Thursday, May 31, 2007

Weighting to Die

No post for today (FA keeps on bothering me to post, it’s like his hands start shaking if I don’t), unless you consider this a post. Since I’ve been slacking off in the weightlifting, I’ve decided to do a total body workout tonight (as opposed to the chest one day, back another day, and so on). So, after I post this I will be doing the following:

6 sets of pull-ups superset with 6 sets of dumbbell bench presses

4 sets of bent over rows superset with 4 sets of incline bench presses

4 sets of shoulder presses superset with 4 sets of dumbbell curls

4 sets of tricep extensions superset with 4 sets of lateral raises

And lastly, a triple superset with 3 sets each of squats, shoulder shrugs, and sit-ups.

If I don’t ever post on here again you can certainly assume that I did not make it through the workout alive.


Ok, don’t get worried about me, I just finished the workout and I’m still breathing; breathing rather heavily, but breathing none the less. For the record, I was ready to quit after the first 12 sets (pull-ups, bench press). But I hung in there, kind of; I didn’t exactly do the squats. I just didn’t have anything left in me. And believe me when I say I didn’t have anything left in me. I did two sets of curls and one set of shoulder raises before I noticed one weight was 5 lbs heavier than the other. But, being the anal man who plays with numbers that I am, I kept track of every exercise, every weight amount, and every repetition (I know, totally anal). In total, I hefted 44,050 lbs in just over 90 minutes. But that number is a little inflated. I’m not going to count the 215 lb shoulder shrugs (x 56 reps) as you can only lift those 3 inches and that really isn’t much of a range of motion compared to the bench press or the like. So the unofficial total is 32,010. Of course I have nothing to compare this to as I’ve never added workouts up like that, but still, kinda cool. Only bad part: I was left too physically exhausted to, well, you know, “play ball.”

Huh, I guess the "no post" actually turned into somewhat of a post. Sorry I only mentioned whacking off once, I'll do better next time.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

A Lot of Sweat

D-roo (the Renter’s friend from Toronto) was supposed to arrive on Thursday but didn’t end up getting in till early on Friday. The last time he visited his flight was delayed or canceled and he ended up getting a free ticket. This time I guess the flight crew didn’t show up (what?) and they gave him another free ticket and hotel room (at which he watched both Busty Blonds 6 and Brazilian Beach Babes 11 in the same night – quite impressive).

D-roo arrived before noon on Friday. Bare with me, it was a rough weekend and my memory is a bit fuzzy about some (most) items. I believe Friday we went downtown to eat and hit Duke’s for their $1 beers till 9:00. I think I made it till 9:30. At 9:30 I was a mess, asking D-roo if people from Toronto were stupid (?) and I was pointing at my new Toronto shit that he brought saying “I’m stupid, I’m from Toronto” in the most ridiculously sounding retarded voice that might have just been me being so fucking loaded. Then someone had the great idea of hitting the casino (bad) and getting more money after we were already broke (very bad). I’m doing a wire transfer to my checking account tonight.

Saturday D-roo and I lifted weights in the basement for a while before going out for $.25 chicken wings. D-roo got the hot ones while the Renter and I got the medium ones. I love spicy food. My body does not love spicy food. After eating the wings for five minutes my head started to sweat. Not just sweat, but noticeably sweat, noticeable to the point where the waitress brought over more napkins without me asking for them. But she was a good sport about it and smiled at me saying I did a good job when I had finished the plate. I think she might have even winked at me like she wanted me to go back to the kitchen with her and make savage love while we rolled in the wing sauce but I might be mistaken. And besides, have you ever touched your penis/vagina after you’ve been eating spicy food? Not good my friends, not good.

Later we ended up taking D-roo to the mall. He wanted to do some shopping and needed to get my watch fixed so we split up. After walking in the mall and ogling all the beautiful women I realized where I was (the mall) and what I was doing (shopping) which led to an instant case of the sweats. I ran outside and found a restaurant that had a bar. Usually this place is pretty quiet, just people taking a break from shopping to grab a bite to eat. But this was not the case today. I walked in the door and immediately knew that something was up. A group of 20 people hovered around the bar area. One guy yelled at me and gave me a high five. I ended up finding a spot on the other side but I was still annoyed at their loud laughs and general rudeness to the wait staff. But the restaurant had happy hour till 1:00 am (happy hours?) so I was fairly content.

On Sunday it was off to the driving range. I was pleased with my shots considering I hadn’t touched a club in about a year. I even made it out to the edge of the range, 250 yards or so, with my 3-iron. We were all doing pretty well so we decided to get a second bucket of balls. Today it’s Wednesday and my fingers, ribs, and back are still sore to the touch. For a while there I was worried that I might not even be able to strap on a condom and go at it but rest assured dear readers, all’s good.

We all went to the Brewer’s game on Memorial Day. For some reason the Renter got all pissy and left her seat to go walk around for a good five innings. I was in no shape for drinking (1:00 game, too early) and quietly enjoyed the game. My system was just a little out of whack from the previous evening (almost one liter of Southern Comfort) so much so that my leg muscles were a bit unsteady. Combining that with my little fear of heights and sitting 10 rows from the top of Miller Park left me in a bit of a panic. I was fine as we sat in the seats watching the game, but when it came time for the National Anthem (or some other song, I had other things on my mind) and I had to stand was when it was the worst. My legs were wobbling, my forehead was sweating, and I felt like I was going to pass out and go tumbling over. As soon as the song ended I plopped my ass back down and exhaled a sign of relief. Wouldn’t you know it, just my luck, they asked everyone to remain standing for a tribute to the American troops. I’m sorry, I’m all for supporting the troops, but not when it comes at the expense of me tumbling over the people in the rows in front of me and end up leaving the game on a stretcher. Leaving the park wasn’t any better. I glued my head to the ground, grabbed onto the stairway rail, and refused to look up for fear of seeing how high we actually were still. I know, I’m a pussy.

After that we tossed the football around and got all good and sweaty. The Renter even managed to show off in front of D-roo with one of her famous face catches.

Around 9:30 we headed up to the bar. The Renter was on a mission to get D-roo loaded. She had him slamming beers at an outstanding pace. But no, that wasn’t good enough. The Renter first started buying shots of tequila and Southern Comfort, and then she moved on to double shots of each with D-roo doing the tequila. I don’t know how many we went through but the bartender did cut us off on the shots. The bar closed at 2:00 and we stumbled home.

