B to the…’s Hottie of the Day

The FA and his wife went out with some friends for Halloween and he directed me to one of their Myspace pages that had some photos. Actually, this isn’t just anyone’s Myspace page, but someone that I’ve held close to my heart (and crotch) for quite some time now. So here you have it, B to the…’s Hottie of the Day!!!



And seriously, K, call me, we should hook up.

(Now I know that she’d never call me even if her car broke down in front of my house. You see, I have this way with women. Either I wow them with my charm and they drop their panties on the spot or they grow this serious disdain for my humor and personality. K falls in the latter category. If only she knew more about my good qualities, for example, my unending stamina in the bedroom (cough, cough), my foot-long wiener (mini hot dog), and my vast experience (with myself)).

Talk About a Game

Last night the Green Bay Packers played a hell of a game in upsetting the Denver Broncos. There had been some talk of Brett Favre not having the arm strength that he used to but he proved everyone wrong before a nationally televised audience on Monday Night Football. After the Packers defense couldn’t hold the Broncos and their legendary kicker Jason Elam in regulation, Favre came out and rifled a bomb down the sideline to Greg Jennings on the first offensive play in overtime. Way to go Pack. I hope this shuts up some of his critics because they wouldn’t have a team if it wasn’t for him. Come back next year, Brett, you’re good in my book.

And talk about having it good. They provide food during halftime of the Packer games. Usually it’s some Mexican dish from the restaurant next door. Usually it’s pretty damn good although some people complain about it. Hey, free food always tastes better to me, I would never complain. But a couple weeks ago I had mentioned to the head chef how good the little Chinese egg rolls were. So last night he was walking around and asked me if he should put some of them out for the spread. Of course I said yes and tried to keep an eye out for when he brought them out. They tend to go pretty fast and the old vultures in the back are notorious for taking more than they can eat. Just before halftime I felt a tap on my shoulder. There was the head chef with a two foot round tray packed with egg rolls. There had to have been 40 of them. He set it down in front of me, slapped me on the back and walked off. I figured he was going to make some and put them on the buffet table but this was not the case. Everyone was looking at me with jaws open. “Dig in!” I had arms and hands flying in front of me so fast, and then screams of “Ouch, that’s hot!” before I finished saying “in”. Oh, those little suckers were pretty tasty. I ate and ate, probably had about ten before everyone else stopped eating them leaving me three more to try to choke down (of course I did it). Being the thankful patron I took the dish back to the kitchen and thanked the cook many, many times – without getting on my knees or bending over, you sick fucks.

I don’t know if I’m that much fun or that entertaining or if my jokes are that funny or if I’m just a nice guy in general (probably none of the above), but I do my best to keep everyone at the bar happy and entertained. Mr. Head Chef, you made me feel special and very happy. I owe you one buddy.

Fucking Ronald McDonald

The only way I can describe the state that I was in this weekend is, well, pretty freaking loaded, even for me.

Let’s see, Friday… Yeah, I don’t remember too much of Friday. Actually I don’t remember anything from Friday. Seriously, nothing. Must have been damn good.

The Renter started talking to me again on Saturday. It’s not like she really had much of a choice. I’m that fucking entertaining.

Started out down the road where they carried the Big Ten Network. My prediction was correct that the Badgers would play well and pull out a win (by more than 7.5). Not a bad start to the weekend of football.

The Renter got hungry so we swung by McDonalds. I wasn’t on my best behavior. There are now incriminating pictures of me floating around out there of me fucking Ronald McDonald. But he had a smile on his face so he must have liked it.

The next stop was Fun World (yes, that place with all the arcade games). Played some ski ball, some air hockey, and some shooting game. On the way out I fucked the giraffe they had by the door. And bent underneath the elephant’s ass. Yes, there are pictures of that, too.

Ended up at the corner bar for a bit. Someone suggested going to see the movie Saw IV. I really don’t like scary movies but for some reason I kind of like this series. But there was one major problem: I was loaded. I don’t remember a damn thing from the movie. Nothing. Guess I’ll have to go see it again sometime.

I tried to watch the longest regulation baseball game ever but once again I failed. I was loaded.

I think we played pool somewhere during the day but I’m not quite sure. But you’re getting my drift about the weekend so far, right? Uh, it was rough.

