ESPN sportscaster J.A. Adande, Again

On the death of NBA player Eddie Griffin:

One of my first reactions to the sad news was that I never really got to know Eddie Griffin. Later I realized that's because he never played in the playoffs. The playoffs are when casual fans get to know players' names and faces, and when we in the media get to know out-of-town players' personalities.

ESPN sportscaster, casual fan, what? Is J.A. calling himself a casual fan? Sometimes I wonder if these people re-read the shit they submit. I sure as hell don’t when I’m posting something about my three, uh, typo, eight inch penis.

The Poon Stories Just Keep Coming

Taken from http://drdrunkendebauchery.blogspot.com (just happened to stumble across her blog):

that's the kind of lover he was, he would come over or i would go over and we would just head for the bedroom and take our clothes off and hop into bed and start to tang tang - he would put a peice of gum in his mouth before going 'downtown' - i guess i could take that personally, but i don't. for several reasons: most women don't have the scent of fresh lavender coming out of their pussy; there aren't jokes about women's snatch smelling like fish for no reason; if it was that bad he wouldn't have gone down there anyway; probably did it so his wife would not smell me on him...

No hun, your cunt just smelled that bad.

(Tang tang? That’s a new one to me.)

Found this comment on ESPN about Michael Vick:

An incredible lapse in judgment on Vick's part: He has lost his freedom, his $130 million contract and most of all the fans' respect.

“And most of all the fans’ respect”? Dude, fuck that. Your freedom and your $130 million contract come well before the fans’ respect. Do you think Rex Grossman got any respect for fumbling three snaps last night (in one quarter) on Monday Night Football? Fuck no, but he still has his freedom and whatever amount they’re overpaying him this year. Fans’ respect? Bullshit.

Another comment on ESPN:

You people never seem to amaze the rest of us that share this planet with you, you have a government that is solely responsible for thousands of deaths in a war that was unnecessary, you have murders, BLEEP , child molesters known and walking around free, you have more social ills than you can even name, yet you people are crying fowl over a man breeding animals to do what they were originally breed to do...give me a f*%king break, no disrespect, but any fool who doesn’t think this was simply about someone taking down another young, rich promising black man, still believes that racism isn’t as bad as it was during the civil rights movement!

Do people really think that Vick’s being prosecuted just because he’s a “young, rich promising black man”? Sure, maybe because he’s a star in the NFL, that I could certainly see, but just because he’s black? I honestly feel bad for people who see the world in this light.

And speaking of those people…

J.A. Adande from the Los Angeles Times has started writing for espn.com. In one of his recent posts he wrote, “I write about sports because, for better or worse, that's where most of the country gets its look at African-Americans and I want to do my part to keep the lens clear.” Originally I was going to retort with a little ditty that started like: If black people can openly promote other black people, fo so you better believe yours truly is going to promote the whites. But you know what? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After a week of plotting and planning I just couldn’t bring myself to write an overly sarcastic and minimally humorous post about how the whites are the bestest. And trust me, I thought long and hard about it. Comments like Adande’s on nationally published websites (come to think about it, aren’t all websites nationally published?) irk the hell out of me. But it makes you think, who’s more racist, blacks or whites? I’d bet my Roth IRA that the person with the “young, rich promising black man” comment was indeed himself/herself black. Being only 30 years old and living in the Midwest I don’t know that much about the history of racism or what it’s like in other areas. I personally don’t see a black person any different from a white person. Actually that’s wrong; I look at black women in a much different light than white women but that’s mainly because of the two black women I’ve had the opportunity to sleep with and, well, wow. One left me with bruises on my hips and the other had the smoothest ass and nicest breasts this young man has ever seen. (Last time I checked the bruiser was going to come over on a Friday night and didn’t show and the other doesn’t want a damn thing to do with me – I have a special way with women.) Anyway, back to the topic. The point of my argument is… I don’t have a point. All I have is a vision where there is no black or white. But of course no one is going to listen to a drunk white boy who masturbates with a condom on and hasn’t seen any action since, oh God, it’s been way too long. And I haven’t shit solid in weeks, just thought you’d like to know that.

