Some Entertaining Shit For You

Do you think they have any openings for male cheerleaders?


By Catharine Skipp and Arian Campo-Flores
Newsweek


Jan. 30, 2007 - It was supposed to be college day for the students of Ware Shoals High School in South Carolina, a chance to learn about educational prospects at a local institution. [Yeah, I can’t exactly say I didn’t fuck around on “college day” back when I was in high school.] But according to police, two of the school’s cheerleaders ditched the event (the exact date hasn’t been made public) and instead headed to a motel with Jill Moore, their coach. There, they met up for a tryst [love that word] with two National Guardsmen who recruited at their school. Moore loosened things up by allegedly providing the girls with vodka. [Moore didn’t need any, the hoe was loose enough already.] Then, the cops say, she repaired to a room with one of the soldiers and set up a different room for the two cheerleaders and the other soldier to “hook up.” According to authorities, the second Guardsman and one of the girls later admitted that they had a sexual relationship.

Uh, dude had two high school cheerleaders with him in a hotel room and had “a sexual relationship” with only one of them? Pathetic. But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he just shot his load a bit too early to get to the second girl. Still not a good excuse, but… And what is “a sexual relationship?” Did he stick it in her ass or not?

Though the sheriff’s office isn’t bringing charges against the Guardsmen—since all parties involved were at least 16, the age of consent in South Carolina—the military is conducting its own investigation, one that could lead to a court-martial.

Sixteen. SIXTEEN?! As Swandad says, NUFF SAID.

They say she brought along a cheerleader to the National Armory, where the girl would distract other employees while Moore had sex with her Guardsman lover, Thomas Fletcher. And they allege that she also had a sexual relationship with a male high-school student who once accompanied her to a Clemson athletic event while she boozed it up. Investigators say that Fletcher and the male student have admitted to sexual affairs with Moore, who is married with two kids.

I’ll bet those two kids will grow up being really proud of mommy.




And then there’s this story:


BIRMINGHAM, England - Counterterrorism police arrested nine men in an alleged kidnapping plot Wednesday — a plan that reportedly involved torturing and beheading a British Muslim soldier and broadcasting the killing on the Internet.

The alleged plot was to involve the kidnapping of a British serviceman in Britain, a government contact connected with security services told NBC News on condition of anonymity.

Sky TV, which said it knew the target’s identity, a man in his 20s, quoted sources as saying the intent was to mimic the abductions and beheadings of Westerners carried out by militants in Iraq and post a video of the killing on the Internet.

How would you like to be that guy? How would you continue your daily life knowing that people were orchestrating your kidnapping behind closed doors? It’s not like they were just planning a drive by in the hood or anything. And the man was in his 20’s. Unlike most of my friends (ha, ha), I’m still in my 20’s. I’m just thankful no one wants to kidnap me, strip me, kill me and broadcast it on the internet while all my friends laugh and howl at my small penis. Heartless pricks I tell you.




In other dick(head) news:


K-Fed’s divorce demands must include hitting it one more time, otherwise the stupid fucker would take the $25 mil and run. To her defense, Britney could just play it off as “Oops, I did it again.”


By Jeannette Walls
MSNBC


Looks like K-Fed is making good on his threat to hit up Britney Spears for big bucks.
Kevin Federline turned down a $25 million divorce settlement from the “Oops, I Did It Again” singer, according to Star.

At one point, Federline was reportedly looking for $50 million from his estranged wife and the mother of two of his children — but the source insists it’s not greed — but love of their kids.
“Kevin says that Britney offered him $10 million to walk away from their marriage and to relinquish custody of their kids, but he just laughed. Then she came back with $20 million which he turned down too,” a source told the tab “Now he says she’s offering a whopping $25 million, and that’s her final offer. He told her to take a hike! He loves his two little boys, and there’s no way he’s going to disappear from their lives.”

I’ve seen the snatch. I’d take the cash.



