Everybody does it. You eat, you digest, you poop. I do it, you do it, he does it, she does it. Basically, everybody does it. However, I am not your average pooper.
It has been well documented on this site that I am more or less a connoisseur of poop. Like your fine wine tasters and movie reviewers, I have become an expert in the field of poop, even earned a doctorate from an acclaimed university. I know my poop.
There are many kinds of poop. There’s runny poop, clumpy poop, fat poop, skinny poop, long poop, pellet poop, smooth poop, jagged poop, corn poop, lettuce poop, lactose intolerant poop, silent poop, noisy poop, splashing poop, messy poop, clean poop, and my personal favorite, smelly poop. I have been known to take many large, smelly poops. I might have even taken pictures of some of them and posted them on this blog. However, over the last 14 months of living at my current house I have never needed to use the plunger. Somehow, someway, everything manages to make its way down the drain without a problem.
The Renter keeps on telling this story about how I took the plunger and plunged her head with it one night. I don’t remember doing it but I’ll take her word for it. The story sounds a little off the wall but then again it is me we’re talking about. When she tells the story people give me mean, disgusting, “How could you do that?” looks. What they don’t understand is that I have never used the thing and it’s perfectly clean.
On Sunday I grabbed the plunger and took it into the Renter’s room.
Me: I don’t see what the big deal is, this thing is perfectly clean. You could even eat off of it.
I held it up to my mouth and licked it.
The Renter jumped back and screamed, stunned that I had just licked the plunger.
Me: What? I’ve never used it.
Renter: Maybe not, but I have.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Been Busy
For all my fans out there (even if you don't like to admit it), I've been busy lately. Not busy like I've usually been, just lazy, but busy as in "Oh my God I can't spend time typing for this stupid blog" kind of busy. In other words, I sort of fell in love over the past five/six days. And if you know me, this kind of shit doesn't happen often if ever (you gotta love that I just said I fell in love and then coined it as "this shit" in the next sentence). So, please forgive me, but I promise, I will let you in on everything soon.
If you ask nicely I can post a penis picture or something to keep you entertained.
B to the...
If you ask nicely I can post a penis picture or something to keep you entertained.
B to the...
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
G and the Mattress
I had off on Monday. I hated waking up so much last Monday that I took a vacation day just so I wouldn’t have to. I still woke up fairly early but instead of getting up and getting ready for work I just laid there with the cool breeze gently flowing through the open windows. After a couple hours of that I started to feel like a woman in a bubble bath with candles all around so I decided to get up and watch some TV. I watched three MTV shows and three “other” shows and started to get bored (you can only watch so many “other” shows before you start to cramp up). And then there was a knock on the door.
G: What are you doing?
B to the…: Nothing, just took the day off.
G: Do you want to go out bumming around?
(bumming around?)
B to the…: Sure. Let me go and get changed.
G and I swung by Menards to return some items he had bought there. Then we browsed through Walmart like a couple of little old ladies. The last stop: Verlo, the mattress company.
Apparently G had purchased a new mattress and box spring and wanted me to help him with it. We had his van with the rack and ladders on the top and we were going to put the mattress on top of them. Being the only one who could reach the racks I was the one who had to tie everything on. The shop had twine available and G had some bungee cords. I just tied knots where G said and everything looked peachy.
The Verlo guys had said that we shouldn’t take it on the freeway. As we pulled out of the lot I started offering up routes back to G’s house that would be nice and slow.
G: Minimum speed on the freeway is 45 mph, we’ll be fine.
Two miles later…
B to the…: Ah, G, it just fell off.
G looks out both of his mirrors, now 2.5 miles in…
B to the…: Ah, I wasn’t kidding. It fell off.
G, pulling over: I didn’t think you were serious. If I had been watching and it fell off I would have been yelling my head off.
I heard the snap, saw it fly off, saw the semi veer over five feet to avoid it, and watched as it settled on the side of the road. G backed up the half mile down the freeway to the point of incident. He picked up the bungee cords, I picked up the mattress.
With the mattress leaning against the van G tried to reattach the box spring. We untied the twine and configured a new method to keep it down. We had the right hand side of the van done when G called from the left side.
G: B to the…, come over here and tie this.
I walked over to the corner of the van.
B to the…: But there are cars on that side.
G: Just stand close to the van, you’ll be alright.
Dude, fuck that! Do you honestly think I’d stand on the side of the van where semis are passing mere feet away from my feet? I saw the way the turbulence was whipping his shirt and hair around, surely one good blow could knock me off balance and into the oncoming traffic. And I’ve seen those cop videos where they have someone pulled over and another car barrels into the officers. There I am standing next to G’s van one second, the next my face and chest are smeared down the length of the van leaving red streaks and flesh that may or may not be eyeballs hanging off of what used to be the mounting bracket that held the side mirror on. Dude, fuck that!
So after I had finished the left hand side G realized we only tied on the box spring and not the mattress. I had to do it all over again.
G: What are you doing?
B to the…: Nothing, just took the day off.
G: Do you want to go out bumming around?
(bumming around?)
B to the…: Sure. Let me go and get changed.
G and I swung by Menards to return some items he had bought there. Then we browsed through Walmart like a couple of little old ladies. The last stop: Verlo, the mattress company.
Apparently G had purchased a new mattress and box spring and wanted me to help him with it. We had his van with the rack and ladders on the top and we were going to put the mattress on top of them. Being the only one who could reach the racks I was the one who had to tie everything on. The shop had twine available and G had some bungee cords. I just tied knots where G said and everything looked peachy.
The Verlo guys had said that we shouldn’t take it on the freeway. As we pulled out of the lot I started offering up routes back to G’s house that would be nice and slow.
G: Minimum speed on the freeway is 45 mph, we’ll be fine.
Two miles later…
B to the…: Ah, G, it just fell off.
G looks out both of his mirrors, now 2.5 miles in…
B to the…: Ah, I wasn’t kidding. It fell off.
G, pulling over: I didn’t think you were serious. If I had been watching and it fell off I would have been yelling my head off.
I heard the snap, saw it fly off, saw the semi veer over five feet to avoid it, and watched as it settled on the side of the road. G backed up the half mile down the freeway to the point of incident. He picked up the bungee cords, I picked up the mattress.
With the mattress leaning against the van G tried to reattach the box spring. We untied the twine and configured a new method to keep it down. We had the right hand side of the van done when G called from the left side.
G: B to the…, come over here and tie this.
I walked over to the corner of the van.
B to the…: But there are cars on that side.
G: Just stand close to the van, you’ll be alright.
Dude, fuck that! Do you honestly think I’d stand on the side of the van where semis are passing mere feet away from my feet? I saw the way the turbulence was whipping his shirt and hair around, surely one good blow could knock me off balance and into the oncoming traffic. And I’ve seen those cop videos where they have someone pulled over and another car barrels into the officers. There I am standing next to G’s van one second, the next my face and chest are smeared down the length of the van leaving red streaks and flesh that may or may not be eyeballs hanging off of what used to be the mounting bracket that held the side mirror on. Dude, fuck that!
So after I had finished the left hand side G realized we only tied on the box spring and not the mattress. I had to do it all over again.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Michael Vick's $10K
Michael Vick, Virginia Tech alum, donated $10K to assist families affected by the massacre at Virginia Tech. Michael Vick, Atlanta Falcons quarterback, makes $23 million a year (not including endorsements). $10K to Michael Vick is like $25 to me. I spend that on beer 6.5 nights of the week. I’m sure Michael Vick has spent more than that on a set of rims (dubs) for one of his cars. As one of my friends said, those are the kind of donations that you wish to remain anonymous.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Camp Philippe
When I was a youngster all the guys in my grade school class would go to camp together for a week in the summertime. Well, all the cool guys at least. And yes, I was somewhat cool back then. I don’t know exactly what has happened since then. I really don’t want to think about it lest you find me huddled in a corner in a pool of tears.
Camp was freaking awesome! They had 12 cabins for campers to sleep in. We’d always get our own cabin without any “outsiders.” All the other cabins had different groups of kids in them; two friends from Madison, three guys from here or there. We had the only cabin where everyone knew each other.
Of the 12 cabins, four were designated for guys. Just doing a little arithmetic here… that leaves eight cabins of girls. Doing a little more math… that’s a two to one ratio of girls to guys. And you wonder why we went back every year.
Now that I think about it, you wouldn’t think that many girls would like to go to camp. We had electricity and heat, but there were four showers (two guy, two girl) on the whole premises. Anyway, there were girls there, lots of them. And I fell in love with 64% of them every summer.
Each morning you’d find out which cabin you’d be paired up with for the daily activities. Each morning I’d wake up with a woody hoping for the cabin with all the hot girls.
We’d play a lot of field games, arts and crafts, bible study, sand volleyball, swim in the lake, and play on the ropes course. The volleyball games got fairly competitive as the years went on and we always had a solid team. It was always nice when swim time came around and the girls put on their bathing suits. (For the record, I’m semi-reliving this right now so I’m a 13 year old. I don’t think about 13 year old girls that way anymore. Just so this doesn’t sound sick or anything.) We put up with the bible study and the arts and crafts. The ropes course was usually pretty challenging.
One year we were climbing into this giant cargo net. It was suspended off the ground ten feet up and you needed people to help you get in it. I got my hands on the edge, then my chest over the edge, and finally I had my entire upper body in the net with my feet still hanging out. I’m not exactly sure what happened next, but I ended up doing a summersault into the bottom of the net, with each foot sliding into a different hole. There I was in front of all my friends and a group of girls I was trying to mack on with my feet sticking out the bottom of the net and a single piece of rope between my legs holding me up. Boys and girls, it was painful. I managed to get out myself but by the end of the night girls I didn’t even know were coming up to me and asking me about it. Not exactly the way you want to become popular at camp.
Another year I saw one of my friends crap in the swamp. Guess he couldn’t hold it.
Another year I broke the cabin door down because we thought it was cool when I hit the door and the cabin walls shook.
Another year we shaved half of a guy’s head. Just the left half.
Another year I wrote a girl a love letter which included words such as “I haven’t been” and “getting around” and “the bases lately.” Yeah, she never spoke to me again.
Another year I got dumped by a girl before the Friday night movie because I didn’t know what the fucking bases were.
Another year de-pantsing was the shit (and may have gotten me in trouble later in life).
Another year I got my penis stuck in someone’s clay art and had to break it in half to get it out. Sorry if that was yours.
Our last year there we were eighth graders. The guys who ran the camp told us how much they liked everyone and invited us to be counselors the following year. One friend and I signed up for two weeks straight the next summer.
The first week was pretty normal. We just had to watch over some little rug rats and make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be.
The campers left on Saturday and everyone went into town to do laundry. Being a freshman in high school I had never done my laundry before. One of the female counselors helped me out. She even put everything in the wash machine for me, even the underwear that had streaks in them. I shit you not.
That night my friend and I thought it would be cool to sleep in the same cabin with the female counselors. We were two 14 year olds, innocent enough, and really didn’t want to sleep in a cabin all by ourselves. So we went downstairs and had a good old fashioned co-ed slumber party.
The next day the camp ringleader found out and we were never invited back again.
Fast forward to 2007. The Renter and I met this girl on a quiet Tuesday at the bar. She goes to the Lutheran college down the street from the bar. She isn’t completely normal. The Renter calls her a Bible thumper. She has never had sex even though she gets really curious when the Renter starts talking about it. And she works at the same camp I went to every summer.
Last Saturday she introduced me to all her friends at the table. “Hey B to the…, I’d like you to meet my friends. This is blah blah, this is blah blah, this is blah blah.” Yeah, in one ear right out the other. Her friends looked less normal than she did. And then, “B to the… got kicked out of the camp I work at.” That’s ok, spread the word, it can only boost my bad boy reputation. (I don’t have a bad boy reputation, quite the opposite. Playing pool on Monday night some guy said that I cheated. I rolled my eyes at my 42 year old friend who loudly proclaimed that I’m the most honest person in the whole bar. Which also has its downfalls as they always make me keep score for the dice games, but oh well, nice to know that you’re trusted.)
Later that night the Bible thumper came up to me. “I’m sorry for telling everyone about the camp thing. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings or anything.” You know you’re getting old when you’re 30 and don’t give a shit about what happened 16 years ago and a 21 year old thinks it’s a big deal.
Camp was freaking awesome! They had 12 cabins for campers to sleep in. We’d always get our own cabin without any “outsiders.” All the other cabins had different groups of kids in them; two friends from Madison, three guys from here or there. We had the only cabin where everyone knew each other.
Of the 12 cabins, four were designated for guys. Just doing a little arithmetic here… that leaves eight cabins of girls. Doing a little more math… that’s a two to one ratio of girls to guys. And you wonder why we went back every year.
Now that I think about it, you wouldn’t think that many girls would like to go to camp. We had electricity and heat, but there were four showers (two guy, two girl) on the whole premises. Anyway, there were girls there, lots of them. And I fell in love with 64% of them every summer.
Each morning you’d find out which cabin you’d be paired up with for the daily activities. Each morning I’d wake up with a woody hoping for the cabin with all the hot girls.
We’d play a lot of field games, arts and crafts, bible study, sand volleyball, swim in the lake, and play on the ropes course. The volleyball games got fairly competitive as the years went on and we always had a solid team. It was always nice when swim time came around and the girls put on their bathing suits. (For the record, I’m semi-reliving this right now so I’m a 13 year old. I don’t think about 13 year old girls that way anymore. Just so this doesn’t sound sick or anything.) We put up with the bible study and the arts and crafts. The ropes course was usually pretty challenging.
