The third rule of Fight Club is to always try your best and remember to have fun.
Get your copy of Cougars, Cookies and Construction by clicking on the text.
The third rule of Fight Club is to always try your best and remember to have fun.
Get your copy of Cougars, Cookies and Construction by clicking on the text.
Judging by the Max Headroom head shot and the Gunstar from The Last Starfighter being clearly visible in this picture, I would have to say that this genius level math equation was solved sometime in the late eighties.
Makes that shit Matt Damon solved on the chalk board in Good Will Hunting look like my dogs figuring out that if they pee on there feet in the winter time it will freeze them to the deck.
This kid should have won the Nobel prize.
Welcome one and all to a brand new feature here.
Each Wednesday, I will feature something that leaves me speechless. Be it funny or dirty. Beautiful or ugly. It will be something that has left my vast vocabulary wanting if even for a little while.
Pardon me but what the hell happened to masturbation?
Up here in the Great White North, our Thanksgiving was weeks ago but we are still inundated with American culture. By the time you’ve eaten turkey, lied to your family about how things are going in your life, and watched Planes, Trains and Automobiles, it’s Black Friday. Some choose to spend the day at home with their family, while others, more appropriately, rush out to save money on products that they’ll spend way more time with than
No one knows the origin of the term “Black Friday.” Historians say that it dates back to the age of the dinosaurs when a meteor darkened the sky on a Friday while the dinosaurs were shopping. Real historians say that the term has a definite origin, and that I made the whole dinosaur thing up but these are also the people who say there actually was a moon landing and the Loch Ness Monster isn’t real.
According to websites that show up on the first page of Google because let’s be honest, no one ever looks any further than that, since the day after Thanksgiving has long been crowded with shoppers and traffic jams, the Philadelphia police began referring to the troublesome day as Black Friday, and it soon caught on. Word has it that the Philadelphia police also came up with Movember, March Madness and Ruby Tuesday. It appears they are very good at branding.
Before you bring up this historical anecdote every Thanksgiving in an effort to sound intelligent in front of your younger brother’s new girlfriend that has been sneaking a hand up your leg at the table during dinner , know that the online historians at Wikipedia also link the term to age-old accounting practices. Apparently, accounting firms used to commonly use red ink to indicate negative amounts and black ink to indicate positive amounts (that’s the system that I use when recording my weight). Because many of these businesses depended on the day after Thanksgiving to compensate for losses in previous quarters, the black ink came to represent the massive profits seen on that day . At least that’s what retired accountants tell their disinterested grandchildren.
For years now, stores have been trying to extend this period of crazed shopping by opening earlier and earlier after Thanksgiving. First they went to 6 a.m., then 4 a.m., then 12 a.m., until stores began opening the night before and causing family members to take their turkey to-go while they shopped for televisions or dildos or whatever it is that people buy.
As is traditional, every Black Friday includes media imagery of crowds rushing through stores, trampling the fallen, and fighting over savings on microwaves and televisions, as well as microwaves with televisions on them. Maybe you think that it’s silly to elbow a mother of three in the vagina to beat her to that rack of iphones, but that’s just because you don’t love your kids enough to do so. Sometimes, to get our loved ones presents, we have to be prepared to mow down strangers with our carts and quietly suffocate someone with a plastic shopping bag because they got the last Tickle Me Elmo with real hugging action and vibrating “belly button” for Mommy’s special alone time.
Why wouldn’t a person kill for savings? That Playstation 4 that you wanted the day it came out but were too lazy to work harder to afford finally comes down in price. If you don’t clothesline an elderly person to get to it, what was it all worth? Before you answer that, have you seen how sharp the graphics are? You can actually count the pimples of the hookers asses after you finish beating them senseless and stealing their money in Grand Theft Auto 5.
I say that we celebrate the primal violence of the day. As a civilization, we rarely hunt our own food or feel the need to run, and most of us wouldn’t know what to hunt or how to gather. People often live safe and comfortable existences without any fear, never having to put their lives on the line. Sure, that may be a good thing, but if machete-ing your way through a crowd to save 50 percent on a box set of Jason Statham movies is the only way to reconnect to our animal natures, then so be it. You’ll truly appreciate the feeling, even when a middle-aged woman is stepping on your unconscious face to get at that Tickle Me Elmo.
Speaking of chaos and violence, be sure to check out the musings of my Mother FBF’ers
Art of Pouring My Art Out
After you check them out be sure to head on over to Amazon and pick up your copy of my book
Yes, I know that’s schilling but it is Black Friday after all…..
As a card-carrying member of the FBF Army, I am always out to promote the good works of my fellow F’ers.
Even when I have absolutely nothing to say.
I have been working so hard to promote my book and create contacts and get good reviews and make people love me that I forget to write most of the time.
As someone who prides themselves on being able to write no matter what it sucks not being able to pump out a load of funny on all your waiting eyeballs. Yes, I made that insanely dirty in my own head.
So get your copy of Cougars, Cookies and Construction available on pre-order before stopping by and enjoying the hilarity you will find at the blogs of my fellow F’ers
* Author’s Note – This was a thinly veiled attempt to sell more copies of my book. Yes, I do love the writings of my fellow F’ers but come on, this post was like an episode of Seinfeld. Nothing happened. Seriously.
Welcome to the first Funny Blog Friday.
In keeping with the fact that it is October 31st, it seems fitting to talk about the true spirit of Halloween. Not the celebration of trying to scare the shit out of each other or soaping the car windows of that guy stiffed me on that repair I did in a thunderstorm. Halloween is about one thing and one thing only.
Candy was my whole life when I was a kid. At least the first ten years of my life,until I found my first issue of Playboy crusting away behind the drain pipe to the sink in the bathroom. That began an entirely different life long obsession with hair teased to the moon and girls whose carpet didn’t match their drapes. I think the only clear thought I had those first formative years was: “GET CANDY!”
That was it. Family, friends, school, they were just obstacles in they way of the candy. Thats the reason you have to teach kids not to take candy from a stranger. Their brains simply can’t process any other thoughts. If I had been playing at the playground and a guy in a white panel van pulls up with “Free Candy” spray painted on the side I would have run after him like a PMSing teen girl runs after the ice cream truck.
Without a second thought, I would have looked back over my shoulder and yelled “This man has candy, I’m going with him. Goodbye. Whatever happens to me, just tell my family I died happy.”
My friends would have yelled “Don’t go! He already has the rope his is going to kidnap you with in his hand and that bulge in his pants likely isn’t a Bomb Pop.”
“It doesn’t matter, he has a ‘Snickers Peanut Butter’. I have to take that chance.”
So the first time you hear the concept of Halloween when you’re a kid your brain can’t even process the information. It’s like someone took Christmas and wrapped it in a cheap plastic costume.
I imagine I would have been simply amazed and asking “What did you say? What did you say about giving out candy? Who’s giving out candy? Everyone that we know is just giving out candy? Are you kidding me? When is this happening? Where? Why? Take me with you!
I gotta be a part of this. I’ll do anything that they want. I can wear that. I’ll wear anything I have to wear. Wear Dad’s week old stinking work clothes? Hell yes, I will.”
So, the first couple of years most parents made their kids costumes which of course sucked : the ghost, the hobo, the hockey player out of a jersey that was fifteen sizes too big and you tripped while running from house to house smashing your face into the gravel driveway but simply adding a new level of authenticity to the look.
After a while the home-made costume isn’t going to cut it so with hours of begging and pleading you finally convince your parents to buy you that super hero costume. Superman for me of course. That cheap plastic poncho style from the seventies before parents cared that the plastic cape was a bigger hazard than the razor blades the old guy at the end of the street was kind enough to hide in an apple. At least you could use the razor blade to cut yourself free of that three dollar sweat box. The best part of the entire costume had to be the plastic mask with the eye holes way to small to see oncoming traffic.
Remember the rubber band on the back of that mask? That was a quality item there, wasn’t it? That was good about 10 seconds before it snapped out of that cheap little staple they put it in there with. You go to your first house: “Trick or…” Snap!” So you stand there trying to tie a knot in the elastic while scoping out the candy bowl to see if its even worth the effort to stop.
Mean while your older sibling has already taken of to the next house with you screaming and crying for them to “Wait up!”
Even in the Superman costume already on a sugar buzz from the popcorn ball the old lady on the corner made with eleven pounds of white sugar, you were never fast enough to catch them and still get to the house they had already finished. Simply because you couldn’t move at all. When you did it was an arms out shuffle like the Jawas running across the sands of Tattooine. Let’s be honest, no one tried those costumes on before the night they wore them. No one checked the labels. I do remember that costume distinctly and it did come with a warning label –
“Do not attempt to fly!”
They printed that as a warning because kids would put it on and climb up on rooftops figuring that millimeter thick red plastic cape would at least make an excellent parachute. I love the idea of the kid who’s stupid enough to think he actually is Superman but smart enough to check that warning label before he goes off the roof.
“Let me see if it says anything about me being Superman..Oh, wait a second here, this does say exact replica of Superman’s…”
Not that it mattered anyway because your Mom always bought it in a size big enough to fit over your winter coat. I don’t really recall Superman ever wearing a jacket under his outfit but it certainly did make you look like you had the muscles to fill it out properly. So there you are with a plastic mask whose rubber band keeps breaking and snapping you in the face, so you tie it in a knot that keeps making the mask tighter to the point the plastic starts cutting into your eye while you try to breathe through a keyhole and all you keep swallowing is your own sweat.
All in pursuit of candy.
Finally you just give up and fire the mask in the next driveway you wander up so now its just you looking like a Superman sausage with your hair plastered to the side of your face. Ringing the door bell, the neighbours immediately know its you but you are past the point of caring. You have a pillow case that needs filling.
Bing-bong! “Yeah, it’s me, give me the candy. Yeah, I’m Superman, look at the pants legs, see this fuckin’ plastic cape ? What do you care ?”
Despite the sweat and the blood running down your face from the staple in the plastic mask, it made it all worth it when you found that one house. Not one of the ones giving out handmade bags of those orange plastic bananas that no one ever ate and left to collect in the bottom of the candy bowl. No, the best house to find was the one giving out cans of soda. It didn’t matter that it was knock off brand soda. Or even if it was the most dreaded of all flavors, Root Beer. No, all that mattered was it gave you just enough energy to trudge the long walk home with a pillow case full of candy you knew your Dad was going to pick the best stuff out of.
So this year, do something nice for those kids you see in the plastic costumes. Buy brand name candy for God’s sake.
What would a blog hop be without something to give away. As I really don’t have any sponsors other than myself I can make the rules as to what I am offering and how you can win it. Up for grabs is one of my charcoal pieces of art found here as well as the added bonus of a sneak peek at the bonus story in my soon to be released into the wild first book.
In the comment section below, I want you to tell me about the dirtiest trick you ever pulled on someone be it Halloween or other. It seems to me that the dirtiest trick will get the sweetest treat.
After you are done telling me your sordid tale, spend some time getting to know my fellow Funny Bloggers. Not only are they giving away some seriously killer prizes but they are fantastic writers as well.
You can find them here –
Victoria of Angst Anarchy
Alanna of White Girls Be Like…
Jamie of Fits of Wit
H.E. Ellis of H.E. Ellis
Jessie of Jessie Reyna
Alice of Alice at Wonderland
Ben of Ben’s Bitter Blog
Jenn of Properly Ridiculous
Lisa of Buddhaful Britt
JC of JCS Bloggery
Sarah of No Cry Babies
Elke of The Pretty Platform
Chicks A & E of Too Funny Chicks
Charly of Crazy Life
Kevin of Trailer Trash Deluxe
Karilin of That Nameless Color
Art of Pouring my Art Out
Be sure you drop by their sites and tell them how awesome I am for sending you their way. They are all great writers and have some seriously cool stuff you can treat yourself with this Halloween.
Check back Friday for the Funny Blog Friday blog hop. Give some love to everyone involved like a giant comedy gang bang.
FUNNY BLOGGERS: WE WANT YOU!!! Are you a funny blogger? Do you know a funny blogger? Do you read someone who’s hilarious, sarcastic, inventive, crazy or inspired in their madness? Send them our way!! Or if you’ve self-declared, We want YOU! SEND OUT THE WORRRDDDD!!
A few of us bloggers (who have deemed each other funny) are going to participate in a Funny Blog Friday (#FBF) blog hop on Friday October 31. There’ll be prizes and of course a boat-load of funny blogs for your reading pleasure.
Why not make Friday even better than it normally is with a few funny insightful sarcastic bloggers poking fun at the world or themselves?
Additionally, we’ll be attempting to make every Friday funny on Twitter with the hashtags: #FBF and #FunnyBlogFriday
If you want to join and be added to the list please email me: victoria (at) angstanarchy (dot) com
These are the…
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There are a lot of days where I consider myself the Clown Prince of the Blogosphere but even I have to admit there are a ton of great writers around that I laugh my back hair off at. Starting Friday, October 31st, I will be joining forces with some of these fantastic people to form the Justice League of Humor.
The Funny Blog Friday blog hop features comedy and prizes from such recockulously hilarious writers as –
Victoria of AngstAnarchy
H.E. Ellis of H.E. Ellis
Alanna of White Girls Be Like…
Jamie of Fits of Wit
Jessie of Jessie Reyna
Alice of Alice at Wonderland
Ben of Ben’s Bitter Blog
Jenn of Properly Ridiculous
As part of this hop, I will be offering a sneak peek at the artwork for my book and a super secret, never before released story only appearing in the soon to be released book –
The Dildo Factory – Episode 6 – The Return of the Vibrator!!!
Check back Friday for an all new story and a chance to win an exclusive look under my hood.
“You’re likely going to hate me.”
I could feel my left eye involuntarily twitch at the simple statement. A low throb had settled in at my temples from the idea I had just now contemplated and had confirmed. I sat dumbfounded looking over the crisp white sheets of paper in front on me. The instructions on them were as simple as I imagined they would be but the concepts were as foreign as North Korean stand up comedy.
“I know its going to rough for the first few weeks but if you are serious about the goals you have told me then I think this is the best course of action”
My head was swimming now in a haze of brown liquid. It jolted itself through the steps it had taken me to get to this moment as I tried to focus on the last few words written on the bottom of the first page.
From the race last year and my feelings of failure despite finishing quite respectably.
My fear over a diagnosis of being prediabetic.
A family history of massive heart issues.
An extended family full of men whose waist lines grew in almost exponential equations to the receding of their hair lines.
The numbers I saw every day when I looked at the scale that seemed to always hover around the same few digits no matter what I did or didn’t eat.
I knew I needed help but had no idea where to start.
