Monday, August 25, 2008


The weather man called for rain all weekend. Relying on the weather report I put the newly acquired 10'x20' canopy up on the deck. After I got it all set up I stood back and looked at the monstrosity; it was pretty freaking big. But, if it was going to rain, my ass would be more than covered.

It sprinkled a little bit on Thursday, nothing too serious. It didn't rain again till Saturday morning and then it only rained for three hours. I had brought my matress out from my room and had slept outside so I was thankful for the shelter. It leaked a little bit but what can you expect for $180. I bought some silicone sealant on Saturday and doused the canvas seams.

I didn't see a cloud in the sky after noon on Saturday. I could have been basking in the sun catching some rays but no, the weather man fucked me over. I could have taken the canopy down but it was an adventure putting it up for the first time. I wasn't exactly ready to go through the process of taking it down after having it up for just two nights.

It seemed to get dark sooner since the canvas was dark green. Apparently candles really are made just for women and gay guys because I burned the fuck out of my thumb trying to light four of them. I was doing fine until I got to the last one when my then hotter than hell lighter decided to make contact with my thumb. It hurt like a bitch right off the bat. By Sunday you could see the patch of skin that was turning white. It looked like it was pretty deep. Not good.

Monday afternoon it was ready. The skin was hard and dead, just ripe for the picking. I used my teeth and knawed at the tip of my thumb like a rat. A piece of skin a half inch long peeled off like butter. I figured it was better to get the dead skin off sooner so it could heal faster. What I didn't plan on was having this piece of raw meat exposed right on the tip of my thumb. There wasn't much left. I could squeeze my thumb and the raw skin would bow out like a balloon. I went to the cabinet at work and grabbed a Band-Aid to cover it up just in case.

Later in the afternoon I had to use the bathroom. For some reason I missed the 11:30 crap and had held it all the way till 4:00. I immediately realized that wiping my ass was going to be a problem with a Band-Aid covering most of my thumb. I went down for the first swipe without any problems. I went in for the second swoop and came back with a fecies smeared sheet of toilet paper that was stuck to the Band-Aid! I tried to flail my hand but that just made the toilet paper unravel and (yuck) graze the stall leaving trace evidence. I had to use my other hand to get the toilet paper off of my thumb. It went like this for every other wipe. Not much worse than having a poopy piece of toilet paper stuck to your thumb in a confined space.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Goodell Offed Upshaw

Was Gene Upshaw too white for a black man or did Roger Goodell just rub him out to get one of his boys in there as head of the NFL Players Association?

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Not Happy

Puppy peed in the parent's house, the Renter left the back door open all afternoon, she wanted to put up the new 10x20 canopy (it's freaking 10x20! and it wasn't raining!), and the Brewers are losing. And with the parents selling the house I have to help set up a rummage sale tomorrow. Not a happy camper.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Mr. Compliance Manager

Me: Can you make the next systematic in September for (dollar amount you don't need to know). Gotta play a little market timing here with the down market.

FA: Done. It will now remain at $600/quarter until you instruct me otherwise…

Me: A systematic 3-mo market timing tool, kind of like varying your bets on the blackjack table!

FA: Compliance must love you when they review my emails…

Me: Double down, mother fucker! (That won’t raise any red flags, will it?)

FA: I have a blackberry now. Using it right now… Now I can send and receive email from anywhere!

Me: Compliance manager, my financial advisor is emailing me from the bathroom. There has to be some code of ethics regarding that, right? I mean, it’s almost like I can smell it.

FA: Ur one sick puppy…

Me: Compliance manager, my financial advisor has a phone with a full keyboard and yet he sends me emails with “Ur” in them. Seriously, if my advisor is gay he has to fully disclose that, correct?

FA: What am I to do with you?

Me: I don’t know, sugar, what would you like to do to me?

Friday, August 15, 2008


I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I got duped. I had to order new checks today. I asked if they got cheaper if you bought more. Ended up getting three extra boxes because they were only $3.99 a piece. I now have 900 checks coming in the mail, enough to last me 12 years. Not exactly sure what I was thinking. Sometimes being tight isn't all that practicle.

The Simple Life

No, I’m not talking about that stupid reality show with Paris Hilton and that bug-eyed ET looking chick. Although I must admit, I did watch that show a couple times just incase a certain someone’s skirt was a little too short and might reveal something but alas, it was network television. No ass. No beat off. I quit watching.

Last weekend I went to the old roommate’s parents’ cabin in the Oshkosh area. It was about two hours away, not that far driving wise but good golly, what a change in surroundings.

The first thing you noticed when driving through Red Granite, the closest “big” town to the cabin, was that “big” meant it had a gas station with saran wrapped sandwiches in it. Stop signs/lights were few and far between; so were the dilapidated barns and farm houses. For some stretches all you’d see would be trailer homes with the requisite 1989 Pontiac Firebird/Chevy pickup parked out front. I used to laugh at those kinds of people all the time. Now I’m wondering that they might have the right idea.

