bartender to take our order. They were only 5 people at the bar besides us, and they all already had their drinks. We enjoyed our Cokes for a bit, and the ladies picked out which gift drawings to enter. They went back to the vendor booths to enter the raffles, and my brother and I returned to the bar to get some lunch menus. Again, we stood at the bar for 10 minutes before anyone spoke to us. When I requested menus, the bartender realized all the menus were out and she'd have to corral some for us. She started going around to the tables looking for extra menus. 5 minutes later she stopped and went back to fixing drinks for people who just arrived. We stood at the bar waiting for like 15 minutes before we returned to our table. Another 15 minutes and still no menus. In the meantime food arrived for other patrons, including two platters for a party of 6 that promptly sent the food and most of the drinks back. The bartender came over to their table and began arguing with them over what was wrong with their food and drinks. She argued loudly enough that everyone in the establishment heard her. She yelled "Look, I'm doing the best I can! These guys haven't even ordered yet," she said as she pointed at my brother and I across the room. She collected their menus and stormed off. And no, she didn't bring those menus to us. 10 minutes later a bus boy came over and asked if we needed any ketchup. I said "No, we didn't even get any freegin menus!" He mumbled an "oh" or something and walked away. The girls returned and still no menus. In fact we never got any menus. Thoroughly disgusted, we left, but not before we got even. I tore open half the sugar packets and poured the sugar into the bottom of the sugar packet tray, along with a melting ice cube, so it would congeal and get all sticky and nasty. Then my brother poured his cup of ice into a cloth napkin and wrapped it up on the table. It either all melted and left a puddle, or someone spilled ice everywhere when they picked it up. Finally I left a one penny tip. Ironically I wasn't the only one to do that. A couple behind us, who took two bites of their meal before abandoning it, left behind a penny tip. I'm seriously considering writing about this "dining" experience and submitting it to the local newspaper. Anyway, then we sat through fashion shows and raffle results from 2PM until 4:45PM, a full 45 minutes longer than we were supposed to be there. I won't even elaborate on any of it because it sucked so much ass. As a result I completely missed out on Red Lobster! What a way to cap the worst day of 2007 thus far. Instead I had frozen pizza for dinner. Yay me. So what's the end result? I'm fucking hungry as hell and jonesing for some serious shrimp and lobster, and my blood pressure is through the roof realizing there ain't a snowball's chance in hell of paying for a wedding. Jodi is a petitte, beautiful, well-dressed, smiling, young blonde woman. Basically she looks like a princess. And of course princesses get huge, glorious, second-mortgage weddings paid for by their fathers. Well that shit ain't happening, but the vendors don't know that, so they never missed a chance to talk Jodi's ear off. Months ago she was talking about eloping, and now she's thinking about 4 digit flower arrangements, hotel rooms for her family, fancy dresses, church ceremonies, and all kinds of other stuff I can't afford. I don't even know how to handle this stress. I'm seriously freaking out and wondering what the hell I was thinking. A spring and summer full of panic attacks and crying on the way to work just so we can get a damn piece of paper that legitimizes a lifestyle we've already been enjoying for 11 months. Isn't a wedding supposed to be a joyous thing? Fuck that shit. Fucking monkey turds... |
| Today I've decided to be even manlier than usual. I'm actually oozing testosterone, and just by reading this blog you'll likely sprout some new chest hair. This goes for the ladies too. I didn't get up until 10:00AM this morning and started the day off by peeing on the toilet seat. A real man doesn't bother to aim. And a real man sure as hell doesn't squat like a woman. I did it with the bathroom door open, and in true man fashion I walked out of the bathroom whilst still zipping up. After that I played video games. More specifically I played poker, because that's what men I do. I own everyone in that game. I laid on the floor in front of the TV, with little regard for the dirt and dust all over the floor and all over my person. I didn't care about hygiene or any other girly mumbo jumbo. In fact, I'm wearing a T-shirt with holes in the armpits and more stains than the couch our cats peed on. Next I sprawled out on the couch reading my new book The Alphabet of Manliness. I vaguely remember thinking the author was a total girl. I should have known a book about manliness wouldn't live up to my standards. Real men are too busy drinking beer