If ever there was a link between man and horse, I met her.

“You have small feet,” she said.

Size 9.5 is not small. It’s not a large shoe size but small it is not. I could see she was doing some silly conversion rate of shoe size-to-penis ratio in her head. While we were sharing observations, I wondered if now was appropriate to ask how many rocks she ate a day. Her teeth were arrayed in an entropic way that resembled Predator’s mouth or any Brits.

“Would you like to measure the end of my middle finger to the point where my palm turns into wrist?” I asked.

“Umm…why?”

“Because I know what you’re trying to compute and I don’t conform to whatever table you’re consulting.”

“What do you mean?” she asked as her face reddened as though someone had slapped it.

“The reason I have smaller feet is because the material was needed elsewhere,” I said as I placed my hands on my hips and slowly rocked back and forth on my feet while lightly thrusting my hips. “It’s not fair to my back but it’s my cross to bear.”

“A test of the validity of that statement is required. I’m free tonight,” she said while openly stealing an extended glance at the front on my jeans.

I wear slightly baggy pants so that my junk isn’t vacuum sealed in and testing the tensile strength of each and every fiber of my jeans. That’s not comfortable. My junk is on the outside for a reason. I don’t understand the trend of guys wearing girl jeans. It’s as though these guys emerged out of their sister’s closet instead of their own. Yes, that was a gay reference. Why do the makers of these jeans even put pockets on them? There is no possible way to fit anything in them, not even a credit card. I like slightly sagging jeans too not the jobs that require me to tuck my nipples into them. I think the jobs are called turtleneck pants. You know what I’m talking about; they are favored among the elderly crowd. A thong doesn’t ride the crack as much as I imagine those do. Can’t say for sure cause I’ve never worn them, only painfully seen them. The pants are usually khakis and give the wearer's butt the appearance of a sagging peach. Someone should make a butt girdle for old people so they don’t trip over their droopy butt cheeks. That’s how os coxa get broken, hips for you unacquainted with the term.

“You’re free? Do you normally charge? I’ve never been with a hooker and I’m not one to break tradition; especially with a snaggletooth. You’d do better trolling for willing participants/customers on the street. Even though you represent a less than savory element of our society, I’m okay with you being a woman of easy virtue. What I’m not okay with is you trying to be easy with me. Mister Ed may not have a problem with your oral cavity debacle so I suggest you try there and leave me the hell alone. Do you have an aversion to dentistry? Even with the breakthroughs in the dental field I don’t know if any one man is skilled enough to fix that mess, let alone the collective skill of ten dentists. They’d probably have to start by making you edentulous and starting over with implants. That mess is irreparable. It looked like someone tried to extinguish a fire in your mouth with an ice pick. You are the ugly duckling that never made it to swan."

She stood there blinking, too stunned to respond. Her jaw dropped fully revealing the chaos that was her mouth. Hitler was not a nice man but even he wouldn’t have put a set of chompers like that in someone’s mouth. It looked as though the snakes had vacated Medusa’s head, taken up residence in this girl’s mouth and hardened mid twisting. This chick could eat a cream pie through a chain link fence. I wanted to feed her a carrot or put a feed bag around her face and say “that’s a good girl” whilst I petted her. I saw no evidence of a mane or hooves though. She must have had surgery and also learned to walk bipedal. Gross.

“Look Seabiscuit, I don’t mean to be rude. I was just trying to understand. But now I don’t care anymore. I’ll take these size 9.5’s and be on my way. I assume you’ll meander in the back so you can graze on some hay or something. Thanks for your help. I hope I never encounter something like you when I become a dentist. That mouth looks like carpel tunnel to fix.”

I quickly paid for the kicks and bailed. Maybe I was a tad bit rude but at no fault of my own. The questions and look of disgust displayed on my face were all part of an automatic response, much like when a doctor tests your reflexes by hitting you on the patellar tendon with a pointed rubber hammer. Normally centaurs have the body of a horse attached to the upper half of a man/woman at the torso. In this case, the only horse component she possessed was its dentition. Sad really. I shuddered and replaced the image with thoughts of what the girls name would be that I'd be getting into that evening. Not that it's important or will even be remembered.

Happy New Year Kiddos!

