Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Feces and Hoes

I was browsing through the local police reports today and found these under the Marquette University section:

Human feces were found in a room at Lubar Hall March 20.

Personally I don’t find anything that would be reportable to the police on this but I have a rather different point of view when it comes to fecal matter.

An employee at Garland Hall received a letter March 21 containing pornographic material and derogatory comments regarding minorities and women. The letter was postmarked Tucson, Ariz.

Uh, how come I don’t get pornographic material in the mail? And isn’t pornographic material usually derogatory to women? Whoever thought up anal sex wasn’t looking to put women on a pedestal or anything. I don’t know why he/she had to throw the comments about minorities in there. I mean, aren’t all minorities used to derogatory remarks by now? Shit, its 2007! I don’t think you could possibly make up anything new that hasn’t already been heard. If the pornographic material contained minority women, then I could see writing, “I’m going to fuck you just like this spic hoe is getting fucked.” God I’d be horrible writing hate mail. I need to work on this. Coming to a mailbox near you…

Just because I’m a sick and perverted (or highly intelligent and imaginative) individual, what if I twisted the two above instances together and instead of shitting in someone’s room and mailing pornographic material, I’m simply going to shit in my own room and mail the pictures (not of me shitting, just the shit). You would think that while being pretty fucking gross and disgusting, it would also be perfectly legal. Hmm, I know a bar manager in New York who might be getting a letter soon.

And just in case you’re wondering, I consider spic hoe an endearing term. I love Hispanic women. I love hoes. I dream about spic hoes every night. Well, that is when I’m not dreaming about black hoes. Some nights when I get really drunk and snort some toothpaste I dream about spic hoes and black hoes at the same time. Reminds me of the good old days back when I was pimping in Brooklyn…


While we’re on the topic of spic hoes… The Renter spent some time with the new DVDs and found a scene that has a Hispanic woman dressed in a maid outfit (sans panties of course, cause who needs panties when you’re dusting?) who doesn’t speak a word of English yet knows exactly what to do when the guy, saying nothing, drops his pants. I don’t get it. I usually get the cops called on me when I do that. But no, she dropped to her knees like a professional and took care of business. Besides being a maid I think she might work part-time in the Mexican porn industry but I’m not sure, looked like she knew what she was doing. I think she might have been lying about not knowing English, too. Either way, I’ll still marry her if she needs her green card.

Now I know what I will be doing on my birthday. Thursday night I will be “cleaning” my house with my new maid friend. My house is pretty dirty so I think it might have to be “cleaned” several times. Since I feel really uncomfortable when I escort a woman out of my house after doing it and realize that I don’t even know her name, we will call my maid friend Maria Rodriguez (not to be confused with Heather Rodriguez who I swear told me she was 18 during my freshman year of college). Maria Rodriguez and I are going to spend the evening performing a rare ritual in my house that includes her getting fucked and me feverishly beating off (really, it doesn’t happen that often). I will slip her my man meat and she will scream and moan in her sweet Latin accent. It will be a glorious sight to see (for her and I, not you, sorry), the two of us bonding like no gringo and Mexican maid have ever bonded before. Greatest birthday ever.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Rule #7 - Gone

For those of you sports fans, I found this article by Randy Hill about hating the Florida Gators. I guess I'm not the only one.

I don’t know if I’ve ever told this story before, but this was part of the reason why Rule #7 went up on the billboard at the corner bar.

Last spring (I’m pretty sure) I went up to the corner bar on a typical Friday. Like usual I plopped my ass down in a stool at the bar. This night I was next to the entrance door in what is now lawyer girl’s favorite spot. Around 11:00 this rather hot woman walked in the bar and sat across the bartender’s exit from me. She was wearing some fashionable sunglasses and a sport coat. Upon further inspection with my peripheral vision, she was only wearing a bra underneath the sport coat. Bingo, she had my attention! I started talking with her; apparently she had been out with a guy at a local strip club. He had pissed her off in one way or another and she left him there, taking a cab to my corner bar. I bought her a drink or two and pulled out the usual bag of tricks. Of course I had to throw in there that I lived a block away just in case she needed a place to stay. Unfortunately, the usual bag of tricks wasn’t working this night and she asked the bartender to tell me to stop talking to her. Not wanting to ruffle anyone’s feathers I complied and left her alone. Thirty minutes passed. I was talking to the guy next to me and mid-sentence I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go.” Without giving me a chance to pay my tab she grabbed my arm and dragged me out the door. I had to help her a little bit as we walked down the sidewalk to my house. Once we got inside I showed her the bedroom and she promptly undressed. I told her I had to use the bathroom to brush my teeth and take out my contacts. I returned two minutes later only to find her passed out in my bed. Being the horny little devil that I am, I tried to wake her up with a couple gently pokes here and there but it didn’t work, she was out.

I woke up in the morning a little surprised to find a woman in my bed (doesn’t happen that often). She began to stir and we chatted for a bit about nothing specific. She asked if we anything had happened before going to bed and I told her no, that she had passed out shortly after hitting the pillow. Then she looked at me and delivered the greatest line I have ever heard. “You know, you were nice enough to let me sleep in your bed and didn’t try anything. We can have sex if you’d like to.” If I’d like to? Yeah, two minutes later I had the condom on and we were doing it (sex, intercourse, in case you weren’t following me). I’m not going to brag or anything but supposedly she O’d three times during our early morning romp (I’m not bragging, really).

And then things went downhill. After we had finished we got dressed. She asked if I’d make her some breakfast. Unless she wanted beer for breakfast I had nothing for her. She asked if I’d give her a ride home and of course I did. On the way there she asked me what I thought of her when she first walked in the door. “Honestly? The first thing I thought was ‘How much does she charge.’” I have since learned that that is not an appropriate response to any question a woman might ask you. I tried explaining it that not too many people dress like that in Milwaukee. Maybe in California, but we’re talking Midwest here. I think I did an ok job of that as she gave me her phone number once we got to her house (on the back of a self portrait of her, little weird?). She asked me to drop her off at George Webb’s and me, fucking up yet once again, dropped her off and didn’t even join her for breakfast.

The next day the bartender came up to me. “How the hell do you rate? One minute she doesn’t want to talk to you and the next minute she’s dragging you home! What the fuck?” All I could do was shrug my shoulders and give him a sly smile. I never told him all the details, too embarrassing.

Even though the sex was pretty damn good, I have never called her. I still have the picture with her phone number on it, but I’ve never called. A year later, is it too late? Not that I’m desperate or anything…

How’s this for a sign: they have taken the rules of the bar down and put up a list of drink prices instead. With the way shit is going now I’d never be able to convince someone that they used to have a rule on the board, “Don’t go home with anyone named B to the…” My claim to fame (not fortune) is gone.