One year we were climbing into this giant cargo net. It was suspended off the ground ten feet up and you needed people to help you get in it. I got my hands on the edge, then my chest over the edge, and finally I had my entire upper body in the net with my feet still hanging out. I’m not exactly sure what happened next, but I ended up doing a summersault into the bottom of the net, with each foot sliding into a different hole. There I was in front of all my friends and a group of girls I was trying to mack on with my feet sticking out the bottom of the net and a single piece of rope between my legs holding me up. Boys and girls, it was painful. I managed to get out myself but by the end of the night girls I didn’t even know were coming up to me and asking me about it. Not exactly the way you want to become popular at camp.
Another year I saw one of my friends crap in the swamp. Guess he couldn’t hold it.
Another year I broke the cabin door down because we thought it was cool when I hit the door and the cabin walls shook.
Another year we shaved half of a guy’s head. Just the left half.
Another year I wrote a girl a love letter which included words such as “I haven’t been” and “getting around” and “the bases lately.” Yeah, she never spoke to me again.
Another year I got dumped by a girl before the Friday night movie because I didn’t know what the fucking bases were.
Another year de-pantsing was the shit (and may have gotten me in trouble later in life).
Another year I got my penis stuck in someone’s clay art and had to break it in half to get it out. Sorry if that was yours.
Our last year there we were eighth graders. The guys who ran the camp told us how much they liked everyone and invited us to be counselors the following year. One friend and I signed up for two weeks straight the next summer.
The first week was pretty normal. We just had to watch over some little rug rats and make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be.
The campers left on Saturday and everyone went into town to do laundry. Being a freshman in high school I had never done my laundry before. One of the female counselors helped me out. She even put everything in the wash machine for me, even the underwear that had streaks in them. I shit you not.
That night my friend and I thought it would be cool to sleep in the same cabin with the female counselors. We were two 14 year olds, innocent enough, and really didn’t want to sleep in a cabin all by ourselves. So we went downstairs and had a good old fashioned co-ed slumber party.
The next day the camp ringleader found out and we were never invited back again.
Fast forward to 2007. The Renter and I met this girl on a quiet Tuesday at the bar. She goes to the Lutheran college down the street from the bar. She isn’t completely normal. The Renter calls her a Bible thumper. She has never had sex even though she gets really curious when the Renter starts talking about it. And she works at the same camp I went to every summer.
Last Saturday she introduced me to all her friends at the table. “Hey B to the…, I’d like you to meet my friends. This is blah blah, this is blah blah, this is blah blah.” Yeah, in one ear right out the other. Her friends looked less normal than she did. And then, “B to the… got kicked out of the camp I work at.” That’s ok, spread the word, it can only boost my bad boy reputation. (I don’t have a bad boy reputation, quite the opposite. Playing pool on Monday night some guy said that I cheated. I rolled my eyes at my 42 year old friend who loudly proclaimed that I’m the most honest person in the whole bar. Which also has its downfalls as they always make me keep score for the dice games, but oh well, nice to know that you’re trusted.)
Later that night the Bible thumper came up to me. “I’m sorry for telling everyone about the camp thing. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings or anything.” You know you’re getting old when you’re 30 and don’t give a shit about what happened 16 years ago and a 21 year old thinks it’s a big deal.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
I Fought the Waist and…
A week ago I received a flyer in the mail for Kohl’s department store. I get them about once a month with their special promotions for this or for that. Usually they have offers of 15% or 20% off anything in the store. This one was for 30% off anything in the store. If I were a woman I’d have this image in my head that would read “Practically Free!” with bright flashing lights.
But I’m not a woman, just a tight ass soon to be old man, but hell, for 30% off I’ll take a look.
I haven’t really bought any work clothes in quite some time. My navy blue dockers are starting to look like North Carolina blue. My tan pants would be perfect camouflage gear on the white sand beaches in Mexico. I’ve cut hanging strings from the bottoms of my green pants so many times there is hardly any cuff left. Mr. Fudd’s daughter said one of my shirts was kind of confusing (what’s wrong with checkers?). So I figured it was probably about time for some new clothes.
I walked in the store and out of habit I wandered over to the shoe section (surprise). After looking at (fondling) a dozen shoes I headed over to the shorts section. For some reason every casual short they had would have made me look like John Stockton back in his heyday.
I looked at my watch; ten minutes had already passed. I knew that I only had 20 minutes left till I started sweating profusely from the pain and anxiety of shopping. I made my way over to the casual pants and found my favorite brand. Just for the hell of it I grabbed a certain size and ducked into the dressing room. And you know what? They fit like a glove! The length was perfect, the waist was perfect; it was like the pants were made specifically for me. I hate trying on clothes at a store and this is usually when I begin to sweat, but not this time. Finding the perfect pants on the first try was like winning the World Series for me. I was elated. The only bad thing? After being a size 36” waist since I was a freshman in high school, I was now wearing a size 38” pant that had no intentions of freely falling off my hips. Yes my friends, I am now 30 and officially have fat pants. They even have the elastic bands on the sides for future expansion. Don’t worry, I planned ahead for that and bought a 40” belt.
I went back to the rack and grabbed two other colors of the same brand, same size. I love getting new things and trying to be different. I bought navy blue pants, tan pants, and green pants. They are the exact same brand and exact same color as the pants I bought two and a half years ago, just two inches bigger in the waist.
I fought the waist and the waist won.
After this life changing experience I raced home and put on the jogging shoes. I ran two miles with only stopping six(teen) times.
And for the record I blame this all on sit-ups. Instead of doing sit-ups like women do, I like to add weight so I’m dead after 20 reps. If I can do 25 sit-ups while holding a ten pound weight behind my head I’ll add another five pounds to it. My abs are massive.
Or it could be the beer and late night feeding frenzies.
Next thing you know I’ll have to get special underwear made for my balls that hang down to my knees.
But I’m not a woman, just a tight ass soon to be old man, but hell, for 30% off I’ll take a look.I haven’t really bought any work clothes in quite some time. My navy blue dockers are starting to look like North Carolina blue. My tan pants would be perfect camouflage gear on the white sand beaches in Mexico. I’ve cut hanging strings from the bottoms of my green pants so many times there is hardly any cuff left. Mr. Fudd’s daughter said one of my shirts was kind of confusing (what’s wrong with checkers?). So I figured it was probably about time for some new clothes.
I walked in the store and out of habit I wandered over to the shoe section (surprise). After looking at (fondling) a dozen shoes I headed over to the shorts section. For some reason every casual short they had would have made me look like John Stockton back in his heyday.
I looked at my watch; ten minutes had already passed. I knew that I only had 20 minutes left till I started sweating profusely from the pain and anxiety of shopping. I made my way over to the casual pants and found my favorite brand. Just for the hell of it I grabbed a certain size and ducked into the dressing room. And you know what? They fit like a glove! The length was perfect, the waist was perfect; it was like the pants were made specifically for me. I hate trying on clothes at a store and this is usually when I begin to sweat, but not this time. Finding the perfect pants on the first try was like winning the World Series for me. I was elated. The only bad thing? After being a size 36” waist since I was a freshman in high school, I was now wearing a size 38” pant that had no intentions of freely falling off my hips. Yes my friends, I am now 30 and officially have fat pants. They even have the elastic bands on the sides for future expansion. Don’t worry, I planned ahead for that and bought a 40” belt.I went back to the rack and grabbed two other colors of the same brand, same size. I love getting new things and trying to be different. I bought navy blue pants, tan pants, and green pants. They are the exact same brand and exact same color as the pants I bought two and a half years ago, just two inches bigger in the waist.
I fought the waist and the waist won.
After this life changing experience I raced home and put on the jogging shoes. I ran two miles with only stopping six(teen) times.
And for the record I blame this all on sit-ups. Instead of doing sit-ups like women do, I like to add weight so I’m dead after 20 reps. If I can do 25 sit-ups while holding a ten pound weight behind my head I’ll add another five pounds to it. My abs are massive.
Or it could be the beer and late night feeding frenzies.
Next thing you know I’ll have to get special underwear made for my balls that hang down to my knees.
Fridge
I now have a fridge in my garage. This, my friends, is fucking awesome!
Sunday at 5:00 my cell phone started jumping and jingling like it usually does when I receive a call. Hoping that it was a fine lass looking for a good ‘ol time, I excitedly flipped it open, almost breaking it in half. Much to my dismay it was not a 25 year old woman on the other end but instead a 50 year old man. G the hairdresser and his partner in crime were returning from a job and heading out to another one which required my help.
About a week ago G asked me if I wanted a refrigerator for my basement. The people I bought the house from had one down there and the guy had it stocked with beer. Not that it played into the actual purchase of the house, but I thought it was a cool idea. I had inquired about buying it in the offer/counter offer process but they said they had already promised it to someone else. I don’t know how the hell they got it out of the basement with the 90 degree bend halfway up the steps, but they did.
Anyway, G knows I’m a cheap bastard and said the fridge was free; all we had to do was pick it up. Not being one to pass up on free shit I said I’d take it. 5:00 the phone rang. They were ready to pick me up with the van and trailer. Clenching my butt cheeks while I was on the phone I informed them that I’d need five minutes to take a shit.
Renter: That wasn’t a girl on the phone, was it?
Me: No, just G and D.
Renter: I don’t know why you feel the need to let people know you have to take a shit.
Me: It’s G and D, they don’t care.
Blog readers: I take shits and I’m actually pretty proud of some of them. Just in case you hadn’t caught on by now.
They pulled up in the van and D got out. I hopped in and was directed to my seat for the evening: a milk crate with a cushion on it. Safety first boys and girls. Before G would put the van into drive:
G: I need $10 for gas.
Me, looking at him like he’s crazy: What?
G: I need $10 for gas. You’re getting a free refrigerator, fork over $10.
Reluctantly I handed him $10 and we went to the gas station. There I was, down $10 and sitting on a milk crate. This was going to be some evening.
We got to the destination which turned out to be one of G’s friends house. This friend was remodeling his house and told G that he could have the fridge, stove, and couches. All G had to do was move it out and haul it away. G and D got the fridge out in about fifteen minutes, D and I wheeled it down the side walk to the street. Only problem: steps. I don’t have much experience using a dolly and while I’m not a total fucking idiot, I managed to make the job harder than it should have been. You see, I figured why let the fridge roll over each step only to come crashing down on the next one when I could easily lift the front of the it over the steps suspending it between myself and D with the dolly. I didn’t realize that in doing this it applied a lot more pressure on D. I later figured out that D had roughly 75% of the weight of the fridge on the dolly since my end seemed relatively light (and I thought he was a pussy for yelling and complaining).
We got the fridge loaded on the trailer, hauled an oven out to the front porch for Owen the Junk Man to pick up, and I carried a microwave out to the van. We slowly made it back to my house and unloaded the fridge. The Renter cleaned out a corner of the garage and we wheeled it in.
Do you know what this means? I will now have ice cold refreshing beer at my fingertips when I am outside doing yard work this summer. Granted the deck I built last summer eats up a third of my back yard but still, I can pretend to do yard work. I don’t think it would be far fetched to boldly proclaim that, with a little motivation from the new garage appliance, my yard will be the most immaculate yard on the block. I already have planned to take a week off from work to stain the deck before a possible Memorial Day visitor arrives. Either that or before Summerfest when another visitor might be arriving. It all depends on the weather; I’m waiting for a sunny week in the 80’s so I can tan my bulging muscles (and stomach).
The only minor drawback I can foresee: beer thieves. Last summer I swear my neighbors would sit in their front windows and stake out my house, leaping off their couches when they spotted me walk out on to the deck. Mr. Fudd is always good about bringing beer over or giving the errand girl (Renter) cash to go and get beer. However, another much shorter neighbor consumed many a beer at my house last year and brought over a 30 pack only once. The old roommate must have had a tracking devise on my car because somehow he seemed to know the exact day I would stop at the store. And then there’s the Renter. Heaven knows how many of my beers she chugged.
Even though I’ve been called cheap and tight and may or may not have a roll of $100’s stuck in my ass, I am not tight with my beer. Sure, I’ll bite your arm if you try going for my pitcher at the bar, but there’s nothing like sharing cold beers with friends on nice summer evenings.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
New Blog
The Renter and I started a new blog appropriately named The Landlord and the Renter. I’m not 100% sure how it came about (weird how alcohol affects your memory), but it’s there for your viewing pleasure.
For some time now the Renter and I have agreed that we should have a video camera or recording device with us for when those special moments happen. To some people, special moments would be like a birthday party or their kid’s first soccer game. The Renter and I have slightly different kinds of special moments. Renter/Landlord special moments could possibly involve crap or urine, raunchy farts, feeling boobs at the bar, getting drunk (wink), and maybe sex with small animals. We figured over the course of a week we could certainly have enough footage for a thirty minute show. However, since I was passed out at noon the day MTV came knocking on the door, we do not have a camera crew. All we have is a six mega pixel camera and the Renter’s stubby fingers to tell the story.
