Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I started playing pool around 10:30. By 10:35 the back of the bar by the pool table smelled like, well, just a lot of stinky farts. It was bad, even for me. Walking around the pool table and lining up the next shot and BAM!, you’d run into this wall of stench that filled your nostrils and put stars in your eyes. The Renter refused to play pool with me and called me Mr. McNasty. I passed out from the fumes. Somebody peed on me.
Wednesday morning I emailed the Renter:
Me: Remember those farts I had last night? Well, I still have them, only they are much worse after eating 20 cheese sticks. And in half an hour I have to participate in a sporting event with a woman who has lovely fake breasts IN AN ENCLOSED AREA. Great.
(Ok, I must warn you, there are going to be a shit load of “u” and “ur” abbreviations in the Renter’s response, but try to bear with them.)
Renter: ok here is what you do, cuz we are going to get u laid. one of us has to have some fun around here. take some TP and using ur pointer finger shove the TP into ur butthole. that should hold for one hour so u dont fart or shit ur pants. but remember to remove the homemade butt plug when u are done. cuz there is nothing more gross then giving a guy a reach around and feeling a big chunk of TP in the guys ass. u could also spray some body spray directly to the area that is causing the odor. the only problem with that is that it might sting if it some of it gets in the asshole. and playing racquet ball with a burning asshole can't be good or pretty. u could ask one of ur female co-workers for a tampon and shove that up there too. i have some with me but u don't have time to come and get one. or to make things even, make her laugh so hard that she pees her pants a little. that way u shitting ur pants wont be so bad cuz she peed her pants. u guys will make a great couple! u know u are thinking on this too much. she is older then u and i'm sure she has gas problems too. she might even be wearing depends. if her ass looks a bit big and puffy she is sporting depends. good luck and let me know how it all goes.
(I think she has officially been hanging out with me for too long.)
20 cheese sticks. I think I’ve mentioned before, in my old age I think I have grown mildly lactose intolerant. I’m not exactly sure what lactose intolerant means, but if I drink eight ounces of chocolate milk I will be farting uncontrollably in an hour and a half, shitting in under two hours, and being kicked out of my parent’s house with my pants still around my ankles shortly thereafter. I have 7 inches and 70 pounds on my dad but it’s hard to fight back when your pants are around your ankles.
Wednesday morning the 20 cheese sticks kicked in. I had farts that were so bad I had to leave my office and go for a cigarette. I actually got down on one knee and said a little prayer hoping that no one would come in to my office. Thankfully no one did. But I still had to try to conquer my flatulence for the hour or so that I was going to be playing racquetball (and trust me, trying to conquer MY flatulence is a waste of time). 11:45 I took a healthy dump and headed off to the gym.
At the gym I changed clothes, glanced at the toilet, but passed on it and went up to the court. 39 was there already hitting the ball against the wall. We warmed up a little bit and started the first game. And wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t have to fart even once. Or maybe it was I didn’t notice that I had to fart AS I WAS GETTING MY ASS WIPED ALL OVER THE COURT!!!
We were going to play three games; loser of two had to buy dinner. As I had predicted, I was going to lose the third game either because 1) the game wouldn’t be necessary to determine a winner or 2) the EMTs wouldn’t let me continue playing after they had to jumpstart my heart twice. The EMTs were not called but I almost wish they had been so I could have slept in a comfortable bed all afternoon.
39 yr old is in good shape and knows her some racquetball. You’d think by now I’d have something cleaver made up for her other than 39 yr old, maybe “gym girl/woman” or “hot broad” or “nice boobs” or “that woman at the gym that I’d really like to fuck but it would have to be either missionary or her on top so I can see her nice boobs bounce,” but I haven’t, so 39 yr old it is. She’s in good shape. While I clomped around the court, bouncing off walls and completely whiffing on more than one occasion, she nimbly covered the court and hit the ball with confidence. I guess fake boobs don’t get in the way with racquetball.
Game #1 was a slaughter. We played up to 21; I think I had 7 points. I started to feel sorry for her that she was stuck with me, kind of like the one and only time I went golfing this summer (painful). Game #2 was a closer match. At one point we had it tied up at 17. I had visions of winning and faking a heart attack and having her give me CPR. But like Kammron Taylor at the free throw line with 23 seconds left shooting a one-and-one, I choked. The Ohio State Buckeyes won on Sunday, the 39 yr old won on Wednesday.
While she gathered up her jewelry I tried to mop up some of the sweat that had plastered my hair down. I forcibly regulated my breathing so I wouldn’t sound like a panting dog on a hot day. We walked back to the gym for some water. As we parted ways I asked her if we were still on for dinner and she confirmed.
In the locker room I ran into one of the old lawyers.
Old lawyer: So, how did it go? It looks like she gave you a good workout.
Me: Dude, she kicked my ass.
Most people at the gym take a shower after they work out. Most people at the gym are old. No people at the gym have shaved pubic areas. I have a shaved pubic area. I do not take showers at the gym.
My whole body was fifteen degrees warmer than it should have been. I tried to cool down my head with cold water. That worked a little bit. I tried to dry myself off in front of one of the hair driers. That did not work. Having hot air blow on my already hot skin only made me sweat more. When I sweat more I panic that the sweating will never stop, making me sweat even more. I rushed out of the locker room with wet hair and semi damp underwear (I know, euw), hoping the cold air outside would do the trick. And it did do the trick, well, for most body parts.
I sat at my desk all afternoon with the smell of feet drifting up at me. By 3:30 the smell had consumed my office. By 4:00 I was emailing the 39 yr old trying to postpone dinner till Thursday night. I tried to think of a good excuse like my dog ate my homework or something but I was both physically and mentally tired. I don’t like to lie and I’m not very good at it. The Renter can tell stories of me saying I will do something the next day and then not doing it but that’s only because I’m the most agreeable person in the world when I’m loaded and if someone suggests that we go out to eat or jump off a cliff I’m right there giving high fives. And I must admit I have reworded some of the FA’s so called “quotes” but that’s only because he isn’t all that funny and the whole point of this blog is to make you laugh or shit in your pants or vomit when you read this right after lunch.
4:05 I scrapped the email idea and called her on the phone.
Me: Hi, 39 yr old, it’s me, B to the…, also known as Brian.
39 yr old: Yes, the accountant/CIA operative. I was just emailing you.
(If there’s one thing I have with women it’s good timing like I’ll meet them right after they get divorced or when they just want to use me for sex or when they’re drunk and non-responsive – I like those best.)
Me: Yeah, are you free tomorrow night for dinner?
39 yr old: Actually, no, no I’m not. I was going to email you that you didn’t have to do the dinner thing since you’re pretty much a rookie at it.
(I told you it was bad.)
