Halloween Party Recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl: What was your name again?

Me: B to the…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank You, Dear Reader

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

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

Shana: What smells?

Me: Huh?

Shana: It smells like cat shit down here.

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

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

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

I Blame M&I Bank...

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

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Hungry

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

Triple Steak Burrito

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

Assholes.

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

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

I Really Shouldn’t Be Upset - Should I?

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

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I’m Inept

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn Tired

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

“What a Thrill!” by Kim Kardashian

“What a thrill!

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

Uh, what?

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

My letter to Kim Kardashian:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

B to the…

Pardon Me

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

Question of the Day

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

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

I won’t even go into the cleanup process.

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

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

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

My Attempt at Poetry (Circa 1998)

This might explain a lot.


This is my pussy song:

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

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

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

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

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

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


Some pretty thought provoking shit there, eh?

Finally, Football Sundays

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

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

And for scheduling the Packers on Sunday night next week.

Asshole.

Haters

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

Yeah...

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

Friday, 4:33

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

And She Popped the Question

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

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

Mom's gotta find her own place to stay.

Baseball Outing

Dear Lisa,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I’m sorry.)

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

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

At least the beer was free.

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

Thanks again.

B to the…

Tom Brady's Injured...

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

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

Crazy Woman

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

Apparently she must not have appreciated my response.

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

I laughed at the first one.

I swore at the second one.

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

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

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

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

God I’m such a pussy.

Retarded Acquaintances

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