So there we were last night, 11:00 pm, two double cheeseburgers, two McChickens, and a large fry sitting in front of me, when I boldly proclaimed that we should start a new blog. (For those of you who are wondering, I ate all that, with a beer, 1,900 calories. Fuck.) I had this idea that instead of having a full blown camera crew, we would just put a random conversation in a blog format. L: said this, R: said that, L: farted on R’s head, just something simple and easy. And you know what? It was actually pretty fun doing it. I was watching Jackass, stuffing my face with McDonalds and the Renter was furiously typing (ft-ing) on her laptop. I had to look over her shoulder a couple times because she has stubby fingers and either hits the wrong keys or she has a speelling problom. She tries to blame that on her being Chinese or Korean or whatever but don’t worry, I’ll do my best to keep her spelling in check and stomp out any “u’s” or “ur’s” that she might try to slip in there. (Speaking of slipping in there, if she ever writes about a dildo coming into contact with my ass, she’s LYING!)
I do foresee at least one problem stemming from this new creation. Under the influence of alcohol and drugs (children’s Tylenol), I tend to say things that I don’t necessarily mean. For example, a friend might ask me if I want to shoot pool at noon the next day. At the time, under the influence, playing pool for three hours sounds like a blast. But it doesn’t sound like that hot of an idea the next day at noon when I’m picking myself off the bedroom floor because at some point in the night I fell out of bed. Or when a female friend suggests that we go out to dinner on a Friday night. At the time, under the influence, I will heartily agree only to realize the next morning that she said “go out to dinner” and not “I want to lick whipped cream off your cock.” The problem with the new blog is that I won’t be able to shrug it off and say I never said that. Now it will all be in writing for all of southeast Asia to read. This is not good.
I am a man of my word, but only to the point that I will do what I said as long as it doesn’t inconvenience me (the true definition of “a man of my word”). Shooting pool at noon means, well, I have to be up and ready by noon. Going out to eat means I have to foot the bill and quite possibly not get the desired desert. Now that everything will be recorded I will be held accountable and have to go through with what I actually said.
Yeah right, I’ll still be “man of my word” B to the… Some things never change.
For some time now the Renter and I have agreed that we should have a video camera or recording device with us for when those special moments happen. To some people, special moments would be like a birthday party or their kid’s first soccer game. The Renter and I have slightly different kinds of special moments. Renter/Landlord special moments could possibly involve crap or urine, raunchy farts, feeling boobs at the bar, getting drunk (wink), and maybe sex with small animals. We figured over the course of a week we could certainly have enough footage for a thirty minute show. However, since I was passed out at noon the day MTV came knocking on the door, we do not have a camera crew. All we have is a six mega pixel camera and the Renter’s stubby fingers to tell the story.
So there we were last night, 11:00 pm, two double cheeseburgers, two McChickens, and a large fry sitting in front of me, when I boldly proclaimed that we should start a new blog. (For those of you who are wondering, I ate all that, with a beer, 1,900 calories. Fuck.) I had this idea that instead of having a full blown camera crew, we would just put a random conversation in a blog format. L: said this, R: said that, L: farted on R’s head, just something simple and easy. And you know what? It was actually pretty fun doing it. I was watching Jackass, stuffing my face with McDonalds and the Renter was furiously typing (ft-ing) on her laptop. I had to look over her shoulder a couple times because she has stubby fingers and either hits the wrong keys or she has a speelling problom. She tries to blame that on her being Chinese or Korean or whatever but don’t worry, I’ll do my best to keep her spelling in check and stomp out any “u’s” or “ur’s” that she might try to slip in there. (Speaking of slipping in there, if she ever writes about a dildo coming into contact with my ass, she’s LYING!)
I do foresee at least one problem stemming from this new creation. Under the influence of alcohol and drugs (children’s Tylenol), I tend to say things that I don’t necessarily mean. For example, a friend might ask me if I want to shoot pool at noon the next day. At the time, under the influence, playing pool for three hours sounds like a blast. But it doesn’t sound like that hot of an idea the next day at noon when I’m picking myself off the bedroom floor because at some point in the night I fell out of bed. Or when a female friend suggests that we go out to dinner on a Friday night. At the time, under the influence, I will heartily agree only to realize the next morning that she said “go out to dinner” and not “I want to lick whipped cream off your cock.” The problem with the new blog is that I won’t be able to shrug it off and say I never said that. Now it will all be in writing for all of southeast Asia to read. This is not good.
I am a man of my word, but only to the point that I will do what I said as long as it doesn’t inconvenience me (the true definition of “a man of my word”). Shooting pool at noon means, well, I have to be up and ready by noon. Going out to eat means I have to foot the bill and quite possibly not get the desired desert. Now that everything will be recorded I will be held accountable and have to go through with what I actually said.
Yeah right, I’ll still be “man of my word” B to the… Some things never change.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
FA is Secretly a Woman
Conversation of the day with:
FA: So, did you drive to work today?
Me: Yeah. (no, I walked the five miles for the hell of it)
FA: It’s snowing pretty hard out there. I heard there are some blizzard warnings.
Me: It doesn’t look that bad.
FA: So, you’re going to drive home tonight?
Seriously people, I don’t get it. Somehow God has blessed the mutual funds the FA has thrown darts at to yield 15% a year but yet the FA thinks I’m going to leave my car at work and what, walk home in the snow? And this man is raising a baby girl (hang in there, Bella, he might get wiser with age, but don’t get your hopes up).
Personal note to the FA:
Have you seen my vehicle? Do you know what four wheel drive is? My Jeep Wrangler has tires that are 31” in diameter, not 31” in radius like they put on Pontiac G6s. When the conditions limit you to driving 10 mph under the speed limit I am doing my typical 5 mph over the limit. Either that or I’m on your ass cursing at how you drive like a woman.
Wait, he drives like a woman even when it isn’t snowing.
Oh, and I found out people actually read this blog (heavens knows why). The FA was at the Indians game when one of his friends asked if I really had a dildo in my ass or not (the Renter had mentioned something to that affect on her blog). My answer when the FA asked me? "So, how much was in that account?" In other words, no comment.
Some of our readers from Ohio will be happy to hear that when the Indians brought their closer out in the 9th inning the PA announcer played “Wild Thing” over the speakers, just like they did in the movie Major League (which was also filmed in Milwaukee).
FA: So, did you drive to work today?
Me: Yeah. (no, I walked the five miles for the hell of it)
FA: It’s snowing pretty hard out there. I heard there are some blizzard warnings.
Me: It doesn’t look that bad.
FA: So, you’re going to drive home tonight?
Seriously people, I don’t get it. Somehow God has blessed the mutual funds the FA has thrown darts at to yield 15% a year but yet the FA thinks I’m going to leave my car at work and what, walk home in the snow? And this man is raising a baby girl (hang in there, Bella, he might get wiser with age, but don’t get your hopes up).
Personal note to the FA:
Have you seen my vehicle? Do you know what four wheel drive is? My Jeep Wrangler has tires that are 31” in diameter, not 31” in radius like they put on Pontiac G6s. When the conditions limit you to driving 10 mph under the speed limit I am doing my typical 5 mph over the limit. Either that or I’m on your ass cursing at how you drive like a woman.
Wait, he drives like a woman even when it isn’t snowing.
Oh, and I found out people actually read this blog (heavens knows why). The FA was at the Indians game when one of his friends asked if I really had a dildo in my ass or not (the Renter had mentioned something to that affect on her blog). My answer when the FA asked me? "So, how much was in that account?" In other words, no comment.
Some of our readers from Ohio will be happy to hear that when the Indians brought their closer out in the 9th inning the PA announcer played “Wild Thing” over the speakers, just like they did in the movie Major League (which was also filmed in Milwaukee).
MF-ing
You fuckers better appreciate this shit. The Renter wouldn't let me use her computer so I had to get up early and go to the parent's house.
Looking through the news today and I found this:
I had to read that twice to make sure I understood it properly the first time.
Being a rather young 30 years of age living in the Midwest, I was never exposed to segregation, and if I was I was too young to remember or notice it. In my professional career I have worked at places with a lot of cultural diversity. I have had sexual relations (p.c. for fucked) with many culturally diverse women, although not as many as I would have liked to. Therefore I don’t understand why some high school in Georgia has continued with the segregated activities to this day. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not approving of the segregation by saying “to this day.” Segregation happened, you or I can’t change this. But this shit should have stopped MANY years ago. I’m not going to try to come off as some expert in American history. My class time in high school was spent making tally marks for each time the teacher spit on the kids in the front row. I can’t imagine what it was like and to my surprise, what it is still like today in this Georgia high school. That is one of the two things in American history that I’m glad I didn’t have to live through, the other being 70’s porn.
Since this little ditty once again reminded me of how much sex I’ve had lately (none), I decided I’d put together a little application for potential “dates.” I had all the basic questions listed like age, height, weight, race, religion, zodiac sign, education, views on anal/oral sex, but I ditched it. I figured why make a woman take time out of her busy day to fill out this application when “do you have two arms, two legs, and a vagina” would work just as well? So ladies, please keep the emails and boob pictures coming. If I don’t get back to you right away, please be patient. I can realistically only schedule four of you a day.
Have you ever been in a public place, maybe on a special occasion like your birthday or something, have to pass a little gas so you stand in the corner away from everyone else, let one fly just mere seconds before a friend comes around the corner with an extremely beautiful woman, and you both pretend like you don’t smell anything as the friend takes forever to take your picture, all while the wretched stench completely engulfs the whole area, all the way over to the person who’s taking the picture five feet away? If I have anything going for me it’s great timing.
Conversation of the day with a rather fine female friend:
Friend: So, have you used up your supply of toys (condoms) yet?
Me: No, I think I still have a bunch left.
Friend: Have you been using them with new conquests or just the usual group of girls?
(Yeah, I have a group of girls I sleep with. These “girls” are in video clips on my computer that I can’t access and “sleep with” is, well, masturbating furiously. To bad “mother fucking” has already been coined as “mf-ing,” cause I’m mf-ing all the time and typing “masturbating furiously” is getting kind of depressing.)
Me: No, I haven’t exactly been using them with women.
(Friend looks at me questionably.)
Me: Not that I’m using them with guys or anything. Just, ah, um, by myself.
Friend: Come on! I know how you are and your sexual needs.
Me: Yeah, well, I kind of do it twice a day.
Friend: I’m going to have to talk to you later.
Of course she won’t come and talk to me later and we won’t be making passionate love for three minutes tonight. This is depressing. And while typing “masturbating furiously” is also depressing, mf-ing in itself is totally not depressing. Evening plans of mf-ing – check.
Awhile back there was that movie “Supersize Me.” I never saw the movie but I guess the guy ate McDonalds for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, I’ve got my own little version going on. It’s called "stuff yourself with Taco Bell or McDonalds at 11:00 pm every night." And you know what? I have fallen in love with Taco Bell and McDonalds. The beef gordita supremes with hot sauce prove to be very flavorful while the double cheeseburgers and McChicken sandwiches are quite filling at a very reasonable price. For $5 I can swing by Taco Bell or for $3.17 I can get three sandwiches from McDonalds (gotta love the dollar menu). If you don’t know already I’m pretty fucking cheap so getting awesome food for $5 that late at night is like a dream come true.
That’s what I thought until this evening. Out of curiosity I went on both McDonald’s and Taco Bell’s websites. On their sites they have the nutritional value for all of their food. The Taco Bell I consumed on Friday night = 840 calories. The McDonalds I consumed on Monday night = 1,160 calories. This is in addition to the 9:00 am, 11:00 am, 1:00 pm, and 5:30 pm meals. I’m not sure people but I don’t think this is good.
The FA knew a cheerleader back in college. That’s what he told me, but I’m guessing it was more like he “knew of” a cheerleader back in college. Anyway, this girl would not eat anything after 6:00 pm. After watching as many NCAA basketball games as I possibly could over the past month, I have come to a conclusion: 97% of college cheerleaders are not fat. 97% of college cheerleaders are actually pretty fucking hot.
I, on the other hand, am not cheerleader hot. I might be cheerleader hot if you compare me to the 3% of not-so-hot cheerleaders, but even that might be stretching it. But don’t jump to conclusions and call me an ugger (one of dad’s favorite terms). 6’4”, 233 lbs, can bench press 225 lbs 10 times, and can still dunk a basketball (almost). I have dated more F-list celebrities than Steve Buscemi. However, I drink six packs, I don’t have a six pack. I don’t like going out on a limb but I’m going to guess that these late night feeding frenzies are not in my best interests if I want to become cheerleader hot. Normally I would tell you my grand corrective action plan and how I would implement it immediately. But seriously folks, have you ever had Taco Bell at 11:00 at night? Fucking tasty, “big time” as Joakim Noah would say.
Can you believe that I read some NBA draft commentary where someone compared him to Dennis Rodman? That’s as asinine as comparing me to Mr. Olympia, Jay Cutler.
Looking through the news today and I found this:
Ga. school plans its first non-segregated prom
After decades of separate functions, students hope to unite behind dance
I had to read that twice to make sure I understood it properly the first time.
Being a rather young 30 years of age living in the Midwest, I was never exposed to segregation, and if I was I was too young to remember or notice it. In my professional career I have worked at places with a lot of cultural diversity. I have had sexual relations (p.c. for fucked) with many culturally diverse women, although not as many as I would have liked to. Therefore I don’t understand why some high school in Georgia has continued with the segregated activities to this day. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not approving of the segregation by saying “to this day.” Segregation happened, you or I can’t change this. But this shit should have stopped MANY years ago. I’m not going to try to come off as some expert in American history. My class time in high school was spent making tally marks for each time the teacher spit on the kids in the front row. I can’t imagine what it was like and to my surprise, what it is still like today in this Georgia high school. That is one of the two things in American history that I’m glad I didn’t have to live through, the other being 70’s porn.