Me: No, I want to have dinner. (That was the whole point now wasn’t it? It’s not like I was going to put myself through all that abuse for nothing.) It’s just that I’m pretty beat after that workout and in all honesty, I don’t smell all that great.
(Honesty always gets the women in the sack, trust me.)
39 yr old, laughing: What, didn’t you take a shower?
(Brutal honesty is the ultimate aphrodisiac.)
Me: Well, not really, see, nobody in the locker room has shaved pubic regions and well, I do. I’d feel really weird taking a shower next to some 80 yr old guy who thinks I must be in a cult or something.
39 yr old, laughing even more and drooling slightly: Ah, I see. But yeah, I’m busy tomorrow so we can do it next week if you want to.
(She said “do it.” Beavis and Butthead were my mentors.)
Me: And we need to set up another game. I had a lot of fun.
39 yr old: Yeah, I did too. (Or something else like that followed by a couple comments on me whiffing at the ball.)
After that I sat at my desk with some crazy thoughts going through my head. What did she think of the sweaty, smelly, pubically shaved life-fuckup that is B to the… (referring to myself in the third person is pretty cool). And then I got an email.
39 yr old: By the way...that's what the towels are for...to cover up those regions...
Me: I was wondering what you'd be thinking. I've never ventured back to the shower area. I don't know if they have individual showers or what. And I would have the towel wrapped around me. There should be a sign posted in there requiring it. I know it sounds weird or whatever. But at least it's not that I don't shower because I have a small wee wee or something. Just trimmed just in case a female (gasp!) wants to get friendly. By the way, that is like riding a bike right? Otherwise I might be screwed.
39 yr old: LOL I know, you typically do weights and that doesn't really make a shower must. From you stature and shoe size....LOL....I'd never hypothesized that size was an issue. Stay neat-n-trim, chicks dig it. And, the bike theory holds true.
Me: That's great news! I was afraid I'd have to air hump my couch one of these days.
39 yr old: Well if its leather don't worry about it, clean up should be easy. (did I really write that!)
So instead of having dinner with the woman who draws stares and glances from all the old guys at the gym, I will be playing Star Wars in my bedroom with the glow in the dark condoms (plural, I think two rounds might be in order).
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I haven’t had a haircut in almost three months. It’s getting a little long, but it still looks halfway ok. It’s really bad in the weight room when I start sweating like a pig. It’s really really bad after shoveling snow. This weekend, after shoveling for what seemed like endless hours, I jigged my hair up in funky shapes just to share with you dear readers (who don’t care if I kick the bucket or not). Enjoy.
My camera had been begging to get put in the blog, so I gave it 2 seconds of fame.
Oh, and I didn’t really mean to call you all cock suckers. I’m sure some of you are either recreational cock suckers or professional cock suckers. At any rate, I didn’t mean it. It came out in a moment of rage and anger and I apologize. And if you are a professional please let me know how much you charge and how I can contact you.
I haven’t gotten myself in trouble with emails I’ve posted on here in a long time, so here it goes.
Emails with 39 yr old woman from the gym.
Me: You should probably get to the gym early tomorrow since I know you old people have to stretch and warm up for 20 minutes before you can do anything.
39: Keep talking “smack” boy… cuz that’s the same sound we’ll hear when the ball hits the back of your head.
Me: Would that be kind of like getting it from behind?
39: LOL… I imagine it’s a little, no, more like a lot different. The court is reserved for noon.
Me: Can this be considered a “nooner”?
39: LOL You have a one track mind mister...yes, it could be.
Me: Sweet! You said I have to do something wild and crazy before I turn 30. Now I can say I had a nooner even though it's not really a nooner, but there will be sweating and heavy breathing going on and I'm sure I will be horizontal after I pass out in which case I may require CPR...
39: There is a lot of parallels isn't there...there could be "a lot ofracket" going on too! If this is your first nooner you are well over due, nonetheless I'm honored it will be with me...LOL
Me: Technically it will be the first nooner. 3:30 on a Friday at work doesn't count as a nooner, right? We'll keep that "honored" thing under wraps till we're finished, could be the ugliest game of racquet ball ever and I haven't done any physical activity like that since the summer so I'm sure I'll be covered is sweat after a whole ten minutes.
39: 3:30 p.m. is technically past the nooner time zone according to congress. However, you do score points for "adventurous and risky" for the TGIF event...and even a "dang" if it was on a conference room table.
And no, dear readers, I have not done this at any of my “professional” jobs. Well, depending on how you define "professional" and if being a part-time employee has any influence on the issue.
There was another email conversation that took place but I’m not sure I can share it with you as it might greatly reduce the chances of me having sex before I turn 30 (in exactly 30 days, roughly, give or take). I say “greatly reduce the chances” because going from a 2% chance down to a 1% chance is still a 50% difference. Ok, I put those numbers ridiculously low just to be sarcastic; it’s more like 4% down to 2%. If it were to happen (please pray for me), it would be the first time in (really embarrassing) six months. Pretty soon they’re going to take rule #7 off the wall at the corner bar (#7 - don’t go home with anyone named B to the…). And I’m not having any of that. Back in the day women would go home with me just because my name was on the board. If that goes down then all hope is lost. I should say what little hope is left. I got sick of looking at the unused condoms in my room that I started using them when I whacked off just for a different feel. Let me tell you, if you’re bored with your personal (with self) sex life go ahead and give it a shot. Unless you actually use the condoms with real live women, then save them for the hoes. It’s kind of funny stroking a big blue penis in the privacy of your bedroom when for most of your juvenile through adult life it was more of a tan, fleshy color. I even had visions of reenacting a scene from Star Wars with the light sabers (which I pronounced as “light savors” till I was 12). I’m sorry, but that just reminded me of something. I have to make a trip to the drug store for the glow in the dark condoms, like right now! Well, after I change my underwear.
Monday, February 26, 2007
But, what is the solution? I don't want to see my parents die. I don't think I could take that. While me kicking the bucket before my parents might pain them greatly, I'm a that big of an asshole that I'd rather go first than see them pass. Grandparents passing, no big deal. I've cryed over pets more than I've cried over grandparents, sad but true. Very sad. Hell, one grandfather died while shoveling the snow when everyone chipped in for a snowblower the same year (hence why I'm buying one when they go on sale, if I'm still around). I know I need to do something about it, but hey, I'm a creature of habit. That's why I bought the house a block away from the bar. So, if there are any women out there who want to experience unbelievable sex with me, please make your voice heard.
This was not intended to get woment to sleep with me, just a call for help.