I think in the last ten years I had tried every single workout program from P90X, a program I fully believe would keep anyone from being accosted in the showers in prison to wrapping my body in plastic wrap and running up and down the stairs at the boat launch. Every food craze from kale smoothies to raspberries ketones to squirrel intestines. Every health drink from protein shakes to frozen green tea, which has led to a jug in my fridge being constantly referred to as “Dad’s New Weirdo Health Thing”.
It shouldn’t be that hard. It shouldn’t require that sort of effort. It all seems so simple.
Eat sensibly, drink lots of water, train hard. Funny how easy that sounds.
After meeting a personal trainer, who despite being an amazing specimen had only yet another book to offer me as far as nutrition went, I decided to take a different approach. I had seen the sign for the office on my way to a meeting and a quick phone call led me to the moment of unreality I was now facing. Michelle, the nutritionist, sat across the table from me with a smile that never wavered. After taking my height and inspecting me like a 4H girl inspects a blue ribbon calf she motioned for me to step on the scale.
I unloaded even the lint from my pockets on to the table holding my keys, wallet and phone before with that levitating step on to the biometric scale. My weight was three pounds heavier at 220 pounds and a body fat percentage of 16 percent. I sighed and looked over at the nodding smile.
“You are actually in great shape for a guy with your muscle mass.” Michelle said as she made a few notes.
“Not where I plan on ending up.” I answered her unspoken question.
After a few more questions about my long-term goals, the printer beside her desk spit out the plan I now held away from my body like a distant aunt holdings a puking baby.
“Seriously?” I balked “No coffee at all?”
“Not for the time being, no.” Michelle answered as she settled her long frame back in her chair waiting for I am sure was the explosion she had likely seen more times than I have seen that video of the three puppies yawning in unison. My mind couldn’t comprehend the idea.
The other diet ideas were as basic as I imagined they would be. No breads, no grains and no sugars. It was the no coffee that struck me like a back-handed pimp hand. I love coffee with a devotion bordering on the obsessive. To the point where my eyes can’t even open in the morning until after my second cup. This was one of those choices that you never want to have to make. Like which one of your kids you love more or if you were getting bacon or sausage with your mountain of pancakes at Denny’s.
“Okay.” I sighed with a hitch in my voice not unlike saying goodbye to an old friend ” I will do it.”
“Fantastic. We will see you back in three weeks.” Michelle said as she stood and guided me out the door.
My resolve was firm though as are all peoples with a new set of instructions. That first initial step on the path to good health taken. What no one tells you is that while the first step is simple the actual journey is like walking the Boston Marathon with the road covered with oddly angled LEGO pieces.
The first sip of green tea, the only caffeine I was now allowed, the first morning nearly broke my resolve. There were so many great coffee shops along the way to the job site. Each of them promising to wash away the medicinal tea taste and the film my sludgy breakfast smoothie left on my tongue. But I held my resolve. At least until the headache started. The first signs of caffeine withdrawal setting in and the beginning of a six day headache that made even the smallest of things seem like Titanic scale disasters. All the while, coffee shops on every street corner with overflowing urns like Mrs. Potts in “Beauty and the Beast” singing their aromatic song that promised to take away all the worries I had in the world. A magic potion that would fix all my ailments.
But as I stood in my kitchen on the morning of the sixth day watching the kettle boil, I felt my pants slip off my hips and down over my butt. Not really an uncommon thing but never really happening while I wore a belt. I snickered as I pulled my belt into a spot it hadn’t been in a very long time. I had been skipping the heavy weights I always had used in favour of long runs and outdoor hikes in an effort to lean down. Clearly something it was working. It just wasn’t easy. It would have simply been easier to roll up to a drive through get an extra large Double Double to go with the dozen honey dipped donuts that had been haunting my palate for weeks. I just couldn’t shake the image of being one of those guys that sweats walking from my car to the front door of a fast food chain.
I had heard a quote that had really struck me and it was never more true than every time I watched one of the guys that work for me slurping down a giant chocolate milk while I sipped a retched vegetable based cleansing drink that tasted like a combination of rancid asparagus tips and Old MacDonald’s sweaty socks.
“Live one year of your life like no one should so you can spend the rest of your life like no one could.”
This thought was firmly in my mind as I walked through the doors of Michelle’s office a few days later to check in. Her knowing smile was confirmation enough that I had likely been through the worst of it. We chatted briefly about the mood swings that had my family wanting me dead and the restrictive plant-based diet.
“Let’s see how you did.” Michelle said as she motioned to the scales. That momentary lightning bolt of panic ripped through my brain with the same doubts I always faced when approaching the scales. Had I done enough? How bad had I done? What would happen if I had actually gained weight?
I stripped off as much of my clothing as the nutritionist allowed after trying valiantly to “drop some pounds” in her office bathroom before stepping on to the judgemental machine. I closed my eyes and waiting for the sigh that told me I had yet again failed.
“Holy shit.” Michelle blurted with a small laugh.
“How bad?” I asked with a tremulous voice.
“Bad?” Michelle snickered ” You’ve lost almost 13 pounds and 1 and a half percent body fat.”
“Is that good?’ I questioned in my incomprehension.
“It’s better than good. It’s great.” She replied as she jotted down the notes. I stepped down and pulled my shirt back on. I was dumbfounded. It had actually worked. I sat in almost silence as she went over the next phase and how I should expect my progress to slow down a bit. We talked about the pace I needed to set in order to get to my now much lower goal weight and how with proper diligence I could get there in the six month time frame I hoped for.
“You seem to be right on track,” Michelle said as we stood by the door to a completely new world ” What are you going to do next?”
“Well right now I am going to celebrate and cheat on my diet with a donut the size of a soccer ball and a gallon of coffee.” I said as I pushed the door open.
“I hate you.” Michelle laughed as she shoved the door shut behind me.
Get your Kindles ready and support a fantastic author.Its a helluva deal to read hilarious stories about a girls whose boobs fall out about as often as I spill coffee in my crotch.
In accordance with my policy of never reblogging anything ever, I am telling all of you to get your copy of this book so Wendi will continue to help me get my masterpiece out of my brain and into your greedy little hands.
So get your copy and say nice things about it so I can ride her coat tails into super stardom.
I make a rule of never reblogging anything but I am blessed and honoured to present to you the artist that will be helping create the art work for impending book.
Her style fits my style perfectly because much like me, I don’t think there’s anything out there like it.
So support her work. Buy her art. When she is ridiculously famous, I still want her doing my book covers.
Ever since Morgan Freeman made that far-fetched movie, everyone has been using the term “Bucket List”. It’s become some mystical and unattainable list of things that people keep adding newer and more expensive things to that they will likely never accomplish. I usually try to be open to new experiences and not limit it to a simple list. To be sure, I have things I want to accomplish but the list is short. Swim with Great White Sharks in Australia. Publish my first book. See Motley Crue in concert one more time.
As I said, anything else that I accomplish on the way to those dreams is just extra cheese on my pizza. Instead, I tend to focus on the things I have no intention of ever trying or trying again as it would be.
My Anti-Bucket List.
In the heat of the moment I have eaten ass but I don’t think I would ever want to do it as my sole means of survival.
2. A vampire facelift
No one needs to relive the Twilight era with my white face leading the charge. I have been told that my ass is white enough glow in the dark but I don’t believe it.
3. Inseminate pigs
I grew up on a farm and as such am no stranger to what happens on Dollar Draft night at the Slop Bucket Saloon but I really can’t see me ever wanting to inject a porker with any type of fluid. Even for the sake of more bacon.
4. Get a full face tattoo
This does not include getting matching facial ink with Mike Tyson as that would be unbelievably bad ass. No one would ever mess up my Moccachino at Starbucks again in fear of me biting their ear off.
5: Eat a local delicacy. Anywhere.
I paid the price for an early morning Coney Dog on a five-hour drive home from Port Huron, Michigan. My apologies to the bathroom staff at the London “On The Run”. As well as the elderly gentleman who offered to get me a Popsicle to sit on for the way home. Apparently its quite soothing.
6. Have my foreskin back.
I have gotten along thus far quite well without it and the process of stretching the skin of my penis back to the shape it would need to be sounds like it should be a punishment for robbing old women of their pension cheques with the promise of sex.
7. Practice world champion level streaking in Barrow, Alaska.
If you were to ask any of my neighbours where the bald, naked guy lived they would quite assuredly point you to my place as my proclivity for wandering about in the buff are widely known. That being said the idea of dropping my pants in a place where exposed skin freezes in less than sixty seconds makes me feel bad for my nipples.
8. Organize and video tape an orgy at the local senior center.
Having seen “Human Centipede” and “Two Girls, One Cup”, I think I am rather immune to most images but the idea of that much naked and ancient flesh twerking up on each other like a bunch of pink balloons filled with Cottage Cheese would haunt my dreams for a long time.
9. Help a stranger wipe.
Even with my crippling hero complex there has to be a line that even the Man of Steel wouldn’t cross. I mean should a fifty dollar bill exchange hands I might be prompted to step in but only after a brief discussion of dietary habits and whether or not it was Taco Tuesday.
10. Nicholas Cage.
I am sure there will be more things I add to the list like getting dysentery in a foreign country that has nothing more than single ply toilet paper but for the most part I would rather be open to new experiences. I will just remind myself to stay away from nursing homes on Taco Tuesday.
I can’t even imagine what that must be like. Look at what it did to Elvis. “The King of Rock and Roll”. From a young heart-throb who took over the world with his hips to a bloated God who flew halfway across the country to get a peanut butter,bacon and grape jelly sandwich. It must be nice to have that kind of freedom but the responsibility would be awful.
But, maybe being the king of something a little off track wouldn’t be so bad. Well, a lot off track but who cares. Maybe something not in musical entertainment but in another form of entertainment.
So, how about the “King of Dildos”. Because seriously if I attain that who can trump it? Like Steve Jobs created the empire of the iphone, I’ll start a “dildo empire”.
I will be the creator of the greatest and most realistic dildo that has ever existed. You know one that senses real emotions and reacts, talks, walks, and more. The kind of sex toy that every woman on the planet would want. I think the best feature would be to make that dildo mobile. I don’t mean hide it in your luggage when you visit your sister for the weekend. No, I mean crawling like an inch worm and doing tasks around the house when you are at work. Capable of sensing your moods and crawling up to you when you need a synthetic fake penis to snuggle with.
Even more revolutionary would be a dildo that got along with your friends too. You’ve got your friends over “hanging out” and your dildo just happens to crawl up on to them. How fucking weird would that be? “Amber, is that a cock that just crawled by me?” Looking like the realest penis you ever saw. Just have cocks crawling all over the fucking place like an army of inch worm minions.
“Amber, your dildo has a boner and it won’t leave me alone.”
“Well Jill, he likes you. If you start bitching he will crawl away.”
Little dildos just crawling around the house really isn’t a big deal. I mean it’s 2014, I have seen some of the toys they make for kids these days. We have the technology. We can make this boner move. “Get a long lil’ boner”.
So what do we call our top of the line 2012 “All Star Dildo”? How about “Tickle Me Boner”? Sounds quaint. Now, this cock would be programmed to say things like, “Your butt looks good in those jeans” or “No baby, I wasn’t at the strip club with the other dildos, I swear”. All the lines guys always use to smooth everything over with their significant other.
I would advertise the shit out of my dildo. “This beautiful dildo will even stay up and bring you cheesecake after sex. It’s the one part of your man who you needed without the attachment of your man.”
I think the should be intelligent too. Like smarter than the smartest phone ever could conceive of being. They should just simply sense when they are needed.
Think of this, you’re just sitting there in your seat. You’re at the theatre, watching a movie that has your mate sobbing and in crawls this real as real it gets penis. Just inch worming his little head closer to you. You look over and think “Damn is that a penis? What the fuck? That is a penis. Honey look, there’s a penis crawling on the floor over there.” When all it really wants is to comfort a crying woman and let her nibble on the chocolates he brought her.
Every woman in the world would want one and before we knew it there would be flocks of cocks just trailing along behind girls every where they went. If they could somehow post stuff to Pinterest through a wireless network, it would put one in every purse in the world.
It really is only a matter of time. Forget the zombies rising up. It’s going to be the dildos that take over the world. The view from the Dildo Throne should be quite spectacular.
“Would you please just walk down there and see what it is that he needs done?” My mom asked as we stood in my office listening to the sounds of saws ripping wood, nails being driven and curse words sailing across the void.
I sighed and looked out the window at the structure being erected in the yard down the low sloping hill outside my office. The heat radiated outside the window in shimmering waves and I could already feel it on my recently sun burnt skin. I could feel the beginnings of my skin shedding around my shoulders and had to fight the urge to tear my clothes off and scrape my skin off with a toilet brush.
“Have you ever had neighbours that didn’t feel the need to renovate the house next door?” I asked as I passed a had over my stubbled cheeks. With the temperatures reaching an unseasonable high, all I wanted was to play Depth Charge with a six-pack in my pool. A game which basically involves me drinking beer while floating on a pool noodle and waiting to see which can sinks my battleship.
“It can’t be much,” Mom countered while ushering me out the door “It’s just a back yard shed.”
Grumbling about the male nurses at the nursing home she was fast tracking her self towards fondling her in her sleep, I wandered around the driveway, past the large trampoline and down the grade to the Frankenstein style structure being erected. A saw was chewing its way through a board with the ferociousness of a toothless prostitute gumming a cob of uncooked corn. I heard a muttered curse and saw Rocky, the square-jawed and equally flat-headed military neighbour step out from behind the wood frame.
“Looks great.” I said with a half sarcastic tone that matched my smile as I roamed the large rectangular building.
“It sure will be when its done.” Rocky said as he joined me in the single shady spot in the yard mingling his wood dust scent with my asphalt odor creating a scent that would drive long-term death row inmates into a sexual frenzy.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” I continued as I took a half shuffling step back towards heterosexuality ” It’s kind of big for a back yard shed, isn’t it?”
“Well, that the thing, it’s more of a workshop. My kids are always getting into my tools and I just wanted somewhere I could go to get away from them. Plus I can store the trampoline ” Rocky said with a bit of admiration at his own handy work.
“Sounds like a solid idea. You just need a roof on it I suppose.” I said already knowing the answer.
“I will get everything you need. I just need a couple of days to get it up.” Rocky said not catching my snort at the idea of it taking days to get it up. I mean they have pills for that I believe.
“Just let me know when things are firmed up.” I laughed and headed back up to my truck.
Over the next few days, I watched with laughable patience as the structure took shape. Large benches and the frames for what could only be built-in sofas took shape and I was subtly impressed at the detail that was going into a simple back yard workshop. I watched early one morning as the delivery truck backed into the driveway and delivered the last of the materials needed including everything for the roof.