Miss USA

And here’s the reigning Miss USA Tara Conner in her interview with Matt Lauer. Somebody please get her a vodka Red Bull and some coke, she looks like shit.

My email to Bob & Brian, local morning DJ’s:

Subject: V-Day

Vagina Day is still 14 days away. How many times do I have to hear Mr. Kessler (jewelry place) talk about how big his balls, er, diamond necklaces are between now and then on your beloved radio station? I already puked in my garbage can once and I don't think the cleaning lady will like it if I do it again. Needless to say I won't be getting any on Vagina Day. Or any day for that matter. Well, I shouldn't say that. I could always get myself something nice...

Please, feel free to email them at bobnbrian@1029thehog.com.

Carson Palmer doesn’t understand black people:

"Enough is enough," Palmer said Wednesday at the Super Bowl media center. "It's something we're definitely not proud of. From here on out, guys just need to make better decisions. Life is about making the right decisions and moving on. The decisions they've made are not the right ones. There's really nothing that Marvin can do in the offseason. Right now, you can't put a curfew on guys. You can't call guys every single night to make sure they're in bed, they're not running around."

Anonymous Cincinnati Bengal player commented:

"Man, he don’t know nothin’ what it’s like for a brotha. You gotsa have da posse and da bitches and da strip clubs and da guns. Carson Palmer’s just a cracker who’s got a hot cracker wife with a tiny ass. Sheet, he’d crap his motha fuckin’ pants if he saw the hoes we gets up in here. Damn straight. Sheet, dat’s him right dere, drivin’ that hillbilly F-150 with the 16” dubs. He don’t understand, you gotsa have some bling on yo ride. Ya know, it’s kinda like dat Will Smith song, “Carson Palmer Just Don’t Understand.” Oh shit, put that joint down, it’s da cops!"

Weekend In Bed (Not With Woman)

I have been sicker than a dog lately (woof!). Saturday I stayed in bed till 5:00 reading. The Renter came in and jumped on the bed because she said she was bored. I guess I am now the entertainer of the house or something (I have that court jester hat lying around somewhere…). Can’t a brotha enjoy a little quiet time to himself while he’s feeling down and out? Sunday was no better with most of the day spent watching TV. Monday, same thing, watched “40 Year Old Virgin” twice and “The Hulk.” I caught most of “The Punisher” before I had to call it a night.

Besides feeling like shit and not having any energy to do anything, I didn’t have any food in the house. Usually I’ll have something, maybe leftovers from the previous day or a week old burger from George Webb’s. My fridge consisted of four eggs, six ounces of milk, and 19 cans of beer that is probably two months old. I guess I have the condiments for grilling like ketchup, mustard and barbeque sauce, but I didn’t have anything to put them on and consuming them just by themselves is pretty fucking gross (picture “Dumb And Dumber” when they’re eating the inferno peppers).

I have lived in the vicinity of the Mexican restaurant for two years now and I’m growing a bit tired of their food. Tasty shit, I’ve just had too much of it. My only other alternative was to walk to the gas station. Saturday I had a frozen pizza. Sunday I had a frozen pizza. By the time noon on Monday came around I was sick of pizza. Somehow I spent $12 on a sub sandwich, salad, veggies, and a lemonade. $12 on pre-fabbed, shrink-wrapped food that was who knows how old. But when you don’t have many options you do what you can. I certainly didn’t feel like hopping in the car and driving someplace, and the only delivery place that I know of that’s close is (gulp) Pizza Hut.

And now, after lying around all weekend doing nothing, my back hurts. It hurts to bend over and tie my shoes. It hurts to stand up. It hurts when I push the clutch in on the Jeep. Why, after not doing shit, does my back hurt? It snowed twice over the weekend and the Renter was kind enough to shovel. Thank goodness it wasn’t any of the heavy shit otherwise I would have been out there and my back would have a reason to be sore. I didn’t even take the gym clothes to work today; there was no point in carrying them in. Instead I spent the lunch hour reading and watching the construction crews outside my window. Oh, the guy in the John Deer with the rolling ground crusher thing behind him? Yeah, he can eat one. My office was pounding for a good four hours; my mouse even caught air a couple of times. I wish I were kidding about that one.