Alexander [former husband of 42 hours and 27 minutes], who claims he once had a drug-fueled threesome with Spears and a female dancer, said that in their short relationship he had trouble keeping up with her drug use.What was that, three years ago? I’d bet that today 9 out of 10 guys would rather fuck the female dancer than Brittney Spears, with the 1 out of 10 picking Spears just so he could say he fucked Brittney Spears (and rubbed her bald head while she gave him head). You know that female dancer is still hot as hell if dancing is still her profession. You don’t see too many fatties on MTV music videos. While the Brittster, well, isn’t all that hot now a days. On a side note, is “keeping up with her drug use” kind of like my friends trying to keep up with my beer drinking on any given night (doesn’t happen)? And how big of a hissy fit would she throw if I “paid more attention” (stuck it in the ass more times) to the dancer than her during the threesome? This coming from the guy who, after the ten minute prep work for masturbation including the lighting of candles and incense, stops mid stroke when he smells pizza. Or who continues to have sex with a woman when there are uninvited guests in his house but abruptly stops when he hears one of his beer cans being opened (sad but true story).
(You can skip the next paragraph if you’re short on time, it’s pretty boring.)
This weekend was pretty uneventful as far as good stories go. Friday I had off from work. The Renter brought home steaks and we pigged out. Friday night at the bar was pretty quiet (as far as I remember). I woke up kind of early on Saturday for some odd reason. I went over to the parent’s house, watched The Prestige (really good movie but you have to pay attention), and returned home to shovel snow. The neighbor kid from across the street offered to shovel like he always does when it snows. Since the snow was light and fluffy I told him I’d do it myself, no big deal. Saturday night at the bar was pretty dead. There was a blizzard warning for most of south eastern Wisconsin so most of the regular patrons stayed home. I left before karaoke started and chowed down on some George Webb’s burgers.
Sunday it snowed. It snowed an eight inch layer of concrete. I stayed in bed till noon reading, putting off the inevitable shoveling as long as possible. I got all bundled up and stepped outside around 1:00. Fifteen minutes later I was gasping for air having cleared off 100 square feet. 100 square feet is a ten by ten square (incase you couldn’t do the math). It took me three and a half hours to shovel roughly 1,400 sq ft of snow. It sucked ass. Every ten or fifteen minutes I would have to stop to get my heart rate back down from the elevated level of a hamster running in his wheel to the not so elevated level of me taking a crap (although those can also be strenuous at times). During these breaks I would silently fume with rage at the people in my neighborhood. It seems that not some but ALL of my neighbors have snow blowers. Being not quite 30, I didn’t believe that I needed a snow blower. I’m still fairly young and in decent (not too fat) shape. Sunday, I needed a snow blower. I sat at my desk today in pain. My lower back is as tender as my testicles after six hours of sex (with myself). One friend drove by and suggested we both go shopping for blowers when they go on sale soon. And you know what? I didn’t even think twice about laying down the cash. I was so absolutely miserable that I was ready to make a $400 purchase without going through the whole “do I really need this” thought process I go through with every big purchase I make. Well, except for those “professional services” I received down in Cancun, but we won’t get in to that now.
And the neighbor kid was nowhere to be found. I swear he was avoiding my stares across the street.
Please don’t judge me (too much) after reading the next story.
On Saturday one of the Renter’s friends was up at the bar. I believe I have written about her before and how the Renter set up a “boobie feel” which left me quite excited and slightly embarrassed (only afterwards). Just recently I have stopped having dreams about them. At one point in the night I leaned back and delivered what I thought was the greatest pickup line ever: “Would you like to be my date for the night? We can hang out, I can buy you some drinks, and at the end of the night we can have a little sex. What do you think?” It was a sure fire winner, the grand slam of pickup lines. For some reason unknown to mankind, it did not work. I had the engineers at NASA work on this and they have assured me it should have panned out. They said I screwed up on the approach angle or the landing or something but I think they’re fucked in the head as I didn’t land anything that night.
Sensing the looming defeat, I did what every sexually challenged/perverted/desperate/slightly demented/almost 30 year old man would do: I pulled up the picture of my penis on my cell phone.
I later found out it is not normal to have a picture of your penis on your cell phone.
But I had good intensions when I took the picture. One night months ago I was hitting on a relatively unattractive woman (you know, like normal). Before she would go home with me she said she wanted to see my penis. Being in a public place with people all around, I had to decline. Or it could have been the fact that I was pretty loaded and more than likely couldn’t get it up anyway, one of the two. The next morning when I woke up alone the idea hit me to take a picture in case the situation was to happen again.
I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to use the picture. What single woman wouldn’t drool and salivate over my 7.7384 inch penis (the “4” was rounded down)? Finally, after months of keeping this picture stored in my phone, it was finally going to pay off! But, just like the greatest pickup line ever, she only laughed and spit out a little of her drink (can be construed as salivating?).
I have since replaced it with a picture of a rose (every woman likes flowers, right? I’m experimenting with my diet to try to get my farts to smell like roses, you know, little 3-D effect to “wow” them over. The Renter isn’t too thrilled to be the sniff tester.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Another news story caught my eye this week and instead of just commenting on it, I decided to do something about it. Tuesday at the gym I did something I haven't done in a long time: leg exercises. You see, I still have four years of eligibility left on my college athletic career. And with this news coming out of Cincinnati, can you blame me?
CINCINNATI (AP) - The University of Cincinnati is looking into claims made in an anonymous letter that four football players and four recruits engaged in sexual activities with a former soccer player at a party.
My application is in the mail.
But my ambition of making the football team and having sex with a soccer player with seven other guys in the room (at this point I can't be picky) came with one major drawback. After months of not doing leg workouts, my lower body did not take it well. I didn't do anything heavy in the weight room, but I did do a lot of exercises that my legs do not do on a daily basis. Wednesday morning I almost went without underwear when I couldn't bend over to pick them up off the bathroom floor. I winced and groaned every time I had to get up out of my chair at work. Even sitting down, letting gravity do the work, was painful.
To top it off, my worst nightmare came true: I wouldn't have been able to have sex even if the entire Vivid cast were naked and flaunting their goods in my bedroom. Seriously, doing exercises to get me on the football field and in bed with a soccer player left me as sexually useful as James Howard Marshall II when he married Anna Nicole Smith (have I ever mentioned her nice boobies before?). Well, I'm sure I could have "gotten it up," but I wouldn't have been good for anything but lying on the bed with a big smile on my face. But today is Friday and I'm pretty much back to normal (just thought I'd let the ladies know).
So it's Friday. I took the day off after a rough week at work. I was hoping to sleep in late and catch up on some Z's, but no, this is what I woke up to at 8:00 this morning.
Since I was up I decided to make some breakfast. Now, I can't cook worth a damn. My cooking accomplishments include scrambled eggs and anything on the grill. That is it. Oh wait, I almost forgot, frozen pizza too. Anyway, I cracked open six eggs, mixed them with a little milk, added some cheese, salt and pepper, and tossed it on the stove.