My day ended early and I figured I would just simply suck up the couple of hours it would take to slap the roof on this weirdly appointed structure. The temperature had finally broke the night before with a thunderstorm of sphincter tightening proportions and left the air cool and free of humidity. I slung my tool belt over my shoulder and stole a Diet Coke out my Mom’s fridge before down the driveway.
I could hear muffled grunting and the squeaking of springs as I neared the back of the house. I assumed Rocky was moving the trampoline and figured I would offer a hand. I heard a louder groan that caused me to pause but I knew they could be a pain to move having slung my own kids trampoline around the backyard a couple of times a year to cut the grass under it after it reached the growing up through the trampoline stage.
There was work being done in the yard when I finally crossed over behind the house but it wasn’t much I was going to help with. I know there is something biological that drives animals to dizzying acts of sexual deviance but I certainly wasn’t prepared to see my Mom’s neighbours stripped to their waists having energetic and somewhat dangerous sex on a trampoline. Rocky’s exposed white ass cheeks could have guided in a lost boat at sea with their brightness and his equally pale wife looked like she was being shaken by a paint mixer.
The sight was almost hypnotic. I chuckled as the idea of clearly my throat loudly came and went at roughly the same time I think Rocky did. I sauntered back up the hill and figured my afternoon was ruined with the haunting visions of white dangling balls slapping black poly mesh until I saw Rocky walking around the side of the house. He waved me down and I hesitated before walking back down. I had no idea if I could keep what I had just seen to myself without giggling like a Japanese school girl.
“Everything’s ready for you.” Rocky said as he pulled the tail of his shirt out of his obviously hastily pulled up shorts before unconsciously adjusting the front of his shorts and grimacing slightly.
“I know I watched the truck drop off the material,” I said “So I walked down a few minutes ago.”
Rocky eyed my questioningly as I realized what I had said. I figured I should just get it over with at that point.
“I maybe should have waited for a few more minutes.” I stammered until I saw Rocky break out in a shit eating grin.
“Maybe,” he said “But then you could have watched me wedge my balls between the edge and a spring trying to get off that fucking trampoline. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable something like that is?”
“Oddly enough I do,” I answered quickly “I froze my sack to a fence post last winter while I was running.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” I heard someone ahead of me groan.
My lungs were burning as I rounded a slight uphill grade out of a dense growth of pines and laid my eyes on what had elicited the shuddering sound. The trail stretched upward at such a steep incline that my heart sank to my sweaty crotchal zone. I slowed to what felt like a crawl and when the traffic in front of me bulged up like an unexpected erection when you are wearing track pants I did the only thing I could.
I grabbed the twenty something year old Asian girl who had come to a dead stop and tossed her over the fallen tree in the path and jumped over it myself. My calves screamed as I pushed as hard as I could down on my feet and tried to push my duck foot walk into a stumbling jog up the ski hill.
From the time I crossed the hay-field that had been converted into a parking lot until stepping up to the starting line at the base of the ski hill hosting the event, I was astounded by the rock concert atmosphere of the Spartan Sprint. Athletic bodies as far as the eye could see mingled with children running as wild as mongrel dogs. I had been training for this moment for months. Along with my own personal Yoda, my best friend Rob, we had set our sights on the finish line and resounding glory of finishing a Spartan race. Months of training and planning and running had led to the moment where we would bolt through the starting gate and hammer our way through the course. We would cross the finish line hand in hand like a non homosexual but still surprisingly fashionable couple.
We wandered around with the rest of our teams and families in awe of the spectacle. Thousands of people all clamouring for the chance to hurl themselves at the mountainous course. I was ready and pacing like a donkey trying not to step on his elongated scrotum. We had watched the previous heat leave the starting gate and of the hundreds that left not one had managed to maintain even a jogging pace at the top of the first treacherously long hill. I was determined to make it out to the front of the pack and maintain my pace. I had been killing my times running miles and had been jogging up the ski hill not four minutes from my house over the past few weeks. My training regimen alone should have given me an advantage.
“You ready?” Rob asked as we approached the massing bodies at the starting gate.
“Fuck yeah.” I answered boldly as I pulled my headband up from around my neck and put my number in place.
“Shirts off?” Rob further questioned as I was already yanking my compression shirt over my sweat damp head.
“Only way to do it,brother.” I answered as he pulled his Batman shirt off. We stood like gladiators waiting to be fed to the lions or at least the raging herd of cats I was sure the super fit Amazon near the front of the pack had in her apartment but had been neglecting to feed for the past month. The event announcer dressed in full Spartan regalia counted down the time as we tensed at the gate. His Andy Frost radio voice was infinitely distracting but as he reached zero, we took off like a used condom.
The angle of the first incline rose quickly and it was nearly impossible to maintain a running pace. We slowed to a jog which rapidly devolved into a wide legged rapid walk. The same one most people get when they fart and aren’t really sure if anything came out so you hobble to the bathroom. My calves were sore by the time we reached the top which I thought was odd but made my way to the first obstacle. The wall traverse was one on the more difficult things to get over and I was glad it was out-of-the-way early in the race.
Side by side, my sun browned skin and his musician’s pasty white, Rob and I descended the first hill and I knew I wasn’t feeling right. I crushed my way through the next obstacle, climbing a spider web style rope triangle before pulling a hundred pound propane tank on a rope twenty-five feet into the air and turned to see yet another steeply rising hill. The sun was beating down on us and we shouted encouraging grunts at each other before heading back up.
Around the top of the hill and through more fiendishly designed objectives we raced before chasing each other down a steeply banked hill. At the bottom rested a set of gymnastics style rings that had to be crossed before advancing. The penalty for not making it through was the same as every other failure. A series of thirty burpees which for the uninformed are a combination of push ups and trying not to vomit.
Rob traversed quickly with his monkey like strength and much slighter build. I saw him standing at the end waiting for me when my hand slipped off and it dropped to the sodden ground below. I saw his chin dip a bit. I wanted him to run the best race he could not hindered by waiting for me.
“Go.” I yelled out to him.
“You sure?” Rob asked back as he turned his body towards the next set of hellish events.
“I will catch up.” I said determinedly as I dropped to the ground and forced my self through the penalty. I saw him scamper through the set of adult monkey bars and start the long trek up as I made my way towards the childs play structure. My hands carried my stiffening legs across the span only to have my hands slip just as I reached the bell that needed to be run in order to advance. My fingers grazed it just enough to make as much sound as an orgasm in church.
I bolted out of the area as more runners filled in behind me. I saw Rob as short way up the incline and jogged to catch up. I was less than a few hundred yards behind him when a feeling came over me I hadn’t expected.
I was just over half way through the race and I was completely out of gas. I had committed the cardinal sin of racing. If there is no fuel in the tank, the engine shuts off. I had listened to a few people who had run the Sprint before and said to eat a huge meal the night before but had paid very little attention to my own body. Caught up in the hype and fever of it all, I hadn’t eaten a thing that day.
I slowly forced myself to keep moving. The climb seemed to take an eternity. All around me, people from all different heats and levels of fitness were sitting off to the sides of the track in the cooling shade. I paused long enough to dunk my head under a cooling jet of water normally reserved for snow making before grinding out another long section of the course. I knew that no matter how long it took me I was going to finish the course.
Uphill and down. Over and under wooden walls. I ground out each section of the course with the grim determination of not finishing as fast as I had planned but finishing none the less. My dehydrated brain carried my body past the point I wanted to just sit down. I forced myself to crawl through dark,sticky mud covered by barbed wire until the crowds began to gather. I knew I had to be close. I saw dozens of people waiting at the last obstacle, an uphill rope climb slick from the muddy boots of hundreds of feet. I saw Rob with his medal for finishing already around his neck yelling encouraging things that to my fried egg brain sounded like someone farting into a pillow and blaming their dog. It spurred me on to claw my way up then slide down a rope before making the final dash over a roaring fire that traditionally you would make some grand leaping mid-air pose for the cameras. I leapt over it on numb calves and barely avoided burning the hair off my bikini line.
A medal was placed around my neck by a smiling blond in Spartan wear. She congratulated me and my rational mind came up with a line about mixing my chocolate with her peanut butter but what came out was a half-hearted joke about rubbing a Reese’s on my junk. I wandered away looking for some water before she could respond.
“We did it.” Rob yelled as I made my way out of the finish area “I was only a little bit ahead of you at the end.”
“That last hill took forever to get up.” I groaned and tried wiping some of the accumulated mud from my bald head.
“But you made it,” Rob laughed “Let’s hit the showers.”
The showers if they were to be called that was a crude system of hoses shooting water colder than a mother-in-laws kiss over the grime crusted masses. We made our way over to the line and were trying to sneak in before we saw that more than a few people had mud in orifices not normally designed to hold it. One young woman was hosing out her shorts and giving herself what must have been an arctic enema based on the flow of water gushing out the ass cheek holders on her yoga shorts. Another late fifties male runner with a chest of hair thicker than the sweater my aunt knit me for one Christmas that some how ended up as the bedding for a litter of piglets at a petting zoo had his shorts pulled out with one hand and the hose in the other was washing the underside of his dangling testicles with the care normally reserved for washing a newborns hair.
Enema Girl handed the hose off to Rob and he quickly washed down his arms before trying to rinse out his hair. I took the hose from him and tried to generate enough water pressure to get the thick coating off to no avail.
“Turn around.” I said to Rob. I started rinsing his back off and laughed when I looked around and saw at least three more couples of men doing the same. I had figured he and I would cross the finish line together hand in hand and yet at the end of the day we simply ended up in the shower together.
One of the true benefits of coaching sports, especially with the same group of young men and women over a nine-year span is you get to know them as both a teacher and a friend.
You learn their likes and dislikes. How they interact with others. Their hobbies. Their interests. Their dreams. Their goals.
You watch them grow.
You see them through birthdays and graduations. Through bad days and funerals.
You hear them sings songs of victory. You lift their chins in defeat.
What you don’t really expect to hear is –
“Dude, I know she’s your girlfriend but if she really loved you, she wouldn’t have given you chlamydia.”
Technology has come so far in the last couple decades that its hard to imagine life without instant gratification. There are at least four hundred channels alone on satellite television with almost never anything on worth watching.
One thing never fails to amaze me though. One thing never disappoints. The haven of mindless television almost specifically designed for anyone that works outside for a living.
The Weather Channel
When the Weather channel hit TV, I though “Who in the name of Ziggy Stardust was going to watch a channel about the weather and only the weather reported by people who actually took themselves seriously?”
Next to watching the perpetual fireplace channel, I can’t think of a more boring concept for a TV program.
“Oh no” they say….”people want to watch the weather”. In fact they want to watch it so much, we’re going to repeat the same stuff every 20 minutes.
Know what scares me most about the Weather channel? I can’t stop watching it. I live and die by that twenty-minute interval of weather every morning when I wake up like a gambling addict clutching a ticket on a two hundred to one long shot that I have wagered my daughter’s virginity against.
The great thing about the weather channel is not having to following a story.Cloudy with sunny periods. Sixty percent chance of showers. That’s easy. You can’t get lost in the plot, or confused about who did it, in this story. No need to record the whole season and watch it back but still be confused by the ending in a fashion similar to LOST.
And there’s that catchy tune that starts every time the ‘Local Forecast’ is coming. I dive in front of the TV like a two-year old hearing Thomas the Tank Engine when I hear that playing. They talk about the rest of the country and the world for 20 minutes.
Then that Local Forecast tune hits and you think….. “Hey, we’re on!”
“Oh my God. That temperature reading was fifteen kilometres from my house. That guy they just interviewed in the freezing rain tried to have sex with my high school girlfriend.”
The fact that the weather network has succeeded, really opens the door too. Previously over looked potential channels are now being considered. Like…
The Benjamin Moore channel. We can finally tune in to watch paint drying.
The Awkward Silence Channel. Conversations that just drop into long stretches of uncomfortable silence as the people on-screen wont make direct eye contact with you.
The Pet Care channel. Don’t miss this weeks special- “Flossing your cats teeth.” Fun for the whole family.
The Angry Stare Channel. Twenty four hours a day of your mother-in-law glaring at you and slipping in comments about your weight every fifteen minutes or roughly every time you look towards the fridge.
But at least these channels have topics that change a little. The Weather channel stories are so limited.
There’s rain, sun, cloudy, snow and some storms; then you’ve seen it all. After that you’re guaranteed to be watching reruns all day unless there is a freak tornado that rips through your town and the only person they can get on camera is your cousin wearing yellow rubber boots, flowered shorts, no shirt and holding an umbrella.
So I imagine them, in the board room, trying to come up with other stuff to fill in the time and make the weather entertaining….
“So how do we make the weather entertaining?”
“I know, I know.Let’s not just talk about our weather because we’ll talk about that every 20 minutes but while they’re waiting to hear the local forecast… again… we could entertain them with… weather…somewhere else!”
“Yeah…….Other peoples weather! Brilliant Idea, Jim!’
So we’re kept glued to the screen between Local Forecasts watching other people’s weather because we certainly couldn’t just go outside and look for ourselves. No. We sit glued to the screen like testicles to a dried out condom.
As fun as that is, while we’re thinking outside the box here, why not talk about yesterdays weather.
We could do a spot like “… and now for a look at Yesterdays weather in our “How Wrong We Were About The Forecast Recap”
“Hey, yesterday was a bomb wasn’t it? I know we said it wouldn’t rain Saturday but… well, it’s a crap shoot really, and we got caught this time.”
“Still! We nailed it Friday, didn’t we?”
Literally, the only profession where you can be wrong ninety percent of the time and still not only keep your job but do it again just as poorly the next day with a plastic smile plastered on your face from all the Botox you’ve had to hide the fact you worked your way through college as a gay male escort.
At least until the Psychic Network starts again.
I have coached baseball for a lot of years at this point and yet it still never fails to amaze me at what can happen.
I have seen countless foul balls hit parked cars and seated testicles.
I have seen face plants and ass cheeks studded with gravel from a poorly executed slide into third base.
I have seen an entire team giving each other a Gatorade shower during the second to last inning of a game and then rolling in the red clay sand creating the world’s biggest “sugar cookies”.
I have seen parents losing their minds over a single dropped ball and rejoicing when a child gets hit by a pitch to load the bases.
I didn’t think much could surprise me.
Yet, I was completely unprepared to have a six-year-old girl who wore a skirt instead of her uniform stepping up to the plate, taking a practice swing then promptly dropping the bat and bolting as fast as she could across the field towards the Portapotty yelling –
“Play without me, I gotta poop!!!”
Proving yet again, that when you think you have seen it all, a kid shits their pants.
I have this theory about Female Superiority because I have noticed they don’t seem to need us men.