4:00 in the morning I got up to use the bathroom. One small, 260 lb problem: D-roo was sleeping on the bathroom floor. I considered quietly straddling him and more than likely peeing right over him, but decided against it. I had to go downstairs and use the wash sink to do my business (I rinsed it out pretty well). I got back upstairs and asked the Renter if we should cover D-roo up or not. She had no idea that he was in the bathroom and went to go check on him only to see his balls hanging out of his boxers (classic!). We gave him shit about that for the whole next day till his flight left. D-roo, passed out (he claimed sleeping) in the bathroom, and exposed balls.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

A Little More Sports and Other News

The fucking NBA draft lottery is fucking rigged (two f-bombs in one sentence, sweet!). The fix is in I tell you. Fuck David Stern and his perma-grin.

Explain to me how the three teams that had a combined 60% chance of getting one of their balls picked got completely snubbed in the first three picks. It’s all rigged, just like in 1985 when Patrick Ewing came out of college. That was when they first set up the draft lottery and the Certified Public Accountant “accidentally” bent the corner of the New York Knick’s envelope, David Stern took his time opening the tumbler while he was looking for the dog-eared envelope, and low and behold the New York Knicks got to select Patrick Ewing and go on to win many a championship (not). It’s on youtube, check it out. Now the bad rap Portland Jail Blazers will have squeaky clean Greg Oden on their team. Tell me that wasn’t rigged.

I don’t mean for this to become a sports blog (I think everyone would agree that getting drunk and shitting yourself is much, much funnier), but good golly Miss Molly. It appears that another professional athlete made the news today in a less than flattering way. Elijah Dukes, rookie outfielder for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, reportedly has threatened to kill his wife. The story goes that he has sent a picture of a handgun to her cell phone and left the following voicemail: “You dead, dawg. I ain’t even [expletive]. Your kids, too.” After hearing all that, don’t you think he’d be placed under arrest? But of course not since America puts professional athletes on pedestals. He was interviewed before Tuesday night’s home game: “I’m just going to play ball, that’s it. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a video game to finish.” Real classy, mother fucker.

In other news…

If you’re in your bathroom, maybe just a little intoxicated, and you feel like you’re falling over, DO NOT grab for the towel rack. It will not hold you up but it will cost you $8 and a little manual labor to fix (and a trip to the hardware store where you will walk up and down the isles unable to find what you’re looking for while you’re wondering if that slipperiness in your shorts is shit or just sweat). Usually the once or twice a year (week) tumble just leaves me with a scrape or a bruise, which I don’t see any problem with. I mean, old people fall all the time, right? But when I have to fork out cash for one of my tumbles, then I have to wonder if I have a drinking problem or not (naw).

This weekend the Renter’s friend from Canada (D-roo) is coming to town. Last time he was here we had a blast (kinda) moving the Renter’s worldly belongings (shit) into my house. We cooked many steaks and consumed many chicken wings, although I think the brother’s a little bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. The Renter was giving him shit yesterday that I was cleaning the bathroom just for him, my secret gay lover. D-roo, trust me, you’re safe buddy, you’re safe. But I did clean the bathroom, got rid of three months of mold and soap scum. I don’t know if I’m just a tard or something but I can’t get that shit out for the life of me. My method of cleaning is stripping all the caulking out and putting in new. I think I’m getting better at it, only took me half and hour to do it. If anyone has any suggestions (besides weekly cleaning) I’m all ears.

Unfortunately, unlike the last visitor we had, D-roo knows all of the stories about me crapping my pants and licking the plunger and (gasp) mooning the whole neighborhood from on top of my garage with a flashlight stuck in my ass. We had the last visitor crying from laughing so hard, might have even peed her pants a little (first time that’s ever been written on this blog!). The last visitor also kept me warm at night and might have even participated in extracurricular activities (no D-roo, I’m not suggesting anything). But now I’m going to have to make up new stuff, new material, new jokes. This is where it gets dangerous. Not everyone gets my humor. And when the pressure is on I tend to overstep the boundary of funny and Oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that. D-roo is a funny guy, but I’ve already been warned that I can’t wake him up in the morning by slapping my penis on his forehead (damn!). I don’t think he’d like me leaving the prize turds in the toilet either so that’s out of the question, too (damn again!). Nope, I’ll be forced to try to be somewhat (gulp) normal. Normal ain’t something I do very well.

So, it was 75 degrees out today and the FA called me at 2:00.

FA: Yeah man, it’s really nice outside. I’ve got my sunroof open, just cruising around listening to Jay-Z.

Me: Uh, fuck you, I’m at work.

FA: You should come join me.

Me: Again, fuck you.

FA: Hey, the Renter emailed my wife and said you’d babysit one of these nights.

Me: WHAT?!

FA: Yeah, she said you two would go over so A and I can get out for a bit.

Me: I don’t think I ever agreed to that.

FA: The Renter said you were drunk one night and even came up with the idea.

Me: No, I don’t think so.

FA: Come on, it’s not like you’d have to do anything. You could just sit in my basement and drink my beer.

Me: Well, if you put it that way…

FA: I’m sure you wouldn’t have to change a poopy diaper or anything. The wife was feeding PBR this morning and felt something warm running down her arm. It was an exploding diaper.

Me: Exploding diaper?

FA: Yeah, that’s what they call it when the diaper can’t hold it all in. Hey, you should be wearing diapers.

Me: Not yet my friend, but pretty damn soon.

And lastly, around 10:00 at the bar last night there was a commotion in the corner. Turns out our friend Shaky D had a bit too much to drink and almost knocked over a table. The table itself was leaning between the wall and one of the chairs at a perilous angle. Shaky D had his back against the table and one arm on the wall, unable to right himself. I figured he’d get out of it ok but when the bartender walked over by him 30 seconds later he was still hanging on by a thread. The bartender helped him back on his feet and Shaky D got a ride home. Things like this don’t get forgotten. The guy sitting next to me leaned over, “Remember when G the hairdresser took out two tables with his header?” “And that one kid commented, ‘At least he didn’t get any beer on my shoes!’” That was two years ago. While we might be killing brain cells, we sure as hell don’t forget a golden opportunity to jab one of our friends.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Tale of Two Athletes

Clinton Portis, star running back of the Washington Redskins, recently made these comments about Michael Vick and his involvement in illegal dog fighting (from

"I don't know if he was fighting dogs or not, but it's his property, it's his dog," Washington Redskins running back Clinton Portis told WAVY-TV in Virginia. "If that's what he wants to do, do it. I think people should mind their business."

