Plax’s Ass is Grass

Uh, did anyone catch that Michael Vick fiasco last year? Yeah, well, Plaxico Burress is facing a minimum of 3.5 years in prison for his lastest gaffe. Stupid mother fucker took a loaded handgun into a Manhattan club and shot himself in the thigh. He said he had the gun because he was “all blinged out” and had a lot of cash on him. When will these guys learn? Oh well, just another foreclosed home in Jersey on the cheap.

Dear Leslie

I want to thank you again for the lovely baseball outing your company hosted this last summer. The Brewers won, Ben Sheets allowed only one hit, and the beer flowed. Lots of beer flowed. You see, I know each person was supposed to get just two beverages. Do you know what two beverages does for me? Nothing! Two beers in my stomach is just a waste of alcohol. Twenty beers, now we’re talking. Anyway, I managed to secure a number of un-punched tickets at the Brewers game. I’d trade my punched ticket with the five-year-old’s ticket – he certainly shouldn’t be having any brew – all while resisting the urge to hit on said five-year-old’s smoking hot mom. Actually, all you [company name] people looked pretty damn hot after having consumed twenty beers. Wink, wink.

So now, with the weather changing and these damned holidays approaching, [compayny name] is sponsoring a Christmas party. My roommate (and black eye giver) signed me up for the steak dinner which I’m sure will be quite tasty. My tummy will greatly appreciate it. However, I was deeply disturbed to hear that the free beverage service will only be offered from 5:30-7:00. An hour and a half?! What the…?! Sure, Ben in accounting who never gets out on the weekends might bring his wife and get a little toasty in the hour and a half, but seasoned veterans like myself will only be left wanting more. Yeah, I’m sure I could (gasp) buy some outrageously priced drinks but with the way the economy is nowadays, hell, let’s just say I’ve been using shower gel for purposes it wasn’t intended for. Hard times, I tell you.

If I happen to stumble in to you at the entrance as you greet everyone as they arrive, well, there will be a reason for it. Just like before the Brewers game I finna have to do some pre-game preparation. I think I counted thirteen empty beer cans before I set foot in Miller Park and I’ll admit, that might have been a little excessive. I didn’t step on any little kids on the way out but I think they saw me coming and got out of the way. I’ll try to keep the prep for the Christmas party to eight or under. And I know how you HR people are. You’re going to want everyone to have a good time and do the whole meet and greet thing and make sure that everyone knows everyone else. That’s fine, just don’t try to drag me away from the beverage bar for that hour and a half. After 7:00, if you watch me closely, you might even catch me emptying my flask in my empty glass. You’re welcome to search me at the door, pat me down and all. It’ll be in the front middle pocket. Please be gentle.

B to the...

Greg Reynolds, ESPN’s “Streak for the Cash”

Greg Reynolds, ESPN’s “Streak for the Cash”
My buddy and long-time friend Greg Reynolds from Chico, California, almost won $1 million dollars last night on ESPN’s game “Streak for the Cash.” Basically you have to pick 25 games in a row without a loss to win the million dollars. What makes the game somewhat plausible is that you don’t have to pick against the spread or the Vegas line, just straight out wins.

Greg started out at the end of October with a win on the Breeders Cup. Ya, I know, why would you jeopardize everything on a stupid horse race but as Greg and I have talked about it, he had to get his first win somewhere. Greg’s called me quite a few times asking for my opinion on games and various matchups. Other times he hasn’t (when he almost lost taking Allen Iverson’s points and assists against Kobe Bryant’s points alone – Greg pushed on that one).

Sunday night my phone rang. It was just before the NFL night game and Greg wanted my opinion. I had already “given my opinion” to my man but I was getting three points; Greg wasn’t getting any points. After talking about how ugly Philip Rivers is and how LaDainian Tomlinson is getting worn out from all those TV commercials Greg decided to go with me on the Indianapolis Colts selection. The Colts won on a last second 51 yard field goal. Whew.

Greg was out of town on Monday. Greg doesn’t have AT&T so he didn’t get my call. Greg picked the Packers. Fuck.