But that's ok, tonight the Renter is picking up steaks on her way home from work. Last Sunday after the NASCAR race (no, I'm not a big fan), we went to the grocery store and bought some steaks, carrots, dip, salad and salad dressing. $15 and we both ate like kings (I guess that would be "queens" if I were gay). Today it's her turn to buy. I hope I can redeem myself for the poor performance on the eggs.
About a week ago the lawyer at the gym mentioned that the 39 yr old woman had been inquiring about me. I guess she had concerns that she might be a little too old for me. So one day, being the bold manly man that I am, I approached her. I asked her if she was still up for a game of racquet ball. After she agreed she said she'd have to check her schedule and get back to me. Then it happened.
39 yr old: Why don't you give me your email address and I'll email you the dates that I'm free.
Me: Uh, funny thing about that email thing.
39 yr old, looking at me oddly: Huh?
Me: Yeah, well, my email address is B to the... (which of course has my first name in it). Someone started calling me Brian here so I just went along with it, but it really is B to the...
39 yr old, laughing: Are you serious? That's too funny! So, what am I supposed to call you?
Me: Hey, my dad laughs every time I tell him too. But you can't tell anyone.
39 yr old: Yes, I'll keep your secret. So, it's like your secret identity? What, do you really work for the CIA or something?
Me: No, no, I'm actually in the porn industry.
Ok, I didn't say I was in the porn industry (not saying that I couldn't be). We shot a couple emails back and forth and decided on the 28th. She had joked about putting money on it and, by some stroke of genius which I didn't think I had in me, I suggested putting diner on the line. This Wednesday, the loser of a best of three series has to buy dinner that same night. I have this feeling that I will be buying as I'll be sucking wind by the third game and she'll be lobbing balls off the top of my head as I'm bent over gasping for air. Hopefully at the end of the night I'll have her bent over gasping for air.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Then, watching TV tonight, some couple has their 3,500 sq ft home moved 25 miles down stream. Granted, it didn't have a basement, but loading it up on a barge and floating it down the fucking river? Um, can't you think of something better to do with your money than that?
And of course, after that, the "Best of" Sweet Sixteen on MTV was on. That's worse than moving your fucking house. $300,000 on a fucking birthday party that the little bitch throws a hissy fit over? I wouldn't stick my dick up those broad's asses, but I could think of 15 other people who'd do it, all in the same night. Might as well give those bitches something to cry over. Well, you know, other than the fact that their brand new Mercedes is silver and not red. Fuck em.
I have been really busy at work which has left my tired and unimaginative at night, hence the lack of posting this week. But I plan on taking off on Friday so I might come up with something then.
But now, it's time for the beer. Do you see, my dear readers, where you rank on the importance scale? Ha, ha, I'll get back to you, I promise. I have a good story about the gym and the 39 year old, but that one would take more time than I'm willing to spend at this moment. Till then, bottoms up!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
But when it comes to taking a shit, there is no waiting.
Saturday night was fairly uneventful. The evening started with a little Southern Comfort and Coke while I was typing out the last posting. 5:00 the bar opened. The Renter and I took up two big garbage bags full of clothes for the bartender. After pitcher number two I was feeling really full, so I unbuttoned my pants and unzipped just a bit. I had a button down shirt on and it was untucked so no one could tell. As usual, the time came to use the bathroom. I got up, walked out the door and into the restaurant. I passed three people but kept my focus on the bathroom door. Once I got in the bathroom I looked in the mirror. The shirt that was supposed to be covering up my unbuttoned pants was actually hooked on the button. Great.
The evening went on, a couple games of pool were played, numerous shots consumed and some mighty tasty chicken wings eaten. 10:00 came and I was ready for bed. Karaoke was going to start soon and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. Which even meant not using the bathroom before I left. Hey, I live a block away, no big deal, right? While a grown man (soon to be, crap, 30) should be able to hold his bodily functions, most grown men don’t have to put up with a thing called the Renter.
By the time I got home I had to go. As I walked in to the bathroom the Renter decided to sit on the toilet seat lid. She was not using the toilet, just sitting on the lid so I couldn’t use it. I had four pitchers of beer and three shots of Southern Comfort waiting to be discharged. In a moment of panic, I whipped open the shower curtain and began to pee. Only problem was that’s not all I had to do. What I first thought was a fart turned moist and warm. The Renter, still sitting on the toilet, thought it was a fart too until she smelled it. “Uuuuuhhhhh!” she yelled, which in turn made me laugh and fart solid again. Well, it wasn’t exactly farting solid, it pretty much like oatmeal (sorry if you’re eating right now). The Renter knew this was serious and got off the toilet. This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy. According to the Renter I had stuff coming out before I even sat down. Everything made it in the toilet, well, everything that wasn’t already in my shorts (thank goodness for tighty whities!). The smell was bad. To make matters worse I shut the bathroom door to keep all the odors contained in the tiny bathroom. The Renter bent over the tub and vomited, and vomited again, and again. You know me, I couldn’t stop laughing. Here I am, sitting on the toilet with my shorts full of crap and I’m laughing my ass off because the Renter is puking in the tub. I have tears rolling down my cheeks right now as I type this. I took off my shoes, tossed my jeans and underwear in the tub, wiped very well and went to bed.
This morning when I took a shower there were some brown marks in the tub. I tried to rinse it down the drain with just the shower head but that wasn’t working. So I used the blue washcloth that was sitting on the side of the tub. I’m not sure but I think the Renter might use it to wash her face.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The DMV is the new hotspot for minorities and people who never graduated from high school. Looking at the people walking in you’d think college graduates simultaneously receive their degree and fork over their driver’s license. I sat in the car while she went in and maybe saw three white people walk in. Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t have anything against other races. Hell, I used to drive 15 miles out of my way to play basketball at the “ghetto” YMCA. And after looking at the three white people who walked in, I’m sure I’d rather make friends with the Mexican family of six of whom none stood over 5’6” (short people like me because I can change light bulbs without a chair, or they always smile because they can see boogers up my nose). Maybe it was because it was a Saturday and all the hoity toity white people take time off of work during the week to get their licenses renewed, I don’t know.
As I sat in the car I observed the cars turning in to the emissions testing station. I’m not really a numbers person, but 2 out of 3 minority drivers did not use their turn signals when they came in off the street. 4 out of 5 white people did, and the 20% who didn’t were either 70 years old or women (like that’s a big surprise). I don’t want to pass judgment here or try to figure out a reason why this happened, it just did.