and scratching their groin to waste time writing books. For lunch I ate a whole pizza. But first I of course doused it in buffalo sauce and crushed red pepper. It was so manly I could actually feel the hair sprouting on my testicles. At one point buffalo sauce dribbled down into my beard. I wiped it off with my sleeve. And then licked my sleeve. I flipped the TV on and watched college football for a little while before realizing those guys are a bunch of wimps. Since the Ultimate Fight Championship wasn't on, I settled on a show about a true man's man: Hogan Knows Best. Here's a guy who kicks men in the face and leg drops 'em just for kicks. I don't remember the show though, because I spent most of the time daydreaming about punching rhinos in the face because that's the sort of thing I do. Later I'm going to strip down to my underwear and sit on the couch drinking. Drinking what, you ask. Not some girly drink or even some quasi-manly drink like beer. Nope, I'm going to drink grog. Good ol' fashioned pirate grog. And not with some girly, cheesy rum like Barcadi. Only the Captain for me. Because he's a pirate, duh. I'm going to scratch myself and drink until I burp. By then the buffalo sauce pizza should kick in, and I'll lift my leg and let loose a wet, cheeks-flapping-in-the-breeze, tuba fart. Jodi will get disgusted and threaten to go into the other room. Then of course she'll be intoxicated by my dripping testosterone and notice my engorged manhood, and she'll get all hot and bothered. This is going to be a great day. |
| Lots of us use our blogs to rant about silly things in life that tick us off. Michael Wonch has made a blogging career of in fact (which is good since I wouldn't read his girly blog otherwise). Well, today I'm going to do a complete 180 and write about a silly thing in life that we should all stop and appreciate. I am of course referring to public restrooms. Okay, so that didn't come out right. Some, maybe even most, public restrooms are downright raunchy, what with their poo-smeared walls, plethora of skanky hoe phone numbers etched into the stall door, blow-drying hand dryers, and creepy janitor types that sit by the doorway, half asleep, expecting you to leave a tip because they scraped the top layer of grime off the toilet seat. So no, I don't appreciate public restrooms in general, but I do think we need to tip our proverbial caps (or do-rags for the gangbanger crowd) in tribute to the fine inventions we can only find in public restrooms. Unfortunately most of my readership is female, so they won't be able to relate completely, but once a month they get all hormonal and bleed from their pee-pee, so I don't envy them one bit anyway. The first divine contribution of the public restroom is the urinal. Seriously, folks, I want one of these in my bathroom. I get to stand up and let that sucker go without ever having to aim or dodge the inevitable splatter when that stream hits a toilet seat. With a urinal I wouldn't ever have to worry about denying existence of a yellowish puddle in front of the shower or feign ignorance at mention of the urine smell surrounding our toilet. I wouldn't have to worry about forgetting to lift up the seat, which means I wouldn't have to worry about wiping up the dribble that missed its mark or the pubic hairs that always fall at the most inopportune times (though I'm not sure there is ever an opportune time for that to happen). I wouldn't have to worry about leaning forward when I shake the little man dry, because with a urinal we have plenty of porcelain real estate to catch any drippage. A urinal is so much cleaner and convenient. It doesn't end there though. Urinals have urinal cakes. For those in the know, urinal cakes are those disks made of some hard substance (which is yet to be identified because I've thus far resisted the urge to stroke the urinal cake). They're usually pastel colors, and they lay at the bottom of the urinal, often obstructing the view of the drain. I don't really know what their purpose is, but it might have something to do with the fragnant odor emanating from the urinal. But some urinal cakes (and here's where the good part comes in) have little pictures on them. For example, they may have the face of Osama Bin Laden or a big New York Yankees logo. Why, you ask? (Clearly only the women are asking this.) So we can pee on them of course! Not only can we get to write our names on the porcelain wall like we used to do in the snow when we were kids (or grown men), but we also get to take aim and urinate on that which we hate! It makes going to the bathroom fun! Whilst you ladies are "refreshing up" and chit chatting in your decorated, feng shui ladies' rooms, we're peeing on Suddam Hussein. I'm going to start marketing a urinal cake with a pirate on it, just in time for the next Annual Day of the Ninja and holiday season. But wait, there's more! I don't know about the rest of you