I didn’t like this game. The line had started out with the Saints favored by three points but by kickoff the game was a pick. Three point swings in the NFL are huge, almost unheard of. Something didn’t seem right. Then six of the nine ESPN “expert” analysts picked the Packers to win, an almost sure sign that the Saints were going to triumph.

I tried calling Greg again. No answer.

I went online and saw that Greg had made his pick already but I wasn’t able to see which way he went.

I tried calling Greg again. Fuck, no answer.

Now, knowing that Greg had made his pick, well, I had to give Greg my advanced-gambler’s-addict-supreme advice. You see, with the line on the game at a pick (no points going either way), and with ESPN’s “Streak for the Cash” game not using the point spread, Greg could effectively make himself a $500,000 winner before the game even kicked off.

I know some shady people. I know some even shadier people out in California (you know, with the bright sun and all). All Greg had to do was secure $500,000 from said shady people, drive on over to Las Vegas and wager on the opposite side of the game which he picked on ESPN. If the game he picked in Vegas won, he wins $500,000. If the game on ESPN wins, he loses $500,000 to Vegas but brings in $1 million from ESPN. $500,000 winner either way. He wouldn’t even have to watch the game. He could have been sitting in the Cheetah Club getting b-jers from every skank in the establishment.

But no, Greg doesn’t have AT&T. Greg didn’t get my call. Greg certainly didn’t get any b-jers. Greg was not yelling “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”

Speaking of which, you’d be surprised by the reactions I get when I tell people I’m having KFC on Thanksgiving.

In Honor of Texas Tech Being Ranked #2

And no, I did not participate in the making of this video.

First Day Back

Uh, the gym today… I knew it was going to be rough. I didn’t think it was going to be that rough. It started out on a bad note as the lingering pec tightness I had two weeks ago was, well, still lingering. You’d think two weeks off would take care of minor shit like that. I had to stretch a bit and it seemed to go away after a while. I knew going in that I wouldn’t be able to handle the weights that I used to (245 lbs 4/5 times on the bench). I got 205 up ten times. That’s 20 lbs off of what I used to do ten times. After realizing that I lost any ambition of going up to 225 and stayed at 205 for two more sets. On to the incline. After four sets of that I was pretty much fatigued. I could feel my arms start to get wobbly on the last two sets. I got some wussy sets of dips in, a couple flat flyes, and a set of sit-ups in before I called it quits. I was beat. I looked at the clock. I had spent just under 30 minutes in the gym. It’s not like I was breathing heavy or anything (which is good considering the chest cold I had), but my arms and chest were thoroughly fatigued after two weeks of lifting activity that was limited to a beer glass and my cock. You’d be surprised at which of those two is heavier.

So, if my performance in the gym was so meager and short after just two weeks off, what’s that say about the next poor girl who steps into my bedroom after I haven’t had sex in…

…shit, I think it’s been a year now.

Poor girl.

Motivation

All the years of my life lifting weights and I have never needed a “training partner” or some other form of motivation. The mere guilt of not lifting has been enough motivation in the past. But lately, fuck, I can’t seem to drag my ass to the gym for the life of me. Oh, and trust me, I’ve had some legitimate excuses for not going lately. I’ve also had some total bullshit excuses, too. I had a chest cold for a good week that literally left me weak after doing routine shit around the house like mopping (ok, so that really shouldn’t be considered “routine” when I do it once a month). I was well enough to lift last week Thursday and Friday. That’s when the bullshit excuses started. “Oh, I haven’t lifted for a week, why not just take off the rest of the week and come back fresh on Monday?” Then Monday came and I still didn’t make it in. I don’t even know what today’s excuse was, just didn’t feel like it. And now, after taking two weeks off, I’m kind of scared to go in and utterly fail at pressing what I used to do. Hell, I even popped in the Branch Warren video for a bit this weekend to get myself psyched up for the gym. There he was with his buddy putting up 405 on the incline bench eight times. So it got me to thinking, what if I had a workout partner? First of all, I’d have an obligation to go in or else let my partner down. Second, if I found the right person, the workouts would be much more productive with little sitting around reading the paper. And having a spotter on the bench press? I haven’t really had one of those in a number of years. Every once in a while I’ll ask someone to spot me and I always get a good two or three more reps knowing I have someone to help if need be. That being said, no, my ideal training partner would not be some hot blond with fake titties out to here. I hate to put “partner” and “guy” in the same sentence, but my training partner would have to be a guy with similar size and strength as I. No FA, I’m not looking for anyone under 180 lbs, you’d be out. Oh God, sounds like I’m describing my perfect man and not a workout partner. “He’d have to have brown hair and nice abs, at least six feet tall with a cute butt.” Yeah, never mind, I’ll just go to the gym by myself tomorrow.