Don’t get me wrong, there were some very nice homes on the lake. I don’t need that. All I need is a log cabin. You can buy a wooded lot for $20,000 and build your house on that. You could come out with a nice little piece of property depending on how much you wanted to spend and how much you could do yourself. All that would be left would be to find a modest job (fun job out in the country!) or a job that you could work from home and you’d be set. Minor mortgage costs, little transportation costs if you worked from home, and the great outdoors in your backyard. Sure, you’d be going through cases of mosquito repellant and you’d have to buy a gun (watch out, mother fuckers) and a boat (pontoon boat would be just fine, with a secret hiding spot for the gun), but living a very modest lifestyle you could get by on $800 a month. $800 a month! And that includes a certain someone’s little drinking habit (ehem, b*llsh*t).

Now, I’m going to go way out on a limb on this one (and please don’t check my math). Say you had $200,000, you made 7% on that ($14,000), you paid a mixture of long and short term taxes (25%) (I’m not sure on that, Turbo-Tax does my taxes) which leaves you with $875 a month to spend. Of course your investments won’t always make 7% and a negative return year would have you running to the store for toilet paper every day but hey, my monkey math certainly makes it look possible. It would be a lot easier if you had $400,000 or $600,000 stashed away or if your roommate serviced half the town (male and female) in exchange for food. I’d die of a heart attack before my little wee-wee would make me any money.

All this non-sense talk is getting me excited. To think that, with revised savings techniques in the appropriate investments, this would all be possible in ten years has left me with a boner for the past two hours. Ten years is a long ways away. I don’t know how many hours that is but I’m sure it’s more than four hours. Better get on the phone with the doctor shortly here.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

And It's Official...

Parents' divorce papers were filed yesterday. Just found out about today, on the internet of all places. Good thing I only had five beers yesterday, will certainly make up for that tonight.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Pure Evil if You're Anal

Drove up to my buddy's cabin this weekend. 140 miles one way. Took the Renter's new car since it has more room than the Wrangler. The Renter's Liberty is thd Limited edition which means it has all those bells and whistles your average person does't need, like the digital readout that show's you the average miles per gallon. I'm anal. I needed that number to be as high as possible. I don't know what I was keeping more track off, the average miles per gallon or the road. I got it up to 24 mpg but it took a lot of finessing the pedal to get there. Just glad my Jeep doesn't have that shit on it.

Thursday, August 07, 2008

I’m Guilty, Arrest Me

In the wake of all the people being indicted lately on sports-related gambling issues, well, I’m guilty, come and get me.

You see, I used to run cross-country track back in grade school. I wasn’t all that good at running back then; even worse now. I was probably 5’10” and 170 lbs in eighth grade, not even close to your prototypical long distance runner. You might think 5’10” and 170 is normal for a typical man. For a typical man, sure, but I was a 14-year-old who liked to eat. Muscle tone, yeah, none at all. I think the most I could bench press back then was 100 lbs in my parents’ basement with those really old plastic covered cement weights. I couldn’t even jump and touch the basketball rim. I didn’t really blossom (if you can even call it that) till my high school and college years.

(However, these years back in grade school turned out to be the climax of my sexual prowess – with myself. With the internet just coming out and all the available porn sites out there, man, not a day went by without a good beat-off session. I liked to think of it as a reward after finishing my studies. I was a good student back then usually only getting a B in art class or something totally gay like that – but I was a much better beater-offer. Sure I learned more as I got older but I’ll never forget fantasizing about Brian’s older sister in the bathtub (she was hot!) or using whatever kind of lube I could find around the house to aide in my quest (note: WD-40 does not work well and may even burn a little).)

So it was eighth grade and we had the final meet at the end of the year. I remember it pretty well. It was cold out and I had sweatpants and a sweatshirt on to keep warm. As with most fieldtrips we got there about an hour early and pretty much froze out butts off till it actually started. My dad showed up after work along with one of his co-workers (wonder what Dave “The Wave” is doing nowadays?). They tried to get me prepped and fired up for the run. I’d done this stuff before but usually it was just me out there running along with everyone else; not anywhere near the front of the pack and not near the stragglers. I was maybe the fourth best male runner on our team.

Our best runner was Paul. Paul had the build for running long distance. He was 5’3” and maybe 120 lbs with his coke-bottle glasses on. Paul was a nerd. Paul was a dork. But Paul was freaking fast. He was a grade under me and I used to pick on him a bit. If he was running next to me I’d push him into a tree or stop sign. He used to come over sometimes in the summer and I’d block every one of his shots at the hoop. But there wasn’t any way to catch him over the five or six miles we used to run.