Monday, March 26, 2007

The Fix Is In, Birthday Sex, and BGR

Like the previous weekend, I spent most of last weekend watching the NCAA tournament. Watching this weekend I learned two things: I really hate Florida and I think somebody (CBS or the NCAA) is influencing the refs.

Let me rephrase that. I don’t hate Florida the team or the college. I like their coach Billy Donavon. I like Corey Brewer, Taurean Green and Lee Humphrey. I love their cheerleaders (in my bed still wearing their outfits, just no panties). But I can’t stand watching Joahkim Noah and Al Horford. Noah claps like a girl every time he gets fouled and goes to the line. He’s a vastly overrated player (2nd team All-American?) on a very good team. I had about enough of him after Florida won the SEC title and I had to both watch him do some fucked up dance moves on the sideline and hear how absolutely ghetto he was during the post game interview. Al Horford has this look on his face like the refs are on crack every time he’s whistled for a foul or moves his pivot foot. Just because you’re going to be drafted in the top ten of this year’s draft doesn’t mean you can get away with every travel and hack. That is unless you’re absolutely murdering some vastly undersized player on a vastly less talented team.

With two and a half minutes left on the clock in the Butler game, Horford got the ball eight feet from the basket. Horford, 6’10” and 245 lbs, posted up Brandon Crone, 6’6” and 225 lbs. Not once, not twice, but four times Horford backed Crone down to the lane, throwing all his weight back while Crone tried unsuccessfully to hold his ground. Each time Crone would plant his feet in a good defensive position only to be pushed backwards two feet, right in front of the official. On the fourth push Crone fell to the ground, desperately tried to swipe at the ball and was called for a foul while Horford made the shot and the ensuing free throw. The score of the game at the time: 54-54. Horford put Florida up by three and the Bulldogs weren’t able to recover after that. Painfully bad officiating. At the four minute break I think CBS buzzed the refs indicating it was time to put Butler out of the game. I mean, you can’t have the number one team lose to a number five and ruin your ratings for Sunday, right?

And then there is Vanderbilt. Who? That’s what the CBS reps were asking when the Commodores took a one point lead over Georgetown with nineteen seconds left. Vanderbilt, a small private school with an enrollment of 6,000, had no business being in this game, let alone winning by one. On Georgetown’s final possession Jeff Green, another likely top draft pick this summer, obviously traveled and banked in the winning shot. Getting Georgetown past Vanderbilt and “helping” North Carolina in the second half against USC set up a great Georgetown/UNC match up for Sunday evening. And it was a great game, going into overtime with Georgetown pulling out the win, but the game never should have happened in the first place. Now don’t get me wrong here, I have Georgetown as the runner up in my bracket (losing to, gulp, Kansas). I just felt the officials favored the big boys over the little guys.

In other non-basketball related news:

My aspirations of having sex with someone new by the time my birthday rolls around has been fulfilled! (I can hear you all clapping and cheering, thank you, thank you very much!) Unfortunately it wasn’t exactly with someone new but more like with something new. The Renter had been bugging me about going out to dinner or doing something lame for my birthday and I don’t like stuff like that. I don’t take people out for dinner on their birthdays and I don’t expect them to on mine. Oh, and even worse, I guess it’s customary that the “women of the bar” buy a cake when an individual’s birthday comes around. You sure as hell know I won’t be at the bar either the night before the day or on the day just in case someone has something like this planned. I don’t want the attention and I certainly don’t want the cake. On other people’s birthdays I usually toss the plate in the garbage when no one is looking. I can’t stand the frosting and all that. Or I take it home with me and use it in the bedroom with a fine lass (or myself, whichever is available). If I was in charge of birthdays everyone would be eating beef jerky, the hot peppered kind that makes my head sweat (I’m a pussy).

Anyway, so the Renter and the neighborhood Queen went to the porn shop on Friday. She said there were a ton of people in there at 12:00 at night (I think her exact words were, “It’s midnight, look at all these pervs!”). Our Queen was browsing in the men’s section (as in men on men, not like the men’s section at Boston Store); the Renter was in the straight department. After a little while the Queen joined the Renter in the straight section. “I thought you didn’t like this kind of stuff?” To which the Queen replied, “I was getting hard in the gay area but this is making it go away.” The Renter picked out this freaking huge vibrator that required four D-cells. It looked like one of those mini baseball bats they give out to the first 5,000 fans on opening day. Sunday night I was lying in bed and I heard this loud VRRRRRR, VRRRRRR. I started laughing right away knowing what it was. I guess she must have thought I was sleeping or something.

Along with the vibrator she picked up four DVDs. When I got home from visiting the parents on Saturday she had them stacked up on my bed with a bottle of lube wishing me a happy birthday. And let me tell you, the broad has taste.

On Sunday we washed our cars as it had to have been 70 degrees outside. When we were done I checked to see what time the first game was supposed to start. I looked at the clock and realized we had forty minutes till game time. I (he, he) forced the Renter to lift weights with me in the basement. She’s been bugging me to get her in shape and, after getting a whiff of her when I stood too close, I think she finally applied herself in the workout. After the workout she desperately needed to take a shower so I took advantage of a little “alone” time. I was very impressed with the first DVD I popped in the player. Well, I think I’d be impressed with anything that had Vivid on the cover (probably the best label out there). And to make a long story short, I had very hot (imaginative) sexual intercourse with a tall leggy blond who I’d just met five minutes earlier (on the TV). The birthday goal has been achieved! But please, I beg you, don’t cancel that stripper that performs extra “favors” if you already have her lined up.

Later that day, in between games, we popped in one of the other videos. Apparently the Renter had mistakenly picked out one that just had women in it. I’ll be straight with you here: I really don’t enjoy going down on a woman (who does?). Sure, I’ve done it in the past, but after one too many bad experiences I just don’t do it anymore. I fast forward regular porn when the guy makes his mandatory trip down there. While all the women were very attractive, having all three of them licking each other and sucking vaginal juices made me feel a little queasy after I had just put down two chicken leg/thigh combos. And I know it isn’t just me. I caught the Renter having to look away at some parts where they would push the lips away exposing what looked like a raw steak. Oh, and I learned another lesson: women don’t know what the fuck to do with a strap-on. If any of those women had ever complained about a man being bad in bed they should rewind the tape and look closer at their performance. You’d think the producers would put them through some kind of training session or something.

Other than that the weekend was pretty quiet. I was a little bit under the weather on Friday and Saturday. Saturday morning I got a text message from the FA; his wife popped out a baby girl! Congratulations to both of you!

And for BGR, you are officially the first baby announcement on this blog! Just think, in years to come when you can read and write, probably when I’m dead and gone, your online legacy beginning will still be right here for everyone to view. Now that’s something to be proud of (your mom and dad might not think so right now but when I’m dead and my work is selling for ten times the face value of $.01 it will mean much, much more). Too bad your parents couldn’t think of a name that wound up being PBR (Pabts Blue Ribbon), but that’s partly my fault as I forgot to mention the possible initials. For that I will forever be sorry. But I’ll make it up to you right now. Someday ask Daddy what he does on the toilet when Mommy is away. (Funny what you learn about a person when you’re waiting for a flight and you’re jacked up on Duncan Donuts and coffee.)