(FA, don’t worry, you wouldn’t fit that description either. 5’10.5” doesn’t equate to six feet tall.)

Gotta Wonder What She's Thinking...

...when she stands there looking up at you, cocking her head to the side, all the while you have your cock in your hand, beating off at a feverish pace, consentrating so hard (ha!) that you don't even notice a little puppy has entered the room. Poor pup.

Yahoo Personnal Ad

Found this one yesterday. When you put your picture up on some tame website like Yahoo, don't you usually have some kind of clothing on? This girl, nothing. Good golly, I'm surprised I'm not seeing nipple in the picture. Must be hanging a little low.

One Word

FUCK!

Presidential Race

These projected electoral figurers are shit when they have 10% of the votes in. That's like saying I'll whack off once a week for the next four years because I only did it once last week. Bullshit.

Gayest Text Message Ever

Sing it! I wanna sex you up!

One of those where you regret it immediately after hitting the send button.

Flabbergasted

Wow. Really, just wow. Somebody actually reads this site. Really, I'm not kidding. Somebody actually reads this site. I'm in awe. It seams that somebody went to my friend's bar & grill after I linked the establishment on the last post. Seriously.

So, while I have this almighty power to influence people...

You're going to vote for the RIGHT president this Tuesday, correct?

Halloween Party Recap

I usually don’t like going to parties. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I don’t like making the initial commitment to attend the party, possibly missing out on something else, or if it’s the fact that I’d probably have to talk to people I don’t know that well and more than likely make an ass out of myself when I’m ready to go and my ride isn’t. I don’t determine when it’s time, the beer does. But for some strange reason I signed up for the FA’s friend’s Halloween Party this last Friday. Not only did I say I’d go, I agreed to watch the door for $50 and free beer. $50 isn’t much but it adds up when you consider if I didn’t do the job I’d be spending $30 at the corner bar which corresponds to an $80 swing.

The evening did not start out well at all. I don’t like dressing up for things, period. This includes such things as board meetings, funerals, weddings, and especially Halloween. But I figured I had this one licked. I was going to wear the referee shirt I used to wear in college when I did 5th-8th grade basketball games, black pants and black shoes. Referee working the door, get it? I had tried on the shirt the night before and surprisingly it fit with just a little tightness in the arms. Then I went to go put on the black pants. Eight years out of college and the shirt still fit and the freaking pants I bought just two years ago didn’t fit. I mean, I got them on and everything and they would have been fine for an hour at church but most certainly not for six hours at a party where you plan on temporarily storing approximately 300 ounces of liquids somewhere. So then I got nervous. When I get nervous I sweat. There I was bent over rummaging through the ever growing pile of clothes on the bedroom floor looking for my black wind pants with drops of sweat running down my forehead. Eventually I found them and managed to calm down a bit. I was ahead of schedule but still had to get gas and cigarettes.

I drove to the gas station and filled up the tank. I had to wait in line a bit which automatically triggered the sweat glands. “Do you have gel in your hair?” the attendant asked me. It got worse when I made it all the way back to the car when I realized I forgot to buy a lighter. There I went, back to the store, waiting in line, sweating even more as my internal clock was telling me I had to get going.

I finally got on the freeway and started towards the FA’s house around 6:30. It usually takes 15-20 minutes to get there so I was looking at arriving at least 10 minutes early. This was key because I hate being late and I had two beers with me that I planned on slamming before leaving the FA’s house. And then I saw the never ending river of red lights in front of me that limited me from going any faster than 30 mph. What happened next? Yep, you got it, started sweating all over again. Constantly had a cigarette lit for the whole trip. After two wrong turns I arrived right at 7:00. Not too bad, I guess. What was bad was realizing that I had locked my keys in the car. Not good.