And then there was Monday night…

The corner bar just wasn’t the same on Monday night. What started out as a usual night turned into a karaoke fuck fest. Not that they were fucking, they were just fucks. Monday Night Football started at 7:00 and I got there shortly thereafter. I was sitting next to lawyer girl and we had some good conversations. Turns out her boyfriend is thinking about becoming a personal trainer. Dude, talk about a freaking awesome job. While she mentioned there might be some late night and weekend hours, still, you’re working in a gym and not lifting carpet or sitting behind a desk. And from the looks of him lately he’d be well respected as a personal trainer; the dude’s getting huge. The fucker’s also down to a 34” waist. I’d gladly sign up for a three hour session (of weight lifting for those of you who still think I like dick - you dicks). Anyway, when the Brewer’s game started at 8:30 Mr. Baseball packed up his shit and moved over to a different TV as the rest of us wanted to keep football on. (By the way, the Brewer’s won 9-0 and their rookie pitcher hit a homer. Sweet). And then shit went downhill fast. The former black stripper with the absolutely awesome fake boobs sat two seats away from me. Months back one of her dates (who stood eight inches shorter than I) wanted to kick my ass because I commented on her boobs. But seriously, when you have boobs like that… She pretended to be mad but I knew deep down inside that she took my comments as compliments. Either that or she was mad, I was pretty loaded. Her rather large friend (nicknamed Bucky) sat next to me. From what I’ve heard Bucky is kind of a nutcase and the couple of times her hand touched my leg I actually jumped a little. But of course I didn’t do anything to avoid it and even egged it on a little (fat chicks need lovin’ too). As the night went on I learned that someone dropped the chalk down the ball return on the pool table and it was out of commission. I leaned over towards the Renter. “I have half a pitcher left. When I’m done would you like to go to [Sunday night free pool place]? Either that or I’m just going to go home. I can’t deal with this shit.” Oh, and I failed to mention that after returning from the bathroom one time there was a guy who had moved my chair so he could get in to get a pitcher and refused to move when I told him I was sitting there. He was a skinny fuck, too. Fucking karaoke fucking fucks. Yeah, I like them that much.

So the Renter and I went to the Sunday hangout and surprise surprise the 18 yr-old was working again. I got a pitcher from her, tried to tell some joke that probably came out sounding like something Japanese, and played four (five?) games of pool with the Renter. (I’d like to say it was four and we split them 2-2 but I’m not positive, I was well into it by then.) By this point I was oblivious to pretty much anything (including time) and suggested we go to the late night/early morning breakfast place. We went, I scarfed down my food and went to bed at who knows what time. And I lived to tell about it the next day.

If there ever is a day when I haven’t posted for a week or two it’s safe to assume that either I died or I beat myself (off) to death.

Liking ‘Em Young

You all know how I like to joke about checking out the younger ladies. Maybe it’s not so much joking about checking out the young ones (clarify – 18 and over) because I must admit I do check them out, but more of joking about myself because I find myself checking out the young ones. Not that I’m a pervert or anything, but when you see a nice ass/rack jogging down the sidewalk you’re going to look. Picking out a nice butt is a lot easier than picking out a woman’s age.

Remember when I mentioned there was a new bartender at the bar where the Sunday Pool Crew and I go every Sunday? Yeah, well she was working again last night. Ever since she almost dumped a pitcher of beer in my lap I’ve developed a friendly banter with her. When she begins to hand the pitcher over the bar I take two quick steps back in fake anticipation that she’s going to dump another one. Last night I pretended to spill my empty pitcher when I went up for a refill. She laughs at all my dumb jokes and I stare at her breasts – er – yeah, I stare at her breasts.

As we were playing pool last night I leaned over towards the Renter. “Hey, do you think she has a boyfriend?” Summoning up some Ninja reflexes the Renter hopped off her chair and was flagging the bartender down before I could get a word of protest out. You have to pardon me a bit here as I don’t exactly recall what was said but man, I certainly remember one detail.

Me: So?

Renter: No, she doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Me: And…?

Renter: But she thought you and I were together.

Me: Oh puke.

Renter: Then I asked her if she liked guys like you.

Me: And…?

Renter: She asked how old you were.

Me: And…?

Renter: I told her you were 30.

Me: And…?

Renter: She said, “Really? Huh, um, I’m only 18.”

Me, spitting out my beer.

So now the 18 yr-old bartender at the place I go to every Sunday night knows that I am a ripe old age of 30 and have inquired about her in a dating kind of way. Well not really in a dating kind of way; I was thinking more of a sex on the pool table kind of way, but we won’t tell her that now will we.

18!!! Seriously, I just can’t win.

Greasy Cooters

Since we've been on the topic of poon lately...



I'd make an exceptiong for these two.

Comments on Going Down

Since I've had some decent comments lately I figured I would reward those readers and post them here instead of being hidden under the comment section.

Swandad from NY wrote: That's just plain nasty.

The only thing is, I don't know if he means eating the pussy is nasty or if writing about eating pussy is nasty. Sorry if anyone was eating their lunch when they read that post. But, since I think I know Sir Daddy a little bit, I think I'm not out of line when I say:

Women of New York, Swandad does not like eating the snatch.

Whoops, there goes Daddy's love life.

But then there was the FA's friend in Cali (who, by the way, created his own blog name, Snoop, I kind of like it) who left this tantilizing impression.

