Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Dope Ride

What’s up with the Tour de France and doping allegations? I know these have been around for what seems like forever. Lance Armstrong was always accused of taking performance enhancing drugs but never tested positive. I should say allegedly never tested positive as there are still critics out there who contend that he had tested positive on one or more occasions. And whatever happened to Floyd Landis? Is he still considered last year’s Tour champion or is that still in limbo? And now this year’s winner, Alberto Contador, has been mentioned in the Operation Puerto doping investigation. Allegations, allegations, allegations. I think the International Cycling Union should take a look at how we do it over here in the States. Oh wait, never mind; Barry’s still hitting homers.

Jameson Movie? - Email

While browsing the entertainment websites today I found the following:

First up is Scarlett, who, if you believe the British tabloids, has signed on to star as porn queen Jenna Jameson in the adaptation of her best-selling and surprisingly well-reviewed autobiography, "How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale."

When I first read this I got really excited. Really excited as in Paul Rueubens (Pee Wee Herman) excited. But then my hopes of whacking off in a movie theater came tumbling down:

Johansson denies any and all involvement in the sure-to-be skin-heavy flick.

Fuck. I’ll just have to go back to Elisha Cuthbert in The Girl Next Door.

But on a side note, thank you, Ms. Johansson, for not taking on this role as it would surely land me in the county pen for exposing myself while watching you perform in this movie. And I really don’t want to live the rest of my life with the nickname “Pee Wee.” Seriously, I’ll take “Shithead” over “Pee Wee” any day. (Wee Man of Jackass fame, I feel for you.)

Email of the day:

i know you aren't nice.

you are actually very selfish person. the most selfish person i know. you really don't care about anyone but yourself and what will make you happy and what you want.

you take people for granted and use them to your full advantage. you don't care how others feel or who you hurt along the way.

it's all about you......screw others.

nice, respectful, caring, compassionate, trustworthy, reliable, can count on......these words don't descripe you or fit you.

And you know what? That’s pretty much right online, except for the using people to my full advantage part. I don’t use people. Well, if you’re offering sex or sexual favors I will most certainly use you, but other than that I don’t want anything from anyone. Just ask my parents what I have asked for the last seven Christmases and birthdays – absolutely nothing. Maybe I should start asking for something specific. I swear I must have a lifetime supply of cologne and socks since that seems to be the only things they get me.

Monday, July 30, 2007

CSI Crime Scene

Saturday was one of those get-drunk-twice-with-a-nap-in-between kind of days. Other than making a fool of myself at the Renter’s friend’s party (I was told I was entertaining – we know what that means), I really don’t know what else went on. Yeah, one of those days.

(Note to self – when you can no longer sit upright in a metal folding chair it’s time to leave. Waiting ten minutes longer past that point is not recommended.)

Sunday I did absolutely nothing. I swear I had to have watched ten episodes of CSI. After watching ten hours of CSI I can confidently tell you that I can solve any crime just by investigating the crime scene. I’m a quick learner. Whether it be a blood splatter pattern or squinting really hard to see barrel marks on two bullets, my investigative abilities are right up there with Mr. Grissom himself. But I’m afraid to say there was one “crime” that I just couldn’t figure out.

I didn’t eat all that much on Sunday. Around 6:00 I ordered a pizza (deep dish, greasy as fuck) and an order of chicken wings from Pizza Hut. I ate a little too fast and wasn’t able to pound down more than three slices and a couple of the chicken wings. That was for the whole day. I knew I had to (cover your ears if you’re stomach is weak) crap like an elephant as I had gas all day but (oh boy…) held it in so I could gas the Renter out. I had the fan blowing across my body and right at the Renter. Every 15 minutes or so I’d hear, “Uh!” as the Renter would catch a whiff of the tiny farts that seeped out without me knowing (seeped, love that word). This went on all day. Not wanting to crap my pants in the middle of the night I took a dump before going to bed. It wasn’t as spectacular as you would have thought after holding it in for most of the day, but decent nonetheless.

Today I almost crapped my pants driving in to work. By 9:00 I was in the bathroom giving birth to what felt like a family of squirrels; mom, dad, brother, sister, and sister’s boyfriend, all scurrying violently to get out of my ass. Whew, I thought, good to get that out of the way. But that wasn’t it. 11:45 I was back in there, giving birth to the baby squirrels that the sister and boyfriend had procreated in my ass. God those things grow up pretty fast.

But the thing is, I didn’t have that much to eat on Sunday. You wouldn’t think three pieces of pizza and a couple of chicken wings would leave me giving birth to a family of squirrels and their grandkids less than 24 hours later. Even after watching and studying (I took notes) CSI for ten hours I couldn’t come up with an explanation for where all that shit came from. And trust me, it takes a lot to baffle this expert who’s completely full of shit.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Wednesday Meeting

So I took a couple days off of work. I had some time to burn and really just needed a breather, a refresher if you will. Waking up at noon for four days straight is better than sex in my book. Well, I haven’t had sex in quite a while, but I do remember a lot of physical labor and a lot of sweating and I’m not all that accustomed to physical labor; the sweating is just something I live with every day. Sure I lift weights five days a week, but I get results from that whereas with sex I usually don’t climax and end up apologizing to the victim that, well, it’s just disappointing.

While I’m on the subject of sweating, my meeting on Wednesday went ok. I think. It didn’t start off all that well. I left work early and raced back home to change into the suit and tie. First off, it was 84 degree outside. I don’t have air conditioning in the Jeep. I was already as nervous as a Chinese guy who just got drafted by a Midwest basketball team, and when I’m in these situations you know what happens to me – I sweat. But this was ok because I was going to be changing clothes anyway. I got home, freshened up a bit (extra extra deodorant), brushed my teeth, and threw on the monkey suit. The monkey suit is pretty stylish (brown/tan) that I bought about two years ago. Two years ago I weighed 210 lbs. Now I weigh 230 lbs. You wouldn’t think so but 20 lbs adds a lot to your back and shoulders (two of my favorite body parts to work out besides chest). 20 lbs also adds a lot to your gut and neck (probably more so than to your back and shoulders). So there I was driving to the meeting, my belt a notch tighter than usual and my neck feeling like I had a wife hanging from it.

I got to the location and found a parking spot. Already sweating from the short mile drive, I got out of the car and put on the suit coat. I thought it felt a little tight but I figured it was just the shirt and tie that were cutting off my air flow. I walked in the door, asked the receptionist where I was supposed to go and headed off down the hall. I arrived at my destination and told another receptionist that I was there to see so-and-so. I took a seat and fumbled through some paperwork I brought with me. Realizing that I couldn’t go into this meeting with sweat flowing (yes, flowing) down my face, I asked if there was a restroom nearby. I walked in the restroom, grabbed a stack of paper towels, brought them up to my face when I realized… my suit coat color was flipped all the way up. I had spoken to two receptionists and neither one of them had said anything. Thanks, bitches.