We had to wait for WoFA’s (Wife of Financial Advisor) friend to show up so we could all ride in one car. I drank my beer and made small talk with the FA’s mom and even smaller talk with PBR (FA’s 18-mo-old daughter). I’m telling you, I can get that kid to smile every time. Eventually the friend showed up and we hit the road.

It took us a while but we found the place. FA’s friend had gotten a warehouse which was located in a dimly lit industrial park. Inside he had partitioned it off into two rooms. The first room was like a dance floor with the DJ, speakers, and stripper pole. The back room included the bar, some tables, and the bathroom. Overall it was a pretty nice setup with the lighting and decorations.

Yes, I was the first one to test out the keg. I have no idea what kind of beer it was but you know how that goes: free beer always tastes good. For some reason it was always real foamy and you could only get about eight ounces in the 16 ounce cups. No big deal if you’re just an attendee, but when you have to stay all the way on the other side of the building by the front door, yeah, I had some growing concerns. I took my position at about 8:00. He had a narrow hallway set up right inside the door so instead of blocking traffic I decided to “set up shop” outside. It was still fairly nice outside, probably around 50 degrees and clear.

People started to arrive shortly after. We weren’t the only ones to have problems finding the place. The people who had found it were outside on their cell phone trying to help out their friends. There was this one chick dressed up in one of those short skirt jobbies with her hair in ponytails. She was on her phone trying to give her friend directions.

Girl: What was your name again?

Me: B to the…

Girl, back on phone: B to the… is standing outside the door and he has a referee outfit on. (Hangs up phone.) When my friends come they’ll probably ask for me. I’m Robin. Or Phoenix, people know me by that name, too.

I remembered the FA had said that there might be some strippers attending the party. I wanted to make a joke about wanting my own second name but after realizing that I was talking to a real live stripper my mind went absolutely blank (a real live stripper folks!). Sure enough, when her friend arrived she too was of the dancing profession. Yeah baby, things were looking up!

And then it started to rain. Then it got really cold. I was secretly cursing the FA for not informing me that there wasn’t any smoking allowed inside till the day of the party. Had I known that earlier I probably wouldn’t have gone but here it was the day of and the guy expected me to help him out. The rain was fairly constant but not overly heavy, just bad enough that people didn’t want to stand outside and smoke. The women would stand in the doorway with the door open and smoke. This worked fairly well except for the fact that the music was really loud and we wanted to keep it quiet outside. The guys seemed to be able to tough it out better than the women (surprising).

With people constantly going out for smokes I had to make sure that nobody went outside with a beverage. After the first couple people made their way out I went and grabbed a table for people to put their drinks on. This seemed to work out ok. There were three different colored cups so it wasn’t that hard to determine which drink was whose. I started making a little game out of it for myself. I tried to remember which cup belonged to whom and when they came back in from outside with a blank face, obviously not remembering which one was theirs, I’d help them out to which they were very thankful. I didn’t get any blowjobs or anything for my effort was I did get a butt squeeze by none other than WoFA’s cousin. She even playfully poked at my stomach (thank GOD I was both sucking it in and flexing!).

(Seriously, Kat, you looked good on Friday. When are we going to do that dinner/drinks/sex thing that we both know is inevitable?)

Later in the evening it started to get lively. The stripper pole got lots of use. The strippers were showing off their moves (while clothed) to the delight of the crowd. Two of them even did one of their little routines where they both spun around the pole at the same time. I got to see a lot of ass throughout the night. I was standing by the door talking to one of the FA’s friends when I noticed somebody was down to their bra and panties. There was so much smoke in the room from the fog machine that it was hard to tell who it was. I nudged Teeg and pointed out the half naked person when it hit me who it was: WoFA. We looked at each other. “Should we feel bad for checking out his wife?” We got closer for a better view.

(Oh, and Teeg, thank you and your group for getting me beer while I stayed by the door. I know you got me two and your wife’s friend got me two – greatly appreciated!)

