Wednesday, September 24, 2008

“What a Thrill!” by Kim Kardashian

“What a thrill!

Wow, the first night was exhilarating! The “DWTS” judges were super hard last night! Lots of the couples got tough scores… myself included! I don’t care at all, and totally plan to take what they say into consideration.”

Uh, what?

Really, what did she say? If she doesn’t care at all why would she take their opinions into consideration?

My letter to Kim Kardashian:

Honey, please, let me help you out here. As a former judge on the hit show DWTS (Dancing With The Sluts – The Horizontal 2-Step), I think my opinion should be both relevant to you and taken into consideration by you. While I didn’t exactly take in Monday night’s episode I can assure you my thoughts are valid based on my vast experience on this subject.

First of all, my God woman, those tits are fucking marvelous. Are they real? I don’t think I’ve ever seen such healthy looking fun bags. I can critique them in more detail after I closely inspect them in person. I’ll have my people contact your people to arrange this meeting.

Second, you have an ass that would make Beyonce jealous. It’s nice and round and curvy in all the right places and actually matches your boobs very well. The one thing I would be concerned about is if it widens when you bend over. You see, Dancing With The Sluts – The Horizontal 2-Step has had to be momentarily shut down in the past after contestants asses ballooned out to astronomical scales as they went to bend over or were on all fours. Don’t worry, after situating the contestant in a different position the show continued on but I just want to make sure that won’t be the case with you. So, if you could just send me a pic of you bending over, preferably in some kind of thong underwear, we can get that question answered.

I’m going to guess that you’ve been working out or something in preparation for the show because your legs have a goodly amount of muscle. You don’t have the long skinny legs of a model. Muscular legs are a must for when Dancing With The Sluts – The Horizontal 2-Step goes non-horizontal. (Kim - ?) Vertical, dear. Like when you’re on top. (Kim - !) Yes, the longer you stay up there the longer I can play with those fun bags. Giddy up.

Lastly, Kim, you’re fucking gorgeous. Yep, I said it, gorgeous. You have an excellent smile and beautiful overall facial features. Did I say facial? No, Kim, I’m not talking about one of your hoity toity Los Angeles spas. With your ample lips wrapped around my cock and those big peepers looking up at me I will most certainly orgasm, rather violently I might add, and might accidentally get some on your face. I’ll clean it up, no big deal, just wanted to warn you ahead of time.

Oh, and if you don’t know about what I’ve been talking about because you’re a rich/sheltered/snobby/dim witted biotch, well, you’ve got something cumming.


B to the…

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Pardon Me

I'll get a post up here sometime on Monday. I took the day off from work so I could get totally fucked up tonight watching the Packers. Go Pack!

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Question of the Day

I’m not an expert on the human body. Sure, I know a little bit about weightlifting and how the knee works when its missing a ligament or two but when it comes to other things below the belt, including the female vagina, fuck man, I’m just stumped. Another organ below the belt that you’d think I would know something about would be the anus. With as much farting a shitting that I do every day you’d think I be an analologist (or whatever the professional medical name is). (For the record I know its proctologist but I think analologist just sounds better, so there.) Today at 3:00, as I was getting up to go for a cigarette, I felt this slight pain in the shitholder area (don’t you just love all these technical terms?). I knew right away that I’d have to hit the restroom before going for a smoke otherwise I’d have a rather messy situation on my hands. I grabbed the cell phone so I could play the billiards game to pass the time on the can.

It started like any other regular old poop fest with the usual gas and a couple turds. The sounds coming out were actually kind of funny, to the point where I thought about using the phone to record them for later playback (and possibly make the Renter fart – she’s weak like that). And then, without warning, the firewater came. It burned so bad I couldn’t just let it all out at once. I had to cut it off when the pain got to be too much, prolonging the experience even longer. Thank God there wasn’t anyone else in there or they would have heard me grunt, pant, and even wince. It was so bad I even shed a tear or two. Eventually it stopped and I got a chance to catch my breath. Unfortunately, just like with tornados, I was in the eye of the storm. Minutes later I had to go through the whole process all over again, now with another person in the restroom, holding my whimpers to a minimum. My butthole never felt such searing pain like that before.