Sunday I was just going to lounge around the house and watch some football. Two weekends in a row without a Packer game (they play on Monday night) was pretty painful. A little after 1:00 my doorbell rang. Weird, nobody rings my doorbell. And then I saw them: little people dressed up in cheesy outfits. Damn trick or treaters. Even though I had the TV blaring I hid in the kitchen and didn’t answer the door. Five minutes later the doorbell rang again. By 1:15 I was at the corner bar. The little bastards had effectively driven me out of my house. And they say size matters – bullshit.

The bar was pretty dead except for the bartender and a couple other people. I got to watch the Colts lay the smack down on the Carolina Panthers (yet another good job of picking the right team to back). And then the Patriots absolutely killed the Washington Redskins. I’ve only taken the Patriots once this year. Not that I’ve gone against them ever, but I’ve only taken them once. So when I say “oh, I made this pick and this pick” it’s really all just luck.

I was in bed by 8:30 for my weekly Sunday hibernation. Eleven hours of straight, solid sleep is absolutely awesome after a rough weekend.

But then this morning it started. I woke up just before the alarm went off and noticed it was a little cold in the house. I got up and looked at the thermostat: 59 degrees. You see, I don’t like paying for heat. When I first bought the house back in 2006 I got my first heat bill at the beginning of March. I have a 300 gallon tank in my basement that holds the oil for the furnace. In March they came by and filled it since it was ¾ empty. That cost me $300. That got the heat turned off. Since I was living by myself and I’m a cheap bastard I just flicked the switch to off and never thought about it again. Sure, it was 50 degrees when I’d wake up in the mornings but who cared, I was just leaving to go to work anyway. By 6:00 the sun would heat up the house a bit and even then I was just off to the bar. Then the Renter came along and she wanted some heat so I set it at 55. You know, when I first started writing this I felt a little bad for leaving her at home all day in 59 degrees but hell, that’s 4 degrees more than it was all last winter. She probably danced around in shorts all day long. Actually I kind of doubt that. The Heat Nazi lives on!!!

How Would You Rate...

I need a little reader feedback here. I know I haven't posted anything really good on here for a while, but based on the average production... how would you rate this blog? On a scale of 1-10. Just curious. I'm sure the wet t-shirt contest photos were a plus for the guys, maybe not so much for the girls (you never know). But do I provide entertaining shit or no?

This is also a post to test the reader's willingest to put up a comment, anonymous or whatever.

9:00 and Still Drunk

Nothing like being awake at 9:00 on a Saturday and still being drunk. I mean fuck, I can't go anywhere, can't drive, just gotta wait till noon or something before I head out to Wal-Mart. So goes the life of a recovering (from last night) alcoholic.

Cal Snoop

I got this email on Friday. I figure it couldn't be spam since it said "Cal Snoop" in it and I know Snoop from California frequents this site from time to time. So, is this the masked maurader? Oh, and the email said I should wear an outfit like this so I could get some good tail. Actually had me thinking for a bit.

The email was: MR. INCREDIBLE...you need one of these to help you score some real tail!!


Snoop, if that's you, you've got some serious junk in the trunk. Elephantitise like.

Early Saturday

Why I'm up at 8:00 on a Saturday morning after a very good night of drinking I don't know. But fuck.

My boy Genarlo Wilson should have been released from jail yesterday after doing two years for receiving a blow job from a 15-yr-old when he was 17. Talk about some crazy shit.

Unfortunately this story about young-uns reminds me of something that happened at the corner bar on Wednesday.

I think I’ve mentioned that the corner sports bar is attached to a Mexican restaurant. Lots of Mexican families go there for dinner. Wednesday there were quite a few little kids running around the lobby. After pitcher number two I carefully waded through the tykes and made my way to the bathroom. The bathroom was empty and I stepped up to a urinal. I heard the door open behind me but didn’t think anything of it. Halfway through doing my business I heard the door open again. And then the bathroom was filled with loud screaming. I turned around and saw some little kid about three feet tall running around the bathroom balling his eyes out. I pretty much froze right then. There I was in a ten by ten bathroom with my hand on my penis and a screaming kid running around behind me. I couldn’t do anything but stare straight ahead and finish my business. After what seemed like an eternity the kid’s dad came in to see what was wrong. Oh, and two of the kid’s brothers. I zipped up and turned around to them all huddling around the screaming kid. Turns out the kid got his finger pinched in the door. I made my way around them, washed my hands and left the bathroom.

That scared the shit out of me (well, at least the pee).

Oh, and the Renter still isn't talking to me.