Snoop from Cali wrote: B...there is nothing better than eating pussy...feeling them writhe under the talents of your toungue...holding their hips in place, or reaching up to grab a tittie or two...its just the best.

[Editor's note: I love the word tittie, sweet.]

I'm also stunned at how a self-proclaimed slob, like yourself, can have such a sensitive sense of smell/gag reflex. I'm not saying every pooty is clean and smells like roses, I've had a couple that made me want to stay away. The solution is SHOWER WITH THEM FIRST.

[Editor's note: I love the word pooty, too.]

That's my rant, since you love comments. I love pussy.

FA's friend in CA...but you can call me Snoop.

As you can tell, Snoop likes (loves) the pooty. Now don't get me wrong, I love the pooty too, just not when pooty juices are smeared all over my face. Pooty juices are called pooty juices for a reason; only virgins and nerds define pooty juices as sweet nectar. Trust me, there ain't anything sweet about it. Just think, we call shit poo, and the pooty is pretty damn close to the poo hole, any connection there? I mean, you're only a couple of inches (if that) from performing "the tossing of the salad," which has nothing to do with vegatables or dressing by the way.

On a serious note, Snoop, have you ever thought about writing some of those dirty romance novels? You know, the ones with Fabio bare chested on the cover holding some scantily clad woman? Going back to your comment: "there is nothing better than eating pussy...feeling them writhe under the talents of your toungue...holding their hips in place, or reaching up to grab a tittie or two...its just the best." Dude, this almost got me back to thinking that eating the poon was that damn good. I wssn't even drinking and those thoughts crawled into my head. But then good ol' B to the... came to his senses and threw out the idea faster than I can beat one out (and lately that's been pretty damn quick). While you put out a very good effort (both with the comment and with the ladies), I'm afraid I'm sticking to my opinion (firmly) that eating the pussy is just not for me.

You really get them to writhe underneathe you? That's talent.


I've also been taking in other advice from people on the internet. Unfortunately I've actually followed some of this advice. The advice I'm talking about is weight room routines. I don't want to name the source as he may travel from New Jersey and beat me up, but there's one guy out there who is supposedly a professional trainer and puts his ideas on lifting weights on his blog (his arrogant blog). While his reasoning is sound, I just want to say one thing: FUCK OFF!!! I will no longer read his blog as since I started a couple months ago I've only seen my performance in the weight room (basement) go downhill quickly. The philosophy he incorporates includes lots of heavy lifting with compound exercises. For example, he often states that doing "big" exercises like chins, pullups, and rows will both make your back and biceps huge. And it makes sense to a degree. Doing chins I'd be lifting 230 lbs with my back and arms. He suggests doing a couple sets of curls just to hit the biceps at the end of your workout. Friends and family (oh God I hope my family doesn't read this), this does not work for me. I don't know if being 6'5" has anything to do with it, but I need my arm days where I concentrate on the biceps and triceps. So I'm going back to the routine that got me to where I'm at (or was) with a five day workout of chest, back, shoulders, arms, and legs with two days off of rest and maybe a little cardio. Hopefully I'll get back to prime form in a couple months.

Ok, I can't blame him for everything. I must admit I've been drinking a bit more than usual lately. And I've been sucked into watching the Brewer's most nights. They usually start at 7:00 and when I get home from dinner at 6:30 its kind of hard to chose between lifting weights and watching the Brewers (and drinking, God I love drinking). But they've been tanking lately and haven't really been worth watching. I think next week will be more productive in the weight room. Wish me luck.

Make Love Like Your Car

I found this the other day, don't remember where, kinda interesting. Somehow it pretty much fits me to a T.

The car: A Jeep Wrangler or FJ Cruiser

What the car says about its owner: Believe it or not, this person is not a risk-taker, but would very much like to be. “More often than not, this kind of person’s life is pretty routine; he or she is super responsible,” Dr. Orbuch says. “However, this person has a slightly immature streak — that’s OK, by the way — that wants to step out and go wild. This car helps the owner express that part of his or her character; this individual wants to be perceived as young, carefree and spontaneous.”

What the car says about its owner’s love style: Because this driver is most likely not much of a risk-taker, when looking for a partner, he or she will be seeking someone who is. “He or she is up for something exciting and unpredictable and is probably looking for someone who is adventurous.” While the owner of this car is probably very tolerant of high-maintenance people and drama queens or kings, ultimately, Dr. Orbuch says, his or her main criteria in a mate is someone who knows how to have fun.


But if "something exciting and unpredictable" involves going down on a woman, na, not me.


Funny how this blog has gone from masturbation to going down on a woman almost over night.

No BJs?

I know I just bashed the art of "the eating of the pussy" yesterday, but this sign is just friggin' wrong.