I won’t even go into the cleanup process.

As I went to get up I nearly fell over. My legs had fallen asleep and were very unresponsive. I massaged my thighs, kicked my foot against the wall, did anything that would get the blood flowing again. I got my shirt tucked in, washed my hands and wiped the sweat off my forehead before walking out the door like a newborn calf with unsteady legs.

Now, to you dear readers, I pose this question. Could all this pain and suffering be caused by the obnoxious amount of hot sauce I ate exactly 43 hours earlier? I had a steak taco which came with some chips and salsa. It took me three attempts with ten minute breaks in between to finish said chips and salsa. I had to wipe the sweat out of my hair with a napkin so much that it looked like I had just taken a shower. The shit was hot, just like my shit was hot today. But 43 hours later? Doesn’t that seem like a long time?

UPDATE: I was still shitting at 6:00. I don't know if that would still be the salsa.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

My Attempt at Poetry (Circa 1998)

This might explain a lot.

This is my pussy song:

Pussy, pussy, everywhere.
Pussy, pussy, in my hair.
Pussy, pussy, I don't care.
Pussy, pussy, as long as I get some.

Pussy, pussy, I love it much.
Pussy, pussy, I love to touch.
Pussy, pussy, smells so nice.
Pussy, pussy, yeah right!

Pussy, pussy, I get mine.
Pussy, pussy, all the time.
Pussy, pussy, fuck it hard.
Pussy, pussy, jiz anywhere you fucking want to as long as it feels good to you.

Pussy, pussy, tastes so shitty.
Pussy, pussy, but it's pretty.
Pussy, pussy, odorifferous.
Pussy, pussy, stuck in the face of us.

Pussy, pussy, nasty when hairy.
Pussy, pussy, but without it we get very.
Pussy, pussy, ornery, stupid, and horny.
Pussy, pussy, enought even to kiss Julie Lundee.

Pussy, pussy, this is my story.
Pussy, pussy, I take all the glory.
Pussy, pussy, as for my friends.
Pussy, pussy, they have their hands.

Some pretty thought provoking shit there, eh?

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Finally, Football Sundays

Since the Packers played their first game on Monday night, Sunday was my first full-blown Packer Sunday. I don’t know if you remember from last year but I run the pools at the corner bar ($5 gets you a line to which a number is revealed – 0 to 9 - after everyone has signed up). Sometimes its fun and you get to meet new people. Some winners will spot you a $5 for running the pool. Sometimes it’s just a freaking pain in the butt. But I don’t do it for the tips or the people. I do it because I get to drink for free while I’m “working.” Last year I’d go through about a pitcher a quarter. This year I decided to step it up. My memory is a little hazy (and rightly so) but I think I went through six pitchers watching the Packers lay the smack down on the Detroit Lions. Actually, it wasn’t a complete smack down as the Packers squandered a 21 point lead in the final quarter before they had three timely interceptions (two for touchdowns) to regain the lead. Aaron Rodgers’ play eased the minds of many Brett Favre fans with his quick feet and good decision making. All in all it was a pretty good day. But the best part about football Sundays: twelve hours of knocked out cold sleep. I usually make it to the start of the night game, sometimes even to halftime. After that it’s off to bed around 8:00 for twelve hours of continuous sleep. Ah yes, football, free beer, and loads of fun followed by a rejuvenating slumber.

Thank you, Roger Goodell, for giving us the greatest sport known to man.

And for scheduling the Packers on Sunday night next week.


Saturday, September 13, 2008


Had some harsh comments lately. You people should just chill out. Ain't like none of this shit is actually real. I'm just a bored writer making up stories while holding my penis. Well, some of that might be true.