I fixed the collar, sort of fixed the sweating, and went back to the waiting area. I met with my meeter (hate it when you can’t divulge any specifics) for the next 45 minutes. I don’t do well in these kind of meetings. I was told to be myself, use positive reflections on negative issues, and to, well, be myself. The only problem is that being myself doesn’t always work in these kind of meetings. These kind of meetings you have to be professional and portray yourself in a better image than you actually are. If you have read any postings on this blog you well know that I like to make fun of myself and the shit that happens in my life. I’m not one to tell you about my strong suits or brag about my accomplishments; I’m not that kind of guy. But I did my best, tried to say the right things while trying to be myself and, well, I guess I’ll just let you know how it went when I get some feedback.

Back to the time off. I haven’t done much of anything in the two days that I took off. Thursday I sat in bed (which is still in the living room, I hate painting) till noon and did absolutely nothing but watch TV till 6:00 when I made my way up to the bar. Today I sat in bed till 2:00 when it got too hot in the house (I refuse to turn on the air) and went outside. I put some used car oil in containers, realized I didn’t have an oil filter for the Jeep (I bought oil but no filter, go figure), and mowed the lawn. (Don’t get me wrong on this one, I can change my own oil but don’t ask me to do your brakes. I have a little manliness in me but not a whole lot.) I don’t know what the temperature was today, but by the time I got done with the lawn I was drenched. My chest, stomach, and upper part of my shorts where your stomach sweats and it drips down, just totally soaked. Yes, I looked sexy.

On this note (me looking damn sexy) I will leave you. Hopefully soon I can tell you about a second meeting.

Thursday, July 26, 2007


I heard Jenna Jameson is on the cover of Ultimate Grappling this month. Yeah, talk about ultimate grappling. The one woman in porn who always seems to want more. Uh. I’d like to grapple with her.

(five minutes later)

Some things piss me off. I’m usually an easy going guy, but sometimes I do get upset. For example, if you are coughing into my sheets while you are lying on my bed in the middle of the living room (because of the five-week bedroom painting process) and I ask you to get off my bed and not cough in the sheets and you don’t move - I will get mad. When said person is sick every other month and I rarely get sick, yeah, please don’t cough on my shit. And don’t get mad at me and go pout in your room (and leave the TV on) when I ask you not to cough on my shit. Like holy fuck. And then said person goes to the doctor the next day because they are ill. Sometimes I wish, I don’t know… Makes you wonder about the thought process, or lack there of, that goes on in some people’s heads.

I hate it when people apologize for not posting. Just wastes 30 seconds of my time that could have been used masturbating or taking a shit. Fuckers. Either don’t post anything or give me some fucked up Japanese poem. Yeah, I like poetry, makes me horny.

And the gross crapping story of the week:

I don’t like taking craps in public places. I stay away from bathrooms in restaurants, gas stations, gyms, or any other place where I can avoid using them. But there are certain situations where you can’t help but use a public bathroom. For example, you have work, Summerfest, State Fair, the corner bar (although I have been known to race home to use my own personal shitter), any time you’re on a bike ride 10 miles out from your house and you just recently got back from Mexico (been there)… There are times when using a public bathroom is unavoidable.

When I use a public bathroom I typically peek in the stall to make sure it’s clean. On one occasion this week, in a public bathroom, I found only one stall among four that was clean. It looked sorta clean, but it also had some “leftovers” from the previous person that didn’t make it down with the flush. So I flushed the toilet, grabbed some toilet paper, and began wiping down the seat so it would be nice and clean. As I bent over the toilet with the toilet paper a big spray of not-quite-flushed-down water shot up and hit me in the forehead, eyes, and nose. Then it ran down my face and over my mouth. I ripped open the bathroom stall and stuck my head underneath the faucet – right in front of two other guys who were standing in the bathroom. I didn’t try to explain the situation. I just clenched my butt cheeks and left the bathroom.

Do you know how hard it is to hold your shit in when you were 30 seconds away from a sweet release? I’ve had nightmares about that for the past two nights. Sweet release, love those words.

Britney Spears is pregnant and doesn’t know who the father is? We need more hot sluts up here in the Midwest. Ah, fuck it; I’ll just take more sluts, hot or not.

I got pretty damn hard reading this article.

I had a “meeting” yesterday afternoon that required a suit and tie (monkey suit). Unlike some “meetings” that require a suit and tie (funerals, court appearances, dates with hookers you want to marry), this was a good “meeting,” an opportunity if you will. Please wish me good luck.

Does anyone else’s mom call you every day telling you what’s for dinner? Seriously. And it’s not like it really matters, all her food tastes like shit anyways. Either shit or cardboard, one or the other. But it’s free.

Monday, July 23, 2007

I Got Beat Up

This weekend review is coming to you with great pain. You see, I got beat up this weekend. No, not really beat up, but I certainly feel like it. After a weekend of hardcore drinking and ballet dancing in my bedroom, my body is stiff and sore. Here’s a list of things that hurt: chest, stomach, right thigh, right forearm, upper back, lower back, and right thigh (because it hurts that much).

Friday I ended up sticking around the parent’s house till 8:00 watching CSI. I wanted to leave at 6:30 or 7:00 so I could go home and finish the now five-week long process that’s also known as painting my bedroom. So, getting home on Friday at 8:20 meant I wasn’t going to get any work done. Instead I played on the computer on the deck sipping some really cheap vodka which almost made me puke. Good shit.

After eight or so ounces of vodka I made my way up to the bar. It was a pretty dead night but some of my new pool friends were in attendance. The one guy is the nephew of another acquaintance and the other guy is, well, just a little weird. One time when I went to a certain Sunday night hangout I found him playing pool without a shirt on. Every other time I’ve seen him he’s been really touchy feely. Punches to your back, arm around your shoulder, kisses on the cheek, just things that aren’t associated with playing pool (ok, there weren’t any kisses). But I hung out with them till 2:30 when the bar closed and managed to make it home by 2:35 (five minutes to walk 72 steps – I don’t get it either).

Saturday I was woken up by pops at 11:00. I guess I was a little rude on the phone (I don’t remember, still loaded). He called back around 1:30 and said he was on the way over with one of my weight benches. It wasn’t “Do you want me to drop this stuff off” or anything like that, just that he was on his way over. Well, by 1:30 I was eating lunch and halfway through a pitcher of beer. I had to run home, brush my teeth and spray on cologne before pops showed up (because my parents aren’t in the know). He pulled up, we got the bench down the stairs into the basement, and we put some of his mom’s stuff back into his car. Within 30 minutes I was back up at the bar drinking my by then warm pitcher of beer.

What happened next is a little blurry. I know I only had two pitchers at the restaurant. I know I had some vodka on the deck. I know I took a four hour nap. Yes, four hours. The Renter woke me up at 10:00. “Wake up, its 10:00.” “It’s not 10:00, it’s still dark outside.” I thought the Renter was waking me up at 10:00 in the morning. I must have had a lot of vodka on the deck.

So I got up. The Renter hopped in the shower and since I only have one bathroom and I was either too lazy/drunk/tired/just didn’t care, I walked up to the gas station without showering. I bought two packs of cigarettes and crossed the street to the bar. Upon walking in the bar I found that there were absolutely no seats available. I guess there was a wedding or something and all the wedding people hit the bar for karaoke at 9:00. (Ok, wedding reception ending at 9:00 and having karaoke on the agenda on the day of your wedding – odd?) I said hi to the day bartender who I had seen earlier, waved at Mr. Baseball and walked right back out the door.