Somebody found this site doing a Google search for "too fat" and "unbuttoned pants." Seriously, I have no response to this. But the posting they found had this in it: I started playing pool around 10:30. By 10:35 the back of the bar by the pool table smelled like, well, just a lot of stinky farts. It was bad, even for me. Walking around the pool table and lining up the next shot and BAM!, you’d run into this wall of stench that filled your nostrils and put stars in your eyes. The Renter refused to play pool with me and called me Mr. McNasty. I passed out from the fumes. Somebody peed on me.

God I used to write well.

Tennis

I have to start watching me some tennis.

The History of the Middle Finger

Well, now......here's something I never knew before, and now that I know it, I feel compelled to send it on to my more intelligent friends in the hope that they, too, will feel edified. Isn't history more fun when you know something about it? Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French, anticipating victory over the English, proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English soldiers. Without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the renowned English longbow and therefore they would be incapable of fighting in the future. This famous English longbow was made of the native English Yew tree, and the act of drawing the longbow was known as "plucking the yew" (or "pluck yew"). Much to the bewilderment of the French, the English won a major upset and began mocking the French by waving their middle fingers at the defeated French, saying, see, we can still pluck yew! Since 'pluck yew' is rather difficult to say, the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodentals fricative F', and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute! It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as "giving the bird." IT IS STILL AN APPROPRIATE SALUTE TO THE FRENCH TODAY! And yew thought yew knew every plucking thing.

Byron Leftwich

Byron Leftwich is having surgery for his sprained ankle. They say that he should be able to return in two weeks after they put two screws in his ankle. Screw that.

Do you know how many times I’ve sprained my ankles playing basketball? Hell, one bends less than the other because it got jacked up more. But fuck, it’s just a sprain. It will heal over time. I know the NFL season is only 16 weeks long and that every game is important but I don’t understand having surgery for a sprained ankle. But then again I’m not a doctor. You could call me a doctor of love… with oneself.

Yelling

So I yelled at the Renter last night. Not yell like loud or anything, that shit is uncalled for. But certain things have been irking me lately and I don’t really know what to do about it.

The thing is, she’s always there; there being wherever I am. The Packers didn’t play on Sunday so I watched three scary movies on the Sci-fi channel. The Renter was there. At 8:00 I took a shower and went up to the bar. 8:30 she was there. Monday night I went up to the bar at 7:00. 7:30 she was there. I left the bar at 11:00. 11:15 she was back home. It’s getting to the point where I can’t do anything by myself.

It’s been well documented that I’ve been living my lifestyle for quite some time. Yes, I go to the bar every day. Yes, I bought a house 62 steps away for this exact purpose. This has all been planned out very well (if you ask me at least). But the plan was set up for me, not me and my shadow.

Seriously, she knows all the people that I do and yet, even if there are open seats everywhere, she has to sit right next to me. I’ve been chatting with women who abruptly stop talking to me when the angry Asian sits next to me (“angry Asian” is just a reference to the Renter’s makeup, and no, I didn’t coin the term).

People think that we are together. If I leave at 11:00 she leaves at 11:00. It doesn’t matter if its 11:00, 12:00, or 1:00, it’s always at the same time which gives the appearance of togetherness. Not that I’m actively scrounging around for some poon or anything but if I were this would be a major issue. This does not play that much into my frustration.

For some reason she doesn’t like many people at the bar. I’ve taken shit for how this ex-girlfriend or that ex-girlfriend talked her ear off about nothing in particular for three hours when I haven’t been there. I can sit there for hours on end talking to pretty much anyone who walks in the door; heck, even those damn karaoke people. That’s why I go there every single fucking day. Why would you go there if you didn’t like the people?

This all leaves me bound up like Chuck E Cheese. The Renter, while she puts on this show that she’s all tough on the outside, behind the scenes is a different story. I’d ask her to move out but I don’t know where she’d go. Sure, she’d find someplace, but she probably wouldn’t be happy. And I’d be out $400 a month.

So what’s a brother to do? I just want a little space. If I wanted to share my life with a woman I’d get married. Remember, I’m single. That’s the way I want it and that’s the way I want others to see me.

Self-discipline

I just couldn’t do it. Usually I’m good with self-discipline. Well, I’m good with self-discipline on most issues.

You might be reading this now and are thinking, “self-discipline from the guy who drinks 20 beers a night without thinking anything of it?” Yeah, well, I choose to drink 20 beers a night. I never said I wanted to cut down or anything so there are no discipline infractions there. God I love my beer.