Christmas Thoughts

“What did you get me for Christmas?” she asked coquettishly.
“It’s a secret between Victoria and I,” I replied.
“You always say that.”
“That’s because I’m very clever.”
“That’s really the only reason I’m with you.”
“Fair enough. I’m only with you for your body. I guess we both settled didn’t we? Kidding momma. There is no lingerie I could buy that could compliment your body better than your body. You are stunning.”

What happened? What nightmare was that? Sorry to all you married suckers out there. I hope you get some metal polish for Christmas so you can shine up the ol’ ball and chain. I realize “the ol’ ball and chain” is a metaphor for a wife and that shining a person means that you are putting them on but go with me here people…err…person that reads this…err…okay, self. Nobody reads this drivel except you buddy. And that’s because you have to after you write it to ensure that it flows well for when nobody will read it. While I have your attention self, can you imagine being a single dentist? It will be glorious! Soon my friend, soon.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to anyone who happens to stumble upon this! Hope you have an enjoyable time with your family and friends, unless you hate your family and have no friends. In that case, I hope you enjoy getting drunk, stoned, or whatever in an attempt to forget the holiday and the fact that you hate your family and have no friends. Try vodka, it makes the tears less bitter. May your hangover be mellow.

A quick way to elevate my anger and blood pressure.

Choke, churlish, chode, challenged, chaffing. These and other things beginning with ch- come to mind when I hear people pronounce any number in the twenties like chwenty. What ever happened to sounding it out? Go back to the basics, retards. Do you also say chwins, chwist, chwelve? Probably because you are a retard. I believe a slap would easily remedy your inability to pronounce words properly. Step right up and I’ll cure that and your ugliness. Burn!

Christmas Idea

If you're debating what to get me for Christmas, I have only one idea. A mistletoe belt buckle. And not the cheap kind, I want it to last.

Beads of Sweat Part 2

One minute left. What was this blanket of orange cones that covered the road ahead? I hoped beyond hope it wasn’t what I though it was! Damnit it was. Construction! Looks like they had torn the pavement off and left gaping potholes to give the road personality. There was a good chance that any one of these potholes would jostle my bowels which would induce full on spastic blow out mode. Dang those S.O.B’s!! I’d smack their mother if she were here. Well not hit her but definitely put her in 8 head locks. Anyway…

My distended bowels felt way beyond their bursting point. It’s a good thing they are on the inside otherwise I would be embarrassed from the residual stretch marks created from this embarrassing ordeal. Any atheist in my position would become a believer in God because only He knows how I hadn’t filled my pants and driver’s seat with crap yet. Physics cannot explain what my sphincter and body were able to withstand. We don’t have instruments that can measure the amount of pressure that was being exerted on my buttocks. If we did, the SI measurement for the extreme pressure would be “ea” for E’s ass; “psi” would be relegated to measuring things of lesser pressure.

Why have we as a society moved from once wearers of diapers to “civilized” people that can only crap in designated areas. If I had a diaper on, I would have grouted my butt crack with fecal matter like a mason, sans trowel. Gross I know but these were the thoughts of a desperate, desperate man. I should have just filled my drawers when the compulsion arose rather than suffer this inhumane malady. The crap was exerting more force on my bum than any battering Clay Aiken’s bum has endured from the myriad of men that have taken their turn massacring it.

My car jerked from a discourteous pothole that could serve as proof that black holes exist on earth and not just in space. It seemed to suck my whole car in then, like all women, fickly changed its mind and rudely ejected it. Yes, I know that black holes don't even let light escape let alone a car but just go with it. I thought I heard my butt hole rip as my car jarringly tried to right itself. False alarm. Must’ve been the undercarriage or something ripping off as my car emerged from another cavernous pothole unavoidably populating the road. Truth be told, if you were to inspect the potholes they would be no bigger than a small dirt divot. However, anything that caused my car to move even the slightest degree was intensely magnified by my ailing bowels and sphincter. Each second was as grueling as the combined pain of a 9 month pregnancy and subsequent birth.