guys, but when you're a big, burly man like me or hung like Tommy Lee (also like me), taking a crap on the shitter involves tucking your junk down beneath the toilet seat so your weewee doesn't give the bathroom a golden shower. (I've yet to meet a man who can crap without peeing at least a little. Except for maybe Chuck Norris.) This can be an uncomfortable experience. God didn't make Mr. Winky with the intention of making him subordinate to the toilet seat--he was made to stand at attention, always facing front--so this puts a strain on things. And if you happen to have just seen a naked woman (a fixture public restrooms are severely lacking), forcing the dragon into his cave becomes next to impossible. Fortunately, the public restroom, at least some of them, have provided the answer: split front toilet seats. Instead of the seat wrapping completely around into a donut shape, it's more like a horseshoe, with an opening for our junk in the front. I can easily and safely plop down without any tuckage. Now granted, you may have to hold the beast down if it gets fiesty, but at least this way you don't have cage the animal. You guys know what I'm talking about. I'm hereby petitioning for this split-front toilet seats to replace all other toilet seats! Public restrooms probably have even more great features (like dual toilet paper dispensers when I'm having particularly messy diarrhea), but I think I'm supposed to be working right now or something, so I'll have to visit that at another time. If any of you begin your Christmas shopping during the after-holiday sales, remember to put me down for a urinal! |
I was bored at work, waiting for a slew of people to get back to me, so I decided I'd have some fun with this Dear Me contest. If you like my blog, you'll definitely want to check this out. But should I enter it in the contest? Now that is the question.
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| No, really, don't read this. It's going to be so mind-numbingly boring that I can't with a clear conscience expect my readers to take a gander at it much less engage themselves in its mundane words. I'm writing it only so I have it on record. Sometimes I use a blog like most people use it a blog, and unfortunately this is one of those times. Reality isn't nearly as entertaining as my usual pseudo-reality, an embellished and warped vision of the world in all its poo-filled glory. Oh no, you're still reading this. You poor sod. Seriously, this is your last chance to turn back. Considering I don't put disclaimers on any of my less than conventional entries, this should probably scare you. (Unless of course you're a ninja, in which case nothing scares you.) Ah well, read on if you must. You'll hate me for wasting your time, which may or may not be a bad thing. I don't make New Years Resolutions. Lots of people say that, but unlike most people who resolve to not make resolutions, I don't avoid it because I think it's silly to change based on some calendar event or because I'm afraid I'll break the resolution by February or because a mullet-headed midget threatened to smack me with a half-baked halibut. (You'd be surprised how many would-be resolution-makers are threatened by fish-weilding, redneck midgets.) The truth of it is I'm just too lazy. Not lazy to the point that I'd make a resolution and break it a week later mind you, but lazy to the point that I'd never actually start the resolution. Besides, I always say "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Or more accurately, in the case of my life, "if it ain't unbearable, meh." Well, this year I'm mixing it up. I resolve to resolve. Or is that resolve to resolute? Whichever. So many people resolve to lose weight. I'm not going to be that specific. I just resolve to get into better shape. Mostly that involves eating less and eating better. That does not involve paying a gym membership I'll never use, attending Weight Watchers, counting carbs, or even weighing myself. I don't know how much I weigh, and I don't intend to find out. What we don't know, can't hurt us. Sorta. Instead I'll just cut back on portions, stop eating out for lunch, and cut way back on the number of times we eat out. I don't care about losing weight; I care about feeling good. Clearly you need to exercise to get into better shape. I refuse to go to a gym. Gyms are for phony, crash-diet resolution makers and buff, in-shape people that actually enjoy working out every day. I'm not sure which is more disgusting to me. Also, I don't like people seeing me exercise. My blog produces enough laughs and gagging sounds without me publicly parading away in a sweat thank you very much. Luckily I have the exercise piece all figured out. Jodi got me the Nintendo Wii for Christmas! I could explain what's special about the Nintendo Wii over other game systems, but frankly I'm too lazy. Go read about it or something. Suffice it to say, I can actually