Since this little ditty once again reminded me of how much sex I’ve had lately (none), I decided I’d put together a little application for potential “dates.” I had all the basic questions listed like age, height, weight, race, religion, zodiac sign, education, views on anal/oral sex, but I ditched it. I figured why make a woman take time out of her busy day to fill out this application when “do you have two arms, two legs, and a vagina” would work just as well? So ladies, please keep the emails and boob pictures coming. If I don’t get back to you right away, please be patient. I can realistically only schedule four of you a day.
Have you ever been in a public place, maybe on a special occasion like your birthday or something, have to pass a little gas so you stand in the corner away from everyone else, let one fly just mere seconds before a friend comes around the corner with an extremely beautiful woman, and you both pretend like you don’t smell anything as the friend takes forever to take your picture, all while the wretched stench completely engulfs the whole area, all the way over to the person who’s taking the picture five feet away? If I have anything going for me it’s great timing.
Conversation of the day with a rather fine female friend:
Friend: So, have you used up your supply of toys (condoms) yet?
Me: No, I think I still have a bunch left.
Friend: Have you been using them with new conquests or just the usual group of girls?
(Yeah, I have a group of girls I sleep with. These “girls” are in video clips on my computer that I can’t access and “sleep with” is, well, masturbating furiously. To bad “mother fucking” has already been coined as “mf-ing,” cause I’m mf-ing all the time and typing “masturbating furiously” is getting kind of depressing.)
Me: No, I haven’t exactly been using them with women.
(Friend looks at me questionably.)
Me: Not that I’m using them with guys or anything. Just, ah, um, by myself.
Friend: Come on! I know how you are and your sexual needs.
Me: Yeah, well, I kind of do it twice a day.
Friend: I’m going to have to talk to you later.
Of course she won’t come and talk to me later and we won’t be making passionate love for three minutes tonight. This is depressing. And while typing “masturbating furiously” is also depressing, mf-ing in itself is totally not depressing. Evening plans of mf-ing – check.
Awhile back there was that movie “Supersize Me.” I never saw the movie but I guess the guy ate McDonalds for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, I’ve got my own little version going on. It’s called "stuff yourself with Taco Bell or McDonalds at 11:00 pm every night." And you know what? I have fallen in love with Taco Bell and McDonalds. The beef gordita supremes with hot sauce prove to be very flavorful while the double cheeseburgers and McChicken sandwiches are quite filling at a very reasonable price. For $5 I can swing by Taco Bell or for $3.17 I can get three sandwiches from McDonalds (gotta love the dollar menu). If you don’t know already I’m pretty fucking cheap so getting awesome food for $5 that late at night is like a dream come true.
That’s what I thought until this evening. Out of curiosity I went on both McDonald’s and Taco Bell’s websites. On their sites they have the nutritional value for all of their food. The Taco Bell I consumed on Friday night = 840 calories. The McDonalds I consumed on Monday night = 1,160 calories. This is in addition to the 9:00 am, 11:00 am, 1:00 pm, and 5:30 pm meals. I’m not sure people but I don’t think this is good.
The FA knew a cheerleader back in college. That’s what he told me, but I’m guessing it was more like he “knew of” a cheerleader back in college. Anyway, this girl would not eat anything after 6:00 pm. After watching as many NCAA basketball games as I possibly could over the past month, I have come to a conclusion: 97% of college cheerleaders are not fat. 97% of college cheerleaders are actually pretty fucking hot.
I, on the other hand, am not cheerleader hot. I might be cheerleader hot if you compare me to the 3% of not-so-hot cheerleaders, but even that might be stretching it. But don’t jump to conclusions and call me an ugger (one of dad’s favorite terms). 6’4”, 233 lbs, can bench press 225 lbs 10 times, and can still dunk a basketball (almost). I have dated more F-list celebrities than Steve Buscemi. However, I drink six packs, I don’t have a six pack. I don’t like going out on a limb but I’m going to guess that these late night feeding frenzies are not in my best interests if I want to become cheerleader hot. Normally I would tell you my grand corrective action plan and how I would implement it immediately. But seriously folks, have you ever had Taco Bell at 11:00 at night? Fucking tasty, “big time” as Joakim Noah would say.
Can you believe that I read some NBA draft commentary where someone compared him to Dennis Rodman? That’s as asinine as comparing me to Mr. Olympia, Jay Cutler.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Dildo + Ass = Tears
Last night the Renter came into my room around midnight. She had “Mr. Happy” and a bottle of lube in her hand.
Renter: We have to stick this up your ass.
Me: Huh, are you kidding me?
Renter: Come on, you’re the one who wants to be on Jackass. Bend over.
Me: Hell no. I’m going to sleep, it’s late.
This went on for almost five minutes. In order to get her to leave I told her I’d do it on Friday. I had no intentions of doing it on Friday, just one of those little white lies I tend to tell every ten minutes or so. Unfortunately the Renter knows that I lie every ten minutes and brought her camera into the room. The end result: I am now on camera (video) saying I will stick a dildo up my ass. But wait, it gets better. Being on camera has a strange effect on people. Do you think all those chicks on Girls Gone Wild would be flashing their tits if they didn’t have the camera on them? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Not only am I on camera holding a dildo proclaiming that I will stick it up my ass, but I also had to point at a spot six inches down from the head indicating how far in I was going to insert it. Dude seriously, not cool. Who voluntarily agrees to stick a foreign object up his ass just so he can go to sleep? I may or may not still have a gay reader or two out there who might disagree with me on this, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to stick anything up my ass, especially considering what comes out of my ass.
So, if you see me walking funny this weekend, please, please don't ask me why or bring this up. It will only leave me in tears sucking on my thumb in the corner.
Renter: We have to stick this up your ass.
Me: Huh, are you kidding me?
Renter: Come on, you’re the one who wants to be on Jackass. Bend over.
Me: Hell no. I’m going to sleep, it’s late.
This went on for almost five minutes. In order to get her to leave I told her I’d do it on Friday. I had no intentions of doing it on Friday, just one of those little white lies I tend to tell every ten minutes or so. Unfortunately the Renter knows that I lie every ten minutes and brought her camera into the room. The end result: I am now on camera (video) saying I will stick a dildo up my ass. But wait, it gets better. Being on camera has a strange effect on people. Do you think all those chicks on Girls Gone Wild would be flashing their tits if they didn’t have the camera on them? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Not only am I on camera holding a dildo proclaiming that I will stick it up my ass, but I also had to point at a spot six inches down from the head indicating how far in I was going to insert it. Dude seriously, not cool. Who voluntarily agrees to stick a foreign object up his ass just so he can go to sleep? I may or may not still have a gay reader or two out there who might disagree with me on this, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to stick anything up my ass, especially considering what comes out of my ass.
So, if you see me walking funny this weekend, please, please don't ask me why or bring this up. It will only leave me in tears sucking on my thumb in the corner.
In the locker room after working out today
Old lawyer: So, did you have a good workout?
Me: Yeah, not too bad. How about you?
Old lawyer: It was ok. I’m all screwed up this week (he’s usually there Mon, Wed, and Fri). I can’t decide if I should come back tomorrow or on Saturday.
Me: As long as you do different exercises you should be good if you come in tomorrow.
Old lawyer: See you might be able to do that. I’m getting a little old to be working out two days in a row.
Old lawyer walks away and I pack up my bag.
Me: You know, you might be getting old, but I’m sure you’ve learned a lot… (me walking around corner) in all those… (me standing in front of some other naked guy who’s looking at me like I’m crazy) years. (me looking around) Where’d he go?
At that point I dropped my head and stared at the floor as I walked out of the locker room.
Today we (me) are going to introduce a new segment to this blog called News From the Neighborhood.
Tuesday I was driving home from the grocery store and drove past my neighbor’s house. We’ll call him Mr. Fudd. Mr. Fudd was playing catch with one of his coworkers, we’ll call her Jennie Finch. Jennie Finch played softball in college and has a decent arm on her. As I rounded the corner I saw Mr. Fudd standing on the sidewalk, baseball mitt in hand, and Jennie Finch lying face down on the grass with her arms sprawled out. I drove up and stopped right in front of Mr. Fudd’s house as Jennie Finch was getting up off the ground. I guess I just missed an errant throw by Mr. Fudd that had Jennie flailing off the sidewalk in an effort to catch it.
Mr. Fudd: What’s up B to the…?
Me: Not much. You guys playing catch?
Jennie: Hey. You didn’t see that, did you?
Me: What, you doing a face plant on the grass?
Jennie: Oh my gosh! It was all Mr. Fudd’s fault.
Me: Sure it was.
Jennie: I still read your blog like every day.
My first reaction was, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I got you all hooked on my stories about porn, masturbation, sex with midgets, eight inch penises, loose women, people at the gym, the two college girls who come over every Friday, my fascination with shit, the Renter, and every other nasty topic I have put on paper. I’m sorry that you too are now masturbating with a condom on (its ok if the XL ones don’t fit), consuming ungodly amounts of beer, and wishing that you could live the life of an out of work porn star like I do. I strongly recommend that you don’t try to emulate my lifestyle as it will only lead to a failed marriage, hair loss, and impotency. I’m sorry that my horribly unfunny jokes lead you back for more like the neighborhood crack whore looking for her fix (who I learned will blow you for a teaspoon of sugar if you tell her its coke). Truly, deeply sorry.
The conversation continued.
Me: Really?
Jennie: Yeah. Hey, did you ever get that birthday blowjob?
Me: No, I’m not that lucky.
Jennie: ‘Cause I’ve been known to give them out on birthdays. No, just kidding.
Me: Ha, ha, I’ll see you guys later.
Women: don’t ever tease about a birthday blowjob. It just isn’t nice.
And there were a couple emails with the 39 yr old from the gym today. I saw her running around the track and said goodbye when I was leaving.
Me: You were going pretty strong there. I hope you didn't have to shower with the old ladies, or were you the old lady in the locker room todad?
That was the first time I've ever been up there. That hallway smells
like feet.
39 yr old: Or was I the old lady???.....nice, no wonder you're single!
No, it's the most pleasant running track, but it seems more challenging
than the treadmill.
Me: Sorry, all I have are old and black jokes, but that's ok because my mom is 7.8% African American. And now you're asking yourself, what's he have underneath the hood. I tell ya, its tough finding thongs that fit.
39 yr old: I'm sure that 7.8% had a huge impact...maybe you should be making movies???
Me: You know, if you want to we can, but I’d suggest a test run first.
Yeah, I didn’t get a response back on that one.
Me: Yeah, not too bad. How about you?
Old lawyer: It was ok. I’m all screwed up this week (he’s usually there Mon, Wed, and Fri). I can’t decide if I should come back tomorrow or on Saturday.
Me: As long as you do different exercises you should be good if you come in tomorrow.
Old lawyer: See you might be able to do that. I’m getting a little old to be working out two days in a row.
Old lawyer walks away and I pack up my bag.
Me: You know, you might be getting old, but I’m sure you’ve learned a lot… (me walking around corner) in all those… (me standing in front of some other naked guy who’s looking at me like I’m crazy) years. (me looking around) Where’d he go?
At that point I dropped my head and stared at the floor as I walked out of the locker room.
Today we (me) are going to introduce a new segment to this blog called News From the Neighborhood.
Tuesday I was driving home from the grocery store and drove past my neighbor’s house. We’ll call him Mr. Fudd. Mr. Fudd was playing catch with one of his coworkers, we’ll call her Jennie Finch. Jennie Finch played softball in college and has a decent arm on her. As I rounded the corner I saw Mr. Fudd standing on the sidewalk, baseball mitt in hand, and Jennie Finch lying face down on the grass with her arms sprawled out. I drove up and stopped right in front of Mr. Fudd’s house as Jennie Finch was getting up off the ground. I guess I just missed an errant throw by Mr. Fudd that had Jennie flailing off the sidewalk in an effort to catch it.
Mr. Fudd: What’s up B to the…?
Me: Not much. You guys playing catch?
Jennie: Hey. You didn’t see that, did you?
Me: What, you doing a face plant on the grass?
Jennie: Oh my gosh! It was all Mr. Fudd’s fault.
Me: Sure it was.
Jennie: I still read your blog like every day.
My first reaction was, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I got you all hooked on my stories about porn, masturbation, sex with midgets, eight inch penises, loose women, people at the gym, the two college girls who come over every Friday, my fascination with shit, the Renter, and every other nasty topic I have put on paper. I’m sorry that you too are now masturbating with a condom on (its ok if the XL ones don’t fit), consuming ungodly amounts of beer, and wishing that you could live the life of an out of work porn star like I do. I strongly recommend that you don’t try to emulate my lifestyle as it will only lead to a failed marriage, hair loss, and impotency. I’m sorry that my horribly unfunny jokes lead you back for more like the neighborhood crack whore looking for her fix (who I learned will blow you for a teaspoon of sugar if you tell her its coke). Truly, deeply sorry.
The conversation continued.
Me: Really?
Jennie: Yeah. Hey, did you ever get that birthday blowjob?
Me: No, I’m not that lucky.
Jennie: ‘Cause I’ve been known to give them out on birthdays. No, just kidding.
Me: Ha, ha, I’ll see you guys later.
Women: don’t ever tease about a birthday blowjob. It just isn’t nice.