When told that dog fighting is a felony, Portis replied, "It can't be too bad of a crime."

"You want to hunt down Mike Vick over fighting some dogs?," Portis told the television station. "I think people should mind their own business."

Portis said that dog fighting is more common than people think.

"I know a lot of back roads that have the dog fighting if you want to go see it," he said.

And then, after his agent reminded Portis that NFL contracts are not guaranteed:

"In the recent interview I gave concerning dog fighting, I want to make it clear I do not take part in dog fighting or condone dog fighting in any manner."

Why athletes continue to come up negatively in the media, even if they aren’t involved with the controversy itself, continues to astound me.

But don’t worry, there is hope in sight. Greg Oden, the outstanding freshman from Ohio State, will be drafted by some very lucky team in the near future. LZ Granderson wrote a heartwarming and refreshing article about Greg Oden which I will of course link here.

I would try to paraphrase the article for you but I most certainly wouldn’t do it justice. So please just read it. I have written about my feelings (not gay) for Greg Oden before. The NBA needs 50 more guys just like him, and if not just like him, at least with the same attitude and respect he has displayed during his short college career. Ohio State was fortunate to have landed such a talented and personable player if even for just one year.
If the Milwaukee Bucks manage to secure the #1 pick in tonight’s NBA Draft Lottery I will be swinging from the rafters like Clyde in Every Which Way But Loose.
If they don’t select Greg Oden with the pick on June 28th, you won’t want to park your car in my neighborhood. “Scrap the Caddy, Clyde.”

Monday, May 21, 2007

Things I did this weekend:

1. Woke up at noon every day.

2. Missed ushering in church on Sunday due to #1.

3. Went to Taco Bell at midnight.

4. Got too inebriated to play pool without falling over.

5. Won a little cash at the casino.

6. Spent winnings on a lot of beer and chicken wings.

7. Spent winnings on laundry detergent.

8. Spent winnings on a bottle of Southern Comfort.

9. Had a plate steak (steak that’s as big as the plate).

10. Forgot to take contacts out before going to bed.

11. Forgot to brush my teeth before going to bed.

12. Going to bed = passing out.

13. Let the Renter practice driving the stick shift.

14. Folded laundry.

15. Watched the Brewers lose three straight.

16. Whacked off.

17. Got busted while attempting to whack off by the Renter, who then told the ex-roommate who had just stopped by after work.

18. Looked at pictures of the ex-roommate’s coworker (who was in Penthouse!).

19. Broke off the towel holder in the bathroom.

20. Drank lots of beer.

Thing I acquired this weekend:

One huge fucking zit on my chin that could be mistaken for a second nose.

I am 30 years old. Wouldn't you think I'd be past the whole zit phase? My 18 year old sister ran to her bathroom and handed me this little tube of stuff. "Here, put this on and it will make it go away faster." Now my chin is dry, numb, and yet painful at the same time. Great.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Flirtation (Part 2)

Oh God, what have I done? Talking to the SF about her coworker and how if we had sex with a condom on she really wouldn’t be cheating on her boyfriend has not turned out well. Not that having sex with a condom on would be the problem, but the thing is I don’t know if the SF told her about our conversation and my secret plans to fornicate with her. I like that word, fornicate. Pretty sweet.

Knowing how women are all into gossip and juicy secrets I’m pretty damn sure the SF has relayed the information. And now this woman probably thinks, well, I don’t know, that I’m some sicko stalker who just wants to stick my penis in her butt. Trust me, I really don’t want to, it was just a joke between the SF and I. And that whole anal sex thing is just plain gross (cough, cough, bullshit, cough).

Twice today I saw the GWB (Girl With Boyfriend) down in the smoking area. The first time a car was leaving and I was able to walk outside before any eye contact was made. Whew. The second time I was finishing my cig just as she walked through the door. I nervously checked my watch, adjusted my junk, and tried to make it look like I didn’t notice her standing ten feet away from me. But, not wanting to be rude or anything, I eventually took my hand off my crotch and looked over in her direction. To my surprise she was starring right at me! Well, no, not really, but she did glance over and tentatively put her hand up to wave and say hi to me. The manner that she waved gave it away: she knows. SHE KNOWS!

I finished my cig, told everyone there to have a good weekend and made my way back. Now what? I’ve made comments to her coworker that I want her to break up with her boyfriend so that we can fornicate like bunnies. Granted these comments weren’t true, but they still came out of my mouth as I was trying to be somewhat funny. And now it isn’t so funny. No, not at all. While I look at most women and wonder what sex would be like with them and get ginormous erections in the weight room on a daily basis, I don’t tell these women that I wonder about all that. If they knew what was going through my mind they’d quite give me dirty looks (not the hot dirty looks), probably kick me in the balls and most certainly slap me in the face. (The usual progression is ass, boobs, stomach, legs, hair, clothing, and then face, ‘cause you can always turn the lights off.)

(Oh fuck, I just realized there is no mention of age in there.)

If women knew the thoughts that went through my head none of them would talk to me. Ever. And now GWB knows what’s going on in my head, or at least thinks she knows what’s going on inside my head based off of my lame attempts at humor.

Can you be a dirty old man at the age of 30?

Thursday, May 17, 2007


I am flirting with a woman who goes to the smoking section of the parking garage. But this isn’t your normal flirting. This is flirting on the grandest scale: sixth grade style.

You see, I don’t actually talk to the woman I’m flirting with. I’ve probably only talked with her for a minute tops. No, no, I’m too much of a pussy to talk to women that I might have an interest in. Instead, I go through her coworker (Smoking Friend). I tell the coworker all my stories even thought I don’t even know her name. The coworker and I have bonded over many a cigarette.

Me: So, how’s our friend today?

SF: I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her yet today.

Me: Did she break up with her boyfriend?

SF: No, I’m pretty sure she’s still living with him.

(A minute of thought…)

Me: So, is it cheating if you just do the whole tonsil hockey thing?

SF: Uh, yeah, I would think so. I guess it depends on the person.

(Another minute of thought…)

Me: So, if you have sex with a condom on, is that cheating? Because you’re not really having genital to genital contact.

SF: That would be cheating.

Me: I don’t know, I would think that would depend on the person too. I know students from the Christian college down the street who say they’re virgins but yet they have oral and anal sex.