I got a number of comments while wearing Swandaddy's shirt. Needless to say I can't divulge what the comments were on this strictly religious and political party free website.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Friday, 4:33

"Good God, you're wearing Swandaddy." Yes, the Swandad shirt is making its debut tonight.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

And She Popped the Question

I thought living at home till I was 27 was bad. After graduating from college I just didn't see a need to move out and spend a shit load of money when I could live at my parent's house for free. Back then I was saving a bundle in various mutual funds and bad stock choices (I bought Enron at $2 and sold at $1 - nice -50% appreciation). Living at home wasn't all that bad.

Today mom asked if she could move in with me. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was serious. Knowing that I had to laugh it off. "Mom, you can't move in with me!" God, could you imagine that? 31 years old and still living with mom. "You have a spare bedroom. I could cook and clean for you." Yeah, mom doesn't know about the Renter. Mom also doesn't know about the carton of cigarettes and four/five 30-packs of beer a week. Besides that, how could I bring some random hoe back home and get my swerve on? "B, do you have a friend over?" "Yes mom, go back to bed." as I have my dick eight inches in her ass.

Mom's gotta find her own place to stay.

Monday, September 08, 2008

Baseball Outing

Dear Lisa,

I wanted to write you and thank you for the absolutely awesome outing at Miller Park on Saturday.

In order to fully enjoy the festivities in a manner I am accustomed to, I started my pre-game festivities at 1:00. Prior to this I had mowed the lawn and even brought out the trimmer to make the yard appealing to the small group that was to arrive at my house around 3:30. I had gotten up before 7:00 so by 1:00 I held a sense of accomplishment looking at the neatly manicured lawn. I popped open the cooler that was already filled with ice cold beer and caught the end of the Badgers game. My roommate was inside taking a nap (naughty puppy woke her up at 7:00 – after I tossed the puppy on her bed, he, he) so I really didn’t have much to do but watch some more college football that I really didn’t care about, all while getting my game face on.

People started to arrive right at 3:30. Being the gracious host I was handing out beer to everyone in a “one for you, two for me” fashion. I knew the time to leave was quickly approaching and after entering the park the free beer would be limited to two. Normally I don’t pound beer like Peter North pounds poon but the last thing I wanted to do was pay $7 for a beer. This was supposed to be a free trip and I sure as hell was going to try my best to keep it that way.

4:00 everyone got ready to leave for the park. I counted up my beer total: ten. Not that big of a deal considering twenty is like a normal night and I’d probably be nursing some warm beer at the park. I was right where I wanted to be.

I loaded the cooler in the back of my roommate’s car and we headed down the street in a four car train. We wanted to be able to park together so we could do a little tailgating before the game. Surprisingly this worked out pretty well and we were escorted in to spots right in a row. Oh, and thanks for the free parking pass. Sweet.

After we parked one thing became very apparent to me: these people didn’t know how to tailgate. No one else brought beer, chairs, or anything else for the parking lot. They all looked at me funny as I stood next to the car with a beer in my hand with this “are we going in yet?” look on their faces. Everyone else around us was grilling and drinking and playing various games in the aisles. I’ll admit it, I started to panic. I had a cooler full of beer and the group was looking anxious to get in the park. I did my best Peter North and pounded three in twenty minutes (three beers, not poons, although there were some lookers doing beer bongs not that far away from us). As the group started to head to the gates I grabbed three more cans and stuffed two of them in my shorts. Yes, they were cold and no, there wasn’t any shrinkage.

When we got to the reserved section you were the first to greet us. You human resource people get to do all the fun stuff like plan outings and fire people; I’m jealous. I was directed to where the food was and where to get the two beers with my ticket stub. I got the first beer and eyed up the variety of food that the little Asian people were bringing out (seriously, they all were slant-eyed, little odd). Sure, they had burgers, a great big ham that they were slicing, huge salad bar, but the thing that got my attention was the nacho station; more specifically, the great big dish of jalapeno peppers sitting right next to the cheese. You see, I love spicy food. I put a good six spoonfuls of jalapenos right on top of my nacho dish. They looked and smelled delicious. I brought them back to my table (which was another perk of the suite, tables with movable chairs and elbow room) and immediately went about devouring them. I don’t know why I like hot food so much because there’s always an immediate after effect. My head and face started sweating profusely. I went through four napkins trying to mop up. Here I was meeting new people every couple minutes and I looked like I had just jogged around the stadium. I finally got it under control and everything seemed ok.