I parked in my covered stall. How I was able to make it this far was beyond my meager intelligence. I was grateful to have survived this far but the hardest portion of this debacle was now upon me. I had to walk up 5 spaced steps, down a flight of steps then without incident negotiate a short distance to the evacuation receptacle, which we’ll call “blow out central.” It suddenly occurred to me while sitting in my car that my body’s weight had served to help keep my butt closed. I would be without that precious assistance as I traversed the distance to my bathroom. I didn’t have time to think about it. I sprung from my car like a cat pouncing on a juicy mouse or like my friend B on any girl with a pulse. Quite the whore this young man is. His genitals serve as a hang out for a wide variety of known and unknown STD’s. He has taken so many antibiotics that bacteria are now impervious to antibiotics. Thanks B! Douche bag. Anyway…

I gingerly conquered the steps, opened the door and then frantically scurried/duck-walked to what the news would later call a murder scene. I ripped my jeans off as though they were warm-ups. Before they and my bum hit the seat my sphincter gave out. The song Hallelujah blared in my mind as my bowels unceremoniously emptied their contents and what seemed like all of my insides. I should have gotten an anal episiotomy before I slammed my cheeks on the porcelain because I’m pretty sure I ripped something as my butt turned me inside out. The sweet release felt better than 20 orgasms. I could’ve used a cigarette as I sat on the toilet wondering how I managed to avoid cleaning the filth that was taking up space in my toilet bowl from off my leather seats. I decided there was no way to explain a miracle. All I know is that I put that toilet into therapy.

Hmmm.....

I'm uncertain why I thought of this, nevertheless...

Do you ever think a gay man says to his partner, "Steve, you're a pain in my ass?"

Beads of Sweat Part 1

Beads of sweat coalesced upon my brow. Not sweat released because I was hot and my body was osmoregulating but sweat bred from nervousness and uncertainty. Was I going to make it? It was going to be a photo finish if I was lucky enough to get that far. I was contracting my anal sphincter so hard I was going to be fishing diamonds out of the toilet or wherever I jettisoned my rectal cargo. Only a newly imprisoned straight man upon hearing the phrase "fancy a poke" from his fairy cellmate could relate. Clenched like a submerged duck's ass.

I wondered if repositioning my belt around my butt would help maintain closure...just in case my gluteus muscles spasmed and failed. My nervousness peaked when I thought of walking from my car to the bathroom. I was going to have to use my hands to help keep my butt closed. I briefly envisioned an ignominious, grim outcome. I shuddered and strengthen my resolve while repeating the mantra, "You're going to make it. By hell, you're going to make it." I could only hope enough repetitions would convince my nearly failing butt muscles. The lactic acid was accumulating at a discouraging pace from overuse. The reserves were quickly depleting, a sure sign of impending doom. I grimaced. I couldn't bear to thing of the consequences of muscle failure and the indignity there from. An embarrassing prayer was uttered, embarrassing because I couldn't believe that I, a grown man, was asking for help not to fill my pants with number two. It's a good thing I do my own laundry cause this most likely wasn't going to end cleanly.

I was nearly home after enduring mild traffic like a man enduring physical torture. I was asking too much from my butt to stay shut and was nearing the point of it demonstrating its capitulation. Two more minutes!! I said in my mind, hoping my butt would somehow be able to hear my plea and effectuate it. I realized it was like asking Elton John to satisfy a woman or asking a Frenchman to fight...it wasn't going to happen. A large gas bubble momentarily repositioned itself giving my tired butt a brief respite. How did something like this sneak up on me? Shouldn't there have been at least a clue that an anal blowout was nigh? I could have prevented this approaching cataclysmic event by taking care of it before I got in my car and subsequent traffic. But no, I had no idea what was on the horizon and possibly soon on my leather seats. This sly ninja terd snuck up on me like the ugly, annoying girl at a party you've been trying to avoid all night. The evil terd was rudely demanding an exit by pushing my rectal door to its limits like any angry drunk boyfriend pounding on his girlfriend's door after hearing she just blew his best friend. Much like microtubules in a cell, catastrophe was soon approaching. This evil needed to be flushed down the toilet like a belly up goldfish. I wish I could tell peristalsis to take five. If I had some thread and a needle, I would test every fiber of its tensile strength by sewing my bum closed. Luckily, no turtle head was poking out. I couldn't afford to let anything escape. If I did, there was no stopping it. It's like when a levy breaks, water everywhere. How I was able to summon the power to restrain this evil little terd still astounds me. Comparatively my butt could prevent a volcano from erupting and not even blink. That's how evil this little eager bastard was.