Friday, March 23, 2007

Random Shit

CINCINNATI (AP) - A football player was suspended for the first three games of the 2007 season for lying to officials investigating a claim that players and recruits engaged in sexual activities with a former women's soccer player at a party, the University of Cincinnati said Friday.
The player, whose identity was not released, at first denied then later admitted having consensual sex with someone and provided conflicting explanations about what else may have occurred that night — a violation of the student code of conduct, the school said.
In the end, investigators said they were unable to substantiate claims made in an anonymous letter sent last month to university president Nancy Zimpher and other administrators.

If they were unable to substantiate the claims, why the fuck did he get suspended for three games?

Good thing no one can substantiate the claims that I masturbate while wearing a condom.

You might have noticed I talk about this a lot. It’s not that I masturbate that often, but when you’ve been doing something every other day (is that often?) since the sixth grade you kind of get attached to it. I’m a little bit of a numbers kind of person and doing the math, every other day for the past 19 years is 3,500 times. My friends, that number is way off. Back in high school and college, the typical study session in my room was interrupted at least twice a night for “study breaks.” There have been numerous days where I’ve had nothing better to do than whack it six or seven times. They say you’re supposed to do everything in moderation. This holds true for masturbation, too. After four or five times I’m left there sitting on the couch, sweat on my forehead, right arm limp from the shoulder down, and a penis that requires a feverish beat down in order to get the job finished. At this point it becomes more work than it’s worth.

As I’ve mentioned before, I can’t remember the freaking password on my “porn” computer. I’m a lazy masturbator. I need some tits or ass in front of me to get the job done in a timely manner, otherwise it takes twice as long. Without having access to the lovely ladies (whores) on my computer, I’m left with three pornographic DVDs. Technically I have four, but I forgot to pick up Anal Sluts 6 when I was at the FA’s house (dude, porn on the 92” screen is awesome!). One of the DVD’s I got for free (stole) from the lawyer girl’s birthday present one year. She had seen Anal Sluts 6 and liked it, so I got her volumes 7, 8, and 9. Along with those they included a free sampler video which I just had to keep for myself. The other two that I own I bought not by browsing for hot Latinas or cute blonds taking on five guys at a time, but by searching for a certain “performer.” Now, you might be thinking Jenna or some other famous porn star, but this wasn’t the case. No, it was a past girlfriend.

And you know what? It’s really fucking weird watching an ex-girlfriend take it up the ass and scream on the TV the same way she did when you had it in her ass. It doesn’t really do it for me. There’s something about knowing that I had “been there” and “done that” that it doesn’t turn me on at all. I don’t know if there are any female porn stars who read this (yeah right), but I’m just going to guess that 99% of them don’t actually orgasm while they are on the set. So, there she is, on the TV, screaming loud enough to wake up the neighbors, and it’s the exact same scream that she did wake up the neighbors with when I was doing it.

Ok, sorry, that’s it for tonight.


Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Embarrassing Conversation of the Day

To my condom supplier (female who I’ve tried to seduce – unsuccessfully):

Me: You know those things you gave me last week?

Condom Supplier: Yeah, what about them?

Me: I’ve gotta tell you, those XL condoms are pretty fucking cool.

Condom Supplier: The big ones? I’m glad you liked them. I guess that means that you got some over the weekend.

Me: Well, not exactly. The streak is approaching seven months now.

(Condom Supplier looks at me questionably.)

Me: Yeah, well, I kind of just wanted to try one on to see how it fit and one thing led to another and… I kind of used eight of them this weekend… just by myself… with myself.

Condom Supplier: So you didn’t use them for sex?

Me: Does sex with myself count?

(Condom Supplier looks at me like I’m really fucking weird that I masturbate in my living room while wearing a condom.)

Condom Supplier: Wow. I guess that takes safe sex to a new level.

(End of conversation with Condom Supplier, female who I have tried to seduce and now will be forever unsuccessful.)

Thankfully her cell phone started ringing and I was able to quickly duck out of the room.

I really wish I was making some of these stories up.

Emails from the 39 yr old woman at the gym.

Me: I'm going to test out my psychic abilities here. You were bench pressing yesterday, correct?

39 yr old: Try again Houdini...

I was at a seminar all day, but came back around 4pm and did some jogging and biking. The place was PACKED! I think all the girls drank too much on spring break and were trying to shed the new lbs...ha, kind of funny, they'll all be gone after a week or so. It's a trend.

How've you been?

Me: Huh. I saw a bench press with a 5 and a 2.5 on each end, figured it was you. But then again, you go all the way up to 10 pounds on each end!

I've been great but I'm paying for it now. Like the spring breakers, I need to be in the gym but I'm lazy today. I added up the total beer intake for the four day weekend of watching the college games all day long: 998 ounces.

I'll be jogging tonight. Or maybe I'll swing by the gym around 4:00 and do a little window shopping.

Nine more days till I turn 30 and I'm already a dirty old man.

39 yr old: If my calculations are right, that's like 62 beers ya nut! I had 5 Guiness on St. Pat's...maybe 60oz in total. I was at O'Briens and night, the band at O'Briens was very good. Did you stay at your local hangout.

I'm joggin tonight too (burger group met at lunchtime).

Ya, once you hit 30 you may not be able to hit on those young college
girls...they might want to call ya daddy. Hee hee hee

(Is it just me but seriously, hee hee hee?)

Me: B to the… might be turning 30 soon but Brian is 27 and in law school. Sadly, both of them need to lose 15 lbs.

62 beers? When you come from lowly UW schools your beers usually come in 12 ounce bottles. 998/12=83.

Yeah, I stayed at the corner and had to put up with a bunch of drunk strangers. It was ok I guess, played pool for most of the night.

Ya know, in the right situation they can call me daddy all they want.

I'd ask if you wanted to jog together tonight but it would turn out far worse than that game of raquetball did that I still owe you favors for.

39 yr old: Ahhh, how cool to have an alias. I like your way of thinking!

I'm Megan, 32, working on my Phd in Bio-med. (I'll try that next time.) lol

I wasn't sure if a beer was 12 or 16 oz...I'm more of rail drinker.

Regarding your 4th sentence...Perv! Lol

Your stride and mine may match up in a mixed up sort of way...your long stride to my non-smoking quick step (actually I run kind of slow). The dinner favor, aaaah, don't worry about it. But let's grab a drink to toast your birthday sometime when you can.

Me: Birthday toast, sweet!

I don't think I included "dinner" when I mentioned "favors".

39 yr old: LOL You're a bad boy.