And there were a couple emails with the 39 yr old from the gym today. I saw her running around the track and said goodbye when I was leaving.
Me: You were going pretty strong there. I hope you didn't have to shower with the old ladies, or were you the old lady in the locker room todad?
That was the first time I've ever been up there. That hallway smells
like feet.
39 yr old: Or was I the old lady???.....nice, no wonder you're single!
No, it's the most pleasant running track, but it seems more challenging
than the treadmill.
Me: Sorry, all I have are old and black jokes, but that's ok because my mom is 7.8% African American. And now you're asking yourself, what's he have underneath the hood. I tell ya, its tough finding thongs that fit.
39 yr old: I'm sure that 7.8% had a huge impact...maybe you should be making movies???
Me: You know, if you want to we can, but I’d suggest a test run first.
Yeah, I didn’t get a response back on that one.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Weekend of Jackass
This weekend started with a Friday evening viewing of Jackass Two. Saturday morning/afternoon, slightly hung over (understatement) from Friday, I pressed play on the DVD player again. After watching the movie for the second time I went through all the bonus features and deleted scenes. When that was over, I popped the original Jackass in, watched it in it’s entirety along with the bonus features. I watched a lot of Bam Margara, Johnny Knoxville, and Steve-O this weekend. And you know what? I think I’m in love.
Now, before you jump to conclusions, let me clarify. I do not love the guys of Jackass like I love boobies and Brazilian porn. (Speaking of Brazilian porn, those chicks know how to work it. They know how to work it and they really seem to enjoy it. Could just be that they’re getting paid to, what do I know.) But, I would love to hang out with them for a week while they are out shooting their next movie (sans getting kicked in the balls as mine are very sensitive, probably attributed to the andro days). Just think of it: they’re always laughing and having a good time, typically doing something wild and crazy, all while sucking down MGDs. This is besides the fact that half the time they’re butt ass naked which also kind of turns me on, I mean, grosses me out. While I can’t skate or do tricks on a bmx, I’m sure I’d fit right in with my equally outgoing and demented personality. I could even help them with some of their stunts.
- Eat a “yellow” snow cone? No.
- Make a “yellow” snow cone for Ryan Dunn to eat? Sure, why not.
- Get shot in the balls with a paintball gun? No.
- Shoot Johnny Knoxville in the ball with a paintball gun? Sure, why not.
- Slide down a ramp into a pool of shit and dead animals? No.
- Shit in the pool of shit and dead animals for Steve-O to dive into? Sure, why not.
- Wax Chris Pontius’ ass? No.
- Pour a gallon of hot wax on Chris Pontius’ ass? Sure, why not.
- Slap Bam Margara’s bare ass while he’s fucking his girlfriend? No.
- Fuck Bam Margara’s girlfriend? Hell yeah!
I think I could bring a lot of quality effort, maybe some stunt ideas, and definitely some smelly farts to the show.
And have you seen Bam Margara’s girlfriend (wife I guess now)? That’s one hot bitch.
In order to get on the show I have started a rigorous training regimen. I’ve been lifting weights twice a day now, at noon and in the evening. I figure most of those guys aren’t that tall/big so if I’m going to be half a foot taller than them I might as well be fifty pounds heavier, too. Since I gained that ten pounds in 45 days I have stayed fairly constant weight wise at 230 lbs. The two-a-day workouts combined with jogging three times a week should get me to where I’d like to be.
I’ve started experimenting with various dairy products to see what gives me the best results. You see, my body doesn’t react well to dairy products. “Doesn’t react well” would be better explained as getting violent convulsions and projectile shits, but I don’t think I want to get that graphic here. Well, ok I will.
Lastly, I have given up on the beer. I don’t mean “given up” like I just left my eight month old daughter on the front steps of the church, but for the meanwhile (read = two days) I haven’t had any. I watched the second half of the championship game at the bar on Monday without a glass in front of me. The bartender looked at me funny, but he always looks funny. Tuesday I stayed home, did some laundry, and finished half of one of the books I’ve been reading, The Survivalist, by Jerry Ahern. The Renter says I’m becoming like a “Trakie” (her words, not mine) because I’m reading this 21 volume story about a guy who survives World War III by living in a cave using cryogenic sleeping chambers to wait out the radiation. I’m on #14 and it’s getting a little weird with pockets of Russians and Germans and strange cult people popping up who survived the ionization of the atmosphere in one way or another. Ok, maybe I might be turning into some kind of, well, nevermind, I just won’t talk about this shit anymore. I don’t want to ruin the awesome image of myself that I have portrayed on this site. I really am pretty fucking cool/sick/perverted/demented/great in bed, trust me.
The whole beer thing had to come to an end some time. You know what they say, too much of a good thing. And to tell you the truth, I feel like a champ in the mornings and throughout the whole day. Hell, yesterday I was up at 6:15, lifted weights twice, went for a jog, and stopped reading around midnight when I finally got tired. Just think of the stamina I’d have in the bedroom if some semi hot girl(s) wanted to come over (and make a little money)! I realize I might have to take baby steps with this and ease into it, but I have planned ahead for this. I’m going to ease into it by not drinking Monday through Thursday and them down six pitchers on both Friday and Saturday. That’s taking baby steps, right?
(I should keep track of how many times the above paragraph or something like it pops up in my blog, only to be tossed out the window when $4.25 pitcher night rolls around, like tonight.)
Now, before you jump to conclusions, let me clarify. I do not love the guys of Jackass like I love boobies and Brazilian porn. (Speaking of Brazilian porn, those chicks know how to work it. They know how to work it and they really seem to enjoy it. Could just be that they’re getting paid to, what do I know.) But, I would love to hang out with them for a week while they are out shooting their next movie (sans getting kicked in the balls as mine are very sensitive, probably attributed to the andro days). Just think of it: they’re always laughing and having a good time, typically doing something wild and crazy, all while sucking down MGDs. This is besides the fact that half the time they’re butt ass naked which also kind of turns me on, I mean, grosses me out. While I can’t skate or do tricks on a bmx, I’m sure I’d fit right in with my equally outgoing and demented personality. I could even help them with some of their stunts.
- Eat a “yellow” snow cone? No.
- Make a “yellow” snow cone for Ryan Dunn to eat? Sure, why not.
- Get shot in the balls with a paintball gun? No.
- Shoot Johnny Knoxville in the ball with a paintball gun? Sure, why not.
- Slide down a ramp into a pool of shit and dead animals? No.
- Shit in the pool of shit and dead animals for Steve-O to dive into? Sure, why not.
- Wax Chris Pontius’ ass? No.
- Pour a gallon of hot wax on Chris Pontius’ ass? Sure, why not.
- Slap Bam Margara’s bare ass while he’s fucking his girlfriend? No.
- Fuck Bam Margara’s girlfriend? Hell yeah!
I think I could bring a lot of quality effort, maybe some stunt ideas, and definitely some smelly farts to the show.
And have you seen Bam Margara’s girlfriend (wife I guess now)? That’s one hot bitch.
In order to get on the show I have started a rigorous training regimen. I’ve been lifting weights twice a day now, at noon and in the evening. I figure most of those guys aren’t that tall/big so if I’m going to be half a foot taller than them I might as well be fifty pounds heavier, too. Since I gained that ten pounds in 45 days I have stayed fairly constant weight wise at 230 lbs. The two-a-day workouts combined with jogging three times a week should get me to where I’d like to be.
I’ve started experimenting with various dairy products to see what gives me the best results. You see, my body doesn’t react well to dairy products. “Doesn’t react well” would be better explained as getting violent convulsions and projectile shits, but I don’t think I want to get that graphic here. Well, ok I will.
Lastly, I have given up on the beer. I don’t mean “given up” like I just left my eight month old daughter on the front steps of the church, but for the meanwhile (read = two days) I haven’t had any. I watched the second half of the championship game at the bar on Monday without a glass in front of me. The bartender looked at me funny, but he always looks funny. Tuesday I stayed home, did some laundry, and finished half of one of the books I’ve been reading, The Survivalist, by Jerry Ahern. The Renter says I’m becoming like a “Trakie” (her words, not mine) because I’m reading this 21 volume story about a guy who survives World War III by living in a cave using cryogenic sleeping chambers to wait out the radiation. I’m on #14 and it’s getting a little weird with pockets of Russians and Germans and strange cult people popping up who survived the ionization of the atmosphere in one way or another. Ok, maybe I might be turning into some kind of, well, nevermind, I just won’t talk about this shit anymore. I don’t want to ruin the awesome image of myself that I have portrayed on this site. I really am pretty fucking cool/sick/perverted/demented/great in bed, trust me.
The whole beer thing had to come to an end some time. You know what they say, too much of a good thing. And to tell you the truth, I feel like a champ in the mornings and throughout the whole day. Hell, yesterday I was up at 6:15, lifted weights twice, went for a jog, and stopped reading around midnight when I finally got tired. Just think of the stamina I’d have in the bedroom if some semi hot girl(s) wanted to come over (and make a little money)! I realize I might have to take baby steps with this and ease into it, but I have planned ahead for this. I’m going to ease into it by not drinking Monday through Thursday and them down six pitchers on both Friday and Saturday. That’s taking baby steps, right?
(I should keep track of how many times the above paragraph or something like it pops up in my blog, only to be tossed out the window when $4.25 pitcher night rolls around, like tonight.)
Monday, April 02, 2007
Florida Wins - Fuckers
I know a player from the winning team is always awarded the most outstanding player, but after watching Greg Oden play like the man-child he is, there is no doubt he was the most outstanding player. The guy plays with heart and determination. Unlike pretty boy Al Horford, you never see Oden doing a shoulder shake after making a sweet play. The only thing shaking after an Oden post move is the rim.
In the post game interview, the Florida players lived up to my expectations. To almost quote (from memory) Joakim Noah, "My boys from Florida, we bring it big every day and all night long, we bring it big. You might not know what that means, but my boys bring it big." Ok Joakim, you got me. My theories of "bringing it big" are:
- banging a bunch of hoes with hair bigger than Joakim's mop head.
- getting your eyebrows waxed like Al Horford.
- smoking up some doobies as soon as coach leaves the locker room.
- winning the pool for the lowest grade point average.
- pimping around campus driving your "mom's" Escalade.
- mastering Bastket Weaving 101.
I hope all those fuckers leave school early and end up playing ball in some tiny European town. Things like that post game interview do not belong in college basketball. Guys like that last two to three years in the pros. I don't know how Billy Donovan put up with that crap for the last two years.
Greg Oden on the other hand, as much as I would like to see him and Mike Conley Jr. play on the same court next year, has a spectacular career waiting for him. The man had the same expression on his face when they won every game leading up to the final as he did when they lost the final tonight. Gred Oden will be a pro's pro on and off the court.
And to think, scouts were rating Kevin Durant higher than Oden. Not after tonight my friend, not after tonight.
More food for thought: the Milwaukee Bucks got Andrew Bogut with the first pick in the 2005 draft. Boy did they get ripped off.
Sorry for the loss Swandad. You too, Renter (would have won the FA's pool if OS had won). I couldn't sit there and root for either team. I wanted Ohio State to win but the money was going to go on Florida. So I decided to go with the over/under and thankfully picked the correct one. It's always nice cheering for every score.
In the post game interview, the Florida players lived up to my expectations. To almost quote (from memory) Joakim Noah, "My boys from Florida, we bring it big every day and all night long, we bring it big. You might not know what that means, but my boys bring it big." Ok Joakim, you got me. My theories of "bringing it big" are:
- banging a bunch of hoes with hair bigger than Joakim's mop head.
- getting your eyebrows waxed like Al Horford.
- smoking up some doobies as soon as coach leaves the locker room.
- winning the pool for the lowest grade point average.
- pimping around campus driving your "mom's" Escalade.
- mastering Bastket Weaving 101.
I hope all those fuckers leave school early and end up playing ball in some tiny European town. Things like that post game interview do not belong in college basketball. Guys like that last two to three years in the pros. I don't know how Billy Donovan put up with that crap for the last two years.
Greg Oden on the other hand, as much as I would like to see him and Mike Conley Jr. play on the same court next year, has a spectacular career waiting for him. The man had the same expression on his face when they won every game leading up to the final as he did when they lost the final tonight. Gred Oden will be a pro's pro on and off the court.
And to think, scouts were rating Kevin Durant higher than Oden. Not after tonight my friend, not after tonight.
More food for thought: the Milwaukee Bucks got Andrew Bogut with the first pick in the 2005 draft. Boy did they get ripped off.
Sorry for the loss Swandad. You too, Renter (would have won the FA's pool if OS had won). I couldn't sit there and root for either team. I wanted Ohio State to win but the money was going to go on Florida. So I decided to go with the over/under and thankfully picked the correct one. It's always nice cheering for every score.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Feces and Hoes
I was browsing through the local police reports today and found these under the Marquette University section:
Personally I don’t find anything that would be reportable to the police on this but I have a rather different point of view when it comes to fecal matter.
Uh, how come I don’t get pornographic material in the mail? And isn’t pornographic material usually derogatory to women? Whoever thought up anal sex wasn’t looking to put women on a pedestal or anything. I don’t know why he/she had to throw the comments about minorities in there. I mean, aren’t all minorities used to derogatory remarks by now? Shit, its 2007! I don’t think you could possibly make up anything new that hasn’t already been heard. If the pornographic material contained minority women, then I could see writing, “I’m going to fuck you just like this spic hoe is getting fucked.” God I’d be horrible writing hate mail. I need to work on this. Coming to a mailbox near you…
Just because I’m a sick and perverted (or highly intelligent and imaginative) individual, what if I twisted the two above instances together and instead of shitting in someone’s room and mailing pornographic material, I’m simply going to shit in my own room and mail the pictures (not of me shitting, just the shit). You would think that while being pretty fucking gross and disgusting, it would also be perfectly legal. Hmm, I know a bar manager in New York who might be getting a letter soon.