The party started to wind down around 12:30 a.m. with people leaving at a slow pace. I got to leave the door position and mingle with people a bit more. I had some catching up to do in the beer department and took full advantage of the keg. At some point the first keg had gone dry and they had a new one that didn’t produce so much foam. I don’t think I strayed more than ten feet away from the barrel. I talked with my old mortgage guy Hairy (Mr. Sweater Vest himself!) about his new line of business, the stock market and basic investment strategies. I have to make it over to his bar & grill one of these days. He’s got a new line of chicken wings (12 flavors!) that more than a couple people spoke very highly off.

(There you go, Hairy, free advertising on this insanely popular internet blog! I’ll take payment in free beer! Oh, and I just linked the yellowpages.com site. If you have an actual website feel free to send it to me. I couldn't find it.)

I could tell the party was really starting to slow down and went into Competitive Drinker mode. I was within arms reach of the keg for the last half hour of the party. I don’t know what’s worse, being drunk and not able to leave when “it’s time” or not having enough to drink when your ride says it’s time. I was going to make sure it wasn’t the latter. Around 2:00 my friends were ready. I didn’t know it but apparently I was ready, too. I chugged my last beer, said my goodbyes, turned around and walked straight into the stripper pole. No, I didn’t do that, but I might have. That’s about where my evening ended as far as the memories go.

The WoFA’s friend drove us home. The FA had this grand master plan that the friend would sleep over at his house instead of drive all the way to her place. And then, in the middle of the night, I would seduce her to the point where she would put out (or pass out, in which case she’d still put out!). But like I said, I didn’t get to talk with her too much at the party since I was both standing by the door and directly in front of a speaker. I didn’t have the opportunity to dip into my magic bag of tricks and seduction (in other words, lies). She was absolutely smoking, too, dressed up like a cop with a skirt that barely covered her ass and a plunging neckline button down cop shirt. Smoking hot.

I woke up Saturday morning to cartoons. PBR was in the living room playing. The FA was walking around in his boxers (dude!). The arm that I was sleeping on hurt from the snug arms on the referee shirt. The FA played this clip on his phone that was supposedly me snoring. I don’t snore so I have no idea what he was talking about. I had a raging headache and a severe need to eat. I went outside for a cigarette and got the keys out of the Jeep in less than three minutes without damaging the top. I drove home around noon and headed directly to the bar for some food and beer. I figured a pitcher or two would take care of the headache but I was wrong about that. After a three hour nap I was still in pain. I still had the headache after four pitchers. I sent the FA a text and he too was hurting. I don’t know if it was just cheap beer or if someone drugged my beer in order to get at my trouser snake or what. Come to think of it, my butt was a little sore in the morning and the FA sure seemed to be in a good mood. Hmmmm…

Thank You, Dear Reader

Yeah, I know I haven't really posted much lately. I suck. But it was really nice that one of you noticed and called me out on it! Nicolina wrote in: Only 5 posts so far for October? You're starting to slack in your old age. Hey, what's with the old age crap? Anyway, there's just shit going on that I really don't want to vent about on here. Like the Renter getting another puppy without consulting me. Great, now I have to potty train another puppy (loads of fun) with a lovely Wisconsin winter right around the corner. I'm sure this will go smoothly (little bit of sarcasm there). Mom, that's a whole nother story. It seems like every time I go over there she makes some kind of comment about how Dad's a piece of shit or something. Today it was, "All my financial statements are right in this drawer, they always have been. I never hid anything like your father did." Or the other day, "I wish he just would have said he loved me." Or, "It seems like your father has gotten over this, guess I should too." Ya, mom, maybe you shouldn't have written all those nasty Post-it notes that I know for a fact that Dad kept. And then there's this Halloween party on Friday that I'd like to go to by myself but fat chance on that happening. You know how women dress up like sluts for Halloween? Well, just imagine what the five or so strippers that are supposed to be there will be wearing! So really, there hasn't been much to write about, nothing that wouldn't sound totally dramatic and boring (like this post is turning out).

But I figured I might give you a story from way back in the year 2000.

Shana: What smells?

Me: Huh?

Shana: It smells like cat shit down here.