If only she knew that she was rock star famous to the blog world and her emails were quoted word for word on my hilariously funny and yet somewhat demented website.

So we’re all set up to have drinks next week Thursday. There’s just one problem I foresee: how am I going to get home from downtown after having drinks after work?

You see, I don’t drink after I've been drivng, er, drive after I've been drinking. I’ve done that in the past once or twice (wink). So I have to think of something by next week Thursday. There’s always the bus, and it is a straight shot to and from work, but still, it’s the bus. I don’t know what’s worse, getting up early to catch the bus or actually riding on the bus. Or I could hope for some really nice weather and just walk the six miles back home. Painful. I’m sure I’ll think of something, but any helpful tips would be greatly appreciated.

Monday, March 19, 2007

This Extended Weekend Was Freaking Great

Thursday morning the FA swung by and picked me up at 10:00. We swung by BW3’s and picked up a shit load of chicken wings. While we waited for the wings we had a 20 ounce beer. Since I had gone out the night before, I walked out of BW3’s at 10:45 slightly buzzing. Not exactly the way you want to start a twelve hour day of watching college basketball.

We swung by a Pick N Save and bought two twelve packs of Goose Island’s Honker Ale, one of my personal favorites. In retrospect this was not a good idea since the Honker Ale is pretty strong and the bold flavor gets to be a bit much after the sixth bottle. But this might have saved me from consuming like I usually do. Instead of the usual 4 to 1 ratio of my 4 beers to the FA’s 1 beer (he’s kind of a pussy like that) it was closer to 3 to 1.

The FA had invited me over many times to see his new home theater but something (beer) had always come up and I hadn’t been over to see it yet. Holy balls! The FA has a 92” screen in his basement with the projector hanging from the ceiling. He has three rows of stadium seating with three attached leather recliners in the first row, a really comfy couch on the second row, and two tables with four bar stools on the top level. I planted my ass in the recliners and only got up to pee or smoke (I had the FA trained to fetch beers from the fridge). I was in heaven. The Renter came over around 1:00 and chatted with the FA’s wife mostly about having kids (FA’s wife’s due date was the 15th). Around 5:00 we ordered pizza and by 7:30 everyone was pretty much pooped out. The Renter and I picked up some steaks at the store and headed home. At least MY intentions were to head home.

Instead of going home and cooking the steaks I ended up drinking even more at the bar. I counted the remaining Honker Ales and determined I had 16 of them at the FA’s house. I topped that off with four pitchers at the bar. It was a damn good night.

And you thought I was kidding when I said I needed to take some days off of drinking in preparation for the NCAA tournament.

Friday the Renter and I hit four bars before we could find one with seats open for the Badger game. After walking in each bar the Renter gave me this look of desperation as we encountered throngs of Badger faithful. The last bar we found was fairly quiet and we found seats right in front of the big screen. The game was pretty intense and the Badgers were able to squeak out a win. At one point I walked up to the bar and asked for a pitcher, gave the bartender and ten and waited for my change while he dug out some more singles from under the cash register. When he returned he asked me if I had given him a twenty. Well, you know me, I corrected him and told him it was only a ten and he thanked me for my honesty. Sometimes it sucks being a nice guy.

After that we hit the corner bar for a few and left early to make the steaks. I started with a steak that completely filled my plate, finished that, and then the Renter slapped on another one half that size. Of course, if you put food in front of me I’m going to eat it, especially if it is a tasty slab of meat. I ended up going to bed around 10:00 with a very happy and full stomach.

Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day. I started the day at the corner bar at noon sitting next to the lawyer girl and her boyfriend. We talked basketball for most of the day and had a pretty amusing afternoon. Around 5:00 I had four pitchers in me and was feeling a little too good for being that early. The Renter and I went to Jimmy Johns where I almost choked and died on a Gargantuan sub. I don’t know, but something about being drunk and eating slow don’t go together. After the near death experience I decided it might be a good idea to take a nap. Five hours later I woke up surprisingly sober.

The Renter practically forced me to go back up to the bar. I was content just to go back to sleep but that would have been a travesty being St. Patrick’s Day and all. The night proved to be quite entertaining with several people being kicked out for various reasons. I stayed back by the pool table and had one of my better days shooting. The neighbor kid asked me for $10 which I thought he was going to spend on beer. Later I found out that it might have been intended for a rather large woman at the bar who has offered “services” for cash before. Pretty freaking disgusting if you ask me. I had my “Kiss Me I’m Drunk” shirt on (annual St. Pat’s Day shirt) and she planted a wet one on my cheek. Even more disgusting.

The highlight of the evening was the girl the Renter had struck up a conversation with. This girl was by far the hottest woman in the bar. She had long curly blond hair and what could have been mistaken for mini basketballs attached to her chest. Large, supple, tan breasts that screamed to be released when she bent over to shoot pool. Yours truly surveyed situation and positioned myself at an advantageous position every time it was her turn. We started chatting a bit and it turned out neither one of us had had sex in quite some time. By the time 2:30 came around I had buttered her up enough (many shots) to get her to go home with me.

We got back to my house and she was taking her clothes off before we even got to my room. Watching her breasts being unveiled was a thing of beauty, pure beauty. We hopped in to bed and were having porn star sex (the only way I know how to) in no time. She was moaning and screaming, even talking a little dirty telling me to fuck her with my big cock. Well, this got me excited a little too quickly and I shot my load all over her breasts after only two minutes.

Actually, I was just kidding about the two minutes, it was more like a minute thirty seconds. Ok, I was kidding about the whole thing, although I would have been more than happy to get a minute thirty seconds over what I really got (nothing). My lack of sex streak is still intact.

Sunday morning I tried to go for a jog around 11:00 am. Major fucking mistake. After getting drunk twice on Saturday and inhaling who knows how many cigarettes (even the Renter said I was smoking a lot), jogging was not going to happen. I made it down one block, halfway up another, and had to quit. My heart and lungs were absolutely screaming at me to stop. Unfortunately one of the regulars drove by and honked as I panted and tried to stay upright. The whole trip took five minutes which is fifteen minutes less than the twenty minutes of barbing I received for the attempt at the bar Sunday night.

I only had one complaint about the whole weekend and that would be CBS’s coverage of the games. I’m not a big fan of HDTV, at least I wasn’t until this weekend. I don’t have it at home and I could really care less as long as the game is on. But when they give you the high definition feed and then unexpectedly take it away from you while you’re watching it on your friend’s 92” screen it really fucking sucks. I’m not exactly sure how the whole thing works in their production office, but switching the game to a normal feed and giving you a scrolling message at the bottom of the screen that they are telecasting another game with the high definition feed is pretty much like a slap in the face. The almighty CBS gods are telling you which game is more important and for that they can bite my ass.