And just in case you’re wondering, I consider spic hoe an endearing term. I love Hispanic women. I love hoes. I dream about spic hoes every night. Well, that is when I’m not dreaming about black hoes. Some nights when I get really drunk and snort some toothpaste I dream about spic hoes and black hoes at the same time. Reminds me of the good old days back when I was pimping in Brooklyn…
(Sigh…)
While we’re on the topic of spic hoes… The Renter spent some time with the new DVDs and found a scene that has a Hispanic woman dressed in a maid outfit (sans panties of course, cause who needs panties when you’re dusting?) who doesn’t speak a word of English yet knows exactly what to do when the guy, saying nothing, drops his pants. I don’t get it. I usually get the cops called on me when I do that. But no, she dropped to her knees like a professional and took care of business. Besides being a maid I think she might work part-time in the Mexican porn industry but I’m not sure, looked like she knew what she was doing. I think she might have been lying about not knowing English, too. Either way, I’ll still marry her if she needs her green card.
Now I know what I will be doing on my birthday. Thursday night I will be “cleaning” my house with my new maid friend. My house is pretty dirty so I think it might have to be “cleaned” several times. Since I feel really uncomfortable when I escort a woman out of my house after doing it and realize that I don’t even know her name, we will call my maid friend Maria Rodriguez (not to be confused with Heather Rodriguez who I swear told me she was 18 during my freshman year of college). Maria Rodriguez and I are going to spend the evening performing a rare ritual in my house that includes her getting fucked and me feverishly beating off (really, it doesn’t happen that often). I will slip her my man meat and she will scream and moan in her sweet Latin accent. It will be a glorious sight to see (for her and I, not you, sorry), the two of us bonding like no gringo and Mexican maid have ever bonded before. Greatest birthday ever.
Human feces were found in a room at Lubar Hall March 20.
Personally I don’t find anything that would be reportable to the police on this but I have a rather different point of view when it comes to fecal matter.
An employee at Garland Hall received a letter March 21 containing pornographic material and derogatory comments regarding minorities and women. The letter was postmarked Tucson, Ariz.
Uh, how come I don’t get pornographic material in the mail? And isn’t pornographic material usually derogatory to women? Whoever thought up anal sex wasn’t looking to put women on a pedestal or anything. I don’t know why he/she had to throw the comments about minorities in there. I mean, aren’t all minorities used to derogatory remarks by now? Shit, its 2007! I don’t think you could possibly make up anything new that hasn’t already been heard. If the pornographic material contained minority women, then I could see writing, “I’m going to fuck you just like this spic hoe is getting fucked.” God I’d be horrible writing hate mail. I need to work on this. Coming to a mailbox near you…
Just because I’m a sick and perverted (or highly intelligent and imaginative) individual, what if I twisted the two above instances together and instead of shitting in someone’s room and mailing pornographic material, I’m simply going to shit in my own room and mail the pictures (not of me shitting, just the shit). You would think that while being pretty fucking gross and disgusting, it would also be perfectly legal. Hmm, I know a bar manager in New York who might be getting a letter soon.
And just in case you’re wondering, I consider spic hoe an endearing term. I love Hispanic women. I love hoes. I dream about spic hoes every night. Well, that is when I’m not dreaming about black hoes. Some nights when I get really drunk and snort some toothpaste I dream about spic hoes and black hoes at the same time. Reminds me of the good old days back when I was pimping in Brooklyn…
(Sigh…)
While we’re on the topic of spic hoes… The Renter spent some time with the new DVDs and found a scene that has a Hispanic woman dressed in a maid outfit (sans panties of course, cause who needs panties when you’re dusting?) who doesn’t speak a word of English yet knows exactly what to do when the guy, saying nothing, drops his pants. I don’t get it. I usually get the cops called on me when I do that. But no, she dropped to her knees like a professional and took care of business. Besides being a maid I think she might work part-time in the Mexican porn industry but I’m not sure, looked like she knew what she was doing. I think she might have been lying about not knowing English, too. Either way, I’ll still marry her if she needs her green card.
Now I know what I will be doing on my birthday. Thursday night I will be “cleaning” my house with my new maid friend. My house is pretty dirty so I think it might have to be “cleaned” several times. Since I feel really uncomfortable when I escort a woman out of my house after doing it and realize that I don’t even know her name, we will call my maid friend Maria Rodriguez (not to be confused with Heather Rodriguez who I swear told me she was 18 during my freshman year of college). Maria Rodriguez and I are going to spend the evening performing a rare ritual in my house that includes her getting fucked and me feverishly beating off (really, it doesn’t happen that often). I will slip her my man meat and she will scream and moan in her sweet Latin accent. It will be a glorious sight to see (for her and I, not you, sorry), the two of us bonding like no gringo and Mexican maid have ever bonded before. Greatest birthday ever.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Rule #7 - Gone
For those of you sports fans, I found this article by Randy Hill about hating the Florida Gators. I guess I'm not the only one.
I don’t know if I’ve ever told this story before, but this was part of the reason why Rule #7 went up on the billboard at the corner bar.
Last spring (I’m pretty sure) I went up to the corner bar on a typical Friday. Like usual I plopped my ass down in a stool at the bar. This night I was next to the entrance door in what is now lawyer girl’s favorite spot. Around 11:00 this rather hot woman walked in the bar and sat across the bartender’s exit from me. She was wearing some fashionable sunglasses and a sport coat. Upon further inspection with my peripheral vision, she was only wearing a bra underneath the sport coat. Bingo, she had my attention! I started talking with her; apparently she had been out with a guy at a local strip club. He had pissed her off in one way or another and she left him there, taking a cab to my corner bar. I bought her a drink or two and pulled out the usual bag of tricks. Of course I had to throw in there that I lived a block away just in case she needed a place to stay. Unfortunately, the usual bag of tricks wasn’t working this night and she asked the bartender to tell me to stop talking to her. Not wanting to ruffle anyone’s feathers I complied and left her alone. Thirty minutes passed. I was talking to the guy next to me and mid-sentence I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go.” Without giving me a chance to pay my tab she grabbed my arm and dragged me out the door. I had to help her a little bit as we walked down the sidewalk to my house. Once we got inside I showed her the bedroom and she promptly undressed. I told her I had to use the bathroom to brush my teeth and take out my contacts. I returned two minutes later only to find her passed out in my bed. Being the horny little devil that I am, I tried to wake her up with a couple gently pokes here and there but it didn’t work, she was out.
I woke up in the morning a little surprised to find a woman in my bed (doesn’t happen that often). She began to stir and we chatted for a bit about nothing specific. She asked if we anything had happened before going to bed and I told her no, that she had passed out shortly after hitting the pillow. Then she looked at me and delivered the greatest line I have ever heard. “You know, you were nice enough to let me sleep in your bed and didn’t try anything. We can have sex if you’d like to.” If I’d like to? Yeah, two minutes later I had the condom on and we were doing it (sex, intercourse, in case you weren’t following me). I’m not going to brag or anything but supposedly she O’d three times during our early morning romp (I’m not bragging, really).
And then things went downhill. After we had finished we got dressed. She asked if I’d make her some breakfast. Unless she wanted beer for breakfast I had nothing for her. She asked if I’d give her a ride home and of course I did. On the way there she asked me what I thought of her when she first walked in the door. “Honestly? The first thing I thought was ‘How much does she charge.’” I have since learned that that is not an appropriate response to any question a woman might ask you. I tried explaining it that not too many people dress like that in Milwaukee. Maybe in California, but we’re talking Midwest here. I think I did an ok job of that as she gave me her phone number once we got to her house (on the back of a self portrait of her, little weird?). She asked me to drop her off at George Webb’s and me, fucking up yet once again, dropped her off and didn’t even join her for breakfast.
The next day the bartender came up to me. “How the hell do you rate? One minute she doesn’t want to talk to you and the next minute she’s dragging you home! What the fuck?” All I could do was shrug my shoulders and give him a sly smile. I never told him all the details, too embarrassing.
Even though the sex was pretty damn good, I have never called her. I still have the picture with her phone number on it, but I’ve never called. A year later, is it too late? Not that I’m desperate or anything…
How’s this for a sign: they have taken the rules of the bar down and put up a list of drink prices instead. With the way shit is going now I’d never be able to convince someone that they used to have a rule on the board, “Don’t go home with anyone named B to the…” My claim to fame (not fortune) is gone.
I don’t know if I’ve ever told this story before, but this was part of the reason why Rule #7 went up on the billboard at the corner bar.
Last spring (I’m pretty sure) I went up to the corner bar on a typical Friday. Like usual I plopped my ass down in a stool at the bar. This night I was next to the entrance door in what is now lawyer girl’s favorite spot. Around 11:00 this rather hot woman walked in the bar and sat across the bartender’s exit from me. She was wearing some fashionable sunglasses and a sport coat. Upon further inspection with my peripheral vision, she was only wearing a bra underneath the sport coat. Bingo, she had my attention! I started talking with her; apparently she had been out with a guy at a local strip club. He had pissed her off in one way or another and she left him there, taking a cab to my corner bar. I bought her a drink or two and pulled out the usual bag of tricks. Of course I had to throw in there that I lived a block away just in case she needed a place to stay. Unfortunately, the usual bag of tricks wasn’t working this night and she asked the bartender to tell me to stop talking to her. Not wanting to ruffle anyone’s feathers I complied and left her alone. Thirty minutes passed. I was talking to the guy next to me and mid-sentence I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go.” Without giving me a chance to pay my tab she grabbed my arm and dragged me out the door. I had to help her a little bit as we walked down the sidewalk to my house. Once we got inside I showed her the bedroom and she promptly undressed. I told her I had to use the bathroom to brush my teeth and take out my contacts. I returned two minutes later only to find her passed out in my bed. Being the horny little devil that I am, I tried to wake her up with a couple gently pokes here and there but it didn’t work, she was out.
I woke up in the morning a little surprised to find a woman in my bed (doesn’t happen that often). She began to stir and we chatted for a bit about nothing specific. She asked if we anything had happened before going to bed and I told her no, that she had passed out shortly after hitting the pillow. Then she looked at me and delivered the greatest line I have ever heard. “You know, you were nice enough to let me sleep in your bed and didn’t try anything. We can have sex if you’d like to.” If I’d like to? Yeah, two minutes later I had the condom on and we were doing it (sex, intercourse, in case you weren’t following me). I’m not going to brag or anything but supposedly she O’d three times during our early morning romp (I’m not bragging, really).
And then things went downhill. After we had finished we got dressed. She asked if I’d make her some breakfast. Unless she wanted beer for breakfast I had nothing for her. She asked if I’d give her a ride home and of course I did. On the way there she asked me what I thought of her when she first walked in the door. “Honestly? The first thing I thought was ‘How much does she charge.’” I have since learned that that is not an appropriate response to any question a woman might ask you. I tried explaining it that not too many people dress like that in Milwaukee. Maybe in California, but we’re talking Midwest here. I think I did an ok job of that as she gave me her phone number once we got to her house (on the back of a self portrait of her, little weird?). She asked me to drop her off at George Webb’s and me, fucking up yet once again, dropped her off and didn’t even join her for breakfast.
The next day the bartender came up to me. “How the hell do you rate? One minute she doesn’t want to talk to you and the next minute she’s dragging you home! What the fuck?” All I could do was shrug my shoulders and give him a sly smile. I never told him all the details, too embarrassing.
Even though the sex was pretty damn good, I have never called her. I still have the picture with her phone number on it, but I’ve never called. A year later, is it too late? Not that I’m desperate or anything…
How’s this for a sign: they have taken the rules of the bar down and put up a list of drink prices instead. With the way shit is going now I’d never be able to convince someone that they used to have a rule on the board, “Don’t go home with anyone named B to the…” My claim to fame (not fortune) is gone.
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Fix Is In, Birthday Sex, and BGR
Like the previous weekend, I spent most of last weekend watching the NCAA tournament. Watching this weekend I learned two things: I really hate Florida and I think somebody (CBS or the NCAA) is influencing the refs.
Let me rephrase that. I don’t hate Florida the team or the college. I like their coach Billy Donavon. I like Corey Brewer, Taurean Green and Lee Humphrey. I love their cheerleaders (in my bed still wearing their outfits, just no panties). But I can’t stand watching Joahkim Noah and Al Horford. Noah claps like a girl every time he gets fouled and goes to the line. He’s a vastly overrated player (2nd team All-American?) on a very good team. I had about enough of him after Florida won the SEC title and I had to both watch him do some fucked up dance moves on the sideline and hear how absolutely ghetto he was during the post game interview. Al Horford has this look on his face like the refs are on crack every time he’s whistled for a foul or moves his pivot foot. Just because you’re going to be drafted in the top ten of this year’s draft doesn’t mean you can get away with every travel and hack. That is unless you’re absolutely murdering some vastly undersized player on a vastly less talented team.