break a sweat playing the boxing game. And the poker game is way better than sit-ups. A true bandwagon-jumping, resolution maker can't have just one resolution, especially one as poorly defined and impossible to measure as that one. So here's another, one as equally vague as the first. I resolve to spend less and save more. Again, I have no intentions of quantifying a goal. I simply intend to spend less money on crap I don't need to have, eating out I don't need to do, and bills I don't need to pay. First thing I'll do when I get home today is shred those credit card bills and resolve not to pay them. It will save me a fortune, which I can then use to buy ninja stuff or something. Finally, because a classy guy like me always does everything in threes, I resolve to feel like I accomplished something. Actual accomplishment isn't too important when stacked against the feeling of accomplishment. For example, I want to finish the rough draft of my novel this year. Since I know I won't actually get that done, I resolve to pretend I finished it. That way I'll feel really good about myself and tell people I'm published and stuff. Also, I intend to buy more books to read this year. Lots of lots of enlightening, captivating, and beautifully written books. I'll line them on my bookshelves and pretend I've read them. It will be as if I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night. Okay, okay, enough joking. If you've read this far, you're clearly committed and should also be committed. In all seriousness, I do resolve to get into better shape, better manage my finances, read more, and finally write my book. Most importantly, I resolve to bring joy, laughter, and love to Jodi, for all of 2007 and every year thereafter. And that's all I'm saying about my resolutions, because I refuse to get any sappier or bore you any more. |
| I must find a way to keep Christmas from coming! - The Grinch For the first time in my entire life I seriously want to put off Christmas for as long as possible. I was just getting into the Christmas spirit, as best as I could with all the traditions I thrive on slowly dissipating, and that has now all come toppling down. I seriously wish the work days were longer so I could prolong the hours before the dread of Christmas. I was sitting here watching the Claymation Christmas, featuring the California Raisins, on YouTube when Jodi dropped the bomb that on Christmas Eve morning we're attending church with her family. All joking aside, for the first time ever I'm actually angry with her. She booked this little religious bruhaha without my knowledge or consent. She apparently underestimated my extreme discomfort and dislike for the confines of a house of God. I would in all seriousness rather attend Woodstock or the Democratic National Convention. At least there I could be intentionally disrespectful to something that just doesn't work for me. That's not to say I hate churches, religions, clergy, church-goers, etc. I just hate, nay loathe, going to church. To each his own I say, and most people need some form of spirituality, but church just doesn't do it for me. I don't go to a church except for the rare wedding or funeral. And even then I'll often just attend the wake or the reception. I have friends and family who are church-goers and even clergy. I have my own skeptical spirituality that often resembles Christianity. I'll support anyone that chooses faith and celebration of it via church. But that doesn't mean I have to be involved in it. I'm perfectly content to subscribe to my own brand of spirituality, right here in the confines of my own psyche. For me it's a very private thing, and sharing it with others in some church service renders a discomfort and anxiety resembling public nakedness. My defense mechanisms kick in and I get indignant, refusing to kneel, pray, sing, or whatever out of sheer spite. I begin scrutinizing every interpretation of gospel or whatever they call it, identifying all the parts that based on pure science and history are clearly a bunch of mumbo jumbo. Ultimately the whole point of religion and spirituality is to make us better people, to help our fellow man, to live a good and just life, so on and so forth. I can do all that just fine without sitting inside some building with a bunch of sinners every Sunday. Oops, there's the cynicism already coming out. In truth I know they're not all sinners (whatever that might be), but I can't help thinking the worst whenever organized religion is thrust upon me. Let me choose it or let me be, dammit! I used to believe in God, but it's a dubious strand of faith that remains now. Ironically my first real encounter with death, an event which in many ways should have strengthened my faith, left me doubting anything other than pure science. I wish I had answers, but I don't, so I choose to deal with those doubts and questions internally. Making me go to church doesn't revive my faith one iota; instead having to endure church gives me a reason to hate God if He really does exist. And worse than that, it makes me feel like a total fraud. |