And then they were switching games in and out as they came to their conclusions. I am a big fan of this, but when the Badgers have four minutes left and Nevada has thirty seconds left and you show me one Nevada play and then switch back to the Badgers I’m going to get a little pissed. I don’t want to see just one play and be abruptly shot back to the home town game. I’d be fine with staying on the game that’s ending and maybe miss two minutes of another game, but the jumping back and forth just ruined any continuity of the broadcast. And whatever happened to picture-in-picture that was invented over ten years ago? I think that would have solved any and all the problems that they ran in to. Well, as long as your TV is bigger than a 20”.

The final count on beer consumed over the past four days: 998 ounces. There were five shots of Southern Comfort thrown in there too but it was basically just a big beer weekend. Had I known I was at 998 ounces I would have had at least one more beer to get me over the thousand mark, but that will have to wait till next year.

Just as I prepared for the tournament not drinking four out of five days, I will now be in the recovery period of not drinking till Friday this week. I also have this diet plan that someone famously coined “Get as far away from 230 as you approach 30” and the big three oh is right around the corner. The scale at the gym was broken today but over the weekend at the FA’s house I was 237 (with clothes on) after eating chicken wings, pizza, and drinking, and for the record that is on the wrong side of 230 (usually I’m around 229 on the gym scale). That was on Thursday when I had only consumed 180 of the 998 ounces. I know, I’ve got some work to do.

I’ll get something funny on here soon. Like how I have received free condoms from various connections I have, but recently I’ve been introduced to something totally freaking cool and until now I’ve never used them: XL condoms. See, when you get them free you’re not too picky, but when one of my sources had free XL condoms, it put condoms in a whole new light for me. Unfortunately I had to “enjoy” by myself but still, totally freaking cool.

Oh wait, I forgot about the Renter’s story about standing in line at Walgreens and having to run and take a shit WHILE SHE WAS IN LINE CHECKING OUT!!! I wasn’t there to witness it, but I guess she ran off and picked up her change when she was done in the bathroom. Shit happens when you hang around me too much.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Idiots Around the World

Ok, Swandad posted this article about some fuck up from Racine, WI. While some people in Wisconsin are stupid idiots and do totally dumb shit like this, it is an isolated incident and does not apply to all Wisconsinites. That being said, check out this article I found today:

BEIJING (AP) - The 2008 Beijing Olympics are under pressure to be smoke-free, falling into line with previous Olympic venues.

Vice mayor Liu Jingmin said Beijing Organizing Committee officials have talked with Health Ministry officials "about setting aside special smoking areas in Games venues so as to ensure most parts of these venues are free of tobacco smog," the state-run Xinhua news agency reported on Monday.

Enforcing such a ban will be difficult in China, where about 350 million people — about one quarter of the population — are smokers.

Beijing organizers have been under pressure to change people's behavior before the Games. In recent months, campaigns have begun to stop people from spitting and teach them to stand in line. Some taxi drivers and hotel workers are also receiving etiquette and English lessons.

Stop people from spitting and teach them to stand in line? Do all these Chinese people have to be potty trained, too? I cannot believe there is a culture out there that does not know how to stand in line. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that they don’t have drive-throughs at their McDonalds.

News flash: The Chinese have banned drive-through windows at fast food restaurants in order to appease the car insurance industry and limit the number of side swipes that occur while customers impatiently wait for their food.

News flash: At the grand opening of the new McDonalds in downtown Beijing, the Hamburglar was accidentally sandwiched between two cars while serving free promotional hamburgers. He will be flame broiled later this week at St. Cuksumcow on 4th Ave. Refreshments and condiments will be served directly after the service.

News flash: Ronald McDonald got trampled by fifty Chinese adults while ten American girls on their 4th grade summer field trip stood in line and watched in horror. The girls appeared to be ok but are being examined by an investigative psychiatrist. It seems the girls now involuntarily pee their pants when they see size 22 shoes or someone with red hair.

News flash: Grimace gets pissed at spitting Chinese customers and eats them all, smokes doobie afterwards, holds breath too long, turns purple and dies.

News flash: After a botched French fry robbery, the Fry Kids were spit on numerous times by Chinese customers. Depressed, the Fry Kids got fried with Grimace, stuffed fries down his throat (the truth comes out!), and made off with his weed.

Porn directors must have a hell of a time getting the guys to wait in the bukake line.

If you find a pen pal in China, send him/her some sun flower seeds. (“Eat, Spit, be Happy!”)

When using a urinal in China, be sure to step back and spread your legs so the guys on your sides and behind you can go at the same time.

And lastly…

When shopping for Asian porn in China, be careful of the patrons standing next to you. That may not be spit that lands on your shoe.

Monday, March 12, 2007

The Greatest 2.5714 Weeks of the Year!

It’s that time of year boys and girls. Yep, I’m talking NCAA tournament time (also known as The Greatest 2.5714 Weeks of the Year – I’ve already submitted the copy write papers on that). It’s the one and only true tournament where anything can happen. I have taken Thursday and Friday off from work to take in all the basketball that CBS has to offer. No matter who wins, there will certainly be some great games and some great finishes, and I will be there (in front of the TV) to witness it all.

I have been planning this for the past two weeks. First I had to ask off from work and my gracious boss approved the paper work. Once that was settled I did some deep planning. You see, the first two days of the tournament there are games on from 11:30 in the morning till 11:30 at night (Central time). Anyone who knows me knows what this means: twelve glorious hours of beer consumption. Twelve hours of beer consumption amounts to a substantial intake of alcohol. So last Thursday I wrote “start” on my calendar. Since then I have gone three out of four days without drinking in preparation for the tournament. To the average person this might not seem like a big deal. But you have to realize that this has not happened in my life in a great while. I think I might have had sex (with a real live woman) more recently than going 3 out of 4 days without beer. Thursday and Friday went by ok. I wasn’t able to sleep well either night but I made it through. Saturday I gave in. There were a lot of conference tournaments on TV so I made an exception. Sunday I was back to not drinking although it was really painful watching the Badgers get their asses handed to them by the Buckeyes. But all is going well, thank you.

(I don’t want to give too much away as most of you are filling out your brackets, but after watching Michigan State and Wisconsin battle it out three times in the last two weeks, Marquette doesn’t have a chance against the Spartans. Sorry Marquette fans, it just ain’t gonna happen.)

After not drinking most of the weekend, today I could tell a big difference in my performance in the weight room. Typically I’ll do chest on Monday, back on Tuesday, shoulders Wednesday, arms on Thursday and legs on Friday. Chest days are usually fun, but yet somewhat disappointing when compared to what I could do six years ago. But today I was in rare form, going all the way up to 250 lbs for four reps. This made me very happy and I almost ripped off my tank top Hulk Hogan style right there in the gym. Of course I didn’t; I’d have to go shopping for more tank tops if I did and I really hate shopping.