SF: Really? That’s pretty odd.

Me: And there was that one girl who came over to my house the second day I knew her, got butt ass naked in my bedroom doing the whole oral sex thing and then sprung the whole “I’ve never been penetrated” thing on me.

SF: That doesn’t sound normal at all. You seem to attract those kind of people.

Me: And then she sent me an email saying our morals or ethics weren’t on the same page. Hello, you were naked in my bedroom the first time you came over, morals my ass.

(SF laughing and choking on her cigarette…)

Me: As strange as it might sound, those kind of people make me sound normal. And trust me, I’m not normal by any means.

SF: I would agree with that from the stories you tell me.

Me: Oh crap, does this make me a stalker by asking you about your coworker every day?

SF: No, I wouldn’t think so.

Me: What if I planned and plotted to get her and her boyfriend to break up?

SF: Dude, that’s major stalker territory.

I don’t even know if you can call it flirting, more of a running joke between SF and myself. While the person in question is cute and all, I’m really not in the mood to flirt and since my penis has been seriously overworked lately and has gone on strike, I have nothing to back up the flirting. Kind of like this post, besides a lame ass story about my inabilities to hit on women without feeling like some psycho sexual predator who whacks off while wearing condoms, I’ve got nothing for you. (If you read the last post you might think I’m a psycho sexual predator, but really I’m not. But you should still keep an eye on your cat.)

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Sara Kova and MJ

I found this on one of those celebrity gossip pages that I’m ashamed to admit I read sometimes:

In fact, the smoking-hot, 23-year-old blond (Sara Kova) seems to have induced delirium in several famous men during the three-day Atlantis idyll. At Thursday's birthday party for Stevie Wonder at the Cove, she was taken aback when single-again Michael Jordan did a fast break in her direction. "He was walking so intensely, I was a little nervous," she recalls. "He said, ‘Hi, who are you? I'm Leroy.' I knew he was Michael Jordan, but I played along. He asked if I wanted to come out on a boat with his friends. I passed on that one, but we did party together later at Aura."

His Airness is 44 years old; she’s 23 years old. When you’re the greatest basketball player ever and rich as hell, do you really get to have sex with extremely hot women who are 20 years younger than you? I’m speechless after reading this, truly speechless. Being 30 years old, I would find it hard to relate with someone who’s only 23. Sure I’d bone her, but just the fact that we’re that far apart in age would deter me from even trying. But I’d do her, kind of like that time I found that 18 year old passed out on my doorstep… (For the record I did manage to wake her up and she answered “Jyess” when I asked her if she was game. Later I realized that she might have mistaken “game” for “name” and I misunderstood “Jess” for “Gee, yes” but by then it was too late – insertion – and I was having troubles getting her back to consciousness to make sure that she was indeed game. So I did what every concerned man would do with a naked passed out woman in his bed; finished up quickly and left her on my 80 year old neighbor’s front step.)

And if you really believe that I had sex with an unconscious 18 year old you are truly a sick puppy.

I double checked her ID and she was really 19.

Ok, I’m feeling guilty. She was almost 19, not that it matters but you know how I am with truth and honesty (5.67% of this is true, the percentage has been dropping rapidly lately). You know, we gotta keep this site (un)real, dog.

Reading back through that I think I am the sick puppy for making up some story about having sex with a passed out woman. She really wasn’t passed out, just taking little catnaps and waking up every five minutes asking what my name was. She mistakenly thought I knew her and was yelling “Jess” when I was really yelling “Yes” and appeared to somewhat go along with it (didn’t struggle) or passed out again, I can’t recall which.

And yes, I’m going to church this Sunday.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Anna Jarvis – a Woman With a Head on Her Shoulders

When Ann Jarvis died, her daughter, named Anna Jarvis, started the crusade to found a memorial day for women. The first such Mother's Day was celebrated in Grafton, West Virginia, on May 10, 1908, in the church where the elder Ann Jarvis had taught Sunday School. Grafton is the home to the International Mother's Day Shrine. From there, the custom caught on — spreading eventually to 45 states. The holiday was declared officially by some states beginning in 1912. In 1914 President Woodrow Wilson declared the first national Mother's Day, as a day for American citizens to show the flag in honor of those mothers whose sons had died in war (with specific reference to The Great War, now known as World War I). Nine years after the first official Mother's Day holiday, commercialization of the U.S. holiday became so rampant that Anna Jarvis herself became a major opponent of what the holiday had become. Mother's Day continues to this day to be one of the most commercially successful U.S. holidays.

What should follow this excerpt from Wikipedia…

Unfortunately, Anna Jarvis soon came to realize that she liked the gifts and flowers and gave up on the fight against commercialization.

Yeah, I didn’t do much for Mother’s Day. I live six miles from my parent’s house. I did call and wish her a happy Mother’s Day, but I didn’t visit, and I still haven’t bought her anything. I haven’t the faintest clue as to what she would want. Being a man of questionable spending practices ($400 on beer a month?) there are some things I absolutely refuse to buy. While women like flowers and cards and crap like that, I can’t see spending $15 for flowers that will die within a week or paying $3 for a piece of paper that includes absolutely none of your own creativity. I did offer to pick up steaks for dinner one night this week but she told me not to since she already has steak that should be eaten. Ok, can’t argue with that. So instead I celebrated Mother’s Day watching the Brewers get their asses handed to them by the New York Mets while enjoying a number of cold ones. Please save your hate mail for someone else’s blog.

As horrible as it sounds, I bought something for myself on Mother’s Day. It was around 5:00 pm. I was a little bored and a little down about the Brewer’s loss and financial impact that came along with it. The Renter drove us over to Target and I bought a full sized football. The Renter looked at it in the store. “That’s too big. Can’t you get a smaller one?” I had to explain to her that if you’re going to buy sporting equipment you have to go with the real deal. Playing catch with a mini football is almost as bad as using pink bats on Mother’s Day. While the ball I bought isn’t exactly the real deal, it is the official size and has a very close to leather feel to it.

We stopped at a park on the way back home. Watching us play catch must have been pretty entertaining for the surrounding residents. There I was halfway unstable on my feet trying to field the wildly errant passes from the Renter. And then there was the Renter catching lightly lofted balls from yours truly with her arms and face (ouch!). I got an email from her today: my arms are all bruised from catching the football, it looks like you beat me up. Great, just what I need. And then: are we going to do it again tonight? You try tossing a football around with someone who has hands the size of a 12 yr old and can only throw it ten yards.