Eating Pussy

When the doctor gave me the prescription for the bronchitis inhaler she told me to ask the pharmacist for directions on how to use it. Five minutes earlier I had told her that I smoke. Uh, I think I can handle it.

Funny how what was intended to be an early night watching the Brewer’s game turned into a five hour balls-out drinking fest that ended at midnight. On a weekday nonetheless.

Having fat ugly chicks pop up as a match on Yahoo Personals is better than having no matches. At least the fatties give good head.

Speaking of fatties, how come fat comedians are always funnier than the skinnies?

How deep is “balls deep”? Doesn’t that depend on the size of the cock attached to the balls? Shouldn’t it be “dick deep”?


I still want a Big Black t-shirt (from Rob and Big on MTV).





I’m still in a state of disorganization since I moved back in to my bedroom. I used to have distinct piles of laundry on the floor; clean and dirty. Last night I got drunk (surprise) and mixed them all together. Not that it’s that big of a deal; I can always do the sniff test and figure out what’s what (or better yet, force the Renter to do the sniff test). Obviously that’s what I should have done this morning. After walking to City Hall today I got back to my office and sweated for a good 20 minutes. Around 3:00 I could smell myself. Not the bad body odor kind of smell. No, that’s too easy to cover up. No, my shirt smelled like I had left it in the wash machine for a week. I tried to cover up the moldy smell with some cologne but that didn’t do the trick. So there I sat in my office for two hours hoping that no one would stop by. Thankfully no one did.

I hear Michael Vick is trying to get less than one year in jail and the prosecutors want more than a year. And you all thought my bold predictions were way out of line. Who’s laughing now? Me! At the fat comedians! While the fat chicks give me head! ‘Cause that’s how I roll.

Why do nose hairs seem to have roots that go twice as deep as any other hair on your body? Seriously, I cry every time I pull one out.

FA’s friend out in Cali left a comment (I love getting comments!): B...I figured out the problem...you DON'T EAT PUSSY???!!! Are you insane? or just that selfish?

Eating pussy is just nasty. I’ve done it enough in the past to know that I really don’t like it. The first thing you notice when going down on a woman is the smell. You know, you think of women being all clean and shit but after sitting at work all day or attending classes all day in high school (ooo, young uns) they get that smell down there. I don’t even know how to describe the smell. Maybe musty (bear with me, it’s been a while)? Now that’s not to say that my junk doesn’t smell after a long day at work. Hell, some days I don’t even like to masturbate till after I’ve taken a shower. And then of course I have to take another shower because tugging and pulling at my penis leaves me panting and covered in sweat. Anyway, there is an odor that seems to rise from the female vagina. When you eat pussy you are usually positioned directly above said pussy with these odors rising directly into your nose. Be strong; throwing up on the pussy will most certainly result in you not getting any pussy. Not every pussy smells the same. I’ve had some pussies that were virtually odor free. I’ve had others that I could smell from three feet away in the missionary position. Yeah, if I can smell the pussy from that far away there’s no chance in hell I’m going down there. I even had to flip one girl over once when I was hitting it from behind and the pussy odor started wafting up to my nose. Pussy – odor – puke.

But of course you can’t stop there. You’ve slowly kissed every inch of her body from her breasts down to her belt line. Now you’re hovering over the pussy trying to suppress the gag reflex in your stomach. Now you have to – yeah, you know it – lick it. Lick it all over, especially hitting that little knob on the top of the pussy. Oh yeah, rub your face all over in that shit. That stuff you smelled just moments ago – all over your face. Now your face smells like a pussy. You know what? I can’t even go on with this. Just the thought of licking a twat makes me cringe. And seriously, for all you haters out there, NO I’M NOT GAY!!!

Too Much of a Good Thing/FG

Sunday I watched The Terminal with Tom Hanks. It’s a decent movie but it’s a little slow. Slow movies and me = nap. I had a lovely nap complete with the snoring and the drooling. But before the nap it was play time. You remember play time when you were a kid when you got to hang out with your friends and run around the playground. Play time in my adult life involves playing with my testicles (friends) with my hand down my pants (playground). As a kid, too much play time would leave you sweaty and exhausted. In 85 degree weather on Sunday I was pretty much in those same two states, sweaty and exhausted, when I decided to stop playing and take the nap. I, and my balls, were content.

Sunday nights I usually play pool with the Sunday Steak Crew. One of the members couldn’t make it and another one ended up working till 10:00 but we still made it out to shoot pool. When you shoot pool you’re generally standing up most of the time. Unless you’re in a wheel chair because some 350 lb woman gave you a really nasty lap dance one time, you’re going to be standing a lot. On Sunday, lying on the couch or sitting on a bar stool was perfectly fine. But standing, walking, and shooting pool left me with this sensation that I can only describe as “dangling.” It felt like my right testicle was just dangling there, waiting for a quick movement that would give it an excuse to fall off and drop out of my shorts. I don’t know about you, but the thought of losing a testicle is quite frightening to me. But I’d bet you’d make some doctor’s blog much more funny after he wrote about the time you showed up in his emergency room at 11:00 pm on a Sunday with your testicle in your hand. “Hmm, what seems to be the problem?” Eventually I got the cute bartender to rub my crotch a little and then everything was back to normal. Whew.