Funny thing though, it wasn’t all that hard to not drink. A couple of the days I couldn’t even stand the smell of beer. The bar did get a little boring and I got tired quickly without the beer calories providing me with energy. And then there were the drunk people. Surely I don’t get that irritating when I get loaded, right? At least I would like to think I don’t. I just turn into Super B, the hottest, sexiest man in the bar ready and willing to sexually please all the women with my porn star abilities.

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about me and not drinking. I mean, this blog didn’t get worldwide acclaim with stories of sobriety and my relationship with my fiancĂ©. No, you want fuzzy recollections of me stumbling home and crapping my pants or falling down the stairs while crapping my pants (kind of like tapping your head and rubbing your stomach). And while I don’t have any new stories for you right now, I will tell you about a trip I took to Madison with a female friend of the old roommate.

I don’t remember what the occasion was, but it was a typical college party weekend. Three of us had planned to drive to Madison on a Friday night. The old roommate got off of work late and bowed out leaving me stuck with his college friend. She was still pumped for the party so I agreed to go with her.

The trip to Madison went well with casual conversation occupying most of the time. We got to Madison, had a little trouble finding a parking lot, tracked down her friends and headed off to a party.

I have no idea where the party was, and I don’t think they did either. We ended up in an apartment full of people none of us knew. But they had a tub of whop. Since I was driving I stayed away from the whop and just had a couple beers off the keg. Julie (old roommate’s college friend who will never read this) went for the whop. And went for more whop. I was doing my best socializing with every hot chick (and not so hot) and was making friends quickly. That is, until Julie suction cupped her face to mine. Now, we had never kissed before that night, nothing even close. AFter three glasses of whop I had trouble keeping her off me. The women I was talking with backed off and gave me the “oh, looks like you’re taken” look (FUCK!). Every time I would try to continue a conversation with them Julie would grab my face and plant the sloppiest of kisses on me. Great, just peachy, I have hot women laughing at me because some drunk broad is trying to make out with me every two minutes. Oh but wait, it gets better.

We left the party and found my truck. On the way out of Madison we ended up behind a police car. After a while I said, “I bet cops get blow jobs all the time.” Her response was, “Well, do you want one?” Yeah, like I was going to turn that down. Moments later we’re driving down the freeway doing 65 mph with my pants around my knees and her head in my lap (that isn’t illegal, is it?). I don’t know about most men, but I tend to need to concentrate when doing such things, and the whole driving thing was getting in the way (along with the stick shift). So I pulled over at a rest stop. She continued with what she thought was “giving head” but it turned out to be a little more painful than what getting head should feel like. Something about the combination of the mouth and hand just wasn’t working quite right. Well, it worked well enough, I shot, she swallowed, and we were back on the road. She passed out shortly afterwards and it was a quiet trip back.

The next morning I had a scab on my penis.

You know how you used to scrape your knees when you were a kid or (more likely in my case) scraped your elbow walking home from a good night out on the town? Yeah, that’s what I had on my penis, a scab the size of a quarter on my penis. Not good people, not good. She had rubbed off a layer of skin with her feverish beating of my schlong. Needless to say I never let her down there again.

I think I’ve said this before, buy if you’re a gay guy living in a big city, please open up a consulting firm that teaches women how to give head. You could do house parties or evening classes, whatever it takes. I’ll even provide the start up capital for the company (as long as I can be a test subject in the classes).

Saturday, March 10, 2007

All Quiet on the Midwestern Front

Unfortunately for the three or four people who stumble across this site by accident while doing Google searches for pictures of fecal matter (you sick perverts) and what works best for masturbating in the shower (trust me, I know), I haven’t had much to share lately. And if something more important than me getting to work safely or whacking off three times in one hour had occurred, I would have let you know. Actually I would have told you about the three times in one hour, but it didn’t happen. Not saying that it couldn’t be done; I honestly haven’t tried since January 27th of 2006. Even then I don’t think it was three times in one hour, more like six times in three hours, which might be even more impressive depending on your point of view.

Tom Brady’s been in the news lately, what a fucking pimp. He has not only dated a well know actress and an even more well known “super” model (10 years younger than the actress), but he also had sexual intercourse with them. Then there’s me, B to the… I have neither dated an actress (unless you count the porn “star”) nor a Victoria Secrets/Hanes/Lane Bryant model. Even more depressing, I have not had sex with an actress or model of any kind. I have put this on my list of things to do in 2007.

I don’t know Tom personally. It’s not like he calls me up and tells me how he bangs hot women every other day (every other day?). But I do know that he has gotten both women pregnant. This got me thinking just a bit [hamster running in wheel]. Two pregnant women mean two infinks to support. Infinks is Popeye’s way of saying infants, or children, as in two childs, as in two child support payments. I’m not an expert on this topic or anything, but when professional athletes get women pregnant, don’t they have to fork over a shit load of cash? Shawn Kemp has seven kids by six different women. Recent reports say he’s trying to get back in the league at the age of 36. The dude made a lot of money back in his playing days. Soon he’ll be in the papers just like Bobby Brown for not making his child support payments.

If these mega-rich athletes go down in financial ruin over a piece of ass, what would that do to a lowly Midwest accountant? I think in Wisconsin you have to pay 17% of your gross pay (not after taxes) to the mama of your baby. [Cough, cough] Sorry, that was me almost throwing up after doing the calculation. And that was just for one infink. I don’t think they take out another 17% for shit producer #2, but I can guarantee you the figure goes up.

So I’m turning gay. Might as well get fucked in the ass than pay it out the ass, right?

Or I could just use a condom every time.

What the fuck am I talking about? I haven’t had sex in the last six months.

But I think I did pick up a gay reader! In my constant efforts to keep this site free of gay/black/Hispanic/canine bashing (and don’t fault me that “Hispanic” is capitalized and the others aren’t, blame Word), I received this comment:

Hope you aren't offended by a gay guy strolling through your archives and admiring your pics. Very nice.

Too bad you're on the other team. :)

(Don't worry - I'm not a creepy stalker, just an admirer. I'm not here to try to convert you. And I'm originally from Milwaukee too.)

I have since decoded this email to read: “Holy fuck you can pack a lot of shit in your ass! Those turd pictures you took back in November were fucking huge! I know you’re birthday is coming up, I think I could fix your little lack of sex thing. Call me, Snoocums.”

No, really, I’m always honored to hear from you no matter what ethnicity or nationality you are. And thank you for all the boobie pictures I’ve received. Some of you women (and one man) had some pretty impressive racks.

See, I told you not much has happened lately.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Ron Artest/Email

An emergency protective order obtained by sheriff's officials prevents Artest from returning to his home or contacting the woman until she can obtain a restraining order. [Detective] Scott said this was normal procedure.