But at least she tried. I got my favorite bartender to stop over and the pussy wouldn’t even try throwing it. He mumbled something about throwing out his arm and not being able to masturbate or something like that.

In other news… I was on the phone later in the evening, sitting on the front step when a tan Cadillac pulled up with the stereo blasting. I took a closer look at the driver and it was the old roommate. Apparently he and some co-workers went down to Indy for some car race. Since none of them had cars big enough to comfortably fit four people they rented a Cadillac for $30 a day. So there’s the old roommate in the 2007 Cadillac, windows all rolled down, cranking that “Just bought a Cadillac, throw some D’s on it” song. If you know the old roommate and his “in the hood” speaking abilities, it was pretty hilarious.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

% Black / % White

I know this came out a while ago, but I just want to touch on it a bit here. ESPN did a survey of baseball fans about how they felt about Barry Bonds. The results were predictable with some people voting for him and some voting against him. I don’t have any strong opinions about whether he passes Hank Aaron for the most home runs or if he should or should not be voted into the baseball hall of fame. But I do have strong opinions on how this survey was conducted.

Barry Bonds is black. This is the year 2007. I don’t see why any survey should be differentiated between black people and white people. You would think by now the sports world would not look at black athletes differently from white athletes. If Barry Bonds was white would we have the same kind of survey results? If Jason Giambi (another alleged steroid user) was closing in on Hank Aaron’s home run record would the media come down on him like they are on Bonds? I would imagine so. The media would be out for the kill no matter what race the player is that passes Hank Aaron assuming that player has been linked to a steroid probe. Therefore, why do this stupid survey and break it out between black and white?

Now, I can’t think like a black man. I might have a black man’s penis and I have been working on my tan, but I can’t say I’ve lived the life of a black man and experienced whatever comes at you being non-white. But the survey, while I don’t agree with the whole thing, did prove my point at the end. Survey question #8 asked “Do you think he’s been treated unfairly mainly because of his race, mainly because of his personality, or mainly because of his alleged use of steroids?” 1% of white people said it was because of his race compared 27% of black people. I will agree that if this survey was taken back when Hank Aaron was playing the results would be completely different. Thank goodness society has advanced since then. I’m not sure if I’m correct in saying that according to this survey that white people don’t see Barry Bonds as being a black person but more likely a baseball player, but that’s what I’m going to guess it’s hinting at. That’s how I see Barry Bonds. Actually that’s not true. I see Barry Bonds as one hell of a baseball player with a very good swing. Barry Bonds is damn good.

One question I can’t figure out is #5: If Bonds does pass Aaron, do you think Bonds should or should not be recognized as the new career home-run leader? I am baffled with the results: 78% black and 53% white agreed that he should be recognized as the leader. I don’t see why, if using race as a motivating factor (pretty much the main theme here), that there would be any difference in the percentages as both Hank Aaron and Barry Bonds are black. Please do fill me in if I’m missing something here. Really, I’d like to know.

I don’t think any modern day sports survey should be handled in this sort of manner. Sports have been around for a long time. Black athletes and white athletes have played together for at least as long as I can remember (and much more). A poll of this nature does not help modern day society to forget the past and move on.

Sad to say, very sad to say, but a poll of this kind might have relevance in the upcoming Presidential election. Unfortunately, some things haven’t changed.

Sorry for the lack of shitting/peeing/puking/masturbating jokes on this one.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Pictures of the Day

I've got nothing for you today so I thought I'd post some of my beautiful pieces of art for you. Well, I'm not sure if you could actually call them beautiful, or even art for that matter, but here they are.

This is what I did last night after mowing the lawn.

I know if kind of looks like a car is going to run me over and I'm going to run into a tree, but deal with it.

Here is the FA and his wife. You'd think the FA would get mad at me for drawing this, but when his wife sees how short I made her she's going to be pissed!

In honor of Mother's Day...

When I went snorkeling in Cancun I made an amazing discovery...

Yes my friends, the bearded clam!

And if I ever (ever) going to become gay, I'm guessing this would be in order.

Ok, I know I have less artistic abilities than a sixth grader, but hey, don't say I never gave you anything.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Wrath / Remedy

“What am I going to do with you.”

Yes boys and girls, that was the FA calling me this morning. It appears that he fears the wrath of his lovely wife very much.

“We weren’t scoping out women on the way to the 300 Club, we just asked them for directions.”

Ok, I elaborated on that one a bit in the last post. I’ve been in the funk lately and was not looking for women, and the FA, being married and all, more than likely was not looking for women. No, I know he wasn’t, and we certainly wouldn’t have been talking to 20 yr olds if we were looking for women.

“You made it sound like I was avoiding the wife by not going home right away. I told her I stopped and had a beer with you.”

Come on man, here I am trying to build him up as something other than the pussy he really is and he wants me to set the record straight. I never said everything on this blog was 100% true. Do you really think I drink as much as I let on? Do you really think I make a mess in my shorts as often as I write about it? Do you really think I take the time to whack off every day? No, no, and no. For example, in the last post I said I had 8 beers before the game when it was really 7.5. I haven’t even told you about half of the times I’ve crapped my pants because being 30 and having it happen once in a while is bad enough, every fucking weekend and it gets downright gross and embarrassing. And I don’t whack off once every day, yesterday I did it twice. See, not everything is true on this blog.

And then I got the email.

“Ok, you don’t have to fix anything if you just post my comment.”

So I went back to my email and found his comment which I of course cannot publish because Mr. Scardo Retardo used his wife’s real name.

If you would like me to continue to "think of you" when I have free tickets I recommend not "expanding/imebelishing" on stories that involve me purely for the sake of making this a more entertaining read.

The corection being that I asked for directions to the .300 club from the nearest bystanders who, yes, were of the female variety and continued to talk after the directions were given. Yes, we had four passes so the other two were offered since there was no other use for them. And o.k., yes, - one did grab my ass as they walked away but I can't help it if I'm that irrestiable! It Actually happened once in [the wife’s] presence at Summerfest. She wasn't pleased then as I'm sure she won't be when she reads that it happened again, so thank you.

(on a side note, glad you had fun...)