I went back home and poured myself a vodka lemonade. In an embarrassing moment of boredom/stupidity/drunkenness, I pulled out the ten year old bottle rockets I had sitting in the basement. I still have burn marks on my thumb from lighting them off on the fourth. Anyway, I lit off a couple and the Renter had to come out to see the fun. There we are, both sitting on the deck lighting off bottle rockets when one of my neighbors lights off a big one. “Heeeeyyyy!” Yeah, after yelling “hey” as a way of recognition, two cops come walking across the street with flashlights a blazing. Oh goodness. It’s not that I don’t like cops, I just hate having to change my underwear after every encounter I have with them. Before they even got to the deck I was putting on my pretty (drunk) boy face with a kind “Hello, sir.” “Where are they?” I handed over the twenty or so remaining bottle rockets while he tried to permanently blind me with his flashlight. “You know, there’s a $300 ticket for lighting these things off.” Bottle rockets? $300? “No, sir.” Again with the sir bit. “I’m not going to ticket you today but if we hear of any more going off we’ll certainly be back.” “I won’t be lighting any more off, you have the whole stash.” As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted it. Never say “stash” in front of an officer. Anyway, they left, swept the neighborhood one more time, yelled at me again because I had G Love on the radio just a bit too loud, and they left for good. I went inside and changed my shorts.

Sitting once again on the deck I spotted my billiards mentor leaving work. He said he was going to pick up a friend and then they were going to play pool at a bar out in Waukesha. I asked the Renter if she wanted to go and she agreed. 11:00 we were at the bar.

After sitting by the pool table for half an hour these two girls came in over by the dart board. If you know me, I like to check out women. I check out women with that out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye kind of way. But no, not these girls. These two girls were HOT in the “Holy fuck, check out that ass!” and you actually twist your neck around 180 degrees to see it. I remember actually stopping the pool game in order to admire their actions. And when I say “actions” I mean they knew what they were doing. They were jumping, bending over, doing pretty much whatever they could to attract attention. The one had these tight ass white shorts on that were just, well, perfect. Not the shorts, but the ass they covered. Simply perfect. Good thing I was totally loaded and was seeing two cue balls with one eye closed otherwise I would have been all over that.

Sunday was one of the traditional “watch TV all day” days. Last Sunday I never even set foot outside the house. This Sunday I had people stop by around 6:00 for the weekly Sunday steak dinner. So I ended up watching CSI for six hours and then grilling some meat (still have to learn to take them off sooner). After we ate the steaks we all went over to an establishment that has free pool after 6:00 on Sundays. For some reason I had to pretty much drag my one friend in there about a month ago because he wanted to go someplace else. Someplace else left him counting his quarters at the end of the night making sure he had enough to do laundry the next day. Now he’s all for the free pool. As soon as I walked in the door I saw her – the new bartender. Well, I should say new as I have never seen her before but then again I only go to this place on Sundays. But damn… she was fucking cute. I’m going to guess that she was 22 or 23, Hispanic of some nature, and so fucking cute it made you want to pull out $500 and ask her for some tender loving sex. Actually, I wouldn’t advise you to do that as you might either get slapped, fucked and $500 poorer, or arrested, so keep the money (and your penis) in your pants. But seriously, damn cute. Upon further inspection I found that her ass was a little wide and that she may or may not have had a kid or two (you know how those horny Hispanics are), and just like with the one in the white shorts, I admired in a not so subtle manner. I was sitting right in front of where she did dishes and got the whole cleavage/boob jiggling show when she cleaned glasses. Even though the seat was kind of close to the grill and it wasn’t exactly cool in the building, I was in heaven. Dangle some 22 yr-old boobs in front of me and I’m as happy as, well, just pretty damn happy.

Friday, July 20, 2007

Crawl in a Hole and Die!!!

Today, on the way to work, I saw FG walking in to work. I went out of my way, pulled a u-ey, and drove up next to her on the sidewalk.

Me: Hey, how are you doing?

Her: Good.

Me: Yeah, are you busy? I think I have two minutes before I have to be at work.

Her: Ahhhh…

Me: I’ll just see you later.

What was supposed to be an innocent flirtatious comment comes out as a request for a two minute blow job. I did not go to the smoking room to have a cigarette today so I wouldn’t have to confront her. Just too embarrassing.

I am getting the “Stalker” tattoo on my forehead this weekend. In that cool Latin lettering that you can’t read unless your mom is Hispanic.

Browsing around on ebay.com for nothing in particular, I stumbled upon this little gem.

1973 VW Beetle in Mint condition. Appraised at $12,500 in 2005. European Specs. Have 4 new tires. Imported from Germany in 1992. Drove by my daughter for 3 years and has had little use since. Car located in Ottawa Ontario. Canada

Hey, it’s not a bad looking Beetle and it looks like it’s in good shape, but $12,500? The last time I was in Cancun I believe I recall a cab driver saying that they still produced them brand new for about the same price (I was loaded, I might be off on this one). I’d be tickled pink if one of you readers would by me a Volkswagen Beetle. Really. I’d even (gag) go (puke) down (spittem) on (mo puke) you (shit). What I don’t get is that the guy selling his car said “Drove by my daughter for 3 years and has had little use since.” Uh, is she fucking stupid? Unless I was a stuck up rich bitch, I would drive that pimp-mobile till it died.

In other news…

I read yesterday that some German company was testing a cycling athlete’s blood for doping. It was said it would take four weeks. But yet today I read that nine riders on the Tour de France were tested on Tuesday and they all came back negative. Four weeks vs. 2-3 days. I don’t get it. My buddy Stevie told me yesterday that he was watching some of the Tour de France coverage on TV. He said while one of the reporters was doing his thing one of the cyclists was “doing his thing” while riding in the background. Stevie said the dude whipped out his cock and started peeing while he was riding, and they showed it all on TV. Seriously. I could go for some more of Janet Jackson’s boob. Tit-a-luscious.

And the whole Michael Vick thing just gets weirder by the day. Now they’re talking about a paid leave, a $6 million paid leave. Mr. Adam “Pacman” Jones has been questioned and arrested, but never convicted, 10 times since he entered the league. He’s suspended, without pay, for the whole season. Michael “Dog Killer” Vick has the Feds breathing down his neck for running a dog fighting operation, killing dogs, and forking over shit loads of cash for illegal gambling, and they’re talking about paying him to sit out a season? I don’t get it. Will they continue to pay him for 2008 when he’s sitting in jail? Fuck me up the ass and call me Bubba.

And then this came up again (another Barry Bonds poll). Who the fuck cares if Barry Bonds is black or white or who the fuck wants him to pass Hank Aaron (who is also black) on the all-time home run record? Why do reporters, and poll takers, have to keep bringing this shit up? The only difference I see between you or I is your gender, and that only because I might want to fuck you or steer clear of you when you’re driving your car. For the record I was referring to the female gender in both of those cases. (Speaking of the female gender, I had one broad talk with me for a good ten minutes yesterday. Nothing flirty or anything, just swapping drinking stories, but holy fuck was she a close talker. I think she wanted the goods. “Goods” was plural because I have so much to offer.) Ok, I might take that racial thing back just a little bit. The guys I play pool with on Thursdays are black. Great guys, outstanding personalities, big penises, you know, well, I don’t know about the big penises. God, I almost puked writing that. After you win a pool game you usually go over and shake the losers penis, fuck, I mean hand. Generally. I do this, on the rare occasion that I win, to people I don’t know. After I kick someone’s ass that I know I won’t shake their hand, just make some wisecrack to rub in the loss. Last night my black friends did the same to me. I, of course, lost, and D shot me some crack (wisecrack, not crack) about how I almost had him even though I still had five balls on the table. Its official folks: I am accepted in the black community.