In my efforts to get better I’m going to do a light workout tonight. It’s funny how when you’re used to lifting weights and then you can’t for a number of days that you feel guilty even though you had no control over the situation. I feel like a weak, pathetic slob right now and need to do something even if it’s just 200 push ups and ten minutes on the bike. I might have to partake in some “other” exercises, too. You know I wasn’t feeling well if I didn’t even want to do “that.” As for my dedicated “photo/video album” computer, I still can’t remember the freaking password. My feeling on this subject is…

Ok, I lied about not doing some of the "other" exercises.

And lastly, this article was on ESPN.com by Wright Thompson last week and I found it to be very disturbing, one of those “this ain’t right” situations where someone gets an undeserved punishment for a slight offense. I’ve cut and pasted parts of the article here since the original is pretty long but if you have time please read the above link.

When he (Genarlow Wilson) was a senior in high school, he received oral sex from a 10th grader. He was 17. She was 15. Everyone, including the girl and the prosecution, agreed she initiated the act. But because of an archaic Georgia law, it was a misdemeanor for teenagers less than three years apart to have sexual intercourse, but a felony for the same kids to have oral sex.

Afterward, the state legislature changed the law to include an oral sex clause, but that doesn't help Wilson.

Yet no one will do anything to free him, passing responsibility around like a hot potato. The prosecutors say they were just doing their job. The Supreme Court says it couldn't free him because the state legislature decreed the new law didn't apply to old cases, even though this case was the entire reason the new law was passed.

The night of the offense:

Genarlow Wilson and his friends checked into the Days Inn right off Interstate 20. At some point in the night, according to court documents and evidence presented at trial, some girls came over to party with them. Bourbon and marijuana were consumed. One of the young men turned on a video camera.

Later in the evening, a 17-year-old girl began to have sex with the young men, first in the bathroom, then on the bed. Genarlow is captured on tape appearing to have sex with the girl from behind. Her hand is clearly visible on the floor supporting herself. Witnesses said she was a willing participant.

The next morning, the girl awoke in a stupor, wearing nothing but her socks. She called her mother and said she had been raped. Police came to the room after sunrise and took the revelers in for questioning. Genarlow had already gone home -- he didn't want to miss curfew -- but the video camera remained.

On tape, the cops saw a 15-year-old girl, a 10th-grader, performing oral sex on a partygoer and, after finishing with him, turning and performing the act on Genarlow. She was the instigator, according to her mother's testimony. Problem was, the girl was a year under the age of consent. Local prosecutors called the act aggravated child molestation, following the letter and not the spirit of the law, which was designed to prosecute pedophiles.

The position of Barker and the district attorney, McDade, who refused to comment, is that Wilson is guilty under the law and there is no room for mercy, though the facts seem to say they simply chose not to give it to Wilson. At the same time this trial was under way, a local high school teacher, a white female, was found guilty of having a sexual relationship with a student -- a true case of child molestation. The teacher received 90 days. Wilson received 3,650 days.

Something just isn’t right here.

The Piano Bar

It’s now day four and everything is still going well. I went to the bookstore and found an interesting novel (actually a series) about a guy who finds himself trapped in the future after a nuclear war. He has a shotgun and a Harley Davidson. I just started it but it is pretty damn interesting.