But lifting weights at night in the basement just ain’t hacking it. Usually I get home from work and the parent’s house around 6:30. I’ll write in the blog for a bit while I eye up the other half of the basement. Before you know it it’s 7:00 and, like tonight, there’s some sporting event on TV that I want to watch at 7:30. So what are my choices: lift weights for a measly 20 minutes and take a shower to catch the show or put it off till tomorrow when I’ll have lots of free time to lift? Lately I’ve been putting it off. And putting it off some more. Then it gets to the point when I can’t remember the last time I lifted. Needless to say, this isn’t the ideal workout structure.

I came across a little cash this weekend. I went to the casino three times, one time against my wishes. Friday I won $200, Saturday afternoon I won $300 and Saturday night, after the non-gambling Renter begged me to go, I lost $400. I’ll never do that again. Just because someone isn’t tired and wants to do something isn’t a reason to go to the casino. I could have been up $500 for the weekend. As it sits I’m only up $100.

After a good weekend of drinking I ended up spending that $100. But that $100 was bonus money; I still had my two week budget in my pocket. So today I decided I’d break down and join the gym again.

I walked in to the gym and was delighted when the college kid behind the desk informed me it would be $57 till the spring semester, $65 if I wanted the towel use (which my sweaty body definitely needs). Halfway through the registration process the gym manager walked around the counter and shook my hand.

Gym Man: Where have you been?

Me: Ah, I thought I could lift weights at home at night but I just can’t do it. I have enough equipment but like tonight there’s MNF on so I won’t be lifting.

Gym Man: Well, it’s good to have you back.

I can’t wait to get started again. After reading too much shit on the internet and screwing around with my workouts I’m going back to the tried and true method that got me to where I was: Tuesday chest, Wednesday back, Thursday shoulders, and Friday arms. And don’t give me shit for not including legs in there; I’m still hobbling around like Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant. At least I don’t look like his assistant – yet.

Casino

Won $300 last night. Woke up this morning and had a fit because I lost my cigarettes and lighter. Yeah, I'm not normal.

Got a bit on Northern Illinois today. They usually play the Badgers pretty well. Oh, and I'm getting 23 points.

You know how you go to the dentist and they give you the free toothbrushes that you leave in your car for six months because you don't need a new one? Well, I dropped mine in the toilet yesterday and I can't find a toothbrush for the life of me.

Missing Something in Life

I’m usually content with everything that happens in my life. I have delicately crafted my environment and lifestyle to give me a steady and stable base to stand on. Without this base I’d be a wreck. I’ve seen what happens to people who aren’t stable and I didn’t want that to happen to me.

For starters, I have a good job. I love my job as much as anyone can love their job (although I must say those porn guys have it pretty good).

I live cheaply. I don’t just go out and buy shit that I don’t need with the 61” TV being a huge exception. My Wrangler is paid off and I have no plans of getting rid of it. I haven’t really taken a vacation in two years. I recently paid $30 for a pair of Adidas.

Living cheaply allows me to spend $25 a day at the corner bar (God that’s $9,000 a year – fuck). This, my friends, gives me great pleasure. I’d be lying to you if I said it was mostly the atmosphere that gives me pleasure because come on, I love my beer. Hell, I’ve actually broken up with girlfriends in the past over beer. You have to keep your priorities straight. Since I like everything stable and constant, what’s more stable, some broad who takes it in the ass or a nice cold pitcher of Miller Lite? Yeah, I don’t need any drama in my life. But some wild anal sex every once in a while wouldn’t hurt.

But something still seems to be missing. One might point out that I don’t have a significant person in my life. You’ve read this blog, am I really marriage material? And not to brag or anything, but I’ve been good with my money over the years. I don’t plan on giving half of it away.

My family life is as good as it can be considering my sister is four hours away and my parents don’t talk to each other. Hey, I still get dinner at night and bag lunches packed for the next day. I consider that to be a good family life but then again I value food pretty highly.

My house is, well, my house. It’s stable. It’s not exactly clean or anything – some nooks and crannies are downright disgusting – but cleaning sucks. Cleaning ranks right up there with eating pussy, two big no-no’s. I have the deck to enjoy on sunny days and the grill to cook my meat on. While my house isn’t huge or fancy it works pretty well for me. And its 63 steps from the corner bar. Hell, that’s the main reason why I bought it.

Maybe it’s the whole stability thing that leaves me wanting more. Yeah, that’s not it. Knowing you have beer in the fridge, Southern Comfort in the cabinet, frozen pizza in the freezer, and enough money to go out drinking every day is pretty comforting.