Speaking of fondling my balls… I heard that Flirt Girl moved out on her own earlier this month. I believe she was living with her boyfriend before. Now that she’s out we can make all the passionate monkey sex we want. (If you’ve never had monkey sex I’d advise you to try it sans the throwing of fecal matter.) Now, instead of having her look at me with the “fuck me” eyes while I try to suck down a cigarette I get to have her look at me with the “fuck me” eyes while we, well, fuck. Seriously, I must have died and gone to heaven.

Yeah, it isn’t exactly all that easy. First off, I have no idea what you have to say to women to get them to sleep with you. “Hey! I shaved my junk this morning, wanna bone?” “You know, I haven’t gotten much action lately, would you like to come over?” “If I buy you dinner and a couple drinks will you sleep with me?” Or the classic Joey Tribianni line, “How you doin’?” I thought about slipping her a condom and winking at her in hopes that she’d get the hint but decided against it because, well, I couldn’t decide what color condom she’d like. I mean, you can’t slip the girl a pink condom when she is decidedly a blue condom type of girl. Fucking up on the color could severely decrease your chance of fucking. To be honest with you, I really wasn’t thinking of slipping her the condom but at this point it doesn’t even matter because Flirt Girl quit smoking!!! The smoking lounge was the only place I would ever see FG. We have spent countless cigarette breaks talking about sex, drugs, and women’s underwear and now it’s all gone. I don’t have a phone number, I don’t have an email address, I don’t have shit but a raging hard-on in my hands (well, there isn’t that much that’s raging about it, or hard for that matter). In my fantasy filled dreams we made sweet love every day after work, ate dinner, got drunk, and made sweet love once again leaving my testicles void of anything resembling sperm. She would even pull out her bag of Korean sexual tricks that would always have me begging for more. I even ate the pussy. Dude, it was that good.

(I can’t believe I just wrote that. Eating pussy, fucking gross.)

Now there is no chance for any of that to happen unless I happen to see her in the hall (unlikely) or she starts smoking again (oh God please!). Till that day comes… who the fuck am I kidding, shit like that doesn’t happen to me. I’m fucked.

Mr. Jones Strikes Up a...

I must admit, I watched part of the TNA Wrestling last night because Adam “Pacman” Jones was supposed to be in the show. Being in the show, you’d think he’d have some words with the announcers or with other wrestlers but no, just a back stage dimly lit little ditty where he shadowboxed and said how he was misunderstood and a team player. And of course I got sucked in to watching about 20 more minutes of the segment. Dude, I don’t know how they get that shit on pay-per-view. Not that I’m a big fan of wrestling, but that was the most chaotic unscripted crap I’ve ever seen. What started out as a two man match ended up being an eight man match with garbage cans, chairs, and ladders being tossed about. I think I recognized a couple of old WWF faces (Kurt Engle, the guy with the leather mask over his face and flannel shirt – Mankind?), but other than that they had nothing to compare to whatever the current professional wrestling organization is called today. If you spend over $5 to see the Hard Justice show when it comes out on pay-per-view you’re a fucking idiot. But if you do please tape it for me. I want to see Pacman get injured and violate his NFL contract. Hmmm, possible signing bonus payback?

How about we stick Jones in the Octagon with the likes of Tito Ortiz or Ken Shamrock or Rashad Evans. That I would pay to see. Even though it might be the quickest $30 I’ve ever spent, watching Mr. Jones getting his ass pummeled and tossed around like a rag doll would definitely give me a stiffy.

In other news, I’m still shitting anything but solids. If this keeps up I’m going to be super dehydrated and will end up looking like a dried up raisin of a 30 yr-old man. I’ve tried to drink as much water as possible but it seems like I shit out twice as much as I take in. Truly a beautiful picture, sorry.

Today after I got home from work I had a list of things to do. I wasn’t sure if I could do them all in my weakened condition and all (still have it in the bedroom, ladies), but I was going to give it my best. My initial plan was to lift weights (chest) and mow the lawn. While I did get the weightlifting in, I can certainly tell you it wasn’t my best stuff. Long rests in between sets, embarrassingly light weights, but I got through it in one piece. I’m still alive to type about it. And I did get the lawn mowed, although it did take twice as long as it usually does. The lungs just weren’t ready for a little cardio yet. And then came my proud shining moment: I even washed the Jeep. I sweat my ass off for a good two hours, gulping water the whole time, and I bet you the next time I pee it’s still going to be a dingy yellow. Ah yes, another picture you wanted me to thoroughly describe for you.