I watched the Badger-Wolverine game on Wednesday night with the FA and the Renter. Well, I should say I watched the first half of the game since the FA wanted to go to some piano bar. I thought ok, it could be cool, a piano bar with some guy singing “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond with everyone singing along, drinks in hand (ever see “Beautiful Girls”?). Boy was I wrong. I guess in 2007 a piano bar consists of uppity pricks drinking faggy martinis listening to some guy play the piano and sing some lame Madonna song while his sound system is pumping in the bass and symbols. Dude, who needs an amp and speakers when performing in front of a piano? You’d think it would just be the nice warm sound of the piano but no, fucking loud ass “background” music pretty much covered up the piano so it was like karaoke for one, and you know how much I lllloooovvvveeee karaoke. And to make matters worse, THEY DIDN’T HAVE A FUCKING TV!!! Yours truly put 40 “roses” (as the escorts like to call them) on the Wolverines even though I’m from Wisconsin. Michigan was getting 12.5 points and to make a long story short (really short since I didn’t get to see the second half), the Wolverines started the game up 9-0, then had six straight turnovers, were down by seven at halftime, down by 20 with three minutes left and only managed seven points in those three minutes while holding Wisconsin to none. I lost by half a point. Boys and girls, don’t gamble; it will only leave you with sweaty palms and, over time, hair loss. And no friends. And definitely no women.

(Oh, and that was my best Brett Favre imitation in that first paragraph.)

Back to the piano bar. I would never recommend it to anyone. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice establishment, if you only look at the bar itself and the décor. The floors and tables were really nice as was the huge wooden thingy (I know, very descriptive) that held the many bottles of vodka, some of the shit I had never even heard of. The staff were very friendly, especially the chic with the nice ass and rack. Actually, she didn’t serve us and we didn’t talk to her, but in my dream she was very nice, freakishly flexible and even swallowed (and her name was… damn!).

I tried not to pay attention to the crowd but judging by the way they dressed they were all hoity toity jerk offs.

The FA talked me into getting a martini. They had a $5 special that night.

FA: “Have you ever had a martini before?”

Me: “Nope.”

FA: “Well, how is it?”

Me: “It’s kind of like one big shot. I don’t see the big deal.”

The martini is not for me. First of all, how the fuck are you supposed to hold that funky glass? Are you supposed to raise the pinky like a queer (is that PC?) or just grab it by the base? Second, can a guy really keep his dignity and manhood when he’s sitting next to a woman who’s drinking the same pink shit out of a funky glass that he is? Kind of like doing shots at a real bar, whatever the woman orders the guy has to go one step stronger just to be tough and rugged (or at least I do to make up for my small penis). You won’t catch me doing a shot of Hot Sex or Baily’s, hell no. I must admit, I did have two, but the second only came after the FA called the local news station to find out the score of the Badger game (know anyone else who does that?).

We browsed through the menu a bit, laughing at the $200 bottles of wine. Then we turned to the last page. At the top of the page it said “VIP.” At the bottom of the page they had a $350 martini. Huh? THREE HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLAR MARTINI. “$15 a drop and worth every dollar.” You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’d like to stick that $350 martini up the owner’s Very Inappropriate Place. You know what I could do with $350? I could probably take a group of five women out for dinner and drinks, pull out all the proper lines, be the perfect gentleman (i.e., refrain from farting), and maybe take one of them (or two?) home with me for a little “desert.” Yeah, we all know that isn’t going to happen. But if anyone is reading this, my birthday is coming up, hint, hint. And you don’t have to shoot for the stars, just one woman will do just fine. Wouldn't hurt if she looked like this, but it's not like I'm a pig or anything.

Day Number Three

It’s day number three and I feel pretty good, actually really good. Slept like a baby last night (except for the dead people who were trying to eat me, fuckers wouldn’t stay dead for some reason). Instead of waking up groggy and tired I wake up before my alarm goes off. My body feels fresh. The only muscles that hurt are the ones I worked out the other day. Nice change from having your whole body ache no matter if you lifted weights or not. I don’t know how long it will last; my beloved Friday night is coming up soon. Saturday I could hunker down with a book or a movie and “miss out” on the karaoke freaks (oh darn). And the freaking biotch that I can’t stand will probably be there, pains me to even look at her (and she put her coat right next to mine while I was playing pool last week, puke). There isn’t any football on Sunday and I may or may not have a dinner date set up with a friend, we’ll see. Realistically I could make it till next Friday having gone out only once in twelve days. That should trick the doctor’s office into thinking everything is ok with me. Till next years visit…