Seriously, as much as I like to make fun of anything racial, anything at all, “I gots gold teef” or the classic Latrell Sprewell line “I gots keedz to feed” when he turned down a $10 mil contract, I don’t care if you’re black, white, yellow or purple, you’re good in my book. You’re even better if you have a vagina and are willing to spread the legs. Or bend over. Or go down. Or just let me play with the boobies. ‘Cause boobies are cool. And fun. Boobies. I remember when I was in 6th grade and wrote “boobies” on my calculator – the official start of the accounting career.

I know I’m jumping around quite a bit on this post, but…

Have you ever gone out early (to the bars) with the intent on going home early to get some sleep and end up staying out late and drinking the equivalent of 27 beers? Yeah, me neither.

How about the NBA referee game fixing scandal? I see they only listed two seasons in which the fix was in, but I’d bet (ha!) that the fucker worked the Golden State Warriors game seven years ago that went three overtimes and went over the point total by two (for those of you who aren’t in the know, the point total is the total combined score of both teams, so 88 to 92 would be 180). 63 minutes of basketball compared to a normal 48 and they went over by two. I was not a happy camper. I remember sitting at my computer hitting refresh for 45 minutes while the overtime periods were being played. Fuck. Back then I figured the loss set me back 33 hours of paid work. Four days of work, 63 minutes of basketball, and two points over the total. I still have a scar on my penis from where I tried to bite it to leave myself a constant reminder of the dangers of gambling. No, I’m not that flexible, my penis is so fucking huge it spanned most of the way on its own. It’s huge. When you compare it to my pinky. Toe.

I don’t know if any of you pay attention to that BMI scale at all, but I think it’s full of crap. And I’m not saying that just because I have a small child attached to my waist. Even if I lost the 15-20 lbs I gained when I turned 30 I would still be in the “overweight” club. I think people put too much into the whole BMI thing. It just doesn’t work for everyone. Back when Michael Jordan was still playing for the Chicago Bulls he was 6’6” and 220 lbs. Type that into the BMI calculator – overweight. I assure you Michael Jordan was not overweight, at least not in his Chicago Bulls playing days (Washington Wizard years were a little different).

And welcome new readers! The FA told some of the people he works with about the blog and, to my surprise, they liked it! (Oh, and thank you for the complements.) So, if you have any friends who might be interested in sick but hopefully somewhat funny stories of small penises, whacking off, crapping one's pants, drinking to excess, and best of all, not getting any sex, please feel free to pass it on. What do you get in return? A big old high five, a wet sloppy kiss if you live nearby, and recognition on this very blog. FA, I haven't forgotten about you, your kiss is coming.

I'm sorry, but it's fucking time for the fucking bar. Peace.

Brewers Game

Anyway, last night I went to the Brewers game with the Renter and her friend and his son. I had a pitcher at the bar beforehand and took four cans along with for before the game. The game was pretty boring and it was really hot and muggy. Around the fourth inning the Renter and I went outside to have a cigarette. When we returned to our seats we found the two seats on either side of ours were taken. So, instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with some sweaty fat fucks we decided to go up to the 300 club where it was air conditioned. I don’t know what happened to the Renter but she got pissed at something. I tried talking to her about how I’m semi-claustrophobic and couldn’t go back and sit in our original seats, especially in that kind of humidity. After five minutes of basically talking to myself I gave up. Some people actually like to hear themselves talk, but I’m not one of those people. So I told her I was going to leave and walk home. I don’t know if she thought I was kidding or what but that’s what I did, walked out the door. Outside I found two other guys who were going the same direction and we all hopped into a taxi. Five minutes later I was back at the corner bar enjoying a $4.25 pitcher of Miller Lite (a.k.a. diet beer).

This story pretty much describes the way I live my life. If I don’t want to do something I won’t. In a social setting, I am not accountable to anyone. Sure, I might have left the Renter and her friend at the game, but it’s not like I left them there without a ride home or anything. It’s not like anyone would really miss me if I wasn’t there, so no big deal, right? I don’t think the Renter gets it even after living with me for almost a year now. It truly is all about me.


As I had mentioned before, on Wednesday I went to the Brewers game. I had a McChicken, a double cheeseburger, and four cans or beer before the game. It was kind of like a mini tailgating thing. But then it hit me; I had to shit. I hustled my way into the stadium and found the shitter. 30 seconds into my “efforts” my phone rang. Usually if I don’t recognize the phone number I won’t answer it but for some reason this time I did. Turns out it was a head hunter inquiring if I wanted to apply for an accounting position at a fairly big educational facility. I told her I was at the Brewers game and couldn’t talk much and I took down her phone number.

Today I called her back. I told her how miserable the Brewers game was, not only because they lost but because of the hot and humid conditions. She asked again if I was interested and I told her I’d get back to her with some possible interview dates. I had gone on the business’s website and noted something on the job description that looked a little funny and I brought it up with her. “Ordinary office working conditions with some slightly disagreeable features.” Huh?

Me: So, what does that mean? Do they have a lot of ugly people working there?

Her, laughing so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear: No, no, one of my other applicants had brought that up too.

Me: I mean, there’s nothing wrong with ugly people, I’d probably fit in pretty well.

Her, still laughing: Oh, you’re too much!

Me: Hey, I could even limp a little bit if that would help.

Her: Now my co-workers are looking at me because I’m laughing so loud! No, I think it’s because they’ve had some remodeling done and there might be some construction noise.

Me: Ha! Piece of cake. I work right by the freeway downtown and I’ve put up with over a year of them working on the Marquette Interchange. They pound supports in the ground so hard that my mouse actually bounces on my desk.

Her: Well then, sounds like you’ll be fine with it.

Me: Are you sure they don’t have ugly people there? Maybe some ugly women? I like to sleep with ugly women because it boosts their confidence. You know, kind of like a public service type of deal. Fat chicks too. Fat chicks give good head.

Her: Really? I’m not fat but I like to think that I give good head. What are you doing tonight?

I’m going to guess you can tell where that story went from being 100% real to being 100% fictional.

More From Flirt Girl

I talked to Flirt Girl today. I don’t know if she was out of the office all week or if our cigarette breaks just didn’t match up, but I hadn’t seen her since last week.

FG: Yeah, I’m ready for a vacation.

Me: I was thinking about Fort Lauderdale.

FG: Florida?

Me: Yeah, I’ve never been there.

FG: I’ll bet it’s really hot down there. Hurricane season.

Me: You know, I can deal with the heat if I have a tank top and shorts on.

FG: That’s true.

Me: You should go with me.

FG gives me one of those looks.