I don’t think my description was that far off from his but oh well, now the wife knows she’s in the driver’s seat after I’m sure he spent at least an hour and a half today trying to think of a remedy. And that was me who grabbed his ass at Summerfest but I’m flattered that his wife got jealous over it. Besides, the FA does have a nice ass, even the neighborhood gay guy commented on it with something about popping his butt cherry.

And then, ring, ring.

“You’re on my list.”

Laughing just a little bit too loud for the office environment, “What list am I on? Would that be like the top five list of people that you can have sex with?”

I really need to stop writing stuff like.

“Yeah, I just got off the phone with the wife. I figured I’d tell her about it before she reads your shit. She didn’t sound too happy and hung up on me.”

I think the FA is just paranoid about this whole thing. And even better yet, right now as he’s reading this he’s sweating more and more with every word I type. Because you never know what will pop up on this evil, sinister, foul smelling little website of mine. So I think I will just keep on typing and keep on typing and keep on typing till I might mention something cruel and embarrassing about the FA but I won’t. I’ll be the good friend here. I think I know his wife fairly well; the last thing she’s worried about is some stupid story that I made just a wee bit bigger than real life just for the benefit of you, my dear and loyal readers. The FA on the other hand will have to change his shorts after reading this since he asked that I not mention any of this (oops).

I consider the situation fixed.

Monday, May 07, 2007

The Brewer Game

I went to a Brewer’s game over the weekend. The FA picked me up, we got a case of beer on the way to the park, and we had a fucking blast. (I won’t even get in to the FA’s lack of driving abilities or his downright awful taste in music. At one point during our ride to the park I mentioned that one of his favorite bands, Lincoln Park, wouldn’t be a bad selection. I had to mention it four more times before he turned the new P. Diddy song off and put Lincoln Park on. And I shouldn’t really complain about the FA’s driving abilities because, well, he drove. But I will tell you I had my eyes closed for a good portion of the trip.)

We got to the game at 6:15. This left us with 45 minutes till the game started. I had eight beers in 45 minutes. That’s roughly a beer every five and a half minutes. While those of you at home might cringe at the thought of this, I am pretty fucking proud. And it’s not the fact that it was eight beers but more that it was eight twelve ounce cans of liquid beverages. Eight beers won’t do much to me even if I do consume them in a mere 45 minutes. 96 ounces of liquid of any kind isn’t exactly an easy task to swallow in 45 minutes.

We made it in to the park just before tip off (I’m not sure what the call tip off in baseball, opening pitch?). Standing in line for food the lights went off behind the kind sir who was getting our food. Every vendor took their hats off and waited while the national anthem was being played. I looked over at the FA who also had his hat off and was exposing his horrible hat head. Not a pleasant sight to see, I tried to put a little distance in between us. But the guy was nice enough to buy me a brat and a pretzel so I had to be kind of nice back.

We found our seats and dug into our food. At one point the FA looked over at me and asked where my brat was. Gone. We sipped at our sodas to the point where we could mix the 10 ounce bottle of Southern Comfort I snuck into the park. When we walked in some old guy had a flashlight or metal detector in his hand and looked at my bulging pocket and didn’t say a word. Either he didn’t give a shit and didn’t care or he didn’t see the bottle, I’m not sure. The FA poured the drinks right there at our seats since I’m too much of a pussy to do something like that out in the open and he wouldn’t trust me to go to the restroom and pour it myself. The last time we did that somehow the whole bottle ended up going in my drink and the FA angrily through the bottle back at me under the bathroom stall wall, skidding three or four stalls past mine.

After we had finished eating one of the isle vendors walked by. “One dollar hot dogs!” I don’t know if it was a retro night because the Brewer’s were wearing their old uniforms or what, but $1 hot dogs are good in my book. After having the brat and pretzel I had five $1 slightly undercooked hot dogs. Southern Comfort and Coke, cheap food, watching a ball game, I was in heaven.

We chatted with the couple in front of us, a 25 year old guy and his noticeably younger female friend. We kept on giving them shit that she was underage (under 21, not 18) and how they have sex with her in her girl scout uniform. They were pretty cool but I almost puked up my five hot dogs with their way too frequent displays of affection.

The FA and I made our way over to the 300 Club. I guess the 300 Club is some semi private bar/dining area that we needed passes to get in to. Along with the free game tickets the FA had acquired four of these passes. Strutting like VIPs to the 300 Club we scoped out possible women to take with us. We bumped into three girls and chatted for a good five minutes before they went their own way. The talkative one was pretty damn hot. Midway through the conversation she asked how old we were. She was with her two friends, one of whom just had her 18th birthday and was sucking down a beer (huh?). Knowing that they were much younger I sheepishly told them that I was thirty. “Thirty is sexy.” While her comment was reassuring and all, the fact that she categorized thirty as being sexy bothered me a bit. Kind of like “while thirty is pretty damn fucking old, a thirty year old individual could still be considered sexy.” The FA later pointed out that she said thirty was sexy and didn’t exactly say that I was sexy. Fucker. And she grabbed his ass as we parted ways. Even married guys get more play than I do.

The rest of the game was fairly uneventful. After the game I continued the tailgating (FA was driving) while cars slowly made their way out of the parking lot. A group of people right next to us asked me to take a picture for them. One of the guys gave me the disposable camera and I tried my best to not cut them off at their heads even though I’ve always wanted to do that. And then another woman ran up and gave me her unbelievably huge digital camera. And then I got really nervous. You see, by this time I had consumed eight cans of beer, five ounces of Southern Comfort, and an additional 64 ounces of beer at the game. I held the unbelievably huge camera in my hands like it was my first born child. Somehow, someway, with sweaty hands and all, I managed to take their picture without dropping the camera. The woman seemed to notice my nervousness and slowly took the camera from me with two hands. They offered me a beer and after seeing the FA shake his head looking at his watch I gladly accepted. Come on, I’m not going to pass up free beer.

We left the game and the FA dropped me off at the corner bar. He muttered something about having to get home to his wife and kid and the ball and the chain he has attached to his testicles. I told him thanks for the game and he went on his way. (Actually he stopped at the bar for one beer but we won’t tell his wife that. We’ll keep that our little secret. Wait, I think his wife might read this. Oh dude, he’s fucked.)

On a normal night every head turns to the door when you walk through. This night was no exception, except that instead of “Hey, B to the…” it was “Hey, how was the game?” I grilled the Renter about it on Sunday when we were staining the deck.

Me: So, how did everyone know that I was at the game?