I know better than that. If, at age 29, something showed up in a standard test, I’m doing something wrong. It’s been over a month since the doctor visit and I’ve finally come to this realization. When they said I should take ten days off my first thought was “Uh, ok.” Ten days off? Well, since then I think I’ve only made the matter worse. There was Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and of course, playoff football. I wasn’t ready to be forced into a leave of absence. But now, looking at the calendar, I think now is the ideal time to start. No football till the “Big Game” (since “Super Bowl” is copywrited). Work will be really busy for a while. And summer isn’t all that far away. I figure if I behave and be a good boy I could be in tip top shape physically for summer so I can resume jogging and possibly look good for the ladies (like I don’t already, ha!). Last summer I enjoyed many a beer on the new deck and I’d like to do that again this summer with a clear conscience knowing that I took care of myself in the months leading up to it. So that’s the game plan. And being in the right state of mind I think I will be able to stick to it.

Super Prediction?

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No Password, No Porn

It's been 56 days since I've "interacted" with the women on my computer. Friday I was informed by a highly respected source that I'll have to reformat my computer and erase everything that's on it since I can't remember the freaking password.

This makes me very sad.

Very sad.

Kind of like having a cute little puppy for six years and one day trading it in for a new one. Six years of fun and love tossed right down the tubes.

There's no way I could locate and download everything that I had accumulated in the last six years. Sure, I could sit down and find some of them but damn, I just don't have the time that I did years ago. And I'm ashamed to admit but yes, I did actually pay for some of the files. I found one site that was totally worth it, $20 a month and I had the computer downloading 24 hours a day. Since then I have grown considerably cheaper and would not even think about paying for porn again.

This is all normal behavior for a 29 year old guy, right?

The Yahoo Personal Profile

I had to erase my Yahoo Personals profile. Not because I met someone and didn’t want to date other people. Not because I am super busy and don’t have time to date (although whacking off has been taking longer lately). But because one day I clicked on the “who’s viewed your profile” link and got this message:

· 0 women viewed your profile in the last 7 days

· 0 women in the last 30 days

Couldn’t they just fucking lie to me to ease the pain? I mean good Lord, there isn’t one fat, ugly, lonely woman out there browsing the personals that happens to see a handsome man with brown hair wearing a navy blue suit and decides to click on his profile? Not one? Maybe it was the title that scared them off: 6’4” white guy with 8” black man’s penis just looking to get laid. I mean, isn’t that what every woman wants? When I set the profile up it took a long time to come up with that title and let me tell you, I thought it was golden. Golden, baby! I envisioned hundreds if not thousands of women sending me winks and emails eager to get their hands down my pants. I even bought a day planner for at home to keep all the “appointments” straight. My stock portfolio went from having the blue chip stocks like GE, Apple, Intel, and Harrah’s (because they took enough from me in Vegas, needed to make some off them) to one large holding in a single company: Trojan. I bought seven sets of sheets so I wouldn’t have to do laundry every day. Who has time for that when your door bell rings every hour with a fine young piece of ass waiting for you on the other side of the door? I was thoroughly prepared. And then… nothing. Dead silence. No winks or suggestive emails with exposed boobies. No door bells ringing. No appointments in the planner. Nothing. You can imagine how disappointed I was. My stock in Trojan increased slightly as I purchased every condom I could find in the Milwaukee area, but now even that is down in the dumps. I’m almost going to be 30. If I were a woman I’d be considered damaged goods or something with the sight of becoming an old nag looming right around the corner. But, I can’t let that happen…

You see, I lied about deleting the Yahoo profile, I’m sorry. I promise to never lie on here again, really (ha, ha!). All I did was change it just a little bit, tweaked it if you will. Funny how many emails I got just by changing my sexual preference. I have been told I’d be a pretty hot gay guy before…