The best part was the fucker in the BMW 5 series. He turned in the wrong entrance, made a u-turn, floored it going out of the parking lot, and zipped across the street to the right entrance (surprisingly using his turn signal). While I watched this I decided to play with a feature on my phone I figured out how to use. I can take 15 second voice memos and record them for later playback. I wish I knew how to put audio files on a blog (this whole internet thing is kind of new to me), but here’s how it went:
And I almost felt bad for the guy with BMW who had to go in to get his emissions tested. I mean, you’ve got a BMW 5 series, you’re almost too good to take your car in to emissions.(direct quote, FA)
Yeah, people with Beamers can blow me. I know they’re probably nice cars and everything, but do you really need to spend $50,000 on a car that my $20,000 Jeep can drive half-way onto? I will make a proclamation right now in front of all of you two people: I will never buy a BMW unless I win the lottery. Case in point: Friday at the bar.
There’s this lawyer woman who frequents the bar. I must confess, I did date her for a while, but her uppity attitude started to wear on me. For example, when asked if she had looked for a house in West Allis, the reply was “Stallis?!,” clearly offending the person who asked her the question and actually lived in West Allis. Lawyer woman also owns a Beamer.
The Renter and I were sitting on the end right by the door. After an hour or so she puts a quarter on the pool table. Another half hour goes by and it’s our turn. Before we were even done playing, lawyer woman had moved all of her shit down and sat in the Renter’s chair (which still had her coat and purse on it). Isn’t that just a little rude? The bar was not busy, might have been 15 people max. There were plenty of open seats. But no, lawyer woman had to sit in that chair.
What makes a person think that they can do stuff like that? Do they think that they are that much better than someone else that even though someone else was sitting in a chair that they can just take it? How does a person get to a point in their life where this occurs? Her boyfriend is nice enough, probably one of the nicer people who goes to the bar. I don’t know how he goes along with it all. My conscience would seriously bother me. Kind of like how I feel SO bad that I slept with the porn star while lawyer woman was in the Caribbean on vacation (they were DD’s, can you blame me?).
My views on people are not based on the color of their skin, their educations, or their cars (although I do tend to make fun of stupid people). Personality, respect, and values truly define an individual.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
As I mentioned before, this past Friday and Saturday pretty much blurred together. Nothing really exciting happened to differentiate one day from the other. Things I thought I did/said on Friday could very well have happened on Saturday, and vice versa. The only worth while story to tell is that I spent a lot of money. I don’t even know how much was spent. If I had lost it gambling (heaven forbid) I could tell you the exact amount; things like that are retained in my memory for years (like that Golden State Warriors game that I had $300 on the under and it went three overtimes to put the total over by, painful, two).
Side note: by the grace of the gambling gods I still remember my greatest three hands of blackjack ever. The FA and I discovered that if you went on the Bellagio’s website you could play free casino games and earn points for free rooms and buffets. You didn’t actually have to play the games strategically, just click the mouse and make the reels spin. The system would let you earn 1,500 points a day which took roughly three hours of mouse clicking to earn. Since I didn’t have much of a life back then (please, no comments, too sad), I managed to accumulate 150,000 points (doing the math = 300 hours). I think one nights stay at (owner related) New York New York was 35,000 points. The FA and I spent a three day vacation there and the old roommate and I went on a separate trip. All we had to pay for was the flight.
The first night there with the old roommate we were sitting at a $25 blackjack table. “Getting my ass slaughtered” wouldn’t begin to describe the climate. So I decided to throw a black chip out there ($100). Winner! I was doing so horrible (ready to sell my return flight ticket) that I said “fuck it” and doubled up ($200). Winner again! Hum, it worked the first time, might as well ride the streak, right? I doubled up again ($400) drawing looks from the dealer and the other players (I hope just because of my bet and not because I was drooling drunk and grabbing my crotch). The first card out of the shoe was a king. The old roommate, sitting next to me and not playing (pussy), declared “I will you a blackjack!” (unlike some other quotes, that one is word for word, the FA was complaining about some previous posts). The second card out of the shoe: an ace. Black mother fucking jack! I turned the initial $100 bet in to $1,000 in just three hands. I basked in the glory for all of 5 minutes till the dealer continued his anal rapeage (why doesn’t Word accept that as a word?) and stuck it to me till I had $40 left in my pocket and went back to the room to ball my eyes out in the fetal position in the corner, but boy was I a happy camper after that third hand.
Every Vegas trip I’ve taken has cost me at least $3,500. Multiply that by five trips. All in one year. I’m still paying it off $300 a month (at 3.9% interest), kind of like a second car payment. I’ll never go back. Unless Jasmine calls again. She could do this thing with her, um, ah, nevermind.
While I’m on this topic I might as well tell you about the $3,000 day at Mandalay Bay. This one was with the FA. We met one of his California friends out there for a weekend getaway. As usual, the first night I dropped a boatload, met up with the Cal friend (who later commented he’d never smelled that much booze on a person (me) before, and that was prior to going out), hit some club and called it a night at 3:00 am. Noon the next day we’re all at Mandalay Bay. The FA is watching the Packers playoff game (sucker always bets on the home team and no, they didn’t cover) so I decide to hit the tables. Starting with $1,000, I drop $500 at one table and get up to walk around. I sat down at another table and started playing two hands. Let me tell you, what a fucking streak. I started out being the only player at the table but when I got up the table was full of high-fiving little Oriental guys (well, I was trying to high-five them, think I caught a couple of them off guard and accidentally knocked them off their chairs with my elbows). I had so many black chips in front of me that I had trouble keeping track of them. After a while I had no idea what I was betting, didn’t even care. I just took whatever green chips ($25) I had and divided them between the two spots, keeping the black ones out of play. I sat at that table for the whole Packer game. The cocktail waitress, while not exactly young or cute, performed like the perfect wife (sans blowjobs). She brought me bottles of Miller Lite before I had finished the previous one. I found myself slamming half bottles just to keep pace with her. And I tipped her well (see, I’m not that cheap). Ok, I am cheap. When all was said and done I had $4,000 in front of me. $4,000 on the dot. Not wanting to break a hundred I left the dealer nothing. Zilch. Nada. I walked up to the cage with my four pink chips ready to cash them in. The cage person looked at me like I had robbed someone or had made them with my counterfeit chip maker in my room. I had to go back to the table where I had left nothing for a tip and have the pit boss call the cage confirming my stellar play. Just a little embarrassing. But I walked out of there with $4,000 in my pocket.
Only to lose it all to another casino a couple hours later.