I got a burger with my second beer. I’d tell you what inning it was but I don’t remember. I was having fun but it was a 0-0 game without much excitement. I finished the beer and asked my roommate for her ticket stub. I wasn’t sure if I could go back up and get two more beers with her ticket stub but I was sure as hell going to try. I went back to the same bartender and he quickly poured me two more. Ecstatic I left him a decent tip and returned to my seat. The beer was good, cold, and free. I could toss free flowing in there but you already knew that. And since I had more beer I figured I could use it to wash down another head-sweat-inducing plate of nachos with jalapenos.

What happened next, well, I’m not very proud of. You see, there were a lot of little kids running around; little kids with unstamped ticket stubs. Unstamped ticket stubs meant more free beer. I’m really, really not proud of what came next. At first I tried to secretly swap their ticket stubs with mine. I wouldn’t make it as a pickpocket; those little boogers and pretty quick. I needed to slow them down or stop them so… I started tripping the little bastards and swapping the ticket stubs. I’d get out of my seat and help them up, making sure they were ok while snatching the tickets out of their pockets. After the third one I didn’t even bother with anything other than the tickets. Kids are pretty resilient and they bounced back up pretty well. By this point I was getting a little sloppy. I had passed the twenty beer plateau and was teetering a bit on the edge. The eighth inning came up and I knew they stopped serving after it was over. I tried to get one more ticket stub to hold me over for the ninth inning. I stuck out my foot one more time, missed, readjusted and ended up flat out kicking the kid down. I felt bad about that one… till I had two more beers in my hands.

(I’m sorry.)

The next thing I remember was sitting on the shitter the next morning. (Seriously, I guess I had a fire in the fire pit and brought sleeping bags out to sleep outside but I don’t remember any of that.) Sitting of the can, man, it was like I could feel the jalapenos in my lower intestine, bowels, and lastly, the fiery anus. It hurt pushing it out but I knew it had to go. The second trip wasn’t much better but I could tell it had worked its way further down my system. Oh, and it smelled, bad.

Now, Lisa, I partly blame this on you. I know “human resources” doesn’t really involve the human anatomy but why would you list “human” in there if you didn’t know even a little something about “humans.” How could you, without any cautionary advice, allow me to eat all those jalapenos? I’m sure you knew what was going to happen the next day, especially because you work for a waste management company. WASTE MANAGEMENT! Two healthy helpings of spicy peppers, I’d think that would land somewhere near the top on the list of things that really need to be avoided when it comes to waste management. But no, you just laughed when you saw me sweating. Come to think of it, you were probably laughing at me because you knew I’d be moaning in pain the next morning. “Ha, ha, that fucker’s going to pay for it in the morning! Serves him right for tripping all those kids.” Well, if that’s the case, I guess I got what was coming to me.

At least the beer was free.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a good time at the outing. The whole thing was very entertaining and I got to see Ben Sheets pitch a complete game (and pick up the win). But hey, for the next event, could you do away with the two drink limit? Maybe then some innocent children wouldn’t have to run into any mishaps. Just a thought.

Thanks again.

B to the…

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Tom Brady's Injured...

...78% of women no longer follow football.

But seriously, isn't it ironic that he wasn't on the pre-game injury report for the first time since what, 2005, and today he went down with what looked like a nasty knee injury?