Shana spent a good 15 minutes looking under her bed and in her closet. I just stood there and watched her. She had her cousin come down to her room to try to find out what the odor was. They both looked for another 15 minutes. I stood in the doorway trying not to get in their way.

I didn't have the heart to tell her it was the white stuff coming from her vagina. Banging her from behind and I'm looking at this stuff with my head directly over it with the fumes wafting up with every thrust. I mean, how can you tell a girl her vagina smells like cat shit?

Shana, God were you a fucking slut. Loved watching those titties bounce, though.

I Blame M&I Bank...

...for not being open at 8:15 yesterday morning.  I was going to deposit the $800 profit from the weekend gambling at the casino.  But they weren't fucking open!  The main office opened at 9:00.  What, are they cutting back on the hours with the market being all fucked up?  So yeah, lost the $800 last night - and then some - because my bank of 18 years wasn't there for me.  And you want to know the funny thing?  I'm not even fazed one bit.  Lost a lot more than that yesterday in the supposedly "safe" mutual fund market.  I sure as hell hope somebody is strapped down with a three foot long dildo stuck in his ass for all this.

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Hungry

I was tired last night and didn't drink that much. Woke up this morning feeling as starved as Madonna looks lately. Guess my body missed those extra 1,000 calories of beer.

Triple Steak Burrito

After watching a good seven or eight hours of football on Sunday, I had to have seen that ad for Taco Bell's Triple Steak Burrito a good 25 times. You know the one, where the four guys are at the restaurant and the waiter brings them their tiny as fuck pieces of meat? The fourth guy has his Taco Bell delivered through the window and pulls out this big'ol burrito. Looked good, right? Well, after seeing that commercial enough times I had to have one. Way to go marketing gurus. I applaud you.

Assholes.

What I got was a burrito that tasted like... nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sure, there was rice and steak and some kind of sauce in there but it didn't taste like anything. And for $4? Taco Bell, bastards, you owe me. What happened to the affordable meals you used to offer to the hardworking man after a nice day/evening of drinking. That's why you were one of the first to stay open late, wasn't it? Cheap, affordable food for the somewhat inebriated customer? (And they have a drive through - classic!)

I'll admit, the burrito was quite large and had some girth to it (not like I'd actually know what "girth" means, just sounded good here), but it had no flavor to it at all. I was thoroughly disappointed.

I Really Shouldn’t Be Upset - Should I?

Last week Saturday I filled up the Jeep at $3.39 a gallon.  Here it is six days later and I've seen stations selling gas for $2.99.  Should I be upset because I put in 10 gallons and could have paid $4 less for those 10 gallons now?  Along the same line, should I be absolutely kicking myself, feeling down in the dumps, on the verge of a clinical depression, about losing $1,000 at the casino on Sunday when I won $1,500 on Saturday?  You'd think I'd be somewhat happy just being up $500 but no, I still feel like I lost $1,000.  I had it in my hands.
 
And then today I looked at my investments.  Years and years of saving crippled in a matter of days.  Looks like I'll have to go back to blowing the wait staff at the Mexican restaurant again.  God I hope those guys have changed their hygiene habits.  Nothing a little sour cream can't cover up but still…
 
Talk about having it in your hands...

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I’m Inept

Last week the Jeep started making some clunking sounds when I’d hit a bump or turn into a driveway. I can change the oil, swap tires, replace the air filter, rip apart the dash to install a new radio, even put on a new soft top but when it comes to things that go “bump” (in the night) I’m pretty much clueless. It got so bad on Thursday night that I actually started to freak out a bit. Maybe not freak out but I was a bit down and out. I actually went to the corner bar on what was a very nice fall night temperature wise, just to get my mind off of it.

That night I had some fucked up dreams. First I got arrested for stealing soda cans from a soda machine at a rest stop on the freeway. I don’t know why my friend and I didn’t go for the money; no, we went for the soda. As we walked out of the building there were like 40 cops waiting for us. For some reason they weren’t real cops but the training type cops from Police Academy. My friend had four guys on top of him since he tried to flee the scene. I had some hot chic leading me by the hand. I think I got the better end of the deal on that one. Somehow my parents were in there, there was something going on at a water park, and even the little puppy made an appearance. Just plain weird.