You probably could have guessed it already being a Friday and all: I am writing this while (still) sweating my ass off on the lovely deck. After not drinking for three days (Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday), I figured it was time to take off the socks and test out the water. Liking the extra $60-$75 in my pocket from taking off those three days I stopped at the local liquor store on the way home and picked up a very nice six-pack of Samuel Adams Octoberfest and a not so nice $10 1.75 liter bottle of vodka. So far, three bottles in, I’m liking the Octoberfest quite a lot. It’s got a decent flavor (from what I can tell with the nose still partially plugged) and a nice texture (kind of liquidy), but three in and I can assure you it has some potency behind that pretty face. (Speaking of which, has anyone else ever had a dream of having sex with two absolutely hot women who after they’ve had their way with you (twice) they turned out to be vampires? Um, yeah, me neither, just checking, really. But talk about potent sex, I mean, if it really happened, in a dream. I’ll just quite there.) How I manage to save money spending $25 a night on tappers at the bar I will never know.

Oh goodness. The black lady across the street just walked by with her dog (not that I’m defining her as a black lady, just don’t want you to confuse her with the white trash lady who also lives across the street). I, of course, took a little break from you (sorry) and asked her if she found her purse last week. Last week Thursday after the Brewers game I was sitting on the deck and noticed that she had driven off with her purse on the trunk of her car. Being the model neighbor (who may or may not have lit off fire works one memorable night) I chased after her trying to get her attention. Of course, knowing how women only see what’s in front of them when they’re driving, she didn’t see me running along side her car. I used to be fast, both physically and with the women, but I couldn’t keep up. So today I walked down the steps and asked her if her purse was still there when she got to wherever she was going. Thankfully she said it was. After that I tried making small talk, but the whole time her pit bull was either licking my legs (haven’t showered yet) or putting my fingers in it’s mouth. Uh, yeah, I was just a little freaked out trying to keep eye contact with her while her dog could have easily ripped off a couple of my dainty fingers.

Anyway, I have shit load or more stuff for you (I was thinking about going through the sex partners – all female – and rating their best/worst qualities, might still have to do that one) but I’m pretty sick of typing right now so I’ll let you go masturbate in peace. Happy rubbings.

Fact You May Not Have Known

The human colon/rectum can hold up to half a gallon of liquefied shit.

Seriously, as soon as I woke up this morning I raced to the can to shit. Had I been standing up and bent over I could have gotten a good five feet of distance on it. For two minutes this went on with brown and yellow liquids either gently flowing or forcibly exiting my butt. Figuring it was all done I wiped and was ready to flush when the growl gargle gulp happened (I know you know that feeling). Instead of flushing I put my ass squarely back on the toilet and continued to flush out my lower intestinal tract. Wiping both the sweat on my forehead and the grotesque liquid from my ass, I was ready to flush again. Grrrrump grrrrop. Oh boy, I wasn’t done yet. Once again I assaulted my toilet with the vilest of shit it has seen to date. And once again, it was 100% liquid. I wiped, flushed, took a shower, and crapped yet one more time before leaving the bathroom. By this point I was exhausted, defeated, and yet still a little proud for what I had just done. I had met the challenge and I was still alive to tell the story.

So yeah, I’ve been sick lately. I started to feel it on Monday when I was just a little bit off key. Tuesday I really noticed it as I was tired and had this really nasty cough and stuffy nose. Tuesday night I didn’t sleep at all. It was all I could do to concentrate on my breathing; a deep breathe would leave me coughing and hacking, too little of a breathe – death. It peaked around 5:00 am on Wednesday morning with me rolling around in bed coughing and choking, sweating and freezing. I was told I should go see the doctor and since I haven’t been this sick in quite some time I agreed. The verdict: bronchitis. I figured that’s what it was. Usually I just try to ride it out on my own and sometimes it passes. But after staying up all night on Tuesday doing to best to breathe and stay alive I figured it was time for some medication. As I write this Thursday night I am a bit better but still not up to snuff.

My body feels like it’s either been beat up by five midgets or I went through a 10 hour weightlifting session during which I worked every body part to absolute failure. This morning standing over the sink shaving my face my lower back tightened up on me to the point where I had to do a rough job and finish up quickly. This after I was doing bent over rows with 150 lbs on Sunday. You know you’re fucked up when that happens. Walking into work today my backpack with my leftover KFC in it (and other manly items – ok, fine, it’s kind of like a purse but it’s a backpack) left my shoulder in more pain than I experience when doing shoulder shrugs with 225 lbs. Backpack with KFC feels heavier than 225 lbs – pitiful. In other words, I’ve been pretty sick the past three days. Yeah, I’m a pussy.