Saturday, September 06, 2008

Crazy Woman

I didn’t think much of it at first. Dad and I were unloading some of my old toys (Transformers, Hot Wheels) from the trailer when this black Mercedes SUV pulled up. It took the person a bit to get it parked on the street – obvious signal that it was a woman driver. As I was walking back from the garage, sweat marks, disheveled hair and all, this woman asks me if I’m [real name inserted here – I swear this whole anonymous thing is what keeps the female readers who don’t know me at arms length. If they knew me I’d be getting pussy all the time. ALL THE TIME! Like right now even.]. She was older, probably mid-fifties with a hair style dating back to her era. I replied as I bent over the trailer for another box. She asked me if the Polock was around and I told her I hadn’t seen him for a couple days. She asked if he lived at my house and I told her he had slept out on the deck either Friday or Saturday night. “Ok, because he owes $15,000 that he took from me.” I replied, “That sucks” in stride as I headed back to the garage with the box.

Apparently she must not have appreciated my response.

I have received handwritten letters on the Polock’s behalf – hand delivered nonetheless – each of the last two days. The letters ramble on in classic crazy woman fashion going on and on about how could he do this to her and how he owes her money ($14,356 to be exact – told you, crazy). The letters have been six pages long on varying sized pieces of paper, usually about 5x8.

I laughed at the first one.

I swore at the second one.

The Renter called the post office. Now I have to take the letters in to the head postmaster(bator) to file a complaint. I guess they’ll give Linda (actual real name!) a call and they’ll tell her to stop or something. I’m not expecting them to do too much. Sure, they tramp through sleet and snow but have they ever handled a crazy woman before? Next week I’ll scan the letters in here for your perusal. While they’re actually kind of funny to read, it isn’t funny at all when they’ve been placed right next to your ROTH IRA statement. Oh, and she has her phone number listed in there a couple times. I ain’t blocking that out. You can feel free to call her and tell her how fucking crazy she is (after dialing #67 of course).

Strike that, just got a call from the Renter. The number listed is actually the Polock’s. One of the things on the list of stuff he owes her was a cell phone. Why she’d leave that number as a callback number, when he has the actual phone, blows my mind.

6’5”, 230 lbs, benches 250 six times, and I have to get the fucking postman to take care of the crazy woman.

Tell you what, bitch. YOU owe ME $4 for gas! Pay up!

God I’m such a pussy.

Friday, September 05, 2008

Retarded Acquaintances

One of my "friends" tried to help me out and set up the canopy by himself while I was at work. Nice gesture untill he snapped one of the metal supports - which would take quite a bit of force to accomplish. Why can't everyone be as smart as me?

Wednesday, September 03, 2008


Stuart Scott just got done saying, "Collier is the third NFL player shot in the last #? of months off the field." Because they all bring guns to the playing field.

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Shawne Merriman is Gay

Ok, he’s not gay, but he’s a total dumbass for opting to play with a torn PCL and LCL in his left knee. Mr. Merriman, do you know what happens when you’re missing knee ligaments? I’m not a biology specialist or an arthroscopic surgeon anything even close to that but the one thing I do know is the human knee (and how to get women down on theirs – who needs their gas tank filled?). When you’re missing a ligament the knee becomes unstable and tends to roam. With the extra play in the joint the bones sometimes don’t rub together the way they should resulting in cartilage damage. I’m missing my ACL and had to have the meniscus cartilage fixed after I tore it doing girly-light 135 pound squats. Now I know Merriman has his ACL, the largest ligament in the knee, but still, missing two of the smaller ones sure as hell isn’t going to help matters at all. All it would take is one bad hit or tweak and he’s out getting three (four?) ligaments fixed all at the same time. Imagine the recovery time for that.

Be smart bro, shut‘er down. It ain’t worth it, especially in the NFL where the contracts aren’t guaranteed and they can cut yo ass at any time. (I had to put “bro” and “shut’er” and “ain’t” and “yo ass” in there so Merriman could fully comprehend what I was suggesting.)

(Oh, and ladies, will half a tank do? Even that’s a bit much for the tip-tickling most of you amateurs do.)