With two and a half minutes left on the clock in the Butler game, Horford got the ball eight feet from the basket. Horford, 6’10” and 245 lbs, posted up Brandon Crone, 6’6” and 225 lbs. Not once, not twice, but four times Horford backed Crone down to the lane, throwing all his weight back while Crone tried unsuccessfully to hold his ground. Each time Crone would plant his feet in a good defensive position only to be pushed backwards two feet, right in front of the official. On the fourth push Crone fell to the ground, desperately tried to swipe at the ball and was called for a foul while Horford made the shot and the ensuing free throw. The score of the game at the time: 54-54. Horford put Florida up by three and the Bulldogs weren’t able to recover after that. Painfully bad officiating. At the four minute break I think CBS buzzed the refs indicating it was time to put Butler out of the game. I mean, you can’t have the number one team lose to a number five and ruin your ratings for Sunday, right?
And then there is Vanderbilt. Who? That’s what the CBS reps were asking when the Commodores took a one point lead over Georgetown with nineteen seconds left. Vanderbilt, a small private school with an enrollment of 6,000, had no business being in this game, let alone winning by one. On Georgetown’s final possession Jeff Green, another likely top draft pick this summer, obviously traveled and banked in the winning shot. Getting Georgetown past Vanderbilt and “helping” North Carolina in the second half against USC set up a great Georgetown/UNC match up for Sunday evening. And it was a great game, going into overtime with Georgetown pulling out the win, but the game never should have happened in the first place. Now don’t get me wrong here, I have Georgetown as the runner up in my bracket (losing to, gulp, Kansas). I just felt the officials favored the big boys over the little guys.
In other non-basketball related news:
My aspirations of having sex with someone new by the time my birthday rolls around has been fulfilled! (I can hear you all clapping and cheering, thank you, thank you very much!) Unfortunately it wasn’t exactly with someone new but more like with something new. The Renter had been bugging me about going out to dinner or doing something lame for my birthday and I don’t like stuff like that. I don’t take people out for dinner on their birthdays and I don’t expect them to on mine. Oh, and even worse, I guess it’s customary that the “women of the bar” buy a cake when an individual’s birthday comes around. You sure as hell know I won’t be at the bar either the night before the day or on the day just in case someone has something like this planned. I don’t want the attention and I certainly don’t want the cake. On other people’s birthdays I usually toss the plate in the garbage when no one is looking. I can’t stand the frosting and all that. Or I take it home with me and use it in the bedroom with a fine lass (or myself, whichever is available). If I was in charge of birthdays everyone would be eating beef jerky, the hot peppered kind that makes my head sweat (I’m a pussy).
Anyway, so the Renter and the neighborhood Queen went to the porn shop on Friday. She said there were a ton of people in there at 12:00 at night (I think her exact words were, “It’s midnight, look at all these pervs!”). Our Queen was browsing in the men’s section (as in men on men, not like the men’s section at Boston Store); the Renter was in the straight department. After a little while the Queen joined the Renter in the straight section. “I thought you didn’t like this kind of stuff?” To which the Queen replied, “I was getting hard in the gay area but this is making it go away.” The Renter picked out this freaking huge vibrator that required four D-cells. It looked like one of those mini baseball bats they give out to the first 5,000 fans on opening day. Sunday night I was lying in bed and I heard this loud VRRRRRR, VRRRRRR. I started laughing right away knowing what it was. I guess she must have thought I was sleeping or something.
Along with the vibrator she picked up four DVDs. When I got home from visiting the parents on Saturday she had them stacked up on my bed with a bottle of lube wishing me a happy birthday. And let me tell you, the broad has taste.
On Sunday we washed our cars as it had to have been 70 degrees outside. When we were done I checked to see what time the first game was supposed to start. I looked at the clock and realized we had forty minutes till game time. I (he, he) forced the Renter to lift weights with me in the basement. She’s been bugging me to get her in shape and, after getting a whiff of her when I stood too close, I think she finally applied herself in the workout. After the workout she desperately needed to take a shower so I took advantage of a little “alone” time. I was very impressed with the first DVD I popped in the player. Well, I think I’d be impressed with anything that had Vivid on the cover (probably the best label out there). And to make a long story short, I had very hot (imaginative) sexual intercourse with a tall leggy blond who I’d just met five minutes earlier (on the TV). The birthday goal has been achieved! But please, I beg you, don’t cancel that stripper that performs extra “favors” if you already have her lined up.
Later that day, in between games, we popped in one of the other videos. Apparently the Renter had mistakenly picked out one that just had women in it. I’ll be straight with you here: I really don’t enjoy going down on a woman (who does?). Sure, I’ve done it in the past, but after one too many bad experiences I just don’t do it anymore. I fast forward regular porn when the guy makes his mandatory trip down there. While all the women were very attractive, having all three of them licking each other and sucking vaginal juices made me feel a little queasy after I had just put down two chicken leg/thigh combos. And I know it isn’t just me. I caught the Renter having to look away at some parts where they would push the lips away exposing what looked like a raw steak. Oh, and I learned another lesson: women don’t know what the fuck to do with a strap-on. If any of those women had ever complained about a man being bad in bed they should rewind the tape and look closer at their performance. You’d think the producers would put them through some kind of training session or something.
Other than that the weekend was pretty quiet. I was a little bit under the weather on Friday and Saturday. Saturday morning I got a text message from the FA; his wife popped out a baby girl! Congratulations to both of you!
And for BGR, you are officially the first baby announcement on this blog! Just think, in years to come when you can read and write, probably when I’m dead and gone, your online legacy beginning will still be right here for everyone to view. Now that’s something to be proud of (your mom and dad might not think so right now but when I’m dead and my work is selling for ten times the face value of $.01 it will mean much, much more). Too bad your parents couldn’t think of a name that wound up being PBR (Pabts Blue Ribbon), but that’s partly my fault as I forgot to mention the possible initials. For that I will forever be sorry. But I’ll make it up to you right now. Someday ask Daddy what he does on the toilet when Mommy is away. (Funny what you learn about a person when you’re waiting for a flight and you’re jacked up on Duncan Donuts and coffee.)
Let me rephrase that. I don’t hate Florida the team or the college. I like their coach Billy Donavon. I like Corey Brewer, Taurean Green and Lee Humphrey. I love their cheerleaders (in my bed still wearing their outfits, just no panties). But I can’t stand watching Joahkim Noah and Al Horford. Noah claps like a girl every time he gets fouled and goes to the line. He’s a vastly overrated player (2nd team All-American?) on a very good team. I had about enough of him after Florida won the SEC title and I had to both watch him do some fucked up dance moves on the sideline and hear how absolutely ghetto he was during the post game interview. Al Horford has this look on his face like the refs are on crack every time he’s whistled for a foul or moves his pivot foot. Just because you’re going to be drafted in the top ten of this year’s draft doesn’t mean you can get away with every travel and hack. That is unless you’re absolutely murdering some vastly undersized player on a vastly less talented team.
With two and a half minutes left on the clock in the Butler game, Horford got the ball eight feet from the basket. Horford, 6’10” and 245 lbs, posted up Brandon Crone, 6’6” and 225 lbs. Not once, not twice, but four times Horford backed Crone down to the lane, throwing all his weight back while Crone tried unsuccessfully to hold his ground. Each time Crone would plant his feet in a good defensive position only to be pushed backwards two feet, right in front of the official. On the fourth push Crone fell to the ground, desperately tried to swipe at the ball and was called for a foul while Horford made the shot and the ensuing free throw. The score of the game at the time: 54-54. Horford put Florida up by three and the Bulldogs weren’t able to recover after that. Painfully bad officiating. At the four minute break I think CBS buzzed the refs indicating it was time to put Butler out of the game. I mean, you can’t have the number one team lose to a number five and ruin your ratings for Sunday, right?
And then there is Vanderbilt. Who? That’s what the CBS reps were asking when the Commodores took a one point lead over Georgetown with nineteen seconds left. Vanderbilt, a small private school with an enrollment of 6,000, had no business being in this game, let alone winning by one. On Georgetown’s final possession Jeff Green, another likely top draft pick this summer, obviously traveled and banked in the winning shot. Getting Georgetown past Vanderbilt and “helping” North Carolina in the second half against USC set up a great Georgetown/UNC match up for Sunday evening. And it was a great game, going into overtime with Georgetown pulling out the win, but the game never should have happened in the first place. Now don’t get me wrong here, I have Georgetown as the runner up in my bracket (losing to, gulp, Kansas). I just felt the officials favored the big boys over the little guys.
In other non-basketball related news:
My aspirations of having sex with someone new by the time my birthday rolls around has been fulfilled! (I can hear you all clapping and cheering, thank you, thank you very much!) Unfortunately it wasn’t exactly with someone new but more like with something new. The Renter had been bugging me about going out to dinner or doing something lame for my birthday and I don’t like stuff like that. I don’t take people out for dinner on their birthdays and I don’t expect them to on mine. Oh, and even worse, I guess it’s customary that the “women of the bar” buy a cake when an individual’s birthday comes around. You sure as hell know I won’t be at the bar either the night before the day or on the day just in case someone has something like this planned. I don’t want the attention and I certainly don’t want the cake. On other people’s birthdays I usually toss the plate in the garbage when no one is looking. I can’t stand the frosting and all that. Or I take it home with me and use it in the bedroom with a fine lass (or myself, whichever is available). If I was in charge of birthdays everyone would be eating beef jerky, the hot peppered kind that makes my head sweat (I’m a pussy).
Anyway, so the Renter and the neighborhood Queen went to the porn shop on Friday. She said there were a ton of people in there at 12:00 at night (I think her exact words were, “It’s midnight, look at all these pervs!”). Our Queen was browsing in the men’s section (as in men on men, not like the men’s section at Boston Store); the Renter was in the straight department. After a little while the Queen joined the Renter in the straight section. “I thought you didn’t like this kind of stuff?” To which the Queen replied, “I was getting hard in the gay area but this is making it go away.” The Renter picked out this freaking huge vibrator that required four D-cells. It looked like one of those mini baseball bats they give out to the first 5,000 fans on opening day. Sunday night I was lying in bed and I heard this loud VRRRRRR, VRRRRRR. I started laughing right away knowing what it was. I guess she must have thought I was sleeping or something.
Along with the vibrator she picked up four DVDs. When I got home from visiting the parents on Saturday she had them stacked up on my bed with a bottle of lube wishing me a happy birthday. And let me tell you, the broad has taste.
On Sunday we washed our cars as it had to have been 70 degrees outside. When we were done I checked to see what time the first game was supposed to start. I looked at the clock and realized we had forty minutes till game time. I (he, he) forced the Renter to lift weights with me in the basement. She’s been bugging me to get her in shape and, after getting a whiff of her when I stood too close, I think she finally applied herself in the workout. After the workout she desperately needed to take a shower so I took advantage of a little “alone” time. I was very impressed with the first DVD I popped in the player. Well, I think I’d be impressed with anything that had Vivid on the cover (probably the best label out there). And to make a long story short, I had very hot (imaginative) sexual intercourse with a tall leggy blond who I’d just met five minutes earlier (on the TV). The birthday goal has been achieved! But please, I beg you, don’t cancel that stripper that performs extra “favors” if you already have her lined up.
Later that day, in between games, we popped in one of the other videos. Apparently the Renter had mistakenly picked out one that just had women in it. I’ll be straight with you here: I really don’t enjoy going down on a woman (who does?). Sure, I’ve done it in the past, but after one too many bad experiences I just don’t do it anymore. I fast forward regular porn when the guy makes his mandatory trip down there. While all the women were very attractive, having all three of them licking each other and sucking vaginal juices made me feel a little queasy after I had just put down two chicken leg/thigh combos. And I know it isn’t just me. I caught the Renter having to look away at some parts where they would push the lips away exposing what looked like a raw steak. Oh, and I learned another lesson: women don’t know what the fuck to do with a strap-on. If any of those women had ever complained about a man being bad in bed they should rewind the tape and look closer at their performance. You’d think the producers would put them through some kind of training session or something.
Other than that the weekend was pretty quiet. I was a little bit under the weather on Friday and Saturday. Saturday morning I got a text message from the FA; his wife popped out a baby girl! Congratulations to both of you!
And for BGR, you are officially the first baby announcement on this blog! Just think, in years to come when you can read and write, probably when I’m dead and gone, your online legacy beginning will still be right here for everyone to view. Now that’s something to be proud of (your mom and dad might not think so right now but when I’m dead and my work is selling for ten times the face value of $.01 it will mean much, much more). Too bad your parents couldn’t think of a name that wound up being PBR (Pabts Blue Ribbon), but that’s partly my fault as I forgot to mention the possible initials. For that I will forever be sorry. But I’ll make it up to you right now. Someday ask Daddy what he does on the toilet when Mommy is away. (Funny what you learn about a person when you’re waiting for a flight and you’re jacked up on Duncan Donuts and coffee.)
Friday, March 23, 2007
Random Shit
CINCINNATI (AP) - A football player was suspended for the first three games of the 2007 season for lying to officials investigating a claim that players and recruits engaged in sexual activities with a former women's soccer player at a party, the University of Cincinnati said Friday.
The player, whose identity was not released, at first denied then later admitted having consensual sex with someone and provided conflicting explanations about what else may have occurred that night — a violation of the student code of conduct, the school said.
In the end, investigators said they were unable to substantiate claims made in an anonymous letter sent last month to university president Nancy Zimpher and other administrators.
If they were unable to substantiate the claims, why the fuck did he get suspended for three games?