| As cool as any movie feauring Hulk Hogan and Christopher Lloyd is, this entry isn't about that. Instead it's about a pretty commonplace topic that several people have already written about in the past. I was contemplating something thoughtful and profound for my leading entry, but I ended up with this. It all started with something that shall henceforth be known as the "experience." I was in the office with Jodi last night, looking over her shoulder at the computer, when I started to feel something brewing down below. I let out a couple silent farts, filling the room with an intoxicating odor, and Jodi didn't miss the opportunity to compliment my fragrance. Or something like that. Soon though I realized the farts kept coming, and each one brought a squishier feeling between my buttcheeks. Too late I realized what was happening. With an exclamation of "I'm having diarrhea!" I waddled to the bathroom, post haste. The March of the Penguins' got nothing on me. I slammed the door, scrambled to my throne, and dropped my trousers. I sat down just as the fecal flood broke the dam. Alas, I stumbled a little and sat too far back on the toilet, effectively depositing the first deluge on the edge of the toilet seat. I squirmed forward, trying to keep my posterior aloft and out of the dark brown sludge. Judging by the wiping that followed, I failed miserably. At last I found the porcelain cavern and cleaned out my colon. At that moment I glanced down in dismay at my not-so-tidy-whiteys. Where once I saw harmless skidmarks, I now saw little plops of offending poo. So bad that I, the universally recognized King of Poo, threw them out after finishing my business and cleaning up. I actually tossed them in the wastebasket first, but Jodi told me that wasn't going to fly. I had to tie them up in a plastic bag and put them out on the porch until I took the garbage down the next morning. Come to think of it, I think the bag is still on the porch. But this isn't an entry about poo. I actually only led into it with the tale of my "experience" so I wouldn't let down everyone who thinks I have some kind of sick poo fixation. The real point of this lies in the fact that I had just thrown away my last pair of undies. You see, all the others were down in the wash, where I promptly forgot about them the remainder of the night. Which means I woke up this morning and realized I had no underwear whatsoever. Now when a girl goes commando, it's sexy. Unless of course she's a total skankbag. Or Britney Spears. But when a man goes commando... well it seems a little pervy to me. Luckily I have no qualms about being considered a perv. At first you have to get used to the zipper rubbing against your junk. And when yours is bulging against the zipper like mine is, it's not such a pleasant experience. I think I grew callouses down there. And then, because I wear briefs, I had to adapt to the boys swinging free. That's a freeing feeling that's all well and good right up until you get sweaty testicles and they start sticking to your legs and that nasty little area between your genitalia and anus. Oh yeah, great stuff that is. But somehow I got used to that too. I adjusted pretty quickly, because I'm cool like that, and made it into work without tearing a testicle off whilst driving. As the morning worn on, I discovered yet more commando dangers. Britney may have to contend with insanely short skirts and paparazzi, but has she ever tried to hide the well-defined outline of three bits hiding behind a thin pair of khaki slacks? I think not. The male equivalent of cameltoe is not easily disguised. (Good lord, I just used a word I've heard on the Howard Stern Show. See what this experience has done to me?!) I discovered the best way to hide this was keeping my hands in my pockets, pushing the front of the slacks forward and away from the family jewels. Thank God nothing even remotely arousing ever happens at work. Mid morning I went to the bathroom and discovered the first joy of commando. I undid my belt and started to unfasten the button, when I had a joyous revelation. I abandoned the belt and button and simply pulled the zipper down. I pulled the two sides far apart and reached in as one might try to remove a beast from a cage. Success. Take care of business, push it back in, and zip up. I took at least 15 seconds off my best urination time! And trust me, no guy wants to stand at a urinal for longer than necessary, especially when the janitor saddles up to the urinal next to you and starts carrying on a conversation. Having [insert amusing euphemism for urinating here], I went to the sink to wash my hands and made a not-so-joyous revelation. Apparently I didn't shake dry well enough, because now a quarter-sized stain sat right there on