We’re physically stronger than they are but it feels like we need them more than they need us.
Fact is, statistics say most woman prefer chocolate over sex. A survey in Men’s Health of a thousand women found that seventy-eight percent of women, given the choice, would rather have a piece of milk chocolate melting on their tongues than a single drop of a guys cream filling.
Chocolate. Wrap your head around that tasty bit of truth.
When you think of it, us guys were in trouble right from the beginning.
This is what I think really happened:
God creates Man.
An interesting creature, loves to take things apart, blow stuff up and scratch his junk like a class room full of ninth graders with raging gonnorhea.
Now, it’s not that God didn’t do a great job on us, but for some reason, a day or so later He see’s a problem.
And then He’s saying stuff like “It’s not good for man to be alone, all this guys done for the last five hours is masturbate and giggle at the monkeys flinging poop at each other and laughing at their weirdly shaped asses”.
Like we need a babysitter or something. So I think man, right from day one, was a bit of a cluster fuck.
And He didn’t want us alone down here, taking stuff apart and eventually flinging our own poop at the monkeys because what really was stopping us.
So He gets busy creating…Woman.
Now woman will have to be superior because she has to be totally self-sufficient and able to look after this man gone sideways.
I think at some point God had a little heart to heart with Woman.
You know, explaining the situation.
“Eve, sweetie, You are privileged among woman”
*rolling eyes* “Uh huh”
“I know I know, he’s a handful.”
“Hey, Hey…just remember, where the real power lies, “Up Here”.
“I made you stronger “up here”
“Look, I’d considerate it a personal favour if you just kept this between us.
I’m going leave him physically stronger, so he’ll think he’s the superior one.
But I’ll make some adjustments, and he’ll be following you around like a puppy dog.”
So life goes on with Women ruling the world without us even knowing it and us trailing around after them with our tongues hanging out, our brains turned off and our erections poking them in their ass cheeks if they slow down long enough to pick up some loose change on the ground because no matter how they think of themselves if they have a low-cut top and flash a little cleavage we will help them move furniture or let them borrow our cars to go on a weekend get away with their boyfriends.
They have this extra sense called ‘Intuition’
A creepy thing. It allows them to know stuff without any information. Especially when we have totally fucked something up or slept with their aunt.
And look who they hang around with. Sure we spend a lot of time with them but that’s just them ‘on the job’ looking after us.
Look at a woman who works in a daycare. Here she is communicating at baby intelligence level all day long.
After work, what does she do for some adult stimulation? She gets a piece of chocolate and goes looking for a woman to talk to because she needs some mature conversation, and face it, woman are more mature.
And they mature sooner than men do. Girls are ready for life in their late teens, early twenties.
While guys are still riding bikes off cliffs or trying to skateboard down handrails at 30. I think that’s how the entire Competitive Eating circuit started. Two thirty something guys in a bar fighting over who could suck down the most pickled eggs while a crowd of beered up locals cheered them on waiting to see who threw up or had a heart attack first.
I mean, as a gender you are mature enough not to spend your time masturbating or flinging poop at each other.
Most of you any way.
As guys we understand you are superior to use in almost every way. Thank God he gave us a penis. Until they find a way to replace that I think we are in pretty good shape.
The single line of text stared me in the eye every time I looked back over the file.
“Don’t rule me out just because I am a woman.”
It was a simple phrase that left me rubbing the back of my stubbled scalp and shaking my head.
Construction is as tough a job as any you will find. Add in the height element of roofing and even some of the toughest guys I know mysteriously find their testicles in the icy grip of paranoid fear. I had come back to this particular resume at least a dozen times as I sat pondering the applicants I had gotten them from. A polite and simple cover letter came with this particular one and I had skimmed through the listed experience before I even looked at the name. I was subtly impressed by the credentials and then saw the name.
I had already been through a handful of young men who had done less than stellar work in their brief auditions. One even went so far as to tell me the reason he was quitting on his very first day was the simple fact he couldn’t locate my office even using the GPS in his car.
I looked at the cover letter and its message was simple. Don’t rule me out. It struck me as particularly well-timed and funny at the same time. Why had I never considered hiring a woman before?
To be honest, not many actually ever apply for a job in construction. The ones that do are usually petrified of heights and want to hang around on the ground or are looking for an office job. Neither of those are an option. So I sat staring at a candidate for a job that had all the requirements I had asked for. Except one seemingly unspoken one.
The lack of a penis.
Put down the sexist chant sheets and your over full glasses of wine, ladies.
I have seen the heat and sheer heavy lifting nature of the construction industry break many a muscle-bound meat head so I was naturally concerned. My brother, Dart, had taken her resume when she offered it and he passed it along to me with a wry smile.
“I have no idea what to make of this one.” Dart said as he showed me “She’s literally half your size.”
The idea of a hundred and ten pound girl throwing around bundles of shingles made me snicker a bit as they would represent almost eighty percent of her body weight but then I kept going back to the single simple phrase.
Don’t rule me out.
I didn’t hesitate for a half a heart beat. I sent her an email asking when she could start.
My phone buzzed not long after with her response and a request to pick her up at the end of my street on her first morning as she wasn’t sure where my office was. She was already a step ahead of the last Dildo Factory reject.
I was a bit nervous as I headed out to the truck the following Monday morning. Dozens of thoughts were rolling through my head in regards to my job site handling of a girl employee.
How would my team of foul-mouthed miscreants treat her?
How could I make vagina jokes without offending her?
What if she didn’t like getting dirty? What if she had PMS? What if she had to poop?
I saw a blonde pony tail sticking out of a baseball cap framing a face wrapped around a mug of tea bigger than a mini keg of beer. She waved and I slowed the truck down. I swallowed hard and thought if I had any reservations this was my last chance to turn back. She was shorter and skinnier than my daughter and there was no way she was going to survive her first day.
“Jack?” she asked as she flung the door of my truck open and hopped into my coffee cup strewn front seat.
“Mindy?” I asked in reply as I extended my hand. Mindy smiled and gripped my tanned hand in her slim white fingers. She flipped her sunglasses down and they were large enough that they looked like a child playing dress up. She turned to look out the window and pulled her phone out. She was texting away at a rate my thumbs ached watching.
We got to my office and she hopped out before I even had the truck in park to introduce herself to everyone. My guys were mildly dumb founded but they welcomed her the same way they did all new employees by making her clean out my mess of coffee cups and protein bar wrappers from the floor of my truck.
The job site wasnt far from my office but the thoughts continued to percolate. First and foremost being how long it would be before she sued my company for some form of sexual harassment followed by what I was going to do when it got hot enough out for all my guys to start going shirtless and how I was going to explain to my insurance provider that I had advised her against it but she wouldn’t listen resulting in her having nipples so sun burnt that she could no longer breast feed the child she was planning on having in the near future.
“Are you ready?” I asked her as soon as we pulled up to the house we had started the previous day.
“Are you?” Mindy asked with an almost imperceptible laugh.
“Ready as I will ever be.” I replied with a sigh.
Mindy hopped out of the truck and saw where my guys were setting up. She grabbed a shovel and made her way up the ladder. Her safety boots seemed miles too big for her and clunked with every step.
“Where did you want me to start?” Mindy called down to me as I grabbed my own gear. She had made her way to the ridge of the house and thunked the shovel down like it was made of solid concrete.
“Right there is fine.” I said and turned toward the ladder only to see something I hadn’t quite expected.
She started ripping shingles off like a badger with raging case of pink eye. What she lacked in size, she definitely made up in tenacity. I laughed as I watched her before the realization hit me that while she was small and testicularly challenged she was really just like the rest of us. All she needed was a chance to prove it.
Now all I had to figure out was what to do the first time she asked me to add tampons to the first aid kit.
There are few thing sin your life that you simply can’t shake once you have seen them.
Like the first time you see your Mom naked. Or your Dad. Or the first time you see them naked together.
For the elderly lady that lives across the street from me and rides her Wicked Witch of the West bicycle at all hours of the day giving me nightmares, I assume she is never going to be able to shake the image of my fridge light revealed naked form double fist dunking strawberry frosted Pop Tarts in a giant glass of chocolate milk because this diet I am on has my body sleep eating at three in the morning damn near anything that I can mash up into a baseball sized mound and shove into my face like something out of the Walking Dead complete with the awkward shuffling and groaning.
Be disturbed by that image all you like. I will not be able to shake the image of her peeking in my windows.
“I’ll get you, my Pretty” indeed.
With my new-found commitment to exercising pretty much daily, I spend a lot of time running outside.
It really is a thousand times better than the severe boredom of running on the treadmill even if the new fashion trend at the gym is yoga pants so tight that a vagina looks like a McDonald’s cheeseburger on its side.
So when the weather is bad and the monotony of the cheeseburger watching starts to get to me, I take up the old past time. Swimming.
Remember as a kid how you could swim for what felt like hours, get out, suck down a sand coated piece of watermelon and keep going? Turns out that sort of energy fades as an adult.
So the answer to that is organized swimming lanes clearly marked like traffic lanes on the highway and God forbid you are swimming in the wrong lane.
There’s the Fast Lane. This is for your serious swimmers. Competitive. Ruthless. They know how to do those somersault flip turns and wear Speedos that highlight how hairy their inner thighs are.
The ‘Medium speed swimming’ Lane. This lane is mostly full of ‘Fast lane’ rejects because everyone thinks they’re fast. They usually are for about the first lap and a half then tire out.
But these disqualified fakers got embarrassed out of the Fast lane by the really fast swimmers continually passing them.
The fast swimmers love this. They don’t actually say it but you know their thinking it…
“Lapped you again, fatty”
Now if a Medium swimmer doesn’t get the message and change lanes , they’re in for that special visit from the Lifeguard – the ultimate pool embarrassment.
Having been identified as too slow for the lane the authorities have now arrived because of the noisy environment the Lifeguard has to shout and everyone can hear….
“Sir, this is for advanced swimmers only! Please join the other Orcas in the Slow Lane”
“What?” they say, pretending not to hear.
“The Fast lane! You need to move over with these swimmers!”, the Lifeguard bellows, pointing at the slower swimmers of the Medium speed lane. Michael Phelps’ clones continue to rush by, doing those flip turns.
Humiliated the demoted swimmer slips under the lane rope, back to their own people,…..the medium… the mediocre…..the un-Speedoed.
Finally, there is the slow lane.
Usually renamed with something like “Leisure Lane” because it wouldn’t be nice to call someone slow.
These swimmers don’t put their heads in the water. They paddle their merry way along, usually in the standing position, some have that neon pool noodle wrapped around them or a floatation belt that lets them appear to be doing it on their own but much like a push up bra you know those things aren’t floating up that high on their own.
Every ounce of energy used to keep that head above water and after 5 minutes and no forward movement, they’ll reach over and start pulling themselves along with that lane rope. Back on sturdy ground, they go back to what they know….the Therapy pool.
Easily the most popular destination in any gym, it’s a haven of warmer than normal water designed to ease strained muscles and relax the mind and yet it constantly is full of elderly women with their asses pressed directly over the jets of the heated water pretending we have no idea they are doing it and diapered children trying valiantly to hold in the poop they told their parents they had to take a half an hour ago before their Soccer Mom parked her ass down beside the other iphone wielding debutants all looking to “Lol” at the text they just got from the boyfriend their husbands don’t know about.
Peeing in the Therapy pool is popular as well. Statistics say 70% of swimmers admit to peeing in the pool.
With these kinds of numbers supporting peeing in the pool, why continue ignoring the issue, instead we should embrace it.
Now a days, with all these water park features… Surf riders, slides, lazy rivers and wave pools, maybe we could invent toilet pools.
Toilet Pools, a new exciting experience for swimmers, while they relieve themselves. With that new pee sensing agent changing the color of the pool, It would have a realistic ‘Toilet Blue’ color.
Every few minutes the Lifeguard could reach up and pull this giant chain, starting the whole pool swirling round like a whirlpool to simulate the adventure of being flushed down a toilet. Forcing the young and old a like to swim as fast as they can against the on rushing swirls and suction out a tube in the bottom of the pool, through a drying tunnel and depositing them into the gym.
Directly onto a treadmill.
Occam’s Razor is a theory that states that taking everything into consideration the simplest answer is almost always the correct one.
I could hear the rhythmic thumping of my dog’s foot pounding the floor in the bathroom as I rounded the corner into my bathroom. His vacant childlike expression of question was the first thing I noticed. He had been digging at his ear and I could see flecks of blood down the side of his snow-white fur.
“Winter, come here baby.” I playfully called him to me but he resumed his digging and I sat down on the mat beside him. I turned the faucet on in the tub and dampened a soft cloth before wiping down his neck and ears. He hard parked himself in front of the toilet and I noticed flecks on the side of the bowl as well. His stubby boxer nose with its single black spot nuzzled my hip looking for the hug he usually gets after I have done anything he deemed unnecessary.
“Hang on.” I laughed as he whimpered a bit to get my attention. I grabbed some toilet paper and dried out his ear which led to a vigorous head shaking. I laughed as he looked like Dumbo preparing to lift off for his first flight. I lifted the lid of the toilet and was puzzled to see the bowl already full of blood.
The simplest answer is always the correct one.
“Fred?” I called out to my daughter “Where you cleaning the dog up or something?”
There was no response so I walked across the hallway to her bedroom. The flecks of blood on the top of her green and purple duvet had my brain reeling as I didn’t remember the dog being in her room at all. I pulled the cover off her bed and saw matching stains with larger smears across her bottom sheet. I pulled all her bedding off with a grumble under my breath about keeping the door shut so the dogs couldn’t get on her bed. Especially when Winter had been digging at his ears.
The simplest answer is always the correct one.
I started gathering up dirty laundry as it was strewn down the hallway. I figured if I was going down stairs, I might better take every thing I could. There was a ball of Fred’s clothes tucked under some towels and I pulled them apart and my heart stopped cold in my chest.
The simplest answer is always the correct one.
I stumbled down the stairs in that numb state parents find themselves when a child fails a grade or dings up the car the first time they take it out. The door was closed to the downstairs bathroom. I dumped the laundry across the hall and took a deep breath. This was a moment I had hoped her mother would deal with when it happened but here it was quite literally in my hands.
I knocked softly on the door. That quiet knock you give when you are terrified of what was waiting behind the door.
“Fred, it’s okay.” I started really not knowing what else to say “I mean it was going to happen. I just hoped it would be five or seventeen years from now.”
“It’s fine , Dad. We learned all about it at school in health class.” Fred responded through the door that seemed to be a barrier between us that had simply sprung up by her growing up. I rubbed my head and felt the stubble. I was due for a shave so I put my hand against the door briefly before taking it away like there was a fire behind it and not my no longer so little girl.