To be continued......

I stopped drinking roughly 5 years ago.

Accordingly, my ability to dance has left me. Unfortunate really. When fueled by liquid courage, I became a dancing machine. Somehow my body magically converted consumed liquor to dancing juice that overrode my body's natural reluctance to dance. The dancing juice transformed my appendages from simple dangling pieces and means of locomotion to smooth, flowing limbs inspired by and in complete harmony with the playing music. It was as if the producer had specifically tailored the music to accentuate my body's movements. My graceful movements and the music complimented each other in a way that to say they did so perfectly is offensively inadequate. Onlookers basked in the ethereal experience with me. They stood immobile with mouths agape as though their brains had lost the ability to relay contracting impulses to their facial muscles because of the awesomeness and disbelief of what their eyes were beholding. Drool was collected by the floor and fronts of shirts alike. Drinks were dropped due to temporary paralysis inflicted by my skills. Michael Jackson, Fred Astaire and the Jabawockeez would have all given up their entertainment careers as dancers had they seen me in the alcohol induced zone.

Of course...this was only in my drunken mind. I'm sure bystanders were amused if not concerned by me behaving like an epileptic. Good ol' booze. It distorted incredibly horrifying inability to resplendent wonder. I'm glad I don't drink anymore. I imagine anyone who witnessed my spasmodic train wrecks of motion does too. The only kind of dancing I do now resembles the worm, if you get what I'm saying. [nudge, nudge] That's a lie I don't have sex. I can only hope my delusions of dancing elegance where the only byproduct of excess libations and not my spectacular bedroom performances.

Good Times

The funniest thing I remember my brother ever saying was...(I need to first set the scene.)

Back in the day the baggier your jeans were the better. Much different from today's trend where dudes wear jeans so tight you can see what year a dollar bill is in their pocket. I wonder if their balls hang when they take their pants off or if they stay crammed inside their body. I'm not sure what you call this style. Before there were skaters, g's, and preppies with their signature styles. Then came the effeminate, borderline gay emos. I don't know what this new style is called. The words gay and lame come to mind.

Anyway, a few of us were sitting on a bench in an apartment complex smoking. I don't recall why we were there just that we were there. My friend came from a less fortunate family and was thereby unable to sport the latest fashion. He had on what we called at the time "tight pants," which compared to today would be considered baggy. Someone made a comment about how the tightness of his pants resembled skin or something to that effect. My brother processed this information and produced this gem; "When JT goes school clothes shopping, he goes to the paint store*."

Damn I miss my brother.

*Just in case you don't understand the reference, something was said to be "painted on" if it was really tight.

What is that smell?!?

I know a guy who has the most offensive, putrid breath I have ever smelled. That’s putting it nicely. It has nonplussed me how he has been unable to detect the scent when his nose is directly above the sewer vent he has for a mouth. Maybe his smell receptors have eroded away from the squalor. Allow me to pathetically attempt to describe the pungent aroma that gruesomely leeks from his orifice. Imagine taking a suck from a marathon runner’s nut sack at the end of a marathon, add hot, wet garbage, burnt hair and a rotting carcass infested with maggots. Now multiply that fetidness by itself 10 times. Yeah...it’s not good. There is a reason people don’t close talk with him, yep, the odious pie-hole. His future wife will have to be lacking the senses of smell and taste. Possibly vision too, unless she finds poor dental hygiene attractive.

I’ve tried offering gum in an attempt to prevent my eyes from watering so much I dehydrate. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed my eyelids roll back and my body spasm in a body-wide dry heave from the green haze eerily extruding from the gutter he calls a mouth. I’ve smelled/experienced a professor’s rancid breath that has halitosis that I would prefer to place my nostrils next to to smell something comparatively pleasant.

There have been breakthroughs in the field of dentistry that can help this clueless man. Run a toothbrush over those chompers once a day to remove the acid that’s eating them and the tissue away. Listerine man!! Floss!! It’s as if his mother’s egg and his father’s sperm were somehow brother and sister and combined to place his anus where his mouth should be. Maybe he doesn’t have an ass because he doesn’t pull down his pants and eat with his backside when I’ve seen him eat. It’s possible that his mouth doubly serves as the intake orifice as well as the excretory orifice. If that’s the case, he must never wipe his mouth/ass.