6" Of Snow, 8" Of Useless Flesh

The heavens dropped six inches of snow on us on Monday. Thank goodness it was a holiday and I could take my time shoveling. Only problem? After ten minutes I was huffing and puffing. How the hell am I ever going to have sex again if I can't shovel a little snow for ten minutes? Back when I was jogging three times a week I could last a good 45 minutes in the sack (and it was a GOOD 45 minutes). But now, ten and done? That is not going to hack it, let alone get me off. Hell, I even get exhausted doing it manually (that would be me doing it myself if you weren't sure). Obviously lifting weights every day has not helped much, nor has the pack of cigarettes I consume every day. I really can't blame it on the beer because what, am I going to cut that out any time soon? (Still have to make that second Dr. appointment.) So with that being said I am going to go in the basement and hop on the stationary bike. If my penis ever wants to see another vagina for longer than ten minutes at a pop I'm going to have to work at this for a while. Till then, all you sexy ladies, please just sit back and try to be content with your vibrators. Think any sexy ladies actually read the foul shit I put on here? I'm going to guess NO.

Really Nice Fucking Boobies

Why do women have special access to other women? You see women making out with other women on Girls Gone Wild, women trying on bathing suits together. But when a guy gets involved somehow something gets a little out of whack.

Loaded beyond belief, the Renter and I went up to the bar this weekend. At the bar was the roommate of an ex-girlfriend of mine. Very cute girl, nice personality, maybe a little quiet. Well, the Renter seems to have free access to the boobs. If she reaches out to fondle them there is no opposition. Of course I'm always jealous of this. I mean, who doesn't want to touch some boobies? This weekend there was one night where the Renter and I showed up quite loaded, drinking only shots, no beer. The Renter kindly asked (thank you!) if I could have permission to partake in the touching of boobies. The atmosphere of the bar was pretty wild with cleavage shots and whipped cream a-flowing. She led me around the bar, holding my hands out ready to cop a feel. And you know what? They were the nicest freaking boobies I have touched in quite a long time (well over a year). And this wasn't just because the only boobies I've felt lately have been my own; these were nice. But then the aftermath...

I woke up one morning and called the ex-girlfriend. "Your roommate has the nicest boobs I've felt in quite some time." Blah, blah, blah. I get a phone call later from her. She's in Orlando or someplace, just got off the plane. "So that's what the phone call was about that I got at 3:00 this morning." What? I couldn't hear all too clearly what she was saying but I guess word got out about the boobie groping. I'll have to check my email to see exactly what was said but still, I'm not sure I get why something was said. The Renter got permission, it was all in fun, I do believe my crotch was groped at some point during the night, so, ah, what's the big deal if there is one in the first place?

I'm the one that always has the good time, not worrying about what people might say about my actions. I figure, as long as everyone's smiling its all ok, correct?

Still wondering what the phone call was. Think she might still go to dinner with me?

Bear With Me...

I was running down the corridor, two puppies in my arms and the sister in tow. Barging through door after door, corridor after corridor, we ran as fast as we could. Occasionally we’d come to an exit and have to sprint across a field, trying to stay as low as possible to avoid detection. The crowd must have been infected with something, we didn’t know why they were after us. It was like the Puppet Master of the fair had them all under his power, and for some reason he wanted us. I don’t know why we weren’t affected, why we were the only ones who weren’t running around like mad men shooting their guns in the air, or why we were the targets of their shots. We had no choice but to run.

I took control of the situation. My sister, dazed by what was going on, didn’t argue or ask questions. The puppies seemed to realize the grave situation we were in; they didn’t struggle or wiggle to get free, just sat in my arms and held on not making a sound. Tree limbs were exploding to our left and right, shotgun pellets flying past our heads. I spotted an entrance that lead to an underground tunnel and we ducked in. It wasn’t a sewer system but it did have two feet of standing water. We sloshed on with all our strength, the sounds of gunfire and yelling spurring us on to go faster. Then, all of a sudden, a 20 foot drop off to a pool below us. Gripping on to the dogs tightly I jumped and dropped for what seemed like an eternity. The cold water engulfed us. Not wanting to let go of them I kicked with all my might trying to get back to the surface. I could feel their little feet pawing at the water trying to do the same. Reaching fresh air we gasped to regain our breath. I could hear my sister behind me doing the same. We continued on to a shallow part only to find another drop off, this one not as high. Once again we jumped, the shouts getting closer behind us. Wading out of the second pool we found a door that led to a set of stairs. I could see the moonlight streaming in from the outside.