The simplest answer is always the correct one.
There are moments every man has to face at least once in his life. Moments where his courage and resolve are tested. Moments he will be a better parent for.
Standing in line at the pharmacy with an arm load full of every size and shape of pad produced in the known world for his twelve-year-old daughter and a can of shaving cream is one of them.
I nearly swallowed my tongue when the girl at the check out smiled and asked if “That would be all?”
“Just double bag that please.” I implied with the same wary eye that guys use when buying a porno magazine at a new store. Not that I have ever had that experience either.
The walk up the driveway felt like the longest fourteen steps in history. My brain kept wandering thinking about where I had missed all the day of her life that got us here. I thought about her sitting in the driveway drawing little stick princesses in side-walk chalk and me drawing giant Great White sharks eating them. I thought about the first time she rode her bike to school and I counted the seconds until I saw her turn the corner towards home.
None of those moments were gone but they would be replaced with the anxiety of boys (which are still thankfully gross) and friends and all the things that come with having a teenage daughter.
I noticed her door to her bedroom was shut . I inched down the hallway and hung the bag on her door. It felt like it was heavy enough to pull the handle off. I stepped away from it like it was a bag of poisonous snake.
“I left some things on your door for you,” I said softly “Just let me know if they are the right……things….”
I walked silently across the hallway to the bathroom and closed the door. My breathing was starting to slow itself. I dropped my pants and sat on the toilet. I didn’t know it I was going to puke or poop first and I figured I would rather clean up puke off the floor before poop. I heard the snap and creak of Fred’s door followed by the rustling of the doubled up plastic bag. I could hear the shuffle of her feet across the floor.
The bathroom door flung open and Fred promptly strode the short distance to the sink and deposited the shaving gel I had bought on the counter. Winter followed right behind her and sat at her heel digging at his ears again.
“You know I am pooping right?” I asked as I covered myself as best I could.
“I know.” Fred said as she planted a kiss on my cheek “But now today is awkward for you too.”
The aloofness of cats has always bothered me.
Their snide looks. Their subtle superiority complexes. Their quickness when clawing your arms from fingertips to facial stubble for simply touching them. Every single thing about them.
I have always been a dog person. That may say a lot about who I am but I think it boils down to the simple give and take relationship that you can expect from a dog.
That has always extended to the dogs of people I have done work for. I have had them climb up in my truck. Steal my lunch off the back of my truck. Pee on my tools. It happens. It’s just kind of what you expect from a dog.
I heard the dog before I could see it. The wild maniacal barking all dogs do when someone knocks on the door. The same kind of nervous excitement guys get when they are waiting for a girl to answer her cell phone the first time you call them right up to the excited peeing. Its claws scrabbled at the lower panels of the door so I figured it wasn’t a large dog. As the door swung open the barking became a low throated growl that inched closer to my boots. They were wet from the morning rain that had rolled in and I wiped them off as I stepped inside the door.
I laughed as I saw the dog. It was dachshund that couldn’t have weighed any more than five pounds but every hair on its body was standing straight on end like the back hair on an old man at the beach when he takes his shirt off. I had to tell the customer that the job was just too intricate and time-consuming to risk it in bad weather so I would be back the next day. The sausage-shaped dog continued to bark and snarl until its owner picked it up.
“He’s never bitten anyone.” The owner said derisively as the dogs insanity calmed down to a level just below needing electro shock therapy. It bared its teeth at me again as I explained the plan for finishing the job around the sun/ snow/ rain mix that was expected in the next few days. As I headed toward the door to help my team pack up our gear, I heard the crab claw clicking of toe nails on the floor as the wiener dog shot across the floor and grabbed the hem of my thick carpenter pants. I looked down to see the wild-eyed glare and the flash of needle teeth before the dog latched on to my calf. It felt like being stung by thirty bees all at once in a piece of skin the size of a dime.
I kicked the dog away from me and reached down to pull up the fabric. I saw six puncture marks and a welt that was already turning a purplish red.
“I thought you said he didn’t bite” I said gruffly as I rubbed the spots of blood off my leg.
“He never has,” The owner said as he scooped up the now blood fuelled engine of hate “Well…..I mean…..he bit my wife’s aunt twice on the leg last week and bit my wife’s hand so hard yesterday that we called the paramedics but he’s really just being protective.”
“Protective of what? Your vast collection of professional wrestling video cassettes?” I growled.
“You’re not going to sue are you?” the owner asked as the dog continued to thrash like a vibrator dropped on a tile floor.
“No.” I said flatly “Are his shots up to date?”
“As far as I know.” The owner said with a sigh that told me it wasn’t the first time the subject had been broached.
“Then I will be fine.” I said as I headed out the door into the drizzly dampness. The throb in my leg didn’t ease at all as I got into my truck and headed to meet a possible customer at their house.
I once again heard dogs as I got out of the truck but this was the low monotonous bark of hounds and I wasnt disappointed as I saw two massive dogs heads up over the five foot retaining fence. Their droopy faces dangling like an octogenarian’s labia and just as wrinkly. I laughed as I saw them and then threw up in my mouth a little at the imagery.
“Don’t worry, they don’t bite.” I heard the home owner say as he walked out of the back yard. It was like he could read my mind as I kept my distance from the braying labia faced animals.
“I wasn’t worried.” I answered with a tremble in my voice echoed in a painful throb where the teeth had gouged into me.
“Come on around back and I will show you what I need done.” The labia dogs owner said as he motioned for me to join him in the backyard.
I opened the gate and felt my first step into the back yard sink up to the ankle of my boot. I looked down and saw I had landed squarely in a pile of dog crap the size, shape and oddly enough the same color as the dog that had bitten me. I couldn’t contain the laugh as the owners face fell when he saw my boot.
He had no idea that while I had no love for cats that my day had gotten a whole lot better by crushing a pile of shit shaped like a wiener dog left there by a dog with a face like a pussy.
I have known I would fight male pattern baldness since I was a teenager.
If you look at a family picture of men on my mom’s side it’s like a Mr. Clean convention. Wide shoulders, thick legs and shiny bald heads. I figured I would be proactive and in my early twenties started shaving my head. Thankfully enough I have a nicely shaped head. There is nothing worse than a pasty bald guy with a deformed cranium.
I have explored every type of razor and cream possible and even contemplated waxing but the idea of every hair on my head being yanked out makes me want to scream “Kelly Clarkson!!!”
I even called a spa to see about laser removal and was disappointed when they wouldn’t touch my peach fuzz. That it was most usually targeted at particularly furry crotched women.
It seems to me that this is a complete misstep on the part of spa owners. I mean guys need to trim the hedges as much as girls do.
I was sitting in a restaurant with friends one night and a group of girls at the bar near us were discussing the fact that one of them had gotten laser hair removal on her crotchal area leaving only a “Landing Strip”.
I love that name.
Like every time she’s getting into bed with someone, they grab a couple of flashlights and act like they’re Ground Control and there penis is a 747.
Still, the reactions to hair removal are very different for men and women.
Like this girl getting that landing strip and telling her friends about it in a crowded bar and her friends demanding to see it.
So they drag her off to the bathroom, all giggling to get a peek.
That’s one of those cool things I like about women that you’ll never see happening between guys….
Imagine Joe and Dave:
Joe: “You did what?”
Dave: “Laser hair removal”
Joe: “Everywhere but the legs and arms?”
Joe: “Bullshit! Really? Come on, get out in the garage. I gotta see this”
I just don’t see guys doing that.
I’m sure they peek when you’re changing in the locker room if a guy walks by naked. They just don’t squat down to eye level of the scrotum and yell out “Wow that scrotum looks smooth. You do that yourself, or did you get that lasered?”
Not gonna happen.
I would have to imagine getting naked for laser hair removal is the same for guys as getting a vasectomy.
The awkward conversation as your junk is being handled in a clinical fashion by a burly nurse with a hatred for testicles. The shuffling giggles of nursing students as you try to make your penis look bigger by forcing it out the hole as far as it will go.
It questions our masculinity
Even coming out of the Laser clinic must feel weird. Like stepping out of the Ladies washroom and everyone’s looking wondering what you’re doing in there. I would feel like I needed to explain.
“Guys are going in there now. I was supposed to be in there. I have male pattern baldness on my penis!”
One of the highlights would have to be getting your junk out in front of a girl for the first time after getting it done.
Even just telling a girl about it could result in them rushing you off to the bathroom like you were just one of the girls. In the Club.
I even started fantasizing us being at the restaurant someday and those girls rushing me off to have a look.
The non stop questions as they are eye level with my , well, baldness.
“How far down does she go with the laser?”
“In the crack too?” “How does that feel?” ” Is it better wiping?”
“What do you talk about while she’s lasering?””Did she say you needed the BIG laser?”
It’s not like….whatever happens at Laser Salon, stays at Laser Salon. But it’s awkward to talk about.
Women love these details though. It’s like chocolate covered gossip and they enjoy every detailed piece.
So for now I will stick to shaving my…….. scalp.
There’s pretty much one way to poop indoors. In a toilet.
No real room for creativity. Or at least functional creativity. Outdoors, though, the world is your canvas.
When you work construction, leaving the job site to poop is always a delicate balance of timing and distance. If the bathroom is too far away to get to on a break then you often end up clenched up trying to avoid launching the butt shuttle. Doing delicate work when you are baking some brownies is nearly impossible so you are often forced to find somewhere to hide and make a Minnesota hand warmer.
If you are exceptionally lucky, the home owner you are working for will have a bathroom they don’t mind strangers using. When construction workers descend on a bathroom after morning coffee and monstrous meat sandwiches for lunch it is literally like walking onto the deck of an oil rig drilling for mud bunnies.
So that leaves you the creative option of finding some place to drop your pants. I have constructed elaborate leaning towers of plywood that fool the eye when you looked at them like magician’s closet people disappear into. These usually take time and that isn’t always on option.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
The winter had faded and Spring asserted itself with a day that saw temperatures rise to testicle slow roasting levels. The kind of day where you started out wearing a winter jacket in the morning and stripping down to your underwear to drive home. The house we were working on was in the dead centre of a subdivision whose back yards all faced each other. The home owner was an elderly couple that had just returned from the annual wintering in Florida. They were both easily as tanned as I was after an entire season soaking up rays. They must have been used to hosting people frequently as the lady of the house brought out coffee in the cold morning light and egg salad sandwiches as the sun reached its zenith.
Not long after lunch, I felt the tell-tale gurgle in my stomach that started my internal clock ticking down to the time I would need to deploy my Navy SEAL team for “Operation Tootsie Roll”. It wasn’t long. A bomb was going to go off in my colon that would destroy my ass like Godzilla destroys Tokyo. I bolted for the ladder to head down off the roof but stopped as my stomach clenched up violently. I sucked my butt cheeks in tighter than every duck face selfie ever taken and shimmied down the ladder.
There was no way I could make the nearest coffee shop and I wasn’t going to drop the kids off in this ladies pool.
I scoured the yard quickly before finding a possible spot. There was a garden shed that hid a small space beside the back deck that if I dropped my coveralls and scooted backwards I could wedge my ass into it. I was in that panicked state of not wanting to shit my pants but not wanting to do it in the middle of a subdivision. My stomach made the choice for me at that point by gurgling once and then holding its breath.
I snapped my coverall straps off faster than a big breasted girl snaps off her bra at the end of the work day and frog hopped my ass back into the hole. What happened next does not need a full descriptive narrative other than to say when I straightened up it looked like someone had painted the back of the garden shed with a shotgun full of baby food. I shook my head looking behind me but not as violently as when I saw the fact I had splashed liquid sewage down the inside leg of my coveralls.
I groaned at the idea of having to pull them back up but it was either that or try to sneak across the yard to my truck with only a t-shirt on. With a shudder that must have looked like a dog shaking off from a dip in a septic tank, I pulled my clothes back into place. I stepped in a pool of egg salad and my own tears and heard it lap up the sides of my boots.
I shuffled towards the truck when I heard the front door open and the lady of the house emerge with a tray of coffee and cookies. My stomach rebelled again and I clenched up even tighter. If I was going to make it through the rest of the day I had to somehow get cleaned up.
“How’s everything going?” she asked with a smile as plastered on her face as the garish make up that must have been fashionable in her trailer park in Florida.
“Pretty good.” I lied as I felt something cold slide down my calf.
“Well, I thought you might like some cookies,” she said as she set the tray on a chair she clearly at on while chain-smoking “They should be okay but might be a bit stale. They were what we had before we went south.”
The realization that the eggs she had made the sandwiches with were likely as old as the cookies sent my stomach rolling in new-found panic.
“Ma’am, I believe I may have stepped in dog poop somewhere in your yard and was wondering if you had a hose I could rinse my boots off with.” I continued to lie.
“It’s right around the corner by the deck stairs.” She replied to my implied question and I shuffled in a bow-legged walk towards it. I ripped down my pants and hosed off the horror that was trapped inside. In my shit addled brain I assumed it would be easier to sit in wet pants the rest of the day as opposed to poopy ones.
I heard a lighter flick and a chair creak as the home owner sat in the opposing chair to the one with the coffee. She took a long drag off her cigarette before I heard her voice across the yard.
“If you wouldn’t mind hosing off the back of the shed when you are done I would really appreciate it.”
Men are obsessed with breasts. We are. Accept it.
Part of me thinks it’s a power thing. Breasts hold sway over us. We know they dominate us, and that therefore entices and as frustrates us. Women are the dominant gender for several reasons, and two of them are staring at our chest while our eyes try to steer upwards.
Another part of me thinks this is a dignity issue. Ever notice that when a woman’s naked it’s considered sexy, but male nudity is funny?
You know why? Boobs.
Without them, we just look like deformed Ken dolls.
I think women’s breasts have the attention of most men. Don’t you?
It’s one of those things you really can’t not look at.
Like a sunrise or a newborn baby or a teenage Asian girl on a skateboard wiping out and smacking into a parking meter.
I’ve researched the phenomenon exhaustively and believe that it’s just natural for men to be looking at breasts.
I am forever catching myself glancing at women’s breasts.
It doesn’t matter who they are, my sister, my best friend’s grandmother….
I’ll just be in a conversation about the price of gas and all of a sudden realize ……
“Wow, I just saw boobs.”
It’s like breasts are trying to get my attention or something.
They just seem to scream “Hey you! Yeah down here! Look at us!”
I think the reason is simple; breasts are sticking out on the body
I mean imagine if men were built with permanent erections.
We’d look at men differently. Our clothes would be different too. Probably a whole lot baggier with some pleated crotch areas.
Some more pleated than others I imagine.
I’m sure most women would try to be discrete but at some point their gazes would drop.