Me: Or I could just take my teddy bear.

FG: Your what?

Me: My teddy bear. He likes to spoon.

FG: Well, there you go.

Me: So, is that boyfriend thing still up in the air?

FG looks off to the side and up, carefully pondering her response.

Me: Well, I guess that look pretty much answered my question.

FG: Yeah, the boyfriend thing is still up in the air.

Me: You know, if you technically don’t have a boyfriend, and I don’t have a boyfriend…

FG: We could take them to the gay bar downtown together!

Me: No, not exactly what I meant.

FG: It’s pretty different over there.

Me: I can’t say I’ve ever been there.

FG, putting out cigarette: I know what you meant. And thank you.

Me: Thank you for…?

FG: I don’t know, just thanks.

There you have it, the official way to hit on a woman and not get rejected or accepted, rather just leaving everything in limbo. God I’m good with the ladies.


I actually received a comment on this totally lame website, “Why talking about FARTING?” First off, I think the question was supposed to be “Why are you talking about farting?” I’m not sure, just going to guess. My question to you, why not talk about farting? Farting is cool. Farting is fun. Farting can make you shit your pants. Farting is just one of those things that I do. Deal with it. But I promise to try to not fart in the bedroom, assuming you are in my bedroom and naked. Anywhere else is fair game.

And more on Michael Vick:

The Associated Press reported that after consulting with the Falcons, NFL commissioner Roger Goodell and top league officials agreed Wednesday to let Vick play as the legal process determines the facts. A person with knowledge of the meeting, who requested anonymity so the case would not be influenced, said the NFL would stick to that position for the foreseeable future, despite its new personal conduct policy, the AP reported.

Let Michael Vick play? Are they talking play football or play with baby pit bulls? Fucking National Felon League. Way to step up on this one. The one man who has more power than David Stern is sitting on the side lines twiddling his thumbs. Mr. Goodell, I know it looks like you have aged 5 years since you took office in August 2006, but WHAT THE FUCK? You suspend Adam “Pacman” Jones for a whole season even though he hasn’t been charged with anything and you let Michael “Dog Killer” Vick play out the season as his trial goes on? I’m sorry, I don’t agree. Just because Vick is like the poster child of the N Fucking L doesn’t mean he can commit felonies and still vote in the presidential election. Felons can’t vote but they can play in the N Fucking L. Good, nice image to put out there for the young pups (get it?). And to imagine, I thought his brother Marcus was the fucked up one. What, Mr. Goodell, are you thinking? Do you think the federal prosecutors might be throwing darts at this one because they don’t have anything else to do? One, two, three, four witnesses. Hell, almost enough to give David Stern a basketball team. And when Vick’s three friends who were also indicted turn on him, dude, your boy is fucked. You know the feds are only after Vick, a high profile athlete. Do you really think his three cohorts will “stay true” and not rat on him? Poster boy to prison bitch within a year, I called it.

Brewers Game
Anyway, last night I went to the Brewers game with the Renter and her friend and his son. I had a pitcher at the bar beforehand and took four cans along with for before the game. The game was pretty boring and it was really hot and muggy. Around the fourth inning the Renter and I went outside to have a cigarette. When we returned to our seats we found the two seats on either side of ours were taken. So, instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with some sweaty fat fucks we decided to go up to the 300 club where it was air conditioned. I don’t know what happened to the Renter but she got pissed at something. I tried talking to her about how I’m semi-claustrophobic and couldn’t go back and sit in our original seats, especially in that kind of humidity. After five minutes of basically talking to myself I gave up. Some people actually like to hear themselves talk, but I’m not one of those people. So I told her I was going to leave and walk home. I don’t know if she thought I was kidding or what but that’s what I did, walked out the door. Outside I found two other guys who were going the same direction and we all hopped into a taxi. Five minutes later I was back at the corner bar enjoying a $4.25 pitcher of Miller Lite (a.k.a. diet beer).

This story pretty much describes the way I live my life. If I don’t want to do something I won’t. In a social setting, I am not accountable to anyone. Sure, I might have left the Renter and her friend at the game, but it’s not like I left them there without a ride home or anything. It’s not like anyone would really miss me if I wasn’t there, so no big deal, right? I don’t think the Renter gets it even after living with me for almost a year now. It truly is all about me.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Shit and Vick

So yesterday I farted. Farting, at least in my opinion, is totally natural, sometimes humorous, sometimes embarrassing, and most times necessary. In other words, farting is cool. I am known for my farting at the corner bar. Farting is cool unless you shit your pants. I farted yesterday and I shit my pants. Unfortunately this has been happening to me just a bit too much lately. Farting and shitting your pants is ok (well, tolerable) if you’re at home close to the bathroom or at your parents’ house. You just change your underwear or put them in a baggie for the ride home. In either case you can rectify the problem within a couple of minutes. Yesterday I was neither at home nor at my parents’ house. No, I was driving. And I was no where near close to home. I was like out in the boonies (which, to me, is anywhere more than ten miles out from my house). I was driving, sitting in my own shit, unable to pull over to use a restroom because I was 110% sure it had leaked through my pants leaving an obvious wet spot for everyone to see. And it smelled. Good God it smelled. I found myself hanging my head out the window like a dog to avoid the stench. It was warm. It was wet. And I was helpless to do anything to fix it until I got home. When I got home I threw my clothes in the wash and soaked and sprayed my car seat. This morning, even after having the windows open over night, my car still smelled like shit. I sprayed cologne on my ass just to make sure nothing had transferred to my clean work pants. Pretty sure I was ok (smell free) after that. I found a plastic bag to put on the seat for the ride home. Fortunately this whole story is completely full of shit.

But I’ll bet you Michael Vick shit his pants once or twice today.

I saw a poll on ESPN.com today, 69% of voters thought that Michael Vick would be convicted. 69%? Dude, the guy’s fucked. My buddy Len Pasquarelli (Don Vito look-a-like) reported that “since [the year] 2000, the U.S. attorney's office in Atlanta boasts a conviction rate of between 95-96 percent.” In non-math terms, the chances of Michael Vick being convicted are about the same as the chances that I’ll have just a little bit too much to drink tonight ($4.25 pitcher night!). Or, for those mean and cruel people who just want to laugh and make fun of me, the chances of Michael Vick getting off the charges are about as good as me getting it on with a 5’10” Brazilian model tonight. Wait, let me rephrase that, as good as me getting off with a woman who has both her arms and legs and is still semi-conscious. Ain’t gonna happen.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Drive Home/Women Drivers

Driving home from work last night I made several observations that backed up my already biased opinions about people and how they drive. First there was the guy in the Lexus. I was at a stop light on a three-lane road. My lane was a left turn only, the middle was straight, and the right was right only. The guy in the Lexus was right behind me. The left hand lane was backed up eight deep with cars wanting to turn left. The light turned green and everyone made their procession through the intersection. We must not have been moving fast enough as the guy in the Lexus decided to hop in the middle lane and accelerate past me. When he got to the intersection it was obvious he still wanted to turn left. His driver’s side door was pretty much parallel with my front bumper when he flicked on his turn signal and proceeded to turn in front of me. The road we were turning on to only had one lane due to construction. Knowing full well that the only contact my Jeep would have with his overpriced car would have been the oversize tires that stick out past the fenders I gunned it and got along side of him. He rightly backed off and got in line behind me, right where he was before he tried his asshole “I drive a Lexus” maneuver. I swear, the nerve of some people. My opinion that people who drive Lexus’s and Beamers are dickheads was reinforced.