This weekend I spent money on beer, shots, cigarettes, gasoline, and food, more so on the beer and shots than gasoline and food. I spent the two week allowance that I give myself to spend. I even went through a stack of ones 70 deep (I told you, once they’re wrapped they don’t get touched, unfinished ones are fair game). Monday morning I was down to $7. I could have just gone to the bank and gotten more cash, but that would have negated the whole “allowance” and “budget” and “saving money so I can retire when I’m 50 and can still get it up” thing. No, I was going to stick to it. I could survive for two weeks with the gas in my car, but every other facet of my life would have been hindered, no, decapitated. I still have 20 or so beers in the fridge that are about three months old, but what am I going to do while I drink beer at home, write stupid shit to put on my blog? (Yeah, again, no comments please.)
Monday night at the parents’ house, mom says she found something in the safe deposit box that I might find interesting. She had to get my sister’s car title out of there or something, I don’t know, mom’s weird. I walk over by her and she’s making a list of these treasury bills on a sheet of paper. Why she wasn’t doing it on Excel I’ll never understand, besides the fact that would mean she’d have to turn on a computer, but… She has 29 $50 treasury bills, all from 1977-1979, all in my name. The story goes that when I was born she’d buy a treasury bill once or twice a month in my name. She added up the totals, $1,450, and told me they might be worth a little more than that by now. You see, mom isn’t all that great with numbers and investing. A certain financial advisor has tried to get her to “juggle” her funds a bit, rebalance them to fit the current market trends. At least once every three months she asks me what she should do about this or that and my response is always to call the certain financial advisor. But she doesn’t, scared that she might make the wrong move while doing nothing certainly doesn’t help. When I got the bills back home I went on the internet to find out their values. $5,710, or, as mom would put it, just a little more than the purchase price. $5,710! Sweet! Tuesday I went to the bank right after work and met with the personal banking associate. 35 minutes later I had $5,710 more in my account (for a grand total of $5,728).
You would think stumbling upon that much money would make anyone happy. Well, I was happy, but I was just happy about the idea getting free money. I came away from the ordeal with a number of complaints. First off, think about all the time that was spent in the investment process. Trips to the bank, standing in line and getting the bill printed out had to have taken at least 20 minutes for each one. Granted that wasn’t my time but it was still someone’s time. The 35 minute redeeming process (which included three signatures and two stamps on each) was very archaic now that we're in the 21st century. All it takes for me to convert or change funds is a five minute call to the FA. Having to actually go in to the branch and wait for 35 minutes didn’t sit well with me since I’m accustomed to wireless telephones (look mom, no wires!) and the internet. Second, the actual bill itself was just a piece of paper. What would happen if it would have been lost at some point over the last 30 years? Again, not to complain about the $5,710, I’ll never complain about free money (or free sex). But didn’t they have mutual funds and stocks back in 1977? Had that money been invested in the market, assuming an average rate of return of 8%, it would have been worth three times that much ($15,800). I don’t even know what actual return was over the past 30 years, might have been closer to 10% for all I know (which would have totaled $28,800). I sat at the banker’s desk shaking my head after realizing the loss of potential gains had it been invested properly. The safety of the treasury bill cost me $10,000 to $23,000. What’s so safe about giving up $10 K to $20 K? Safety sucks as much as wearing a condom during sex (but I still do of course, or I should say would when the next opportunity arises, hopefully some time before I die).
The banker wanted to know if my address was current so she could send me the tax documents. Taxes? I’m an accountant, not a banker, but wouldn’t you think a treasury bill would be tax free? I have to pay $1,100 in taxes next year for the interest earned. I’m an ungrateful mother fucker (funny, just like the title of this post).
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
But for now, my mind is flowing with payables and receivables, the creative side has been put out like a cigarette butt. I have some stories to tell but they aren't all that funny and I don't want you to fall asleep at work. I mean, it's bad enough that you read this crap at work, but falling asleep while reading it and getting fired would not be good. Not good. So I will leave you with that. I'm going to go shovel snow now. Sucks cock but not the way Chin used to. (Think she'd be in the phone book? But I'm not sure if Chin was her first or last name. Chin, where are you?!)
Monday, February 12, 2007
I think they are pretty good considering where and how they were made. Or maybe it's just the big hooters that I like. I think I might have kind of a thing for big hooters.
And no, I did not whack off to the napkin photos. Yet...
Friday, February 09, 2007
(tear turns to uncontrollable bawling and self mutilation with letter opener and whiteout)
Then today, the day after the announcement, every freaking news related website has her on the front page. If you would have told me this would happen a month ago I would have replied, “Anna Nicole Smith? Wasn’t she in Playboy 15 years ago? And one of those Naked Gun movies that I thought was semi-funny when I was 12 but now, after watching, leaves my IQ a good 20 points lower.” Anna Nicole Smith. I can’t believe it.
But now that she’s dead and famous, and her body still in decent shape (as in not decomposed too much), I have a plan. No, I don’t want to fuck Anna Nicole Smith’s dead body, that’s just sick (if people catch you). I’ve masturbated a million times while watching “The Naked Gun,” which might account for my diminishing memory skills, so in my mind we were lovers from the age of 12-19 (yes, she was my first). My plan is more business related, a respectable business venture if you will. It’s really nothing new, just combining to already existing ideas into one, with a “time is of the essence” marketing plan (which I know absolutely nothing about).
When I sleep at night I generally like to have a fluffy pillow that comes up on both sides of my head, kind of like the bumpers they put in bowling alleys for when the little kids play. While I toss and turn a little during the night, the “bumpers” ensure that my head will be pointed towards the ceiling where all the necessary oxygen is to keep me snoring. Without the bumpers, you’d see me in a 5 minute CSI episode where Grissom, after dusting for prints and finding all my seamen splashings with his blue light, would be heard stating, “Huh, I’ve never seen anything like this before. The fucker suffocated himself in his sleep. Is that a used condom under the bed on top of the stack of porn? We, uh, better put those in an evidence bag” (as he quietly slips my porn into his briefcase). So, as you can see, the bumpers are essential for me to wake up in the morning.
I’m sure everyone has been in a porn or adult video store at one point or another. Can I be serious for one second? The last time I was in a porn shop I was with a girlfriend who, believe it or not, was browsing the movies for titles that she was in. “In” as in her screen name was listed on the cover. “In” as in she was on the cover. “In” as in not the director or photographer but one of the “actresses.” I’ll leave it at that since I think she reads this and may or may not be able to kick my ass, I really don’t want to find out. Anyway, besides the videos they always have the toys and lotions behind the counter. There you can find Jenna Jameson’s vagina and Ron Jeremy’s penis, life sized plastic/rubber body parts that were molded after various big time porn stars (if you don’t know who those two are I feel very, very bad for you). Here’s one for you: do women masturbate to Ron Jeremy like guys do to Jenna Jameson? I saw him in Vegas one time and was going to shake his hand but thought better of it. It’s pretty obvious how the Ron Jeremy dildo would work, but the Jenna Jameson vagina? What, did they “go exploring” and get everything set with the size and pressure (and, ew, smell)?