Just cause, well, he’s sticking straight out there.
It’s true though. Parts of the body that stick out get more attention.
We all notice: breasts, noses, bulging groins and big bums.
And women notice this more than men do.
It’s true, why else would they constantly be asking their husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends…
“Hey, does my butt look big in this?”
So with all these parts sticking out, it’s no surprise people are looking.
The trick for us guys is keeping it to a glance, stay alert, and avoid staring.
Recovering from a stare is tricky. In the same way getting your junk caught in your zipper is tricky.
I find pretending you’re in some deep thought, justifies staring off into space.
Then I come back with some random piece of trivia about comic books or action movies so you think I am a complete nerd.
Anyway I think that’s just the way we’re built.
Even the Bible says “let her breasts please you always”.
If God made the elbow or knees with that kind of “bodaciousness” and “bouncability”, we’d be staring at them instead.
And men aren’t alone in this. Women have their issues too.
We’re not the only ones looking down when a woman walks into the room. Lots of you women will be looking down with us.
Checking out her shoes. You can’t get your eyes off them.
Now nobody’s saying all you women have some kind of foot fetish.
So you see ladies, we’re not so different.
We’re just admiring the 36C’s while you girls are gawking at the beautiful pair of size 8’s.
You do it to us guys too. Judging us from our beat up work boots all the way up our super tight ripped jeans to our bulging junk sticking straight out.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
My eyes are up here.
Thanks to comedian and comedy club owner Don MacDonald for his help and comedy writing tips.
I will be completely up front. I love infomercials.
There is just something completely magical about a blender that juices fruit, makes my teeth whiter, promises to grow my hair back, connect my iphone to other blenders around the world and trims my nostril hair. The fact Mr. T is endorsing it and sending it to my door for the low price of six easy payments of $29.99 unless I act now because they will reduce it to just FIVE payments is a no brainer for me.
At three in the morning and credit card in hand, I can get truly frightening.
After I broke my leg I watched my weight balloon to a point it had never reached. I rationalized it as best I could. That they multiple surgeries and doctors advice about my mobility were enough reason to scarf down whatever I wanted. So I did.
I didn’t realize how huge I had gotten until I saw a picture of myself and was shocked. The camera doesn’t add ten pounds, it adds a whole other person. I was heavier than I had ever been. With a family history of diabetes and heart disease I was quickly on the road to one or both of those.
I was standing in my living room when an infomercial came on that immediately caught my attention. It was for a brand new program called P90X. I saw the dramatic results these people achieved and was intensely jealous. Jealous enough that I knew I had to do whatever I could to get the body they had and I wanted. So out came the credit card.
The program was brutally intense and I think I shed as many tears as I did drops of sweat those first few weeks. I spent more time soaking sore muscles in the bath tub than I did even being awake until the first day it stopped hurting a little. Little by little, the weight came off.
Like any exercise program you do for a few months, things get stagnant. I was constantly looking for something new. Something different. Something to take the weight off faster and easier. Infomercial after infomercial. Program after program. Credit card bill after credit card bill.
It all worked to a point but it stopped being even remotely fun. There was no real goal other than to complete the next step with no finish line in sight. So when the chance came to run a five kilometer race at a ski hill came along, I jumped at it. I started running on a small island near my house and for the first time in a long time it stopped feeling like exercise. It was just running outside. As a kid I can remember running for hours and not even considering the fact I was getting tired. I was just having fun.
My mental informercial mindset has always led me to want to try new and trendy things. The newest trend is obstacle racing with the most revered of those being the Spartan Race. A three, eight or twelve mile obstacle filled battlefield. Mud pits. Rope climbs. Hill runs with sandbags attached to you. Sounds like fun doesn’t it?
I decided the best way to train for it was to split my time between the gym and running outside. The snow had finally started to melt and despite the chilly wind, I ventured out. I needed to somehow simulate the obstacles in a race so I planned a route that would take me through the tourist park and past the water treatment plant. The air was cold in my lungs with every breath but its cold fire burned along side my competitive nature.
The ran the length of the snow filled beach past the pavilion filled with picnic tables and chairs. I smirked at myself thinking it looked exactly like an obstacle I had seen in most race plans. I turned myself towards it and dove under the first table. The idea was to crawl under the tables in a manner simulating the crawl under barbed wire through a mud pit. The instant I knelt down I heard a tremendous rip as well as the icy fingers of wind on my butt cheeks. I froze face down under the table and reached back. I felt a small tear along the seam of my pants before touching chilled flesh.
The fact I never wear underwear now seemed like a poor lifestyle choice.
I made my way under the tables and ran towards the water treatment plant. I could feel the seam of my pants spreading wider but at that point was too far from home to turn back. It was actually a quicker and less populated way home if I continued on. The frozen wind lashed across my exposed ass like a whip.
I took the most direct way across the dam that lead to the treatment plant only to see a ten foot tall chain link gate in my path. I truly had no idea when they had put that up. The “No Trespassing” sign was also new but I really just take those as a suggestion. Besides, I had to get home with as few people seeing my goose pimpled ass as possible.
The gate flared out around the concrete sides of the dam like wide-spread arms. The barbed wire across the top seemed like a poor choice to try to scale so I made the decision to wrap myself around the sides of the fence and reach for the other side. Entwining my fingers around the links in the fence I shoved my foot around the other side. The instant I pushed off to reach around to the other side two very ill-timed things occurred.
First, the rip in my pants stopped from running down my leg and headed for my groin.
Second, my junk fell out the now gaping hole.
With no one else around it may have not been a big deal. I certainly have never shied away from public indecency. I have likely put the chemicals in my pool more times naked than I have clothed. The issue here was a basic scientific principle.
Wet exposed skin plus frozen metal equals adhesion.
To put it much more plainly, my sweaty balls were now frozen the a fence post.
I hung in mid-air above a raging waterfall hoping that a bolt of lightning would strike the fence and kill me. I closed my eyes and prayed to every God that ever existed that the sun would come out and melt my testicles off the chilly steel. Those few seconds felt like an eternity. I had a choice to make. Hope for a miracle or do the unthinkable.
I pulled as quickly as I could away from the fence and felt the elastic snap of my testicles slapping against me as I jumped to the dam again. Searing pain racked my system and my body temperature shot up. Sweat poured down my body and stung the now raw flesh bouncing out the bottom of my destroyed pants.
I jogged as tenderly as I could home. Fearful the whole way a bus load of nuns would drive by and see my junk flopping around like a child on a coin operated horse outside a grocery store.
I stripped down as soon as I entered the door. I flung my pants towards the trash and looked over at the television I had left on. An infomercial was showing the latest trend in hair removal and I busted out laughing.
Forget hot wax. If you want to take the hair off your groin just stick them on a frozen fence.
I remember my first computer.
It was an absolute miracle of technology. It could do things I had never seen before.
It could play games. It could……. well that’s about it.
Over the years I have watched the technology advance to the point where I could play a game on my laptop while sending an email to a product distributor while bitching about a movie trailer and buying generic brand Viagra from a company in Kuala Lampoor.
I have seen computes get faster and smaller to the point where the processor in my iphone has more power than the entire bank of computers that put the first man on the moon.
They can process data at an alarming rate.
They can hold more songs than I could listen to in any given week.
They can store a dozen movies on a microchip smaller than the hole you had to cover up with masking tape on a video cassette in order to illegally make a copy of it.
They can take pictures of such brilliant clarity that they dazzle the eye.
They can……well……they can allow your teenage son to make videos and directly post them to Youtube …..
Yes, an age of wonders.
An age where I will forever live in a Superman costume and an Afro wig.
I am seriously hoping time travel is right around the corner.
The Ten Thousand Hour Rule states simply that any skill can be mastered by simply practicing for ten thousand hours.
In theory it is the perfect solution to any skill set one would wish to acquire. Say for example the entire rationale behind the saying “throw like a girl”. I am willing to bet that if you took any girl on the face of the earth and had her throw a baseball for ten thousand hours by the time she was done she could throw a baseball well enough to knock down the milk bottles at any county fair and win her own stuffed animal cause I sure have never been able to do it.
The same cannot be said of me when it comes to dancing.
I have tried more than once to learn a musical instrument or anything involving rhythm but I simply don’t have it in me. It never stops me from trying though.
I knew the night was going to be rough when the seal on a several years old bottle of tequila smuggled out of Mexico was broken. There is something truly magical about that elixir. At least it performs magic on me. Makes me believe all things are possible. It also one time in college made me believe I could speak French to a group of girls who not only were taking Bilingual Nursing but were all from Quebec. Magical.
An old friend of mine had called earlier in the week to invite me to his step daughter Cupcake’s nineteenth birthday party. I had sort become an unofficial “uncle” to her since I agreed (drunkenly) to escort her to a Katy Perry concert that no one else would volunteer for.
If you are sensing a theme you are correct. Alcohol makes me quite pliable.
His wife was a chef at a private college and while I consider myself an excellent cook this girl made my best dishes look like street meat prepared by a leper with eight fingers and half a nose. I never pass up a chance to eat anything she prepares. She could dump dog food in a dish and call it a “Beef Testicle Surprise” and I would shovel it in. So the combination of gourmet food and free drinks was too much to miss.
“You doing okay?” I asked my friend B-Man as he stood beside the grill he was in no way allowed to touch.
“I am officially old today,” B said with a bemused smile ” Let’s get fucked up’.
I smiled knowing exactly what he meant. The bottle he had been saving and I had been trying to steal for years sat in a place of honor in his kitchen. Like a shrine to the drunken stupidity that led to renting a cube van to take to the bar and trying to convince a young female police officer that you aren’t drunk while standing in front of a pizza place half-dressed scarfing down cheese steak slices before puking on her shoes.
Shot after shot of the amber fire poured and the music volume increased. I could feel my feet tapping along to whatever dance beat had been playing in the back ground.
“Not tonight,” I tried to convince my addled brain “Not tonight”.
I could hear the clatter of keys and the scuffle of feet putting on shoes as I eyed the empty bottle. My brain was swimming and the choice was clear. I was going dancing. After a few fumbled attempts to get my shoes on and an even briefer search for my coat that I didn’t bring we were out the door.
The bar was as packed as sixteen people can fill a space designed for a few hundred. The bass beat was pounding through the cracked tile floor and could be felt through the soles of your shoes. The lighting was perfectly suited to a space like this as a single red light strobed in a pattern that nowhere near matched the music. A sunken dance floor displayed a lone couple of middle-aged lesbians slow dancing to a song that was reminicent of the Chicken Dance. A middle-aged hipster with long gray hair danced in a hectic fashion on what passed for a stage above the dance floor.
The place was perfect.
The girl faces fell as they made their way to the bar and the adults that had invited themselves to go with them looked for a table that wasn’t covered in someone’s spit. I could see Cupcake cringe as she ordered a drink and look at the exit. I knew what had to happen.
With the fearlessness that can only come from smuggled booze that may or may not have made me go partially blind I attacked the dance floor. I was on fire. I had moves that put the girl from Flashdance to shame. My arms and legs flying in a celebration of human movement and grace. I bounded to the raised stage and ground my way up against the graying ghost in an attempt to clear the floor. I heard clapping and howling. I knew I had to take it to the next level.
I used every eighties dance move that existed. The Running Man. The Lawnmower. The Sprinkler. The Carlton. I was amazed to see the dance floor fill up around me and the dancers try to copy the one man show I was performing but failing miserably. I laughed as they copied my flaring body and smiled as they screamed for more. My heart pounded in my chest and I was one with the music.
The song ended and I made my way towards the bar with the sounds of adoration ring in my ears. Cupcake wrapped her arms around me and was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. I hugged her back and signalled for the bartender to give us a moment.
“That was the greatest thing I have ever seen,” Cupcake laughed as she regained her ability to talk. I had left her speechless. I was prouder of myself in that moment than I could have imagined. I had turned a possible fail into a total win.
“I do have some moves,”I shouted back in the open space between us. Her laughter nearly doubled her over.
“You looked just like Elaine from Seinfeld,” Cupcake cheered “It was like your whole body was trying to throw up.”
I stood aghast. I was brilliant. I was magical.
I looked out over the dance floor and saw the assembled girls frantically copying the dizzying array of dances I had pulled off while laughing hysterically.
” I am starting a new tradition,” Cupcake smiled as she rubbed my shoulder ” Every year on my birthday we are going to come back here and recreate that performance.”
To this day, the tradition still holds up and my invitation to join them stands.
Now if you will excuse me I have a nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven more hours of dancing to practice before I will ever step foot in there again.
When I was in college I toyed with the idea of teaching English as a second language in a foreign country.
The only real issue I had was the fact I would have to learn a different language in order to survive. I likely would have starved to death or ended up sold on the black market as someone’s piece of “white chocolate” before I even realized it happened. I just can’t imagine how difficult it would be for someone to navigate a foreign culture .
As the winter begins to wind down, all the suppliers we have put on massive sales pitches to contractors from all over Southern Ontario. The idea is financially sound for them as it gets new products in our faces so we can add them to our arsenal for the coming season. It’s usually wrapped around a relatively decent buffet but sometimes they go a step further.
I had heard of the Fastest Shingler competition from a few guys that had taken part in it. It was as revered in our industry as the World Hot Dog Eating Championships were at a Weight Watchers meeting. It was scheduled for the same day as our biggest supplier unveiled their new product line. I pride my self on being able to bang product on as fast as anyone else so I figured it was time to put my skills to the test. The prize was one thousand dollars, a trophy and a shot at the Canadian championships. It may sound a bit odd to people but the winner of the whole competition stood to win ten thousand dollars. I like shingling. I like money.
I had to admit I was a bit nervous as I saw the set up for the competition. Eight contractors would face of head to head in timed heats to see who could shingle a small set up that included a toilet stack and a roof vent. I walked by the line of guys waiting for their turns and eyed up the time boards. I snickered a bit as I saw some of the leading times while watching the techniques the group that was hammering away was using. I figured I could make the leader board with a solid effort.
I walked back to the registration area and filled out the forms necessary to enter. A small Asian woman took my paper work and eyed me up and down over the top of her thick black framed glasses before gesturing for me to take my spot in the line.
As I walked down the line I eyed my competition and while a few of the guys seemed reasonably competent I was quite excited by my chances.
” Excuse me,” I heard a thickly accented voice say to my right ” Is this the line for the gang bang?”
I burst out laughing at the joke only to turn toward the voice. The tallest and duskiest skinned Jamaican I had ever seen looked down at me with an earnest expression.
” If it is,” I answered ” I sure as hell don’t want to go after you.”
I was expecting his expression to break at least a little but he still looked as solemn as ever. He tilted his head a bit as he tried to puzzle out my meaning. I laughed again in spite of myself.