Oh, but it gets worse. You see, I tend to booze it up every once in a while. Boozing it up allows me to sleep like a baby at night holding his little teddy bear. Well, since I’ve been sick I haven’t really been able to do that, or smoke cigarettes for that matter. I’ve slept maybe five hours since Tuesday morning. Yeah, I’m pretty much dragging right now, even with the medication. Unfortunately this is going to go on for a bit longer as I can’t imagine touching a beer; hell, even Mr. Frankie doesn’t want to be touched. I never thought there’d be a day when I felt so crappy that I didn’t even want to whack off.

At work today with the cold sweats and liquid shits, I said a little prayer every time I felt dampness in my shorts as I waddled to the bathroom.

The Break-In

Check this article out if you have a chance. It’s another one about Michael Vick but this one centers on race in Atlanta. One sentence that got me was “Certainly, some of white Atlanta supports Vick, too, though arguably because they are Falcons fans.” This disturbs me. Sure, I can bash Vick on the website all I want, and when I do I’m usually really loaded drinking vodka and lemonade on the deck. He’s still innocent. I might portray him as being guilty, and he might be (99%) guilty, but he hasn’t gone to trial yet so he’s still innocent. It doesn’t make a difference if he’s white or black. Well, maybe it does. The whites don’t have “homies” to hang out with. Let’s face it: whites are just not that cool.

You know, sometimes when I try to write something that is anti-racist and all it takes is one or two bad jokes to make it totally racist. God I’m funny.

So, when whitey runs his dog fighting operation out of his Virginia home, he doesn’t have homies that will turn on him and cough up a testimony. This is all a bunch of crap. This is not about race, it’s about dog fighting. Like Brett Favre wouldn’t be plastered all over the media if he was charged with something like this. And you know, the Packers got Favre from the Falcons. Maybe he was in on the dog fighting too. He is from the down south. Hmmm…

You gotta love jokes about blacks, whites, Asians (slopes), purples, hot Latina whores, and old women with floppy vaginas. That’s what makes America great; we have quite the sampling to make jokes about.

Just like the unconvicted (not actually a word but it should be) Michael Vick, I too am a law breaking citizen of the United States. That’s right, I’m a rebel. Come and get me.

Ok, I didn’t actually break any laws today, but I did break into something. Leaving my house for work this morning in a bit of a hurry (due to five hits on the snooze button), I forgot my keys. It wasn’t one of those leave the house, put your shit in your car, sit in the driver’s seat and look for your keys kind of things. No, it was a close the back door to your house, hear the lock click, and then realize you don’t have your keys on you. Yeah, pretty much sucked.

I usually keep my bedroom window open. Because I’m a cheap bastard and don’t like to turn the air conditioning on, I keep the window open to get some air flow in the house. At first I tried to get that little rubber thing out that holds in the screen window. If I had a key on me I could have pried it out but of course, I didn’t have a key on me. I tried a piece of bark but that didn’t work. Then I noticed there was a bit of play in the frame with the screen window. One shift up, one shift left, and a tug at the right was all it took to pop the window off. (If you want to rob my house it’s pretty fucking easy, I just described the whole operation. There ain’t shit in my house worth stealing. Seriously, maybe my couch might be worth something, and if you’re a sexaholic I have a boat load of condoms and porn DVDs, but other than that, I gots pretty much nothin. Oh, and $10 vodka. I’ll be pissed if you take that, fucker.) Window off, I was halfway in, right? I popped the 20” box fan out of the window and my path was clear. I managed to get a chair from the deck, steadied it by the side of the house, and got the upper half of my body through the window. The only problem with the window is that it’s broken. It won’t stay up/open by itself. It needs something to hold it up. With the upper half of my body through it was my lower back/butt that was holding the window up. No big deal. No, it wasn’t a big deal till the window locked down on my knees and left me in pain and agony. And I still had to get my size 13 shoes through there. I wiggled my way through, somehow got my feet in, and fell onto my bed, panting like an out of shape 30 yr-old who just climbed through his bedroom window. Wait… I was both relieved and still astonished of what I had just done. Hell, I didn’t even care about the dirty footprints I left in the white-turned-blue carpeting (Renter’s handiwork at painting). I was in. Like I was in the “in” crowd in high school which consisted of math geeks, weekend jocks, and virgin girls. Yeah, those were the days.

And they say black guys commit the most break-ins. They ain’t got nothin on me.