We reached ground level and looked around. My sister, being quite a bit younger, didn’t recognize the surroundings; I did. It was my grandmother and grandfather’s farm house. I knew where he used to keep his shotgun. We ran inside and locked the door but they were on to us, they saw us go in. I quickly loaded the gun and peered out the side door. I could see shadows lurking in the bushes and behind buildings. Enough was enough. It was time to make a stand. After making sure the sister was in a safe place with the dogs, I cracked open the door. With one quick pull I ripped it wide open and rolled out doing a summersault. One man by the garage took a shot at me but missed. He wasn’t as fortunate as I. I leveled the shotgun at his chest and fired. He fell to the ground with a scream, dropping his weapon on the pavement. I ducked for cover behind the stairs, peering over them to gauge my next move. Another blast ripped into the concrete in front of me but the flash from the muzzle gave away his position. I aimed and fired again. It wasn’t a direct hit but I could hear pain and agony coming from the general area. Then, “B to the…, is that you?” It was G the hairdresser. Apparently the shot had broken the spell and brought him back to consciousness. He raced over to where I was crouching, the side of his shirt already turning moist and red.

And then I woke up, with my childhood teddy bear in my arms.

My father had been cleaning out my old room over the weekend. On Monday he gave me a box of stuff to take home with me to the house. I got the box home, opened it up and immediately found T-bear, my favorite stuffed animal from when I was a kid. For old times sake I took T-bear to bed with me that night. I woke up several times during the night, one time clutching the bear as tightly as I could. I don’t know where all the shooting and running came from, but the puppies cradled under my arms in the dream were actually my bear hugging me back in my bed.

I’m 29, regularly cry during movies, and now, once again, I sleep with a teddy bear. I’m ok, really.

If You Don't Use It...

You know how they say “If you don’t use it you’ll lose it?” Well, the other day I was trying to figure out what circumstances or actions this would apply to. Obviously it doesn’t refer to riding a bike because everyone knows that once you learn how to do it you’ll never forget (unless you become very old and lose all sense of balance or if you’re 29 years old and just plain fucked up on booze). Typing would be another example, how the hell could you forget how to type if you hadn’t done it in a while? Have you ever woken up one morning after years and years of wearing Velcro shoes and find that you have forgotten how to tie your shoe laces? (And don’t knock the Velcro shoes, those things were fucking cool back in grade school!) How about sex? Even if you haven’t done it in a long while (this is just something I’m pulling out of the air) it’s not like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing when the next opportunity rolls around. (Except for the time I mistakenly stuck it in the wrong hole and she yelped and swatted me with a back hand…)

I can see how this would apply to lifting weights. If you don’t go to the gym for a period of time you will lose the muscle. A couple years back I wasn’t exactly allowed to drive my vehicle for a period of time (don’t ask) and it took me a while to be able to change lanes on the freeway without crapping my pants (and I now know what a woman driver feels like). I haven’t shot a basketball in about a year but I’m guessing I could get that back in a couple hours, same with swinging a golf club. I don’t even want to think about how far I’d get if I laced up the Velcro running shoes right now and tried to go for a jog. Trust me, it wouldn’t be far. Hopefully my penis doesn’t shrivel up and fall off from lack of action.