Just before the race was about to start my dad told me he’d buy me a new radio controlled car motor ($80 back in 1991!) if I were to beat Paul. I used to be big into that kind of shit and would routinely kick guys’ asses who were twice as old as me and who spent twice as much money on their cars. I probably had more talent doing that than anything else in my life (well, besides the aforementioned beating off). I knew exactly which motor I wanted: an 11-turn single that would totally blow everyone else away.

Knowing that the possibility of me beating Paul was somewhere between slim and none I did the unthinkable: I approached Paul. I approached Paul and offered him $10 (two weeks worth of allowance) if he would let me beat him.

Right away I knew it was wrong. Its not that he accepted the offer or that the fix was in but it still felt wrong.

With my dad and Dave strategically placed around the course for support I somehow managed to beat Paul and everyone else on the team. Out of 400 some kids I came in at 43rd. I remember they had a chute at the end that they wanted you to file into as you crossed the finish line so they could keep everyone in the same order that they finished. At the end of the race my brain did not comprehend this. I kept running as hard as possible till I felt a very strong arm grab me around the stomach that halted me in my tracks and pushed me towards the entrance. I was spent. I barely made it to the end of the chute where they gave me the pink ribbon. Yeah, pink, thanks.

I didn’t get a congratulation from the coach. Paul had a big mouth and I’m guessing my proposition had gotten around to her. I tried to stay away from her as much as possible. It was my last year in track, wasn’t like I’d be running for her again. Now that I think of it that might have been the last time I ever saw her. Huh.

You better believe I got some high-fives from my dad and Dave. At first I had no idea where I had placed in comparison to my classmates – including Paul. Later I found out that the 2nd and 3rd best runners had stayed together and saved too much for the end sprinting past a number of weary runners on the home stretch. Paul came up lame with a side ache and finished in the middle of the pack. Dad and Dave said I did great but I didn’t really feel all that great after what had transpired earlier. My most memorable moment in grade school track was overshadowed by the thought of fixing the race.

But I got the motor. I used that motor for a good two years and won many races and trophies. It’s the motor that’s currently sitting in the radio controlled truck in my parents’ basement. I used to do wheelies off the line on a dirt track with that motor (which back then you never saw – guys would always ask me what I was running). Did I mention I was 14 and at the top of my game? I was like the fucking Doogie Howser of the radio controlled car circuit. And just like Doogie I got tired of helping sick people and turned gay. Wait…

Paul asked for his $10. I punched him in the side. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Haven’t Been in the Mood…

…for sex lately.

Yeah, right, just kidding. Internet access on my cell phone is like the greatest thing ever. I’ve “made it” with numerous new hotties on my phone this summer. Thank you ladies.

I haven’t been in the mood to write anything cool and funny (or gay and lame) lately because of troubles on the home front. You see, about a week ago my dad moved out of my parents’ house. No warning, no hints, just moved out. I’m still trying to come to grips with this.

I got the call on Saturday.

Dad: You’re probably going to receive a call from mom in a little while. I moved out today.

Me: Where?

Dad: Why?

Me: No, where?

Dad: Oh, Waukesha.

I didn’t need to know why dad moved out. Mom’s been on a downward slide for quite some time now. I saw the irrational post-it notes on the kitchen counter. I heard the whole one line conversation that went like, “What the fuck did you do with the red crock pot?” Yeah, because crock pots are so worthy of yelling about the second I step out the door. Crack pipe sure, but crock pot? So I really didn’t need a reason why from dad. I pretty much knew already.

But I didn’t think it would be like this.

The only one home at night when I swing by for dinner is mom. Even the two puppies are gone. Without the puppies there the cat stalks my puppy. Fucker bit Molly on the first day. Finally he did something that put me over the edge; cat met foot. Twice. I felt a little bad afterwards that Molly had to be bitten in order for me to feel oh-so-damn-good but I got over that quickly. My smile sure lasted a long time. Cat doesn’t come near me anymore.


“What the fuck happened to my family?”

I think that one’s more worthy of the f-word than the stupid crock pot.

I’m not going to talk to them about it. Sure, it’s my family but I figure they can work this shit out on their own. They’re grown adults. I’m just a 31-year-old who has enough problems of his own (seriously, I think my finger nail is going to fall off from opening so many cans last weekend – wouldn’t that totally be like the end of the world?). I haven’t asked dad where exactly he’s living or if he’s living with someone. I really don’t want to get too involved.

And to couple all that up with a four game sweep of the Brewers by the Cubs. I’m telling you, it’s been rough over here.

At least Brett’s back. I mean, he is back, right?

(Yeah, and I don't want any phone calls about this from those of you who know me. Still working through the whole process, not exactly ready to talk about it.)

Sunday, August 03, 2008

$20 Million

Did they really think $20 mil would sway Favre's decision about coming back? The dude drives a fucking Ford pickup. Hell, he lived in a trailor home on his agent's land for a number of years. He ain't no Latrell Sprewell.