Editor’s note: no black men were injured or harmed during the writing of this post. However, if you are a black/white/hispanic female, I just gave you the instructions to get into my room, into my bed, and into my heart. However, unlike the black men, you might suffer minor injuries. My knowledge of the female anatomy below the waist was forgotten on the night I conqured the eight pitcher barrier. Yeah, eight pitchers, or 384 ounces, 32 beers. I'd tell you more about it but, well, I just can't remember. Anyway ladies, I’ll be waiting…

Loser

You know you’re a loser when you haven’t checked your email in 4 days and 1) you have no email from friends/family/past hookups 2) you have more emails about window replacements than porn sites (?) 3) your Yahoo Personals weekly email only has one match and 4) your Yahoo Personals match is fucking ugly. Damn it’s good to be me.

Oh, and Katie, if you want any guy to fuck you in your fat ass you're going to have to put better pictures up there. Damn, girl.




Oh, but wait, it gets better.

The name's Katie.

Thanks, toots, kind of figured that one out when it said "Katie" at the top of your page.

I'm a full-time student, living in an apartment with three of the most amazing girls I have ever met in Saginaw.

Ok, are these like amazing fat friends or amazingly sexy and slutty hot friends?

It's really hard to catch me not smiling.

Or with food in your mouth.

I'm looking for someone that I can relax and have a great time with, whether we are lounging on the couch or are out at the bar with friends.

Trust me on this one, the Lite beer isn't really diet food.

I tend to fly by the seat of my pants.

I suppose you could use those as a parachute.

I'm not too big with living my life on a tight schedule/agenda.

Fat chicks should never say "tight."

I love working out, it's the one time that I can get lost in my thoughts and not have a care in the world.

Uh, working out? Like, in the actual gym? Yeah.

I'm a simple girl, and I just like to have a good time. If you want to know anything else, don't be afraid to ask. =)

Do you like Twinkies and Ho Hoes?


I'm sorry, just a little mean today.


But seriously Katie, does your friend playing swords with you take it up the ass? What, she's married? Let me ask you another question. Does your friend take it up the ass?

Another Four Days Off

I’m sorry dear readers, but I’ve been a little out of it lately. Not out of it like I’m losing my mind or anything, maybe more a little bit out of the loop. And busy. And drunk.

I had last week Thursday and Friday off again. I know what you might be thinking, lazy bum and all, but I usually save my vacation time for the summers to spend some quality time on the deck when it’s nice out. Pre-home purchase I would have already had my flight and hotel booked for Cancun in the fall. Cheap hotel for sure, but I figure why spend $500 for airfare and $300 for a hotel (yes, that’s for the whole week) and get completely loaded in the warm weather and sand when I can save at least $600 and just get loaded in the warm weather on the deck. Sure, I don’t have women in bikinis in front of me (which I make passionate love to in my head), but when you haven’t had sex in as long as I have the broads really don’t do much for you. Not that I don’t like broads, but I do believe that I have lost the ability to mack as Too Short would say.

So on Thursday I endured another rough Brewer’s game. I say endured as they didn’t play that well (something like 12-4) and it was unbelievably hot in the stadium. They had the roof open and all but there was absolutely no air circulation. When I left in the ninth inning I stunk of sweat, booze, and mold. It was not a pretty sight.

Friday I pulled one of my now all too common days sitting in front of the TV. I can’t even tell you what I watched, but damn, what a waste of a day.

Saturday I cleaned. This, my friends, does not happen often. As in almost never. I was getting sick of sleeping in the living room so I moved my bed back into the still not completely painted bedroom. I did laundry that was lying on the living room floor and I cleaned all the dirty dishes in the kitchen. I was sweating like a fucking pig when I got done. Eventually I took a shower and made it up to the bar for yet another five pitcher night.

Sunday I stayed in bed till 2:30. Having my bed back in my bedroom was pretty damn nice. I mentally made out a plan for the day. Get up, lift weights, finish cleaning, write on the blog, and enjoy some succulent steaks with the Sunday steak crew. Well, I’m trying to beat off this post before the crew gets here so this may be the only task that I don’t get done (gotta love relating posting to masturbating, and in some ways I really do get off on this blog!).

As far as creativeness goes, I’m sorry but this post will far well short. Usually shit just comes to me but lately I’ve been trying maybe just a bit too hard. Yes, I’ve been trying. And I’ll try to make you laugh the next time you come back.

Birthday Fart and Park

This picture was taken on the night of my 30th birthday. What you can’t see is the cloud of stench that completely engulfed us. You would think you’d be safe to drop ass when you’re standing by yourself in the corner minding your own business, staying ten feet away from anyone. Nope. I’m surprised she could still smile. But then again, if she could smile through one of the worst of my farts, maybe she could smile and even fake a moan or two while I'm attempting to sex her up. Hmmm…


Damn I look handsome in that picture.


I know I always make fun of women drivers on here... but guess where I parked today?
ON 9TH STREET!!!

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.

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.

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.

OK

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.