As I got closer to home I came across another stoplight. I was sitting there all by myself till some kid pulled up along side me in the left hand lane. When the light turned green he tromped on the gas prompting me to do the same. Wouldn’t you know it; he merged into my lane, slammed on his brakes, and made an abrupt right hand turn right in front of me. It was just him and I at the light. Wouldn’t you think that common sense would tell you that if you need to make a right hand turn in less than a block that you would position yourself in the right hand lane well before the turn? I almost followed him into the parking lot he turned into just to give him my piece of mind. My opinion on young drivers – chickity check.

On the way home from the parents’ house I found myself sitting at the exact same stoplight that Mr. Right Turn and I were at, only this time I was going the opposite direction. Some broad was next to me in a Toyota Rav-4. When the light turned green she was on it like me on free beer (you could also substitute chicken wings, fat chicks, or Latina porn instead of free beer). Since the right hand turn incident had occurred only an hour or so earlier I made up my mind that I was not going to be had again. I kept up with her with my front bumper right next to her back bumper just in case she did whip on her signal and cut me off. And then… nothing. She just kept accelerating till she hit ten miles an hour over the speed limit and continued on. My jaw actually dropped when I realized that she didn’t want to merge over and was just driving like usual.

What goes through women’s minds when they’re on the road I will never understand. The Renter unintentionally let me in behind the veil once when we were going to play pool on a Sunday night. There were two stop signs placed approximately 40 yards apart (thank goodness football season is almost here and we can start talking in yards again). Going from one stop sign to the other the Renter accelerated to 30 mph and abruptly slammed on the brakes to make the stop. I looked over at her, “You know that isn’t good for your car.” The response I got back: “Huh?” There you have it folks, the great mystery of what goes through women’s minds when they’re on the road and their knowledge of operating a vehicle – absolutely nothing. Sure, they might know how to operate the gas and brakes, just not in a manner that might prolong the life of their car. And this isn’t even getting in to the instruments typically referred to as a “rearview mirror” or “turn signals.”

Monday, July 16, 2007

Weekend of Pain

I guess you could say I partied hard this weekend. I sat outside for a bit with the cheap vodka on Friday, eventually hitting the bar around 11:00. On Saturday I had two vodka/crans before the old roommate called. He wanted to go to the driving range with the Renter and me. Even though I wasn’t in the greatest of shape I agree, finished the chicken legs on the grill and headed out.

The first clue that I wasn’t in the “greatest of shape” was when I asked the Renter if she wanted to take my car. The Jeep is a stick shift and the Renter, while being ok with this stick, also isn’t all that great with it. The second clue was that I packed up a bottle of vodka and cranberry juice to take to the driving range. The Jeep doesn’t have a trunk so the goods were pretty much lying out in the open in the back. Well, the Renter refused to drive with that in the car. Refusing to drive if you’re a woman becomes a big ordeal. The Renter said fine, I’ll just go by myself, and hopped in her car. Knowing that it was all a big show (still had the clubs in my car) I calmly went back inside and turned on the TV. Five minutes later I got a phone call from the Renter who was still sitting outside in her car. I agreed instead to take along six unopened cans of beer and we headed off to the range.

The trip there was uneventful. We pulled up to the range, found the old roommate, and grabbed a bucket of balls. It should not surprise you when I say that with the vodka still soaking into my system and the additional beer on top of that that my first swing was by far my best. After about 20 swings I knew I was pretty much worthless and decided to help the other two with their swings. Usually I’m pretty good with this. I once got the old roommate to hit the ball 50 yards further and straighter with just five minutes of tips and suggestions. I didn’t produce the same results on Saturday but then again I wasn’t on the tee trying to drunkenly swing at the ball. Good time all around.

The old roommate had to let a friend’s dogs out so the Renter and I went home for a shower (her) and a nap (me). The way home wasn’t nearly as smooth as the way there. The Renter must have been nervous or something as she stalled the car five times and was flipping people off left and right when they honked at her. Just like on the golf course I tried giving her tips and helping her get the car to go but it didn’t work. “This is the last time I’m ever driving your vehicle.”

After the shower and nap we met the old roommate at a place that has $.25 wings on Saturdays. We sat outside on the patio and chilled for quite a while. I think we went through three pitchers of beer and 36 wings. At this point the beer from the driving range really caught up to me. The Renter had bought the beer a couple weeks back and fucked up and got the “ICE” version of the beer I drink. Major difference from the regular stuff. Eventually we made it over to the corner bar, probably just before karaoke started. I had two drinks, played two games of pool, realized that I couldn’t stand anymore let alone handle a pool stick, and headed home.

Sunday I woke up feeling like I got beat up. Usually after a good day of drinking I’ll be a little stiff and sore but this was much different; my abs felt like someone had leveled two solid punches on me. Now, I have been known from time to time to let people punch me in the abs as hard as they want. Usually it doesn’t really affect me that much besides maybe a bruise the next day. But the problem with Sunday morning was that I didn’t have anyone hitting me in the stomach (not that I can remember). Rolling around on my bed I could feel twinges and twangs of pain. I suppose it could have been from the golf but I didn’t take that many swings. So I decided that I wasn’t going to do anything all day. I sat on my bed watching TV from 11:00 am to 1:00 am, getting up only to get food or pee. That’s right, I didn’t have a single beer or a single cigarette the whole day. And you know what? It was freaking great. Looking back on it there were things I could have been doing (mow the lawn, change the oil in the Jeep, wash the Jeep, finish painting, lift weights), but it felt good just to sit there and veg for the whole day. Simply awesome.

(Funny, three other people I talked to today did the exact same thing on Sunday.)

Friday, July 13, 2007

Joss Stone = Love and Jail

One of the headlines I read today:

Oh La La! Hottest Live Earth Performances

Joss Stone: The soul-bearing crooner has a beautiful voice -- among other things. And fortunately for us, she showed off her amazing body ... of work ... during the Johannesburg, South Africa, Live Earth show.

And then, after doing a little research, I found out that Joss Stone is only 16 years old.

I’ve been known to check out a nice ass or two. Unfortunately a nice ass might be attached to a girl who is still in high school. It’s not that I go out of my way to check out younger women, just that the nicer cheeks are sometimes attached to pre-21 girls. So, here goes my list of different situations that might help you determine if the fine ass/rack combo that you’re checking out is indeed of age or not.

1. Fine ass/rack combo coming out of a grocery store with a twelve-pack of beer – definitely of age unless she showed some cleavage to purchase the beer – pursue her.

2. Fine ass/rack combo coming out of a grocery store with her with her mom and brother – probably not of age, most 18-yr-old girls don’t hang out with their mothers – wait till mom turns her back to pursue.

3. Fine ass/rack combo playing at a park with some friends – not even close to being of age – view from afar with binoculars if necessary.

4. Fine ass/rack combo at a park smoking weed with her friends – more than likely of age – pick up some beef sticks in case they have the munchies.