“I was told there was a gang bang at the end of the line and I should bring my tools,” the man continued with earnest eyes. I could barely breathe I was laughing so hard.
” I am sure you swing a mean hammer,” I continued when I could get enough air in my lungs to form words ” But this is for the best in the industry.”
” No one bangs as fast as I do,” the Jamaican responded to my perceived insult and it elicited fresh peals of laughter from me and a couple of others that had been listening in.
The Asian woman who had taken all our registration information at that point sidled up beside him and placed a hand at his lower back. She looked expectantly at him as to what was causing such a dilemma.
“Is this the line for the gang bang?” He asked her with the same puzzled tone he asked me and she smiled as smile usually saved for lottery winners. She nudged him away from us and toward the competition area.
“Right this way,” She said as she gave us the same beatific smile before sashaying away. I stood in stunned silence. Perhaps I was in the wrong line. I am certainly not shy but the idea of dropping my pants in front of a set of bleachers full of people was not exactly what I had in mind today. Not long after, an equally dark-skinned but much shorter man was searching around the line. I knew he was looking for the guy we all would regrettably have to follow.
“Looking for someone,” I asked almost rheotorically.
” Yes,” He answered with a thankful look at me ” I brought a guy with me to compete today.”
” I think he’s at the front of the line,” I responded ” But he is here for a competition I don’t think the rest of us are involved in.”
A wickedly evil grin spread across the man’s face that I was helpless to not reflect in one of my own.
” He’s likely the fastest guy here,” Wicked Grin answered back ” But he speaks about fifteen words of English. We have been telling him for weeks he was coming to a place where gangs of guys bang shingles on for money. He’s been calling it a gang bang ever since.”
The first warm day we had after a month of blistering cold and damaging snow storms had my phone going off like your dad does at his office work Christmas party after he’s had nine beer and found out the company wasn’t giving out bonus cheques this year. The accumulated snow leads to ice dams along the edge of the roofs which can lead to wide-spread leakage and damage if not attended to. The majority of people just leave the snow and let nature take its course but the best course of action is to at least remove it from the perimeter.
The first call of my morning was an overly long snow removal with a woman who grilled me so hard about what I was doing I began to get a Joan Crawford “Mommy Dearest” kind of vibe. I actually flinched when she went to the closet and pulled her coat off a wire hanger but when she followed me outside grilling me mercilessly about the rationale behind removing snow from a roof I realized she was likely just a lonely old lady who just beat her own kids with coat hangers.
Mile after mile, house after house we pulled literal tons of snow off buildings. The muscles in my upper back and shoulders were burning like a painful bowel movement brought on by a night of dollar store tequila. The temperature continued to drop and I was getting to the point where I just didn’t think I could do much more.
I checked with my office and there was a call for snow removal not that far from where I was so I figured I would do the responsible thing and attend to it. If nothing else it got me one step closer to soaking in my bath tub with my army of plastic sharks and Spider-man bubble bath.
The snow was piled up on the house in giant meringue puffs that likely tasted terrible but I set to work with my snow rake. Great lumps of the stuff fell around me and did nothing to improve my mood that was souring as quickly as milk left on a sidewalk in St. Louis in summer.
I made my way around the back of the house and just started pulling the snow off the low garage when I heard a laugh and a splash.
” Now that looks like hard work,” I heard a voice call out. I turned with a half-smile and a sarcastic retort hanging off my teeth that never made it to my tongue. In the midst of the snow drifts sat a steaming hot tub occupied by two gentlemen who had to easily be in their late seventies. Their white skin and even whiter chest hair stood out against the starkness of the landscape like a polar bear walking across the arctic if he was drunk and horribly lost. There was a litter of empty beer bottles strewn around the base of the tub and a cooler not very far out of reach. Both men beamed smiled as bright as the mis-aimed headlight in an 86 Hyundai.
“It sucks ,” I answered back as the laughter I had forced down bubbled up like a fart in a thong. Both men raised their beer and half saluted me before draining them and tossing the bottles into the snow.
” You really need one of these at home,” One of them called out across the yard and pawed drunkenly at the lid of the cooler. His grizzled mat of chest hair floated like angry sea weed as he splashed his way towards the edge.
” I wish,” I laughed as I thought about my sad little bath tub. I took a longing look at the hot tub and cooler. Maybe someday.
“Well, we are moving out tomorrow so at least stop over for a beer before you leave,” Chest Hair yelled as I moved further down the roof edge. I turned to answer him when I heard a splash and water sloshing onto the ground. My eyes stopped on a pale set of wrinkled ass cheeks bobbing up out of the water as Chest Hair stood to open the just distant cooler. He turned to hand his companion a beer and his junk flopped against his opposite leg like a dog shaking a sock with an orange in it. It was almost at perfect eye level with his tub buddy and it didn’t phase him at all.
They sank back down into the water and had an arm over each other as they each took a long draught from the newly opened bottles. I had now seen it all. I had tangled with a sunbathing cougar and now had run across two hot tubbing bears. Lions and tigers and bears my ass.
” Sure you don’t want one,” Chest Hair chided again waving a beer bottle in a manner far too close to the motion his old junk had just conjured up.
I stopped and in a brief flash I realized my day had essentially been filled with the same kind of people. From Joan Crawford chasing me through snow drifts too deep to beat me to death in to the drunken Grizzly bears. They were just lonely. Seeking the companionship that even a few simple words from a stranger or a hot tub reach around can give.
That brief moment of connection to someone else that lets them know that they are not completely alone. Hell, I was guilty enough of it but anthropomorphizing plastic sharks in my bath tub. No one really likes to be alone. If these people found comfort in each other then who was I too judge them and quite frankly the beer looked really good.
” I have time for a quick one,” I replied as I tossed the snow rake aside and reached for the still junk dangling bottle.
The acrid tang of chlorine touched the back of my throat as I walked the humid hallway between the change room and the pool doors. As part of the Cross Fit program, we had to take part in a deep water fitness class. My fear of dancing was lifting with every step I took as I exited the change room in a whoosh of stagnant chemicals. I breathed deeply before rubbing my hands together at the thought of normally yoga clad bottoms floating around in bathing suit bottoms not big enough to keep bikini stubble dry. At least for one class I would be able to keep up with the movements and when I couldn’t I would just hide under the water and pretend I was doing something other than making the air fart out of my inflated pockets.
I saw only one person from class standing beside the pool as I made my way toward the deeper water. She was clad in a swimmers suit which while clingy was far too covering for what my brain had imagined would be a ring of synchronized camel toes rising out of the water to Madonna’s “Celebrate” with me in the middle spinning lazy circles. She had a bemused look on her face as she looked at the group already paddling around. She turned and arched an eyebrow at me and I gave her a half-smile before I turned my gaze to see where she had been looking.
There were at least a dozen women already in the pool. I think the youngest of them was in the neighborhood of sixty. There was more wrinkled white skin than the giant vat of Wonton soup at a Chinese buffet. My brain immediately went to the assumption that their class was finishing up and they would be getting out of the water. They were laughing and joking in that way women do when they have seen each other naked one too many times.
I saw the young aquatics instructor wheeling a speaker towards the pool and for one gleeful second I thought she planned on dumping the electric monstrosity into the pool to cook the entire floating mass like some geriatric bouillabaisse.
” Okay, who do I have from Cross Fit?,” she asked and the few of us brave enough to actually show up raised our hands.
“Well don’t be shy,” she laughed ” Join the class.”
I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don’t speak German. Anyway, it’s a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don’t know the name for those either. I heard a splash and saw Dave the Ginger bobbing along beside the Menopause Mafia. There was no way I was going to be upstaged at this point so I cringingly slipped into the water. I swam out to the deepest point and stayed afloat as the music from “Sweatin to the Oldies” started.
I could feel the eyes of the women flicking over to me as I tried to keep pace. Treading water while doing spirit fingers above your head might seem easy but I assure you it isn’t. I began to tire fairly quickly and looked at the clock. Twenty minutes of an hour class had passed. I knew at that exact moment I was going to likely drown and be resuscitated by the Little Mermaid’s grandmother. I began to cheat my way over to the shallower water and sighed a little as I felt my toes touch the bottom of the slope.
” Okay, lets lay on our backs,” I heard the instructor call out and I flipped belly up. I was grateful for the rest as the last series of exercises had been rough. I stared at the ceiling as the next set of instructions were called out. I wasn’t completely sure what I was doing so I lifted my head out of the water to see pasty white flesh rising in unison. I came to a couple of shocking revelations at that moment.
First, I saw the reason why I was nearly drowning and no one else was even losing their breath was the simple fact they were all wearing flotation belts so they didn’t sink to the bottom.
Second, when women raise their legs out of the water when they are laying on their backs a bathing suit bottom doesn’t necessarily cover all of their bottoms. Or their fronts. Or anything in between.
I inhaled sharply and sucked in a huge lungful of water. I coughed harder than a sleeping dog farts trying to expel the liquid and nearly choked myself faint in the process. The instructor blew her whistle once and I saw life guards that I have underwear older than walking towards me. I waved them off and swam slowly over to the edge of the pool. I pulled myself up on the ledge and took a couple ragged breaths.
“You okay,” the instructor asked as she knelt down beside me. Every eye in the entire pool area seemed to be trained on me and every ear listening to my wet coughs.
“I think so,” I answered as I felt tears roll down my cheek ” It’s just the chlorine in the pool.”
I kept repeating “It was just the chlorine, It was just the chlorine” the entire drive home.
Why is there always that one kid?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs at the exact same time that a lifeguard pulls the kid from the pool permitting him to projectile vomit all over the pool deck?
Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs at the exact same time that a lifeguard pulls the kid from the pool permitting him to projectile vomit all over the pool deck at the precise moment I have decided that I need to work on my cardio by swimming because my body hurts from head to toe from shoveling snow off roof tops for more than six hours a day for the past week and I get splashed with frosting blow back all over my feet and legs making it look like I had stuck my lower half into a unicorn’s vagina?
More importantly, why is that kid always a Ginger?
I couldn’t believe it when I saw them in the racks beside the coffee.
I usually took a long wistful look at the prepackaged foods as I grab a mug of morning motivation. I remind myself that while sweet and tempting, I will regret it later. It may have only been a knock off of the greatest dessert food ever made but a wave of nostalgia ran through me and I grabbed one off the rack and put it on the counter. There was no way I was going to resist even an imitation of a Hostess Fruit Pie. I hadn’t seen anything even close to it in years and as I ripped open the package standing there at the counter. I was transported back to a world of twenty-five cent comic books and Spokey-Dokes destroying the rims of my bicycle tires.
In our organic, gluten-free, farm to table world I believe we have lost an ability we once had to enjoy the perfect moment of pleasure brought on by something as simple as the foods of our youth. There was no thought as to whether the things we were stuffing into ourselves were good for us. I don’t even know if there was ever any thought as to whether the flavors sometimes worked together but the late seventies through the early nineties were a magical time in the chemically diverse world of food.
Some of the greatest concepts were the simplest ones. Like multi colored ketchup.
Ketchup is one of those foods that you either love or hate but who could resist the chance to buy a tomato flavored gloop that was green or blue or that God awfully sick purple that looked like someone had vomited grape Kool-Aid all over a perfectly unassuming pile of greasy French Fries.
Drinks werent exempt from chemical gastronomy of the time either resulting in the disaster that was Orbitz.
Another simple concept that could have been magical. A liquid of one flavor with floating balls of a contrasting taste. The result was a nightmarish concoction that couldn’t be sipped but had to be gulped down to muscle past the gag reflex. It was like trying to swallow a live gold-fish on a dare at some party when you were too drunk to care but everyone else was sober enough to remember and tell you all about it the next day. I also think it taught an entire generation of cheerleaders to swallow without thinking so it is a loss that high school will never recover from.
Sometimes the greatest foods were the ones that exist now only in legend. Whispered about in hushed reverence like the Mc D.L.T or Crystal Pepsi. The greatest of all had to be the P.B. Max.
The P.B. Max was the bastard child of the Cadbury family trying to destroy Reese peanut butter cups. It was a whole grain cookie draped in creamy peanut butter topped with crunchy rolled oats and them cocooned in Cadbury milk chocolate. It was a virtuoso creation of flavors that had money in your hand to buy another one before the taste had left your mouth. Washed down with a Dr Pepper, it was a bubbling tingly symphony of brain melting pleasure. Eating a Reese peanut butter cup was like give oral to a homeless guy that had sat out in forty degree heat all day by comparison. They were discontinued in the early nineties because the Cadbury family simply didn’t like peanut butter.
My love for Hostess fruit pies was likely rooted in those twenty-five cent comic books. The advertising was beyond brilliant back then. What kid could resist wanting one after being sold a story where Spider-man foils a bank robbery powered by a cherry pie than made some ridiculous pun about the villains getting there “just desserts”. It was like subliminal messaging designed specifically to destroy my impressionable brain.
A bit of research has led to me finding out they still produce the original Hostess fruit pies in a factory in Kansas. They also make a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle one with green pie crust and vanilla pudding filling. I sure hope my mom kept my old BMX bike cause its gonna be a long ride down memory lane to get there. Hopefully I can find some New Coke and Jell-O pudding pops along the way to keep me going.
I remember the first kid that ever beat me up.
First grade is rough enough to begin with what with the no more afternoon naps and a full day of school. It’s also the stepping stone for the pecking order that will exist for most kids for the rest of their lives. So when I decided that I wanted to play in the sandbox with the metal Tonka trucks that have left more skulls dented than Mike Tyson’s fists at the same time as Billy Leurman I knew it would end badly.
Billy was doomed from the start to be picked on. His daily attired consisted of a yellow button down shirt and a bow tie that must have been purchased at the nearest Big and Clowny. Coupled with the fact he had no discernible difference between the width of his neck and the width of his head, it left him looking exactly like a number two pencil. Right down to the eraser. His fire engine red hair was the source of much consternation as he was the only Ginger in the entire school. It took one simple remark about his nose that was perpetually running into his mouth and the tongue that seemed to be constantly licking it to have him swing a right at me that left my nose bleeding and my cheeks burning with embarrassment. It was hard enough being a chubby little six-year-old but to be embarrassed in that fashion was something that I couldn’t leave unresolved.
I walked the long hallway to the fitness studio dreading another cardio funk dance session to “Groove Is In The Heart” by Dee-Lite. I couldn’t make more wrong steps than I did the previous week. It simply wasn’t possible. It was bad enough to see myself do it in the mirror but it was another thing to do it in front of the Butt Cleavage Brigade.