Renter: Christ, if I’m up there and you’re not everyone’s like, “Where’s B to the…? Where’s B to the…?” Twenty people must have asked me where you were.

Yeah, it’s good to be loved. And semi-famous.

The rest of the weekend was pretty normal. For some weird reason I felt ambitious and started staining the deck my dad and I built last summer. I was out there on Saturday, stain and brush in hand, yelling inside to the Renter, telling her how much fun it was. To my surprise she said she’d help if I got her a brush (because only dumb extremely cheap people go to the hardware store and only buy one brush). We went to the store, got some extra brushes, and painted for three hours till our wrists became sore. Saturday we did most of the railings and spindles, Sunday we finished those up and did the main surface of the deck. I thanked her many times and even cooked brats for all her help. And in case you’re wondering, my wrist is ok to perform the necessary daily functions if you know what I mean (mf-ing).

Oh, and that little funk I’ve been in lately? Well, this weekend was funked up!!! Both Saturday and Sunday the first beer was cracked open no later than 1:00 and the first meal being consumed no earlier than 6:00. Since the weekend was fairly nice outside (65 degrees) I spent most of the time sitting on the deck or staining it. Besides what was left of the case from Friday night I picked up a 30 pack of Milwaukee’s Best Light for $12 and I don’t have a whole lot left. My neighbor had some friends over for a fire in his backyard and invited the Renter and I over. We swung by at midnight on Saturday, asked if they wanted anything from Taco Bell, and by the time I got back from Taco Bell and ate I realized that I could neither walk nor talk properly. I know my neighbor and his roommate kind of well. We wave and chit chat once in a while. I don’t know his friends. I didn’t think I could function in a public setting with people I didn’t know. And besides that, he had women over, and we all know that I regularly pee myself if a woman talks to me. But I’m working on getting over that.

In another “I’m really not gay” story, I mooned the gay waiters at the restaurant that is attached to the corner bar. One of them likes me (as in wants me naked) and the other one and I just get along really well. Well, the one slapped my ass. The other got visibly upset because the other touched “his man.” Two gay guys had an argument over me, the straight guy. I kid you not. I must be one hot piece of ass.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Gimme That Funk

I didn’t realize it till yesterday. I’m usually the happy go (un)lucky guy (oh goodness, I almost typed “gay” instead of “guy.” Which reminds me of a mini story with the neighborhood gay guy last night. He said his roommate was having a hard time with him being fresh out of the closet and all. I told him I have a hard time with him being gay too, but usually the “keep it in place” briefs don’t show how hard of a time I have. Seriously, I am straight, and the fact that I have to keep defending myself on this stupid website is starting to scare me.)

Anyway, my demeanor doesn’t change much. If I lose $10 on a baseball game I’ll be down and out for all of 10 minutes, but I’ll bounce back to my normal self in no time. 10:05, lose baseball game. 10:15, looking for neighbor’s cat. 10:17, running to hospital with a serious allergic reaction that leaves my penis red, itchy, and very inflamed. I know I’m allergic to cats, but I always forget when I’m loaded and high on white out.

If you’re my neighbor and you read this, I really haven’t had sexual intercourse with your cat.


But after the week I had last week and meeting someone who very quickly became very special to me, this week really fucking sucks. Last week it was like I was on vacation, staying in a hotel downtown, going out every night, hanging out with newly acquired friends, and spending a lot of time with the previously mentioned person. This week its back to normal, going to work, going to the corner bar at night, the same old shit I do every day. While not exactly boring by any means, it just doesn’t compare to last week.

So I’ve been in this mini depression kind of state. Like I said, I didn’t notice it until yesterday. I was at work, walking down the hall to the smoking area, when I noticed my recently purchased turn-30-weight-gain pants were pretty damn loose around my hips. Actually, they were resting on my hips and not snug around my waist like they usually are. Today I wore jeans to work that just two weeks ago would have been hard to button standing up let alone sit in for eight hours and still be able to breathe. I haven’t mentally been doing anything different from usual as far as diet and working out are concerned. Well, I did start riding the stationary bike in the basement a little since I realized I needed to after performing certain physical exercises (sex) last week left me gasping for air and unable to do talk for five minutes. But the whole 8 minutes on Tuesday and 10 minutes on Wednesday would not amount to any kind of weight loss whatsoever. (On Tuesday I came up the stairs after riding the bike and the Renter asked me if that was all sweat that covered my shirt and head. 8 minutes on the bike = massive quantities of sweat. Yeah, I’m in shape.)

A couple of days this week at 5:00 I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since 9:00. This is a major departure from the normal 9:00, 11:00, 1:00, 3:30, 5:30, 12:00 midnight feeding schedule I usually adhere to. I didn’t even realize I was doing this nor noticed that I was hungry during any of this. The only time I’ve really been depressed in my life was when I was a junior in college and the girlfriend of three years broke up with me. I would eat the meat out of sandwiches and leave the bread, make my lunch last me a whole day, and smoke cigarettes like they were going out of style. I went from 220 lbs to 185 lbs in two months.

I’m not even close to that kind of state right now, even though the dramatic weight loss wouldn’t hurt me one bit. I’m sure by next week I’ll be back to normal, eating like a cow and pooping twice a day (because everyone needs to know that I poop twice a day).

But the cool thing about this little funk that I’ve been in? I’ve had a LOT of alcohol this week. Now, you might have thought that I drank a lot before, going out every night and having four pitchers of beer and possibly peeing/shitting on myself. While I have not peed or shit on myself this past week, the usual four pitchers has been upped to five or six. (Hey, it’s baseball season, this is what I call stepping up to the plate.) Combine that with less food consumption and you have one very good week of drinking. Sitting at the bar you would not have been able to tell that I was in this funk. I played many a dice game and chatted with the patrons like I always do. But walking home (or trying to), jumping on the hood of the Renter’s car, waking up to find a taco spread all over my sheets and in my belly button and other late night actions have been a bit out of the norm lately.