5. Fine ass/rack combo who happens to be your 18-yr-old sister’s friend – 95% sure she’s of age – don’t pursue unless she and your sister have a fight and aren’t talking to each other.

6. Fine ass/rack combo who happens to be your 16-yr-old sister’s friend – 95% sure she isn’t of age – go in your room and whack off as this one is definitely off limits.

7. Fine ass/rack combo walking out of a high school – one in four chance of being of age – slow down as you drive by.

8. Fine ass/rack combo walking out of a high school wearing a cheerleading outfit – one in four chance of being of age – cheerleading outfit, you make the call.

9. Fine ass/rack combo working at McDonalds – more than likely not of age – flirt just to get some free fries.

10. Fine ass/rack combo working at a strip club – ding, ding, ding, definitely of age – bang the shit out of her.

And lastly...

11. Fine ass/rack combo at your local bar – 99% sure she’s of age – you’re asking the wrong person what to do in this situation, I have absolutely no game whatsoever.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Conversation With Flirt Girl

On Wednesday I noticed that the Flirt Girl from the company next to us had worn an orange shirt on both Tuesday and Wednesday. So of course I commented on it and today she wore a black shirt. And seriously, I’m not a stalker or anything. Really.

Me: I see you aren’t wearing orange today.

FG: Nope. I decided to go with black today. I didn’t want you to think that I was wearing the same shirt two days in a row.

Me: Hey, nothing wrong with that, I’m wearing the same underwear that I wore yesterday.

FG: Euw, now that’s gross.

Me: No, I’m just kidding. I couldn’t do that.

FG: Thank heavens.

Me: I went without underwear one time when I didn’t have any clean but that didn’t go very well. I think women are more comfortable doing that kind of stuff.

FG: Hmm… Yeah, I guess so.

Me: I couldn’t do it, just too much flopping around down there.

FG, eyebrows raised: Well then…

God my skillz with the womenz are damn good. And to think that for only $29.95 you too could sweep women off their feet when you purchase my latest book, How To Make Women Laugh, Suck, and Fuck.

Dickhead Move?

One of the ex-girlfriends was at the bar last night. Months back I wouldn’t speak to her or even look at her but lately I’ve been somewhat cordial for whatever reason. Well, except for last night. After five pitchers of beer and one losing game of bar dice (to her of course) I fired a shot that I shouldn’t have.

Me, paying the bartender for shots: Uh, this sucks. At least you have a boyfriend who pays for everything.

Her: What?! I work hard for my money!

Me: Yeah, we all know that.

I left to use the bathroom. I’m sure she and lawyer girl were yapping about my comment the whole time (fucking gossip bitches, not that I really care). When I came back to the bar I sat down and apologized for my actions.

But then, sitting at my desk today at work, I started thinking about it more. It’s not like my comment was in any way false. I mean, she might work at his company once in a while. To what capacity I wouldn’t have the slightest clue, but coming from someone who worked for exactly one week while we were dating, I’m sure it can’t be all that much. Everyone at the bar knows the situation. It’s not like I was making false accusations. Then why deny it? I should have known her mentality when we were dating. She was talking about her then husband (yes, I had sex with a married woman) and told me that the guy above her husband was going to retire leaving the position open for hubby. The new position would have paid about $175,000. She told me that she was almost there, there being the point where she wouldn’t have to work and would have money thrown at her. Not we were almost there, but she was almost there. Back then the story went that when we went out I’d pay for the beer and whatever and in turn she’d put out and even take it up the ass. Well, ok, it’s not like I was buying her beer to get sex, but now that I mention it that sounds like a pretty fucking cool idea! The point is I bought her beer, that’s it. Hell, you’re lucky if you can get a $10 gift out of my on your birthday. So, when she found her man who made $500,000 a year she jumped ship pretty fast. She got what she wanted and was shortly thereafter seen sporting a new leather jacket and new clothes. Reflecting on that, was my comment that far off?

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Reader Poll!!!

When you have to poo really bad, do your ass cheeks get all sweaty?

Feel free to leave any comment you’d like, anything from a simple “yes” or “no” to “Fuck yeah, my cheeks get so sweaty that by the time I make it to the bathroom you can see a wet spot where my underwear was stuck in my crack!” Wait, that was going to be my response. I was going to write that as an anonymous comment so you guys wouldn’t know it was me. Great, now I’m never going to get laid off of B to the’s… Blog of Love. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.


[beating head on keyboard].

Jonesin' Again

Huh, what do you know, Pacman Jones was pulled over and received several driving citations while driving his orange (?) Lamborghini. By now nothing that I read about this guy surprises me. But, being an accountant, I figured I’d put my limited knowledge about taxes to the test.

Again, I don’t deal with taxes on a daily basis. Hell, I buy Turbo Tax to do my own taxes. Taxes suck, both preparing taxes and especially paying taxes. Taxes can suck my ass. However, when calculating my future lottery winnings (please!) I always use 65% as the actual take home after Uncle Sammy takes his cut. At one point I did research this to come up with the figure. I’m not sure if it’s still the case or not, but I’m going to use it for this example.

See, I’m going to treat an NFL contract like winning the lottery. Doing a quick 3 minute search I found out that Adam Jones was scheduled to make $1,292,500 next year. “Was scheduled” as he is currently suspended for the whole year after witnesses heard him say “Let’s smoke this fool.” just before two bouncers were shot by Jones’ accomplices outside a Las Vegas strip club. Now, I know he didn’t make $1,292,500 his first two years, but we’ll just use it as a guideline for the moment. Two years at that rate would be $2,585,000. 65% of $2,585,000 is $1,680,250. The cheapest Lamborghini you can buy is $175,000. So, not taking into account any performance bonuses or endorsements for Glock and Smith & Wesson, Mr. Jones (good song by the way) spent 10% of his two year take home pay on a car. 10% of his two year take home. Huh? And that’s just one car. You know the brother has to have at least one Cadillac Escalade parked in the garage. How could you spend that much money on something that’s only going to depreciate in value?

So I decided I’d figure out how much my Jeep Wrangler cost me compared to my take home pay. My Jeep Wrangler, which I ordered without air conditioning because it was a $600 option and what the hell, I had a removable soft top, came off the showroom floor at just under $20,000. I roughly estimated the last five years of my income, subtracted a very roughly estimated amount for taxes, and came up with an even more roughly estimated percentage of what I paid for my Jeep verses my after tax income. Guess what? 8%. 8% a year just to make my stupid car payments. But now that it’s paid off, do you think I’m going to skip on over to the Jeep dealership and pick up a new model? Ha, ha, hell no. (Funny how that $300 a month I was paying isn’t stockpiling in my checking account.) I figure I have another eight good years left on the Jeep. I only have 18,500 miles on it due to a couple of years when the State of Wisconsin said I wasn’t allowed to operate a motor vehicle. And I only drive 120 miles a week to work and to the parents’ house for vitals. In eight years, barring any change in jobs or home location, I should have 68,400 miles on the Jeep. So in reality it could go for a lot more than eight years.

I don’t know why I got off on this tangent, maybe because I get off every night to pictures of women I find on Yahoo Personals. And if you say you wouldn’t bone that one you’re a fucking liar, both men and women.