Ok, so let me get this straight. A female friend (one report said wife) of Ron Artest breaks the windshield of his Hummer with a frying pan (classic!), he gets upset (maybe a slight understatement), and now he can’t go back to the home I’m pretty sure he paid for without the help of the female friend (NBA players make BANK!). Uh, yeah. I’m sorry, but if you shatter the windshield in my Jeep you’re going to have something coming to you, simple as that. My question, with the restraining order, is he not allowed in his house ever? If I were him I’d have my posse kick her ass out (politically correct = secure the grounds), change the locks and shoot off the flare when everything is good to go. Oh my gosh, I have just found my calling: Professional Ballplayer Representative (PBR for short, business cards would be blue, of course). I could offer possible suggestions to important players when they get put in a bad situation like this. And I could do it with a clear conscience ‘cause you know it’s NEVER their fault.

As for the previous post, I apologize for my stupidity. I realized today that any eligible women would have to post a comment on this blog for all to read if they wanted to contact me regarding the foursome/threesome/twosome/(more likely) onesome. So I have set up Again, I’m sorry for not thinking of this before. But now you can send me your offers discretely; no one will know but me. And, you know, I’m kind of a fan of boobies so if you want to send me some boobie pictures I’d be more than ok with that.

Monday, March 05, 2007

You People Are Strange

I’ve had some weird comments lately on this increasingly unpopular blog of mine. For example, this comment was posted to the penis picture on the cell phone explaination:

I am a bit disappointed that you did not post the picture of your penis on your post. When I saw the empty space I figured that I was going to be treated to a delightful image of your perfect penis. I was a bit sad by the cock tease. Shame on you for toying with my emotions like that!

Maybe in the next post you will surprise us all with a picture? You do talk enough about your penis that your faithful readers should be able to see what preoccupies your thoughts for 20 hours of the day (the other 4 hours are of course dedicated to big, firm, lushes breasts).

At first I was quite intrigued at the comment. You know me, sexually frustrated and all, and someone wants to check “it” out! Score! But then I started thinking more about it. This could be one of my retarded friends doing this just to get me to post something that would make the turd pictures look like Mickey Mouse picking his nose. I have never posted any nude pictures on this site, whether it be mine or someone else’s. And no, I don’t think pictures of my holy (as in “with holes”) underwear crossed the line. I have kept it clean in that sense. I probably should apologize for referencing how much I stroke my schlong, but trust me, I mention it far less times than I actually do it.

Looking at the writing style itself, I don’t think my retarded friends could come up with “delightful image of your perfect penis” or “sad by the cock tease.” I had to look “cock tease” up on the internet to find out what it means and TRUST ME, a cock tease I am NOT. Going on farther, who spells “luscious” as “lushes”? Yeah, one of my friends could have done that.

Swandad always has “The Swanfather Mini Poll of the Week” on the sidebar of The Diary of Third and Long. I’m guessing that if I put a “Do You Want to See the Penis Pic” poll on this site I’d get a resounding (95%) NO result. But then again, my friends are pretty fucked up and would probably vote YES 50 times each day, making the poll as useless as KY Jelly to a quadriplegic.

That being said, the Renter and I took penis pictures this weekend. I tried doing them myself but I’ve had this concentration problem lately. As soon as I was good and ready I’d go for the camera and my penis would instantly shrink like a turtle ducking into his shell. So I had the Renter there for the photo shoot. And I figured I’d do it tastefully with a dark blue condom on so it wouldn’t be like a real nude shot. Not that you would be able to tell that it wasn’t a rolling pin but actually a penis, but you get the picture. I didn’t do this in anticipation of actually posting the picture, but like the picture on the cell phone, it’s there in case of emergency. For example, a hot woman emailing that me taking pictures of my penis is gross and me sending her five emails with five pictures each. You know, emergencies.

Here’s another one:

Tell me that something happened between you and the three girls that your roommate brought home for you? Your readers need to know that you step up to the plate and lived the fantasy that we all dream of, three women at once. Please tell me that you spent the whole night in bed with three women having wild, hot porn-like sex and not by yourself. For God sakes, lie to us if you have to. Just don't tell us that you let that opportunity slip threw your fingers.

I want to know where I can get a roommate like your.

I am deeply sorry to say that nothing happened that night. DEEPLY SORRY. I went back to sleep. I wish I could make something up for you, but come on; it’s me you’re talking to. Do you really think I’d know what to do with three women in my bed?

But, if possible, I’d like to turn this into a learning experience. If you’re a woman and have two female friends who are adventurous and would like to give this a shot, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Or even if you only have one friend who’d like to join in, I’d be more than happy to accommodate your wishes. Hell, even though it wouldn’t be a new learning experience, I’ll entertain any requests for one-on-one action. And don’t be shy, I use the term “entertain” loosely, meaning “I’ll think about it for one second and send you a frantically composed email complete with spelling mistakes confirming that your application has been accepted.”

Saturday, March 03, 2007

When Not Dating You...

When you’re not actively dating someone you let some things slip just a little bit. Well, at least I do. You see, I haven’t really had anyone to impress socially in quite a while. I’ll get dressed up for work on special occasions but that’s a completely different animal. My usual preference clothing wise for the corner bar is a t-shirt and jeans. My thinking is if I can’t impress a woman with my good looks, charming personality, and stupendous ability to act like I’m drunk, then she isn’t going to be my type. Don’t just think that anyone can try using these characteristics to win a woman over. I have trained on the drunk acting thing for quite a while now. And the being “my type” meaning that she would go home with me and play with my penis. Those kind of girls are typically my type.

There are other aspects of my life that may not get quite the attention that they deserve. I mean, if you haven’t had sex in six months do you really have to have the nether regions trimmed and looking pretty? I must admit, I did break down two weeks ago and shaved what was turning into an evergreen bush, but the only one who’s enjoyed it has been myself (I tend to envision myself as a high profile porn star when I feel the need to, uh, go to my happy place). Don’t get me wrong here, it’s not like I don’t take care of my personal hygiene. Certainly I shower every day and even use a “just checking” wipe after a hearty shit to make sure everything’s good down there. But shaving and crap like that can be put off.

Going back to the clothing issue. This may sound a little gross, but bear with me. I wore the same jeans to the bar every day the last week. It started on Friday and lasted eight days ending on last Friday. Part of this was just to see if I could do it, part of it was because at my current weight (saw 230.5 last week) they’re the only ones that really fit me. And no, I didn’t wash them at all during the week. You know how it is when you wash your clothes and they shrink just a little bit? Well, I didn’t have room for the shrinkage. I needed all the space they could offer. To make matters worse it snowed a shit load this week and I wore them four times shoveling snow. But they never got to the point where they smelled like something other than cigarette smoke. Everything’s good then, right? I thought so. I did wash them on Saturday.