I know this sounded like one of the Renter’s frequent and painfully long depressing blogs. Every once in a while the FA (financial advisor for your newbies) will call and ask if she’s ok. I do believe his exact words were “Oh boy, one of those again. Did you read it?” to which I usually tell him that I just skimmed through it. I’m really not in a bad mood, just not quite myself. Actually, today I’m quite happy. At 5:30 tonight the FA is picking me up, we’re going to pick up a case of beer and in the great Milwaukee tradition we are going to tailgate before the Brewer game starts at 7:00. Just like when I was out with the women and had an hour and a half till the $1.00 beer specials ended, I will be sitting outside of the Brewer’s stadium chugging beer with a passion. I should note that the FA got the tickets from one of his sports buddies and had to drive to Hartford to pick them up and I thank him very much for that. Supposedly they are terrific seats eleven rows back from the action with a face value of $95. I’m sure I will have plenty of stories to tell you later about how I got drunk and fell down a flight of stairs or how I got drunk and puked on the 80 yr old lady sitting next to me or how I got drunk and ran on to the field wearing only my brand new Nike Waffle Racers (with socks on, because putting my sweaty feet into shoes without socks on is just disgusting and foul).

On a side note, do you realize that the FA would have words with me if I hadn’t mentioned the whole Brewer thing? I swear he gets off on this shit more than I do. Literally, I can picture him at home with his penis in his hand while he reads this. Every once in a while he’ll call and tell me a story and ask if it is blog worthy. And then he’ll complain when I don’t write about it. Of course, the stuff he tells me that is directly followed by “you can’t put this in your blog” will eventually find its way on here. Like the time he was telling me about his wife’s breasts and how ginormous they have gotten since she had their daughter. And of course the FA will have words with me when he gets around to reading this one too (hopefully after his erection goes down).

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Paint My Ass

Where I would like to be right now.

If I would ever get a tattoo, it would have to be Mr. Yuk, right on my ass. Quite appropriate.

And yes, I drew both of those, all on my own, without the help of anyone else. Not bad, eh?

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Semi-famous - Almost

I like being semi-famous. Not that I am actually semi-famous, but I like to consider myself semi-famous. People know me. People might even actually like me a little but that’s debatable. Last night walking in to the bar I was greeted heartily by no less than a dozen people. One individual even grabbed my nipple; I think he might like me a little too much. People in the restaurant that’s attached to the bar know me but only because I trip on little kids in the hallway when I go to the bathroom (don’t worry, after I fall on them I usually give them a buck and they stop crying). Neighbors I don’t even know know me or know of me. “Walter, there’s that drunk guy again staggering down the street. You let the dog in, right? Last time he tried to fuck Fufu he didn’t even use a condom.” Semi-famous baby.

I used to go to George Webb’s sometimes. Alright, I used to go to George Webb’s a lot, enough that I recently needed to buy new pants. The staff at George Webb’s knew me. They knew my name, they knew what I ordered, they knew I was usually (always) quite loaded when I stepped in the door. If it was busy they would always put my order at the front of the line. Semi-famous baby, and I loved it.

Last night the Renter kindly drove to Taco Bell for me. Well, I don’t know if kindly is the right word. Somehow I ended up riding for two blocks on the hood of her car instead of in the traditional car seat. I would recommend not trying this at home. Anyway, the last time we went to Taco Bell the guy at the window recognized us and said “You guys again? Don’t you ever get sick of this place?” Yeah, semi-famous baby. So last night I was prepped and ready for some friendly banter with the window guy. The only problem? The window guy wasn’t there, it was some broad instead. I’m waiting for some comment on how often we go there or how much gas I get in the mornings (tons) and all I get is “Thank you, have a good evening.” Yeah, not so semi-famous.

Being emotionally fragile and lacking any form of self confidence, this was a major blow to my self esteem. I cried all the way back home. I felt like Dustin Diamond after they stopped shooting “Saved by the Bell.” I went from being popular with every man, woman, and elderly lady in my neighborhood (gum jobs = good) to just the average patron visiting Taco Bell. Not so semi-famous.

Tonight I’m going to get naked and streak every street in a 10 block radius and end up getting picked up by the cops 10 blocks from my house because that’s as far as I can run without stopping. But hey, I’ll be back to being semi-famous.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007


I have received literally hundreds of emails (0) and phone calls (1) about the Sunday post and the whole falling in love thing. While I can confirm that I did indeed meet someone (of the female gender for those of you who still think I’m gay) and developed some very strong feelings for this person over the course of six days, I don’t think I can divulge more of the situation to the entire world (or the five people who read this). Sure, I have no problems telling stories of how I crapped my pants one night or how often the newly named Frankie and I arm wrestle while watching midget porn (also known as mf-ing, masturbating furiously), but I don’t think this is the place to let my feelings out. Besides the fact that this blog is pretty much reserved for toilet humor and my drunken exploits, there are some things that I need to keep private and this would be one of them. So, for the first time ever, I’m sorry and I apologize. Oh, and while I’m at it, I’m sorry for lying to you all about how long my penis is; it’s really 7.75 inches and not 8. I thought it was ok to round up to 8 but that would be like the FA saying he’s six feet tall when he’s really 5’10”.

But I can let you in on the whole “Frankie” thing. I was out with a group of women on Thursday night. We found a bar downtown that had $1 domestic beer till 9:00 (yes, I actually ventured out from my natural habitat at the corner). We had to walk in the rain and cold and arrived at the bar at 7:30. With an hour and a half left till the special ended, can you guess what was going through my head? That’s right boys and girls; I was ready to get my beer on. Double fisting it from the get go, I plowed through the beer like it was water. At one point the bartender said something to me that sounded like “that’s your last one” as in “I’m cutting you off” and at the rate I was going I wouldn’t have been surprised. But I was mistaken; she kept on giving them to me two at a time (whew). I must have made quite the impression on my female friends as one of them bought eight beers and four mixed drinks at 8:58. I made it my personal objective to drink all the beer before it got warm. Mission accomplished.

The conversation at the table was pretty open considering who was sitting there. We talked about everything from marriage to vibrators to culture to boobies to who knows what. Sorry, my memory isn’t as good as it used to be. And then somehow the topic of conversation turned to my internationally acclaimed penis. My first reaction was to go for my phone. As you may or may not know, I have a picture of my penis on my cell phone. I have since been told that having a picture of my penis on my phone is not normal, but it’s still on there. I wisely put the phone back in my pocket much to the dismay of the group. Then one of the women asked me what its name was. I guess she thought that since I love my penis so much that I have a picture of it on my phone that I would have a name for it. On the contrary, my penis has never been named. “I’m going to name it Frankie,” she said. “Frankie?” “No, Frrrrankie.” You know how you roll your “R’s” in some languages like the “Ruffles have Ridges” commercials? Yeah, I can’t do that. My penis now has a name that I can’t even pronounce.