Sunday, after the whole Friday night shower thing, I decided I was going to boot up the computer and spend some quality time with the fan club of whores I have compiled over the past six years (maybe I’m the fan, not sure, they always have smiles on their faces while mine usually has some mean/angry frown with a slight hint of redness and a couple drops of sweat). For the past year my computer has been somewhat fucked up. I get pop-ups all the time about some virus that’s trying to eat my lovely lady friends but I’ve pretty much just ignored it. Because of this I don’t use the computer often. When I sat down in the comfy chair ready to get reacquainted with Jenna Jameson and her crew (ever heard of Mary Carey?), I ran into a problem. No matter what I typed in the box asking for my password I got a rejection notice. Wait, not a rejection notice, but a “Did you forget your password?” message. And you would think if it assumes you forgot your password it would try to help you out or something. But no, that would be too easy. I tried right clicking on it, left clicking on it, nothing worked. I tried more passwords but got the same message every time. No sex for B to the…, not even with myself. The apocalypse must be coming soon.

Rules Of The House

I don’t have many rules in the house. Don’t wear high heels on the wood floors (even though some bitch already did). Make sure you lock the doors when you leave. Keep the washer and dryer empty when not in use (as opposed to leaving clothes in them for three days and then re-washing them because they smell or the landlord has taken them out and dumped them on the basement floor). And don’t take 20 minute showers.

I got home from work on Friday feeling pretty icky. Funny thing is I didn’t even get a chance to go to the gym during lunch, I worked right through it. But feeling icky and needing a haircut (short hair seems to stay clean longer), I jumped in the shower just as the Renter was getting out. I was washing my hair, cleaning up my crotch and any shit I missed when wiping my ass (wish I could have gotten a picture of Friday’s masterpiece), when all of a sudden the hot water cut out. Turns out the Renter didn’t turn off the shower while she shaved her entire body and used all the hot water. “You shouldn’t have been masturbating in the shower.” How did she know? But that’s not the point. If I want to masturbate in MY shower I should be able to masturbate in MY shower, with warm water. Not only does she limit my options for potential fucks at the bar by constantly sitting next to me and putting her hand down the front of my pants, she also uses all the hot water in the shower so I can’t even do it by myself. Why me?

Sports Bar?

Email to Yahoo Personals girl: Would it be a little weird if we dressed you up in a red bra/panty combo complete with antlers and red nose and I put on a Santa costume for a little Santa-reindeer sex?

Her response: Yeah - maybe....lol

My response: Can’t hurt to give it a shot, right? I even have matching belts with missal toe hanging in the front!

Her response: none




Walking to City Hall today I heard my name called out from the street. I look over and one of the hot older bartenders who used to work at the corner bar is hanging her head out the window.

Hot Bartender: Where are you going?

Me: Just down to City Hall.

Hot Bartender: Do you want a ride?

Me: No, I’m on company time, and I don’t think your back seat is big enough.


At least she laughed and didn’t flip me off or look at me weird or make a u-turn and run me over or make me use company time for, er, ridin’ dirty. 'Cause that would be just wrong.



And lastly, if you go to a strip club you go there to see boobies and ass and maybe have a couple cocktails and a lapper (lappers are always nice)(so are boobies)(so is ass)(if only they were free!). If you go to a cheap buffet for lunch you expect to eat semi decent food (and lots of it) at a reasonable price. If you go to a casino you’re there to play blackjack next to some woman who smells like shit and may or may not have all of her teeth. But if you go to a sports bar where the bartender is bi and the patrons consist of a gay guy and a couple of women you don’t get to watch sports. Instead, every TV is turned to America’s Next Top Model. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a decent show, can’t go wrong with hot women wearing various skimpy outfits and doing some funky poses for the photographers (gotta love it when they bend over and spread their ass cheeks, wait, that’s porn, my fault, porn’s cool too). But when Louisville just went up by four with seven minutes left and they are favored by ten (don’t ask why I knew the line…) and I run up to the bar only to be laughed at because there aren’t any sports on, yeah, well, you can just blow it out your ass. I watched Louisville win by eleven (yeah!) from the comfort of my living room. Fuck it.