Wait a minute, I think I’ve got it. The thing that’s missing from my life is not apparent to the naked eye. Sure, you could observe my daily routine and name a dozen things that most people have that I don’t but that would just be your opinion. It might be right, it might be wrong, but it wouldn’t be the thing that’s truly missing in my life. So ok, are you ready for it? Are you sure?

My left ACL.

I went to the doctor’s office for a follow up visit for the cartilage tear surgery. I sat down, showed her how much I could bend the knee, and assured her everything felt fine. Then she brought out some photos that were taken during the surgery. I had never seen anything like this before and was amazed at the clarity and quality of the pictures. She showed me where the cartilage tear was and how she cleaned it up. And then she flipped to the last picture.

“This is the front of your knee. See this space right here? This is where your ACL should be.”

Huh? Should be?

I guess back in 2001 when I flipped my truck over, besides the broken leg and ruptured spleen and kidney, I tore my ACL. Nobody had ever told me this. I was just under the assumption that my knee was weak due to the rod they stuck in my leg or the MCL surgery I had at the same time. Nope, yours truly has been walking on three ligaments for the past six years. Not only walking but jogging and lifting weights. Well, I guess that’s all going to come to a stop now that I know my ACL is gone. I never did like jogging that much anyway.

The doctor said the procedure for the ACL surgery is much more complex than what I just had done. They take a ligament from a different part of your body and sew it in where your ACL should be. Crutches for three months, no sports for nine, fuck that. I figure if I’ve made it six years without it I can make it another six till I keel over at the ripe old age of 36. Now I have an excuse to not go jogging or do squats.

I think I’m starting to run out of body parts that you can live without when they’ve been removed. Let’s just hope the next one is a pinky toe and not my penis.

5:30

I got the call at 3:00. It was the Renter. At least it sounded like the Renter. There was a squeaky scratchy voice on the other end of the line.

“They won’t let me leave till I… (something, something). They want me to stay here till Friday.”

Wow, that sucks. No one wants to be in a hospital that long, especially for what you thought was a day surgery.

So I finished what ended up being a three hour marathon weight lifting session (actual lifting time – 30 minutes), took a shower and headed up to the bar. I knew my good friend bartender was working and I figured I’d chill with him for a bit. To my joy the bar was empty except for the bartender and the manager. We sat and chatted for quite some time before anyone else walked in the door. And then my phone rang.

“Can you come get me?”

“Huh? You said Friday.”

“No, I said 5:30.”

“Oh.”

By this time I was two pitchers in. I don’t drive after having anything to drink. Someone had some issues back when he was younger. Not like I don’t have any now.

“So can you come get me?”

“Ah, no, not really.”

The Renter hung up on me and called her friend crying because she didn’t have a ride (women cry way too much). Five minutes later my buddy Jeff walked in the bar. Jeff said he’d drive me over to the hospital. I tried calling the Renter but she didn’t have her cell phone on. Then the bar phone rang and it was the Renter. Who calls a bar looking for a ride? Anyway, the bartender told her we’d be over in five minutes. We left, picked her up, threw her in bed and went back to the bar.

(Jeff, if you’re reading this, thanks again.)

The Renter was in pretty bad shape. I’m guessing she had her surgery at 1:00 and by 6:30 she was still wobbly as hell. I don’t know what’s all involved with going under but it must affect everyone differently. When I had my surgery I went under at 8:00 and by 11:30 I was hobbling around and downing two double cheeseburgers from McD’s.

And now everyone thinks I’m an ass because I was drinking and couldn’t pick her up when I fully believed she said Friday. Damn oriental people and their fwied wice and shit.

No Sports

Not a damn thing on TV for sports tonight. What's a brother to do?

The Renter's Turn

So I just dropped the Renter off at the hospital for her tonsil surgery. She's never had surgery before so she was pretty nervous. Pretty nervous is putting it lightly. She didn't say a word on the drive there. I was surprised when she didn't explode when there wasn't a single spot open in the first parking structure I tried. I had to go to the roof top of the second structure before I found a spot. Since I could tell she was nervous I tried doing what I always do when I'm nervous: tell bad jokes.

"See that dry erase board on the wall? When they can't revive you they just draw a line through your name, kind of like a flat line."

Later...

"I was just kidding about the line thing. They just erase your name like it never happened."

Yeah, I don't think I helped much.

NFL Cheer TV

I still think they need a channel dedicated to sideline coverage of NFL cheerleaders. I’d watch.

Oh, and any cheerleaders who might happen to stumble upon this website, I showered this morning, first time since I had knee surgery. I’m ready for you.