Now that Anna Nicole Smith is dead and more famous than ever it’s time for me to cash in. Of the millions of people in the world with sleeping problems, I am confident my product will bring them the sleep they need and deserve. Ok, not everyone, just the straight men and lesbians, so we’ll say 53% of the population. I am going to mass produce and distribute The Anna Nikole Smith Sleep Aide Pillow (trademark #53249821675491, notice I had to change her middle name for legal purposes). While Anna’s breasts are still supple and firm, I’m going to make a mold of her chest while she’s lying down (dead people don’t stand up too often). Once the mold is made and the dimensions have been measured I’m heading off to the senior citizens living (waiting to die) center. There I will have the little old ladies work like slave laborers in Thailand (Phil Knight from NIKE gave me that idea, sorry if you’re actually from Thailand), three shifts of eight hours, a twenty four hour sweat shop of mothball and lysol smelling grandmas sewing my “boobs pillow.” I’ll have the neighbor kid make deliveries of fabric and stuffing every day to ensure there isn’t any idle down time while I’ll be out dressed in my new Armani suit selling the pillows to every area video store. But that’s just step #1. Step #2 involves marketing the pillow on eBay and enrolling more seniors to make sure that supply meets demand. Step #3, after the investors and capital have been acquired, is to build the automated pillow processing plant where Anna Nikole Co. will produce 5,000 pillows a day. Step #4 is the best: the sale of Anna Nikole Co. and me retiring to some beachfront mansion in the Caribbean.
Show me a man who wouldn’t sleep like a baby nestled in between Anna Nicole’s luscious boobs, I dare you. Unlike the Jenna Jameson vagina, the Anna Nikole pillow will have will have a sweet fragrance (after I break into her house and find out what she wore, has to be life-like, right?). I could even make an electric version with heat that would gently warm your ears on a cold winter night.
I could go on and on but I don’t want to give too much info away. I’m sure there’s some other ingenious person out there who is thinking along the same lines so I have to hurry. American Airlines flight #536 is waiting for me; departure is at 9:00 tonight. Wish me luck.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
FA: Chomp! I didn’t do the “chomp” thing twice! (No hello or anything, just “Chomp”!)
Me: Yeah, I know, but it sounded better if you did it twice.
FA: Whatever dude. Next time I see you I’m going to whip out my monster cock and slap you on the forehead.
Me: Ooo, don’t tease. (Don’t tease? Sorry, I watched “Boat Trip” last night.)
FA: Did you see my email to Shandoll?
Me: Yes, thank you very much. Now she’s going to think all of my friends are illiterate bastards who can’t spell worth a damn.
FA: Shut up, man! It was the thought that counts.
Me: You’re right, thanks again.
FA: Damn, it’s cold out. And to make matters worse, my remote starter isn’t working too well. (Yeah, they don’t offer those on Jeep Wranglers. Rugged men don’t need remote starters.)
Me: Uh, huh.
FA: When it’s cold out everyone parks as close to the door as they can. I’ve driven around the parking lot twice now looking for a spot.
Me: Awe man! That’s what women do! Ever see them during Christmas time at the mall? I can park, buy the Renter a 12" dildo (and boy does she need it), walk out of the store and the same broad will be circling the parking lot looking for the closest open space.
FA: I’ve circled the parking lot twice now. So you're saying that's bad?
Me: Thank God you’re married, man, otherwise I’d wonder about you.
FA: Uh, I have to let you go. I can’t pull into this spot and talk on the phone at the same time.
Me: Ok, Alice.
Going back to "Boat Trip"...
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
The FA is pretty freaking proud of his home theater. I haven’t seen it yet but he is really eager to get me over there for a movie. There’s only one problem.
FA: So, when are you going to come over and watch a movie?
Me: Uh, I don’t know.
FA: Well, how about this weekend?
Me: Uh, this weekend, uh, what’s going on this weekend, not much that I can think of, but you know me.
FA: Yeah, I know you. Over the years I have learned to not get my hopes up with some people when trying to plan something.
Me: Uh, like me? (why does every sentence start with “uh”? seriously, I did go to college, graduated even, with honors... in beer drinking.)
FA: I read in your blog that you’ve been getting out more, seeing movies (three months ago) and sporting events (two months ago). [Does that really sound like getting out?] And what about that piano bar, that wasn’t that bad, was it? I think it would be a nice place to take a date after dinner or something.
Me, laughing: Yeah, yeah, a date, dude, you’re pretty fucking funny.
FA: Well, you know, if you had a date it would be a nice place.
Me: The place fucking sucked.
FA: Anyway, why is it so hard to schedule stuff with you?
Me: I don’t know, I guess I don’t like setting shit up and then canceling at the last minute (kind of like that “date” last year who canceled with 30 minutes notice and left me literally hanging). If I schedule something for Saturday there’s always the possibility that I will get shit faced on Friday and not feel like doing anything (the great thing is I can use this excuse for every day of the week!). So I like to do stuff more on the fly, like that one time you walked in the bar without calling (how’d he know I was going to be there?) and we ended up going out to eat and watched a movie. If you had called me at 6:00 that night and asked if I wanted to go out to eat and watch a movie I would have said no.
FA: You really have some commitment issues, don’t you?
Me: I guess you could say that. And besides, do people really watch movies on Friday nights anymore?
FA: Yeah, the wife and I do all the time.
Me: Uh huh, that explains it. With the kid on the way, pretty soon you’ll be sitting down on a Friday night watching “Finding Nemo” or some other Pixar animated kids movie.
FA: Hey! I have that movie! You should hear the subwoofer when the shark tries to show how hard he can chomp, he goes “Chomp” [making chomping sound, really, I wish I was making this up], and you can feel it in your chest.
Me: How does he go?
FA: “Chomp.” (and he really did it again, sounded like he slobbered on his phone, too)
Me: And I told you to get the bigger subwoofer. Guess you didn’t need it.
FA: Hey, do you think this conversation is blog worthy?! (I think he gets off on the blog more than I do.)
Me: Uh, no, not really.
FA: How about the fact that I asked if it was blog worthy?
Email to the FA: Well, you made it, happy now? Just don’t let the wife read it.
Ring, Ring… (that would be my phone)
FA: What did you do?! Don’t do this to me, I have enough to worry about right now!!
Me: Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. Really.
FA: I know you can be a dick sometimes.
Me: There’s nothing to worry about, it’s all fine.
FA: My wife reads it, like, all the time! (I thought only women said "like"?)
Me: It’s not bad. I was going to email it to you but I think it might have gotten flagged for vulgarity or something (anal, sex, and fuck could slip in under the radar, right?).
FA: You know I can get you back, right?