Good thing no one can substantiate the claims that I masturbate while wearing a condom.
You might have noticed I talk about this a lot. It’s not that I masturbate that often, but when you’ve been doing something every other day (is that often?) since the sixth grade you kind of get attached to it. I’m a little bit of a numbers kind of person and doing the math, every other day for the past 19 years is 3,500 times. My friends, that number is way off. Back in high school and college, the typical study session in my room was interrupted at least twice a night for “study breaks.” There have been numerous days where I’ve had nothing better to do than whack it six or seven times. They say you’re supposed to do everything in moderation. This holds true for masturbation, too. After four or five times I’m left there sitting on the couch, sweat on my forehead, right arm limp from the shoulder down, and a penis that requires a feverish beat down in order to get the job finished. At this point it becomes more work than it’s worth.
As I’ve mentioned before, I can’t remember the freaking password on my “porn” computer. I’m a lazy masturbator. I need some tits or ass in front of me to get the job done in a timely manner, otherwise it takes twice as long. Without having access to the lovely ladies (whores) on my computer, I’m left with three pornographic DVDs. Technically I have four, but I forgot to pick up Anal Sluts 6 when I was at the FA’s house (dude, porn on the 92” screen is awesome!). One of the DVD’s I got for free (stole) from the lawyer girl’s birthday present one year. She had seen Anal Sluts 6 and liked it, so I got her volumes 7, 8, and 9. Along with those they included a free sampler video which I just had to keep for myself. The other two that I own I bought not by browsing for hot Latinas or cute blonds taking on five guys at a time, but by searching for a certain “performer.” Now, you might be thinking Jenna or some other famous porn star, but this wasn’t the case. No, it was a past girlfriend.
And you know what? It’s really fucking weird watching an ex-girlfriend take it up the ass and scream on the TV the same way she did when you had it in her ass. It doesn’t really do it for me. There’s something about knowing that I had “been there” and “done that” that it doesn’t turn me on at all. I don’t know if there are any female porn stars who read this (yeah right), but I’m just going to guess that 99% of them don’t actually orgasm while they are on the set. So, there she is, on the TV, screaming loud enough to wake up the neighbors, and it’s the exact same scream that she did wake up the neighbors with when I was doing it.
Ok, sorry, that’s it for tonight.
PEACE OUT TO THE HOMIES
The player, whose identity was not released, at first denied then later admitted having consensual sex with someone and provided conflicting explanations about what else may have occurred that night — a violation of the student code of conduct, the school said.
In the end, investigators said they were unable to substantiate claims made in an anonymous letter sent last month to university president Nancy Zimpher and other administrators.
If they were unable to substantiate the claims, why the fuck did he get suspended for three games?
Good thing no one can substantiate the claims that I masturbate while wearing a condom.
You might have noticed I talk about this a lot. It’s not that I masturbate that often, but when you’ve been doing something every other day (is that often?) since the sixth grade you kind of get attached to it. I’m a little bit of a numbers kind of person and doing the math, every other day for the past 19 years is 3,500 times. My friends, that number is way off. Back in high school and college, the typical study session in my room was interrupted at least twice a night for “study breaks.” There have been numerous days where I’ve had nothing better to do than whack it six or seven times. They say you’re supposed to do everything in moderation. This holds true for masturbation, too. After four or five times I’m left there sitting on the couch, sweat on my forehead, right arm limp from the shoulder down, and a penis that requires a feverish beat down in order to get the job finished. At this point it becomes more work than it’s worth.
As I’ve mentioned before, I can’t remember the freaking password on my “porn” computer. I’m a lazy masturbator. I need some tits or ass in front of me to get the job done in a timely manner, otherwise it takes twice as long. Without having access to the lovely ladies (whores) on my computer, I’m left with three pornographic DVDs. Technically I have four, but I forgot to pick up Anal Sluts 6 when I was at the FA’s house (dude, porn on the 92” screen is awesome!). One of the DVD’s I got for free (stole) from the lawyer girl’s birthday present one year. She had seen Anal Sluts 6 and liked it, so I got her volumes 7, 8, and 9. Along with those they included a free sampler video which I just had to keep for myself. The other two that I own I bought not by browsing for hot Latinas or cute blonds taking on five guys at a time, but by searching for a certain “performer.” Now, you might be thinking Jenna or some other famous porn star, but this wasn’t the case. No, it was a past girlfriend.
And you know what? It’s really fucking weird watching an ex-girlfriend take it up the ass and scream on the TV the same way she did when you had it in her ass. It doesn’t really do it for me. There’s something about knowing that I had “been there” and “done that” that it doesn’t turn me on at all. I don’t know if there are any female porn stars who read this (yeah right), but I’m just going to guess that 99% of them don’t actually orgasm while they are on the set. So, there she is, on the TV, screaming loud enough to wake up the neighbors, and it’s the exact same scream that she did wake up the neighbors with when I was doing it.
Ok, sorry, that’s it for tonight.
PEACE OUT TO THE HOMIES
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Embarrassing Conversation of the Day
To my condom supplier (female who I’ve tried to seduce – unsuccessfully):
Me: You know those things you gave me last week?
Condom Supplier: Yeah, what about them?
Me: I’ve gotta tell you, those XL condoms are pretty fucking cool.
Condom Supplier: The big ones? I’m glad you liked them. I guess that means that you got some over the weekend.
Me: Well, not exactly. The streak is approaching seven months now.
(Condom Supplier looks at me questionably.)
Me: Yeah, well, I kind of just wanted to try one on to see how it fit and one thing led to another and… I kind of used eight of them this weekend… just by myself… with myself.
Condom Supplier: So you didn’t use them for sex?
Me: Does sex with myself count?
(Condom Supplier looks at me like I’m really fucking weird that I masturbate in my living room while wearing a condom.)
Condom Supplier: Wow. I guess that takes safe sex to a new level.
(End of conversation with Condom Supplier, female who I have tried to seduce and now will be forever unsuccessful.)
Thankfully her cell phone started ringing and I was able to quickly duck out of the room.
I really wish I was making some of these stories up.
Emails from the 39 yr old woman at the gym.
Me: I'm going to test out my psychic abilities here. You were bench pressing yesterday, correct?
39 yr old: Try again Houdini...
I was at a seminar all day, but came back around 4pm and did some jogging and biking. The place was PACKED! I think all the girls drank too much on spring break and were trying to shed the new lbs...ha, kind of funny, they'll all be gone after a week or so. It's a trend.
How've you been?
Me: Huh. I saw a bench press with a 5 and a 2.5 on each end, figured it was you. But then again, you go all the way up to 10 pounds on each end!
I've been great but I'm paying for it now. Like the spring breakers, I need to be in the gym but I'm lazy today. I added up the total beer intake for the four day weekend of watching the college games all day long: 998 ounces.
I'll be jogging tonight. Or maybe I'll swing by the gym around 4:00 and do a little window shopping.
Nine more days till I turn 30 and I'm already a dirty old man.
39 yr old: If my calculations are right, that's like 62 beers ya nut! I had 5 Guiness on St. Pat's...maybe 60oz in total. I was at O'Briens and Shepherds...fun night, the band at O'Briens was very good. Did you stay at your local hangout.
I'm joggin tonight too (burger group met at lunchtime).
Ya, once you hit 30 you may not be able to hit on those young college
girls...they might want to call ya daddy. Hee hee hee
(Is it just me but seriously, hee hee hee?)
Me: B to the… might be turning 30 soon but Brian is 27 and in law school. Sadly, both of them need to lose 15 lbs.
62 beers? When you come from lowly UW schools your beers usually come in 12 ounce bottles. 998/12=83.
Yeah, I stayed at the corner and had to put up with a bunch of drunk strangers. It was ok I guess, played pool for most of the night.
Ya know, in the right situation they can call me daddy all they want.
I'd ask if you wanted to jog together tonight but it would turn out far worse than that game of raquetball did that I still owe you favors for.
39 yr old: Ahhh, how cool to have an alias. I like your way of thinking!
I'm Megan, 32, working on my Phd in Bio-med. (I'll try that next time.) lol
I wasn't sure if a beer was 12 or 16 oz...I'm more of rail drinker.
Captains..yum.
Regarding your 4th sentence...Perv! Lol
Your stride and mine may match up in a mixed up sort of way...your long stride to my non-smoking quick step (actually I run kind of slow). The dinner favor, aaaah, don't worry about it. But let's grab a drink to toast your birthday sometime when you can.
Me: Birthday toast, sweet!
I don't think I included "dinner" when I mentioned "favors".
39 yr old: LOL You're a bad boy.
If only she knew that she was rock star famous to the blog world and her emails were quoted word for word on my hilariously funny and yet somewhat demented website.
So we’re all set up to have drinks next week Thursday. There’s just one problem I foresee: how am I going to get home from downtown after having drinks after work?
You see, I don’t drink after I've been drivng, er, drive after I've been drinking. I’ve done that in the past once or twice (wink). So I have to think of something by next week Thursday. There’s always the bus, and it is a straight shot to and from work, but still, it’s the bus. I don’t know what’s worse, getting up early to catch the bus or actually riding on the bus. Or I could hope for some really nice weather and just walk the six miles back home. Painful. I’m sure I’ll think of something, but any helpful tips would be greatly appreciated.
Me: You know those things you gave me last week?
Condom Supplier: Yeah, what about them?
Me: I’ve gotta tell you, those XL condoms are pretty fucking cool.
Condom Supplier: The big ones? I’m glad you liked them. I guess that means that you got some over the weekend.
Me: Well, not exactly. The streak is approaching seven months now.
(Condom Supplier looks at me questionably.)
Me: Yeah, well, I kind of just wanted to try one on to see how it fit and one thing led to another and… I kind of used eight of them this weekend… just by myself… with myself.
Condom Supplier: So you didn’t use them for sex?
Me: Does sex with myself count?
(Condom Supplier looks at me like I’m really fucking weird that I masturbate in my living room while wearing a condom.)
Condom Supplier: Wow. I guess that takes safe sex to a new level.
(End of conversation with Condom Supplier, female who I have tried to seduce and now will be forever unsuccessful.)
Thankfully her cell phone started ringing and I was able to quickly duck out of the room.
I really wish I was making some of these stories up.
Emails from the 39 yr old woman at the gym.
Me: I'm going to test out my psychic abilities here. You were bench pressing yesterday, correct?
39 yr old: Try again Houdini...
I was at a seminar all day, but came back around 4pm and did some jogging and biking. The place was PACKED! I think all the girls drank too much on spring break and were trying to shed the new lbs...ha, kind of funny, they'll all be gone after a week or so. It's a trend.
How've you been?
Me: Huh. I saw a bench press with a 5 and a 2.5 on each end, figured it was you. But then again, you go all the way up to 10 pounds on each end!
I've been great but I'm paying for it now. Like the spring breakers, I need to be in the gym but I'm lazy today. I added up the total beer intake for the four day weekend of watching the college games all day long: 998 ounces.
I'll be jogging tonight. Or maybe I'll swing by the gym around 4:00 and do a little window shopping.
Nine more days till I turn 30 and I'm already a dirty old man.
39 yr old: If my calculations are right, that's like 62 beers ya nut! I had 5 Guiness on St. Pat's...maybe 60oz in total. I was at O'Briens and Shepherds...fun night, the band at O'Briens was very good. Did you stay at your local hangout.
I'm joggin tonight too (burger group met at lunchtime).
Ya, once you hit 30 you may not be able to hit on those young college
girls...they might want to call ya daddy. Hee hee hee
(Is it just me but seriously, hee hee hee?)
Me: B to the… might be turning 30 soon but Brian is 27 and in law school. Sadly, both of them need to lose 15 lbs.
62 beers? When you come from lowly UW schools your beers usually come in 12 ounce bottles. 998/12=83.
Yeah, I stayed at the corner and had to put up with a bunch of drunk strangers. It was ok I guess, played pool for most of the night.
Ya know, in the right situation they can call me daddy all they want.
I'd ask if you wanted to jog together tonight but it would turn out far worse than that game of raquetball did that I still owe you favors for.
39 yr old: Ahhh, how cool to have an alias. I like your way of thinking!
I'm Megan, 32, working on my Phd in Bio-med. (I'll try that next time.) lol
I wasn't sure if a beer was 12 or 16 oz...I'm more of rail drinker.
Captains..yum.
Regarding your 4th sentence...Perv! Lol
Your stride and mine may match up in a mixed up sort of way...your long stride to my non-smoking quick step (actually I run kind of slow). The dinner favor, aaaah, don't worry about it. But let's grab a drink to toast your birthday sometime when you can.
Me: Birthday toast, sweet!
I don't think I included "dinner" when I mentioned "favors".
39 yr old: LOL You're a bad boy.
If only she knew that she was rock star famous to the blog world and her emails were quoted word for word on my hilariously funny and yet somewhat demented website.
So we’re all set up to have drinks next week Thursday. There’s just one problem I foresee: how am I going to get home from downtown after having drinks after work?
You see, I don’t drink after I've been drivng, er, drive after I've been drinking. I’ve done that in the past once or twice (wink). So I have to think of something by next week Thursday. There’s always the bus, and it is a straight shot to and from work, but still, it’s the bus. I don’t know what’s worse, getting up early to catch the bus or actually riding on the bus. Or I could hope for some really nice weather and just walk the six miles back home. Painful. I’m sure I’ll think of something, but any helpful tips would be greatly appreciated.
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