But there you have it; I’m in the same category as Adam “Pacman” Jones. I pay 8%-10% of my take home pay on transportation. I’d like to see him spend 16% of his take home on alcohol like I do.

(On a side note, do you think Vin Baker, who played for the Bucks for a while and had signed one of those max contracts at one point, ever purchased Roundy’s Vodka?)

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Dirty on White

Me: Yeah, what do you think about that one? She’s pretty cute.

Old Man: Oh, yeah, she’s pretty damn cute. And friendly, too.

Me: So, you think she puts out?

Old Man, deep in thought: You know, she does have those horny eyes.

Me: I thought I was the only one who saw that.

If you hadn’t noticed before, if I haven’t already become a dirty old man, I’m well on my way.

Anyway, I’ve been in the process of painting my bedroom. I started the project three weeks ago. On my way in to work this morning I heard an old clip of my favorite morning DJs (they’re on vacation). The one was telling of how he will paint the room, wait an hour, paint again, wait another hour, and then put the last coat on. The other had a different view on painting. “It’s not the painting that I mind, it’s all the damn work!” This, my friends, is pretty much my philosophy too. The actual painting of the ceiling was fast and simple. Painting the trim took a little longer. Now just the walls are left. I bought some of the roughage that you mix with the paint to give it some texture. Once I got the roughage home I started to freak out. What if it didn’t blend in well? What if I put too much in the paint can? What if I accidentally got my head lodged in the container and I was forced to inhale the roughage? So the paint for the walls sat in another room right next to the roughage for a good week. Then, on Saturday night, the Renter got ambitious. Wait, I should say Saturday morning as it was after midnight and I was well passed out. She mixed the paint, grabbed the roller and pan, and went to town. You would figure that having painted many-a-room she’d be somewhat experienced at it. You would figure. When I woke up Sunday morning I inspected her handiwork. But it wasn’t the handiwork that caught my attention, it was the footiwork. At some point while she was painting she must have stepped in the paint and then tramped it all around the room, grinding it in to my WHITE carpeting. “What, I paint your room for you and all you can do is complain about some spots on the carpet?” Uh, yeah, I do believe I have that right. Fuck.

So, what do I do when I'm slightly perturbed?

Monday, July 09, 2007

It Was Hot

It was hot out this weekend. I'm talkin' like 95 degrees hot. I spent all of Saturday sitting on the deck sweating my ass off in the sun. Got a little color, too. Sunday I watched TV for most of the day when the thermostat inside the house read 91 degrees. Yes it was hot and no, I didn't get any color. Sunday night I reluctantly turned the air conditioning on. I set it at 77 degrees. I woke up this morning sick as a dog. I don't know if it was from being in extreem heat for two days and then in the cold for eight hours, but I certainly didn't feel well. And I have a big day coming up on Tuesday. Please wish me the best of luck.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

And She's Back

40 yr old: Hey B to the…, Gosh, you really did quit the gym didn't ya...how have ya been?

Me: Yeah, I really did quit. Sorry. I've been working out at home. The only thing I don't like doing at home are back exercises with the chin ups and pull ups. If I weighed 200 lbs they'd go much better! And I'm on the prowl for 80 lb dumbbells. I think Dunhams wants $55 a piece for them - ouch.

I'm in the process of painting my bedroom. It had some ugly paneling on the walls so I ripped that off and filled in the nail holes. That's about as far as I've gotten. I need to clean everything out by Saturday. You should see my house. Not that I know what a crack house looks like, but I'm pretty sure mine could pass for one. I have my box spring leaning on one wall in the living room, my mattress lying in the middle of the floor, comforters and sheets piled up on one of the chairs. I'd be truly embarrassed to take a woman home. Unless she already knew about it and didn't mind...

40 yr old: Sorry my reply is so slow, I have 3 huge projects at work right now.

Bummer about you quitting, you were the funniest / cutest dude there. I bet, doing chin ups between the rafters is not fun, too cobb webby.

What color did you paint? Something exciting like off white??? I'd like
to see your digs and if you want any deco ideas just say so. My home is similar to your, small ranch. But hey, why live for a mortgage right?

Me: The ceiling is white and the walls are blue. Wait, the ceiling is white and the walls will be blue, haven't quite gotten around to finishing it. It was too nice outside yesterday to be stuck inside painting. Painting sucks. I'll let you know when it’s finished. I'll have to get some Captain Morgan.

40 yr old: Cool, I admire anyone who can go beyond off-white (in at least one room of their home), it shows guts, creativity, or in some cases just a bad idea. LOL

Sounds like a plan.

Me: So... when I drop my drawers and the contrast between my tan back and white butt is quite evident, does that show guts or is it just a bad idea?

40 yr old: When you turn around I'll make that determination...

Now I have a little more incentive to get the room finished. Hell yeah, baby!

Oh, and I found out this girl (and here, too) no longer has a boyfriend. Sweet!

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Waking Up on the 4th...

What did I wake up to on the 4th of July? No, not the Renter stomping down the hall to the bathroom. No, not the Renter grunting and groaning as she took a massive shit. No, not the Renter flushing the massive shit down the toilet. No, not the stench of the Renter's massinve shit. No, I woke up to the water running in the toilet (filling it up) because sometimes the handle sticks and it will run forever. Yup, I'm officially a cheap bastard (if I wasn't one before).

Monday, July 02, 2007

No, I’m Not Chinese

If you had the 6th pick in the NBA Draft, wouldn’t you make sure the guy you select will actually want to come and play for you? From ESPN:

Agent Dan Fegan pushed for the 19-year-old Yi to go to a city with a larger Asian-American population, and Bucks general manager Larry Harris said Fegan was shocked that Milwaukee selected him with the sixth pick. According to Census data, Milwaukee has a little more than 1,200 Chinese residents among its population of nearly 600,000.
"We feel that the Bucks are not the best fit for Yi Jianlian," Yi's Chinese agent, Zhao Gang, told SportsTicker. "Our team will make contact with other teams who have watched Yi's training and games to see if there is any possibility of a trade."

Seriously, give me a $3 mil contract and I’ll go over to China to play with all the Chinese people. Give me a $3 mil contract and I’ll go over to Africa to play with all the African people. Give me a $3 mil contract and I’ll wear a wig and fake breasts and play in the WNBA with all the women. Would it make that much of a difference if I was in the white minority of .2%? Hell no. He obviously came to the States to play basketball. Most people in the States are not Chinese. So what did he think he was getting in to? And you know, most people in the States speak English. Was he hoping that he wouldn’t have to learn the language past “foul” or “pass” or “we don’t play defense in this league”? Or is he just making this up as an excuse to get on a team in a larger market? Doesn’t matter, the dude’s fucking ugly anyway. Who was I pushing for? Corey Brewer, the guy who was selected immediately after the tall Chinese schmuck. Larry Harris pretty much screwed this one up.

Sunday, July 01, 2007

Elisha Cuthbert

I just got done watching The Girl Next Door and wholly fuck. I've seen it before, but that was in a public setting. I didn't get to beat my meat three times while watching it in the privacy of my home. And that's exactly what I did today. Can you blame me?