Then there’s housekeeping. I haven’t really cleaned the house over the past month. Hell, no one sees it besides the Renter and I, and if she doesn’t complain you sure as hell know that I won’t. There were some dust bunnies camped out along the walls in the living room and some Chubacka like hair clumps from the Renter in the bathroom. My room received no attention. I’m the only one who goes in there so stuff had accumulated in corners and what have you. The pictures will attest to this.

Friday night I was not in tip top drinking shape. The Renter had ordered an all you can eat fish plate and I snagged a couple (five) fish sticks from her plate. Three pitchers in to it I realized I was stuffed. Even the eight day old jeans were getting tight on me. To the protest of my friends I decided to call it a night at 9:30. I went home, read for a little bit and hit the light switch.

10:30 I received a call from the old roommate.

OR: B to the…, you need to come up here. There are actually women at the bar. And they’re cute as hell!

Me: Yeah, I don’t think so. Dude, I’m just going to go back to bed.

After listening to some back ground noise in the phone about how I wasn’t going to come up to the bar I hung up and turned my phone off.

12:30 in the morning a heard a noise in the hallway. But it wasn’t the Renter coming home. When the Renter comes home I usually hear a “clump, clump, clump” as she walks down the hallway and flips on the light. This time there was no clumping, no light in the hallway, just hushed voices. Then the lights went on. The Renter, the old roommate, and three chicks stormed into my room. The three girls started yelling, “Pussy popper! Pussy popper!” Uh, what? I didn’t have my contacts in and couldn’t see a whole lot, but the girls appeared pretty attractive. The girls came right up to my bed and pulled the covers off me. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on but I tried to be a good sport about it and played along. One girl got her leg on the bed half straddling me stilling yelling “Pussy popper!” After posing for pictures they left. I could hear them “pussy popping” my 75 yr old neighbors pine tree on the way back to the bar. I stared at the clock for 20 minutes trying to decide if I should go back up to the bar but instead rolled over and went back to sleep.

This morning I woke up and looked around my room. As you saw in the pictures, it was not in any condition to be seen by other people, especially three pretty hot chicks. I’m sure the Renter will post their pictures on her blog when she gets around to it.

The thing is, if I know that a woman is going to be over, I’m sure as fuck going to clean my room. It was pretty bad, teddy bear by the bed, big pile of dirty clothes in the corner, Maxim magazine on the floor (the pages still turn on that one just fine, I promise), and you can’t even see the top of my dresser. The girls even played with the skull’s eyeballs on the way out. So, while it’s pretty fucking cool that the Renter got three women to come back to my room without even seeing me, I’m pretty fucking sure, after seeing my room, none of them would consider dating me. Of course I would be writing something totally different here if they had all gotten naked and jumped in bed with me, but that didn't exactly happen (till 30 minutes after they left, well, in my mind at least).

Saturday I cleaned the kitchen and living room, the Renter cleaned out the bathroom. I took care of the pile of dirty laundry today, too. Sunday I’ll do the dresser and whatever else needs to be done to make my room a love shack once again. If it ever could have been considered that, you be the judge.

Snow Day

I woke up Thursday morning to the sight of freshly dumped snow. There wasn’t a lot of snow, maybe three or four inches, but there was enough of it. I pulled out the driveway, spun the tires and decided to put the trusty Jeep into four wheel drive. I drove a block to the main street I take to work cautiously as the side streets had not been plowed yet. I waited for a little while till there was an opening and turned.

The one thing I always do in fresh snow is gun the gas. Gunning the gas gives you an idea about how bad the roads are by how much your tires spin. With four wheel drive the tires will spin but it’s usually in a controlled manner in the direction you’re aiming at. Once you know the conditions of the road you can judge how fast you think it’s safe to drive and then exceed that by ten miles per hour.

Thursday morning my steering wheel did just about as much spinning as my tires did. After gunning the gas my Jeep took off fairly well in the fresh snow. Note: that was fresh snow. Turning on to the main road I encountered fresh snow that had been compacted down by thousands of cars. Fresh snow that has been compacted down by thousands of cars is really slippery. The back end of my car whipped out across the street leaving me pointed directly at the curb. Frantically spinning the steering wheel left to get me going in the right direction resulted in the back end sliding all the way back across the street, leaving me pointed at the other curb. I spun the wheel right and the same thing occurred. Realizing I wasn’t winning the battle with the snow I decided to lay off the gas and admit defeat. Yes my friends, I had the pedal down the whole time, nothing cooler than having all four tires spinning up snow at the same time.

After I regained my composure and checked my underwear for shit I came to a more logical method of testing the conditions (because I didn’t already know that it was slippery). I got the Jeep up to 15 miles an hour and jumped on the brakes. Immediately the anti-lock brakes kicked in and I could feel the vehicle start to slow down. There wasn’t anyone behind me so I kept the brakes on until I stopped. Two city blocks later I was stopped in the middle of the road.

I’m usually a careful and cautious driver. That is, on dry pavement I’m a careful and cautious driver. In the snow I take full advantage of the four wheel drive and anti-lock brakes. Knowing this I turned on to a side street and drove back home. You see, if the roads are that slippery that I don’t trust myself to get to work safely, do you think I’m going to trust some yahoo in a 1986 Civic who has 60,000 miles on his tires? Hell no, mothertrucker.

I pulled the Jeep in the garage, got the shovel out (how many more times do I have to do that?), and cleaned off the driveway and sidewalks. After that I sat in bed and finished off a book. Noon came around and I went up to the corner for lunch.

I would like to tell you what happened over the next eight hours but it’s all a little fuzzy. I will try my best. It started with two-for-one Southern Comforts and Coke on an empty stomach. After those started to take affect I ordered the [some Mexican plate I always get but don’t know the name of it as anything other than #23]. I ordered it “spicy” and holy crap was it ever (as was my crap Friday morning). I switched to beer and it all came apart. My goal was to put in eight hours of “work” to make up for the eight hours of work I was missing. Thank goodness for personal time. 5:30 I called G the hairdresser’s shop and to my surprise he was in. The Renter drove me over there and I had my hair cut. It was getting a little long; the last time I had it cut was on December 1st which just happened to be the other snow day of the season. As soon as I walked in the door I grabbed a glass and made myself a tasty SC and Coke. After the haircut the Renter went under the knife. G’s front desk person suggested I go tanning while the Renter was getting her hair cut. I had to think about it for a little bit but agreed. 15 minutes later I woke up naked in the tanning bed. The goggles had fallen off my head and I couldn’t find them (not too much room in those things to move around). The lights went off and I got dressed just as the Renter was getting done. We went back to the bar, I ordered a pitcher and a pizza, finished those off and left. I think I made it to my 8:00 goal, not quite sure.

Friday I learned more about what happened. G said he was having a hard time cutting my hair. I guess I wasn’t able to hold my head still while he was working on it. The bartender said I only drank half a beer out of the pitcher and left the rest. And front desk person at the salon said I left my underwear in the tanning booth.

You gotta love snow days.