Friday morning I dropped the Jeep off at a Firestone shop that’s close to my work. I skipped the gym that day just incase they happened to call around the lunch hour. I didn’t get the call till 2:30. They said they drove it around and couldn’t get it to make the noise but they did notice the sway bar links were almost shot. The price tag: $270. I asked the guy if they were easy to fix and he said they weren’t too hard. I asked him how much if I just came back and picked up the Jeep without doing the repairs and he told me $23. $23 to inspect the whole vehicle which included removing each wheel and checking out the brakes. I know what its like to take off those 31” tires; ain’t fun. So I picked it up knowing that one of the Renter’s friends would be over on Saturday to look at it.

Saturday I picked up the sway bar links for $80. The friend was going to stop over around 5:30 so I had plenty of time to get the new stainless steel exhaust system put on. I figured it wouldn’t be that bad. All the parts were designed to bolt on directly to the factory mounts. So I jacked up the back of the Jeep and took off the right side tire. I took off the rear mounting bracket and moved up to the front one. The stock muffler bolted on to the catalytic converter with two nuts that were partially blocked by a skid plate. The skid plate was bolted on with eight rather large bolts. I had the damndest time getting those off but I figured once that was off I could reach the other bolts without a problem. I left one bolt on the left hand side. As soon as I took the last one off the right hand side the whole transmission dropped a good four inches. I freaked out. As if I wasn’t sweating enough somehow my sweat pores found reserves that instantly soaked my shirt. I tried to get the last bolt back in but I was lifting both the skid plate and the transmission as I tried to get the bolt back in the hole. It didn’t work. There my Jeep sat with the transmission being held up by just the engine connection and motor mounts. And I couldn’t do anything about it.

I went on the deck to watch the Brewers game. I cracked open a couple beers. I figured as soon as the friend showed up we could get everything back together. At least that’s what I hoped.

3:00 came and went. 4:00 came and went. The Renter asked why I was crabby to which I responded with the customary, “I’m not crabby!” at which point I was then crabby at being accused of being crabby. The Renter went inside to watch TV leaving me alone outside with the puppy and the inoperable Jeep.

I looked at my watch: 5:00. I started to panic. I could feel the sweat pores open the floodgates once again. I had to walk around to keep air circulating in my shorts. The cans of beer started to flow at a slightly faster pace.

Our friend showed up at 5:30 on the dot. He took one look at the Jeep. “Exhaust project isn’t going so well?” We looked at it together and he too was surprised that the skid plate was what held up the transmission so I didn’t feel like a total idiot. We got the bolts off the catalytic converter and realized that we’d need to cut the old exhaust off to get it out. I ran to Checker Auto (Renter driving) and picked up a hacksaw since I didn’t have anything at the house that would cut it. By the time I got back he had one of the links fixed and was working on the second one. In all it took him 40 minutes to replace them both. Firestone wanted $270 for $80 in parts and 40 minutes of labor. Dillweeds.

I started hacking away at the tailpipe. Dude, I’m telling you, they should have a freaking hacksaw in the weight room. My hand, triceps, and chest all cramped up after only five minutes of sawing back and forth. After a good 20 minutes and a lot of sweat I had the tailpipe off. Then it was 7:00 and starting to get dark.

We got the new muffler and tailpipe staged in its location fairly easily. We got his jack underneath the skid plate and were able to get the transmission back into its proper location. Everything lined up properly so we tightened it all up. The last piece that I touched was the clamp that held the tailpipe on to the muffler. Yup, I fucked it up. I cross-threaded the nuts on the first try. I had to go and buy a new clamp from the parts store the next morning. The thing that sucks is I think the clamp that came with it was also stainless steel. The one I bought on Sunday was just a cheapie $5 one. I’ll have to find out from the manufacturer what the deal is.

When it comes to simple things I can handle them fairly easily. Fix a toilet seat: check. Change a light bulb: check. Replacing the exhaust or even painting a room: I fail miserably. Hell, I have to have the lights on during sex or who knows where I'd be sticking it.

Damn Tired

But I'm up $1,900 on the casino in the last three days, or should I say late nights/early mornings.