Me: Yeah, probably, but you won’t have to.
FA: I’ll tell your mom about it. I’ll even print it out in color on some nice paper.
Me: Some of those turd pictures would look good in color. Think you can make it a scratch-and-sniff?
FA: You know what friends are? Liabilities. The less friends you have, the less liabilities you have to worry about. Any one of them can fuck you over at any time.
Me: Very true.
Email from the FA: I’m printing out your blog right now just incase you try to delete it tonight or something.
Email from me: Be sure to use the good paper.
[I must admit, the stuff about the FA’s wife wasn’t true, but I can’t confirm or deny that the FA has a small penis.]
[And the FA sent Shandoll an email pleading my case to get the name of her new site. Now I feel a little bad for letting the world (six people in three countries) know that he may or may not have a small penis. NAH!!!]
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
The very first blog I read from front to back (something like that) was Drunk and Single in NYC. “Shandoll,” a redheaded Jewish girl with self-proclaimed big boobs (nice) and stripperesque dance moves (even nicer), captured my interest and my heart. Her wild and outrageous stories of having rich old guys buy her drinks to puking on some guy’s lap to knocking down people on the sidewalk while she was rollerblading have kept me entertained (and semi hard) for quite some time now.
This last fall Shandoll moved to Oxford for grad school and started a new blog, appropriately named Drunk and Single in Oxford. However, since she has let her classmates and friends know about her semi-famous blog she feels that she can’t be as open with her writings as she would like to be. She has decided to start a new blog, a blog that no one knows about, to keep her animosity. This, my friends, would not be good. Unless you might find it in your heart to help me out just a bit.
I have already sent Shandoll a heartfelt email confessing my love and sexual desire, er, desire to know her new blog if and when she starts it. I know this would be asking a lot of you, maybe five minutes of your time. But if you could send her an email at firstname.lastname@example.org, maybe with a subject line of “A cry for help from Milwaukee” so she won’t delete it as spam, asking her for the VIP pass to the new site for me (maybe adding a few lines building me up as a nice guy who devotes all his time working towards world peace - it’s ok to lie in the email), I would greatly appreciate it. This is kind of a selfish request; I would be sworn to secrecy to not share or link to it. The five minutes of your time would not benefit you at all and I’m sorry. But this would mean a lot to me. If I have kept you entertained at all with my gross/disgusting stories about masturbation, shit, beer, the corner bar and loose women (who must have turned lesbian in the past six months, I don't get it), please at least consider doing it. You don’t have to write much; I’m hoping by getting four or five of you to do it will get me in the door.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Today was a chest day. For some reason I find chest, back, and shoulder days to be my favorites, something about lifting heavy weights and feeling the ache the next day. Triceps and biceps, while you would think would be prioritized body parts, just don’t excite me all the much. Or it could be that by the end of the week I’m sick of sitting at home at night and might have a slight hangover, not sure which. Doing leg exercises on a surgically repaired knee is slightly more fun than going to the dentist (or shoveling snow or cleaning the bathroom or hitting on fat women, oh, wait…).
So I did a quick warm up, threw on 185 and pumped out a light 12 reps. 205 lbs was a little more challenging, I only managed 7 of those. The true bench press test is 225 lbs (two 45 lb weights on each side). This is one test that the NFL combine uses to gauge the strength of potential draftees. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the record is something like 47 or 48 reps. That’s a shit load, people. Dwyane Wade (former Marquette basketball player) did 185 lbs 9 times when he came out of college. Comparing a basketball player to football players is like comparing apples to bananas, but I’m just trying to give you an idea here. Back in 2001 I could do 225 lbs 12 times with a one rep max of 300 lbs. One major surgery and six years (and countless beers) later and I can do it 5 times. I was feeling pretty good about it and decided to take a two minute break.
I walked over to the cardio room and see the 50 something lawyer who likes to call me Big Bad Brian.
Me: Hey, how’s it going?
Him: Good, how about you?
Me: Not bad, not bad at all.
Him: Hey, I’ve got some information for you but I’m going to need something in return.
Me: Uh, ok, what is it?
Him: You know our mutual lady friend?
Me: You mean (39 yr-old woman at the gym I’ve mentioned before)?
Him: Yeah. I guess she has a thing for you. Last week she was talking about you but she was afraid she was a little too old for you.
Me: Really? I thought she had a boyfriend?
Him: Not as of just recently. You should to jump at it while the opportunity is there. And let me tell you, with a woman like that, the opportunity won’t be open for very long.
Me: Humph, I’ll have to think about that.
Him: But I need one bit of info from you then.
Him: You have to let me know if they’re real or not!
Me: If I get my hands on them I’ll let you know.
Two weeks ago I was talking to her about how I had little motivation to come to the gym. I was making it two or three times a week and the other days I’d just read a book in my office for an hour. She agreed that it does get a little monotonous doing the same things every week and suggested that we play racquet ball someday. Hmmm, would that be like a racquet ball gym date? I didn’t know what to think of it at the time. Instead of working out and mingling with all the acquaintances at the gym she wanted to spend some quality one-on-one time with me. Well, I don’t know how much “quality” there’d be since I haven’t played racquet ball since grade school and would probably be sitting in a pool of sweat and feces crying in the corner after just 15 minutes, begging the racquet ball gods for mercy. And after that she’d never talk to me again, most definitely not. I can envision her giving me that, “You sick, disgusting, perverted, smelly fuck. I can’t believe I ever associated with a pathetic little shit like you. But I kind of feel bad about your fecal problem” look. At which point I’d run away crapping in my pants once again. (Mental note: bring extra underwear to the gym just in case.)
So I’ll see her tomorrow and start up the general chit chat, maybe bring up the racquet ball thing and see if she’s still interested. Please wish me the best of luck (really, put that voodoo doll down).
Friday, February 02, 2007
I've been on a Ramon noodle kick lately. I know they're not good for you but I've been craving that salty flavor.And here is my underwear after not making it to the bathroom fast enough. Talk about a juicy one.The Renter and I cleaned out my "piggy" bank. Actually its a plastic skull with some funky rubber eyeballs, but it serves the same purpose. I know, it's a little sick and disgusting and people always look at me weird when they see it for the first time, but people look at me weird all the time so it's no big deal.This one should have a description but I'll just let you think of one on your own.In other news, on Thursday I was able to catch "30 Rock" and see Third and Long's very own Swandad (check out his blog, too). I wasn't able to hear the show as I was out and about, but it was nice to see an internet acquaintance on TV. Appearantly the director told him to do his best impersonation of a bobble head and he performed flawlessly! (Just kidding, Swandad, you looked pretty spiffy in the tux.) He had some good stories to tell of the experience including drolling at the women changing in the dressing room. Now that's what I'm talkin' about!