Email: Halloween Party

The FA sent out this email about a Halloween party he plans on hosting:

What to Bring: If you're not happy with beer, something to drink
What to Wear: A costume of some sort unless you feel you feel that your general appearance already qualifies you as wearing a costume. It will be assumed as such if you don't wear one! Additional Info: If you're female and short on a costume idea, we'll be keeping the pole up. Hopefully that helps you decide ;)

To which someone replied:

What about some guys that might need and Idea. do we get to use the pole too? Im kind of short on cash!

To which the Renter replied:

keeping the pole up and giving us ladies ideas for a costume. what kind of party are you trying to have? Looks like you are just looking for women in slut/whore gear.
guys with no ideas for a costume--come as a drag queen--go thru your girlfriends closet and go wild. we all can come in slut/whore gear. will be some
party! Lol

All of these emails used the “reply all” method of response. And then the FA started getting the hate mail. The first one I saw was from the FA’s wife’s brother who’s an aspiring rock band lead singer. “Please remove me from this list.” Uh, rock star? I always thought he was light on his feet anyway.

And then this morning I got another one from the FA:

Rule of thumb: If you don’t know “everyone” on a link. Don’t hit reply to all, especially if you choose to use offensive comments. A lot of people only use one email for work and play, and also have big brother looking over shoulder…

To which I had to reply:

Geez, just because the "Rock Starr" brother in law has a little hissy fit. I always thought he was leaning to that side.
And then the truth came out:

It wasn’t him. I had 3 or 4 people that complained after your renter threw around “sl*t” and “wh*r*” so loosely. That’s what tripped off all the sensors. Would you have wanted that going to your other email account? Then when anyone else replied to all those words kept getting flagged because they were in the text from before. Everything else with you, Karl, and T.J. was fine…

Ha, I knew it, the Renter was at the bottom on this.

Back

So yeah, I went back to work on Monday. Goodness gracious, I couldn’t take another day sitting at home with crap on TV. At first I figured I’d sit at home the whole weekend recovering but after two days I was ready to get out. Get out and have some beers!

Since I was somewhat hobbled I had to monitor the drinking just a bit. For example, on Thursday I only had 16 beers compared to the usual 24. Quite an accomplishment if you ask me.

But after Thursday the knee started to feel better, and I started to get bolder. Before you knew it I was back to staggering home looking like the scarecrow from that “there’s no place like home” movie. I can’t remember the name of any movie that was redone in Technicolor.

By Sunday I was back in professional form for the noon Packer’s game. Oh, that was a good day. “In bed” by 8:00, good twelve hours of sleep. Nice.

The only thing that’s really new this week is that I’m driving Pop’s Grand Cherokee to work. The knee, while it’s doing well, isn’t well enough to push in the clutch on my car. At first I wasn’t really thrilled about this. I still remember the day back in 1996 that we picked it up brand new from the dealership. Now it has over 200,000 miles on it. So here I am, Pimp Master B, going from a Jeep Wrangler with under 20,000 miles and fat ass tires to some grandfather Grand Cherokee that’s seen better days. But you know what? It really ain’t all that bad. Back in 1996 dad had a Cadillac with the big V8 in it. Somehow dad’s 19 yr-old son convinced him that he should get the V8 in the Jeep since he was used to having one in the Cadillac. After three minutes of thought dad agreed, probably the biggest reason why the vehicle is still on the road today. And the fucker still has power. Not power like the FA gunning his V6 Mustang after watching The Fast and the Furious. We’re talking power like holy fuck I didn’t mean to do that power. The first day I drove it I put my foot down and was promptly planted in the back of the seat to the point where my fingers were barely touching the wheel (seat all the way back with the knee). Today it’s Tuesday and I’m starting to get the hang of it. In the Wrangler I used to feel every bump. Hell, I knew every bump on the way to/from work and would avoid them. Pop’s Grand Cherokee glides over everything with a dull thud. But along with this comes another evil: speeding. I swear that car will not do anything less than 40 miles an hour. With my car I know how fast I’m going without even looking at the speedometer. Third gear with this much gas and this much engine noise is 30 miles per hour. You just get used to it with a stick. But with the automatic and the V8, fuck, I think I spend more time checking the speed than I do watching the road (kind of like a woman only it’s the speedometer and not the makeup mirror – aka rear view mirror). I’m getting the hang of it and hopefully by this weekend I’ll be able to drive mine again. I’ve been flexing my knee in preparation for it; flexing my knee at the corner bar while watching football. It’s amazing how much I can bend it after a pitcher or two.