the crotch of my light tan pants. I looked around (as if I had any idea what I would have done if someone else was there) and fidgeted with my pants, trying to generate a phantom crease that would hide the spot. I suddenly realized why some of my briefs have a yellow tint to them, but damn I missed that buffer! I scurried back to my desk with ninja-like stealth, thankful no one was in the hall, and let it dry out naturally. When I went again later in the day I think I burned 300 calories shaking that sucker dry. I discovered if you get your whole body into it, starting with the hips... crap, I'm starting to turn myself on and I'm still commando. At lunchtime I had some Christmas shopping to do and made a trip to the mall. That's when I discovered I'm not such a big fan of sweat between my junk and my inner thigh. Likewise, wet buttcheeks rubbing against your pants aren't quite as tolerable as absorbing briefs. I survived though and had to fart on the way back to the office. I remembered the "experience" last night and thought better of it. 20 seconds later I caved and felt the familiar gas bubble roil up my asscrack and burst against my khakis. That's a little slice of heaven right there. Now I have to go see if Jodi has any ideas for making this commando thing more interesting...  |
Rebecca Laffar-Smith  asked for a Yoda Santa. I aim to please...** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I rarely read bumper stickers because they usually piss me off, and I manage to maintain a healthy dose of anger without the help of some SAAB's bumper. T he other night Jodi and I were out Christmas shopping, and as we walked across the parking lot, another couple burst out laughing and began pointing at some hatchback's rear end. Ever the fan of comedy, I strolled around to get a look at the instigating bumper sticker. It was some forgettable joke about George Bush's questionable intelligence, or lack thereof. Granted he's not the sharpest knife to ever lead this country, but seriously how much outright guffawing can you do over one of a plethora of Bush-bashing bumper stickers. I arched one eyebrow and gave them a dirty look. I've laughed at Bush jokes before, but this one wasn't even the lease bit amusing. That's how most bumper stickers are: just dumb. Whether they're equating Bush to an ape or throwing out the overdone Clinton cigar joke, they're all the same. The only decent politcal one I've seen is "I'd rather go hunting with Cheney than go driving with Kennedy." I'm not sure which Kennedy it refers to, but being a Massachusetts resident I tend to equate it to that fat alcoholic Ted Kennedy. Seeing how he drove off a pier and left his passenger to drown, it seems appropriate. There's one bumper sticker that pisses me off to no end. It's locally used only, which is the foundation of my ire. It says simply "Keep Egremont small and beautiful." Egremont is a tiny country town amidst the whole cluster of small rural towns where I live. I agree with the sticker whole-heartedly. I mean who wouldn't want to maintain some vestiage of gorgeous small-town America? It's the usage of the sticker that pisses me off. Here in the Berkshires, we're only a couple hours drive from New York City. That makes our quaint rural communities an easy commute for rich city slickers. And commute they do. Every freegin' weekend. They build multi-million dollar homes with acres of private land, and they drive around town in their BMWs and their SAABs. They wonder out into the street, ignoring designated crosswalks, slowing traffic to a NYC-esque crawl so they can admire foliage and our last remnants of Main Street America. They shop and dine, bringing precious tourist dollars to our communities, all the while driving up prices of local establishments until they sport Manhattan price tags and force local people to drive an hour away for affordable shopping and dining. They carry on as if all local residents exist purely to be their manservants and quibble over every dime we charge them for our services. All so they can escape the hubbub of the big city every weekend. Since 9/11, the influx of city slickers has grown exponentially. They build their massive homes and overwhelm our tiny towns. Tiny towns like Egremont. They go to town meetings and committee meetings to fight to keep more people from moving into the area. They buy tracts of land so no one, especially future generations of local residents, can build homes within sight of theirs. They get involved in local government to regulate the activities of families that have lived in the area for several generations. And then they have the utter gall to slap "Keep Egremont small and beautiful" bumper stickers on the bumpers of their over-priced, NY license-plated cars. Is it any wonder I hate New Yorkers? |
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Tooo rich...Love the tale....Would make a great comic for a local newspaper!!