My foot steps faltered as I rounded the corner and saw something I was totally unprepared for. There, standing in the fitness studio, was another guy. I had a momentarily gay squeal escape me before I covered my mouth. There was no way I could possibly embarrass myself now. Not with another guy to at least divert at least some of the disaster. His attire was fairly similar to mine with a compression shirt and long shorts right down to garrishly colored shoes with the exception of a ball cap he had on.
” I am ever glad there’s another guy here tonight,” I laughed as I walked over with my hand extended.
” Dave,” He replied clasping my hand. It took a second for me to notice the smattering of freckles up his arm as I was transfixed by the fact he was a Ginger. The tell-tale Wendy’s red hair was poking out from the sides of his ball cap.
“Jack,” I said trying not let my voice betray the momentary lapse six-year-old me had into mild trepidation. I wasn’t that kid. Hadn’t been in a very long time so what did I have to worry about. I brushed it off and was just happy that I wouldn’t be the only one floundering around.
” Last weeks class was……” I managed to get out before Dave shot around me and grabbed the bucket of skipping ropes that had just walked into the room.
“Here Kim,” Dave blurted like a wind up yappy dog in a cable knit cardigan ” Let me take those from you.”
In a half a heart beat, the dynamic in the room shifted from one of two guys standing against the tyranny of the Vagina World Order to grade one all over again. A huge smile was plastered all over Dave’s face as he trailed behind Kim handing out skipping ropes and agreeing with every squeak her shoes made. I could hear my teeth grinding in my ears as I looked at the predicament I was now in. Not only was Dave a Ginger but a teacher’s pet as well.
My heart sank as I looked at the limp dangling noodle of rope in my hand as they passed by and flopped it in my hand. I felt like a white girl having sex with Kobe Bryant. All that length and no idea what to do with it. My inability to skip went hand in hand with my inability to dance. I could do all the moves but I couldn’t put them together into anything that didn’t look like a full body dry heave.
The warm up started with some stretching and then progressed into different levels and speeds of skipping rope. I looked like a cross-eyed cowboy trying to rope a three-legged goat wearing an afro wig. Dave was skipping like the Brooklyn public school system double dutch team. I got so frustrated at the four-minute mark that I fired the rope across the room like a used condom and just jumped in place.
” Everybody ready to take it to the next level ,” Kim yelled into her Britney Spears head mic. The girls all responded with their usual “WOO” and Dave answered right along with them garnering a beaming smile from Kim. I could feel my six-year-old inner child cringing a little as the Ginger teachers pet lead the pack in a series of moves that made Flashdance look like hopscotch. Dave looked over and gave me that knowing look that said I couldn’t keep up. I felt that same feeling I did when Billy walked over and punched me in the face. That embarrassing indignation.
“Okay,” Kim called out ” It’s time for some old school sports fitness. Everybody on the line for suicides.”
I worked my way between Dave and two yoga short divas and gave him a half-smile. Kim switched on some dance beat song and yelled “Go”. I bolted of the line in step with Dave and we raced out and back stride for stride. I could feel the lactic acid building up in my muscles and I smiled. The girls were passing between us as we raced back and passed between
“Almost” I thought barely containing my grin.
Basic body science dictates that as your muscles burn they create chemical reactions. Those reactions often create gases. Mainly carbon dioxide but sometimes methane. Methane usually only has one way out of the body.
I drove my legs at the floor and bolted ahead of Dave. I looked at the clock. It was going to be close. It was going to be exceptionally close. I was separating from the girls and dropping to Dave’s other side with every pass. I saw Kim look at the clock and I could almost hear her intake of breath as she readied herself to stop us. I paused on the far side of the room briefly and looked up to see Dave and the girls running towards me. I bolted for the other side of the room as Kim called the exercise to a halt.
I stood looking at everyone’s reflection in the mirror as the girls began gulping down air. They quickly stopped and looked at each other before taking dainty sniffs and looking at Dave. Dave grinned at them and they looked at him with disgust. I smiled as they sniffed again and walked away as quickly as possible. My brief pause on that side of the room allowed me to drop a monster fart that they had all run into and stopped. I heard them whispering about how gross it had been to eat that redheaded guys fart and I busted out laughing.
I walked out the glass doors and looked down to see six-year-old me walking beside me. I reached down and took his hand. I couldn’t let the ghost of Ginger bother him anymore. All it took was timing ,chemistry and a broccoli smoothie.
I am an animal lover by nature and appreciate the culture of Groundhog day but I have decided that every one of the miserable little bastards must die.
Six more weeks of winter? I would rather not.
The Germans used to believe that on Feb. 2, the Christian holiday of Candlemas — tell me you didn’t forget to pre-order your Candlemas roast? — any hibernating animal who saw his shadow could personally extend global winter for six months. Since this superstitution wasn’t already fucking insane enough, some kooks (or, more likely, savvy tourism boosters) in rural Pennsylvannia began dressing up in top hats, tuxedos and bow ties and calling themselves the Inner Circle. They declared that their groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, was the One True Weather Rodent, and that only they, the Inner Circle, could decipher his behavior, which happens to translate directly into rhyming verse, like this year’s forecast: “Many shadows do I see: six more weeks of winter it must be.”
Nice con. Its as big a scam as Global Warming.
This morning, Punxsutawny Phil came out of his burrow on a unseasonably cold, sunny day, and predicted six more weeks of winter — but much of North America could have told you that already. Punxsutawny, like most of the United States, has been experiencing a freakishly cold winter,and yet people still believe the planet’s temperature is warming up. A record low was set in Punxsutawny on Tuesday. Today, instead of the chilly, snowy 17-degree morning that was normal when the Bill Murray film was made in 1993, the crowd cheered on the groundhog at near record-setting cold temperatures.
Much of the country is experiencing a “Polar Vortex,” with thousands of daily record lows set in January. Even including Alaska — which has been seeing some record-cold temperatures as the Arctic climate grows more unstable — there were 19 more record-setting low temperatures as there were record highs in January. (Without global warming, one would expect about the same number of record highs as record lows.) Excluding Alaska, the lower 48 states saw 29 times as many record lows as record highs.
I might be in the minority but I hope Global Warming is real.
Imagine all the cavemen and woolly mammoths that are frozen in the ice that will be unthawed and be running around when the ice caps melt. Imagine if those cavemen are like Fred Flintstone. They could film the newest reality television hit that would rapidly eclipse “Duck Dynasty” as the most popular family in history. Captain Caveman trying to find his way in a modern world. The Wal-Mart line of clothes would be amazing.
In an important publication recently released, it states that an international research expedition to the Southern Ocean has confirmed that if it were left alone, the global climate would be naturally heading towards another ice age.
“We’re headed towards an ice age but our (man’s) presence here has delayed it but not for good”, stated Professor John Tarrance. Cores of marine sediment going back several hundred thousand years has confirmed that in the pattern of climatic fluctuations, we had passed the mid-point of an inter-glacial cycle and were now heading slowly towards a glacial period.”
Who really wants that?
I will tell you who. The groundhogs.
An entire industry and culture is built around the furry weather prognosticators. If an Ice Age is in our near future all of them will be out of jobs as people simply accept the fact that winter is never going to end. Punxsutawney would become a ghost town over night. Groundhogs will be free to run rampant over the country side and breed faster than teenagers in an Alabama trailer park. Soon they would cross over into inter species breeding creating a hybrid Groundhog/Grizzly Bear that would develop a taste for human flesh. That would quickly follow a break down of social systems as people locked themselves indoors to avoid the rampaging Grizzly Hogs. Families would soon resort to inbreeding to perpetuate the human race resulting in generations of deformed mutants with monstrous strength sent out to fight the Grizzly Hogs that have now developed wings to give them the tactical advantage of divebombing prey from above. The resulting nuclear conflict sparked by the Koreans blaming the Jews for everything would leave the world a grey,desolate husk where Mad Max style gangs driving vehicles powered by disconnected hamster brains would scour the lands for the last Twinkies.
So as the temperatures begin to plummet around the world you will likely find me roasting groundhogs over a burning pile of old MacDonald’s styrofoam containers. When people ask what I am doing I will just tell them I am fighting the end of the world.
Cross fit must be the anti Fight Club because the first rule of Cross Fit is you never shut up about Cross Fit. I don’t know anyone that has taken even a single class that cannot bring it up in every conversation they have with absolutely everyone.
Last summer, I had trained for and competed in a Zombie Run that was essentially a five kilometer uphill climb of three lengths up and around a ski hill. I turned in what I figured was a respectable time for my first timed race and was standing at the finish line panting like a dog in heat watching lesbian poodle porn when I say a group of high fiving young men who could have been on the cover of any issue of Modern Fitness Modeling For Douches. Each of them were wearing a black form-fitting t-shirt emblazoned with the name of the newest Cross Fit gym in the area. They had absolutely crushed the course and looked like they had barely broken a sweat. I was utterly exhausted from cross-country sprint but promised myself that my next race would be a much better result.
I was leafing through the program book at my gym when I saw they were now offering a “Cross Fit” style course. Apparently Cross Fit is a copy righted name so unless you have express written consent to use it they send a group of compression shirt wearing thugs in day glow green shoes to your house where they beat you half to death, impregnate your daughter and steal all the change off your dresser unless you promise never to utter the word again. I knew if I wanted to close the gap between cross-country running on my island and the ridiculous fitness level I saw that day I was going to have to find a way to push myself.
The night of the first class, I geared up and popped my headphones in. Pounding drum beats filled my ears courtesy of Avenged Sevenfold and I shook my testicles into a more comfortable position. I was ready for anything the class had to throw at me. I stalked down the hallway like a wolf hunting prey and rounded the corner towards the doors already open awaiting my arrival.
I was greeted by a tall, smiling woman in the shortest yoga shorts money could buy. Her bright and cheery demeanor completely disarmed me but not as much as the other people already waiting for the class to start. I entered the room to see a group of young women clad in matching yoga pants and tank tops. It took less than half a heart beat to notice a very distinct lack of penis in the room. I shrugged and hoped at least one other guy would show up albeit fashionably late but realizing that a guy who showed up fashionably late on purpose was likely going to be wearing yoga pants and wishing his outie was an innie.
” Okay everybody,” the instructor called out as she adjusted her headset ” My name is Kim and welcome to instability training.”
A chorus of clapping and woos responded to her and I chuckled a bit. Woo girls. Just my luck.
” If you will all grab a BOSU and a set of weights we will get warmed up,” Kim said as she motioned to the blue mushroom-shaped half balls. Before I could make an ill-timed joke about blue balls, I looked at the stack of small hand weights. The heaviest they had been ten pounds and there was no way I was going to get much out of that.
” I am gonna grab some weights from the gym,” I said in a tone that must have channeled Chris Farley in “Tommyboy” looking for the weight room because Kim gave me a look normally reserved for three-legged kittens with a hair lip.
” I will be right here,” Kim replied enunciating each word and nodding after each syllable to be sure I understood. I could tell she was looking for an excuse to pat me on the forehead.
I walked down the hall wondering which of the Little Rascals was her favorite and grabbed a couple of heavy dumb bells. If I was going to do a girls workout I was at least going to look like a guy doing it. I had just made it back to the place I had picked out in time to join the gyno Canadians in the warm up. I snickered as the beads on sweat started to show on everyone else and I hadn’t even taken a deep breath yet. Then my worst fear was realized.
I can’t dance. I have about as much rhythm as lava lamp and am just as wobbly. Watching me was like watching someone dry heave. Kim led the group through a series of steps that left me gasping to keep up. I was bouncing on the hall ball in what I figured was perfect timing only to have my feet tangle up with the girl beside me resulting in some unintentional butt touching.
” Okay,” Kim called out, ” Let’s grab the heavy weights.”
Finally, I thought. Something I could handle.
What followed was a disaster of recockulous proportions. Ten reps into a combination move that involved balancing on a giant rubber ball doing shoulder presses while at the same time executing what must have been the crane kick from “The Karate Kid” with a yoga pose that could only be described as “Crotchal Nightmare”, I was a sweaty mess. I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes into an hour class. I looked like I had run the New York City marathon pushing a wheel barrow full of pickled pig’s feet. My muscles were screaming from the weight but there was no way I was going to let a bunch of jazzercising girls see me go down.
” Everybody ready to take it to the next level ?” Kim laughed into her mic while eyeing me in the mirror. A round of “woo”s that would have done Ric Flair proud covered the sound of my tears hitting the floor. We all dropped our weights and sat down on the floor. I resisted the urge to vomit into my water bottle so no one saw.
” Feet up on the ball,” Kim called out and I laid back on the floor.
“Thrust up,” I heard and turned my head to see yoga clad crotches sky-high. I burst out laughing. I was Robinson Crusoe trapped on Camel Toe Island. A series of moves followed after the thrusting that brought my eye line to Gina Town with nowhere else to look. I couldn’t help but continue to laugh. I decided I only had one safe place to look. Right at my groin. I figured if nothing else all the girls in the class would think I was a typical guy and fascinated with my junk.
Mercifully the class ended quickly there after. Apparently time flies when you are laughing at floating vulva. The girls were continuing to woo it up and I just sat on my giant blue balls staring at the floor. I wiped the sweat running from my bald head and saw Kim giving me a look I was unprepared for.
It was almost pity. She had kicked my ass with a class I had never seen a single guy take and likely with good reason. Especially those of us that can’t do the Running Man while holding a weighted bar in our butt cheeks.
” You okay ?” Kim asked as I gracelessly stood up.
” I think so,” I replied with a shake of my head that indicated the opposite.
” Well I hope you come back next week,” Kim said with a smile ” It’s yoga boot camp. You should consider getting some yoga pants so you can keep up with the rest of the girls.”
“A great photograph is a full expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense and is thereby a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety.”
― Ansel Adams
There are some images we see that move us so much we have no choice but to put pen to paper. Document those emotions with prose just to stop the bottled up emotions from spilling over. Images of such beauty and intensity that we wax poetic just to share the vision with others. A thousand words could easily become ten thousand from a single photo of a child’s first smile or a loved one’s last.
Some images burn their way into our soul that we are left with no choice but to write to purge the feelings that cause our hearts to swell and our nerve endings to tingle. That rush that brings blood to your cheeks and that warmth to your fingertips. Tongues dance with verbiage and raise voice to spread truth.
Yet some images evoke such power we are left with but one word to describe them. A single utterance so fitting that it is a moment of perfection. The moment where vision and language meld together in such symbiotic harmony that they will forever be linked. A single etching of time that will be spoken of among peers until the end of days.
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Becky says things about things and other things
Humor at the Speed of Life
Mistress of the Macabre, Siren of Sci Fi and Femme Fatale of Fantasy
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“Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” ~Oscar Wilde
The quotes of an 16 year old teenager along with quotes of other great men.
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