Bulimic women! Are you sick of puking on your fingers? I’ve got the solution. Stand next to him. You’ll never need to cram a finger down your gullet again to induce vomiting. Simply recall the odor you smelled. You’ll probably smell it anyways for a few months because your skin will have absorbed it.

Men! Do you think your tough? Come test your gag reflex. I don’t think you understand the power this man’s breath possesses. It is so strong it can undo the adhesive strength of fiberglass and superglue. It can melt steel. If you’ve seen X3: The Last Stand, it’s like the end of the movie when Wolverine is walking up to kill Jean Grey and his skin is burning off him. Don’t wear any new clothes around him or you’ll quickly be replacing them.

Don't believe me? Michael Jackson smelled him once. Look what it did to his nose, face and skin. I gotta go. I need to get a face graft.

Upsetting A$#%@y (A)

“Your insolent tone incites an anger deep within me that can only be quelled by your death,” A shrieked. From my interactions with her, I have become a man well acquainted with confusion. All I said was that she looked good today and that I wanted to give her a hundred dollar bill I found earlier that day. Little did I know, that was the stupidest thing I could have ever said. I moseyed off but not before saying to her, “Look upon this:”














I felt used as I departed and felt her eyes scrupulously groping my butt and body. I needed a drink to wash away the confusion. It would do no good. Nobody could survive that much of the creature. The look in her eye was one of ferocity and a woman used to having to fight to take what she wants. I wanted to tell her to be gentle with me…or however. I guess it’s her visual rape too. The look, as were the ideas going through her head, was of such fierceness I felt as though I would somehow be sore the next day. If one were to take a script of the interplay going on in her head, one would not only be reading something pornographic but of wistful thinking. Marriage? Happiness? Etc. She knew all of the options were impossible. However, the most likely of them, in her mind, would be that she would have my baby. The painful answers to her wistful thoughts did nothing to dissuade or cease them. She could and always would hope.

Upsetting A...only a fool would expect a different result from any interaction with her. Apparently I'm a fool.

Comrade Barack Hussein Obama

I am sad for our nation today. I am saddened because the majority of our nation is clearly stupid. This is not a new revelation but it's glaringly painful to see how far stupid can go. Allow me to delineate a few reasons extruded from the many.

1- You tools elected a man with known affiliations with terrorists who wants to disarm our nation. Well done morons! The FBI has said that no one with known interaction with terrorists can have even low level security clearance. Obama’s interaction with them has spanned decades and soon he will be the most powerful in the U.S. and in possession of all our secrets. It’s mind boggling!!

2- Obama has a Robin Hood complex. He says he wants to steal from the rich and give to the poor. I could write the longest post yet on how stupid an idea this is. I’ll briefly mention a few flaws. Giving money to the poor without them doing anything to earn it is absurd. All you’re doing is empowering them to be more reliant on other people and unable to fend for themselves. What motivation is there to better their situation when someone is giving them free money? On the flip side, look at how de-motivating it is for those attending graduate schools to earn higher incomes only to have 3.5% more of their income taken to subsidize inactive poor people. Obama says this is pocket change. Oh really? If that’s the case and he wants to implement it within our nation, why the hell is his dirt poor brother in Kenya not being subsidized by a single cent from Obama’s $4 million income last year? Don’t you think you would lead by example? [Side note: His aunt is living in the U.S. illegally.]

3- Obama said that if elected he would not be sworn in on the Bible but rather the Koran. That makes me so mad I don’t want to say another word about it.

4- Why is he referred to as an African American? His father is from Kenya. He’s half white and has sworn off his white heritage. I’ll cut this one short too due to the anger it induces. Better yet I’m done delineating the reasons. You mindless drones suck. I hope you find solace in his words when he tells you everything is going well when everything gets worse. He told you what you wanted to hear to get into office; he’ll tell you what you want to hear when he’s in office. Too bad it’s not the truth.

Sigh.

Ultimate Frisbee, easily the coolest/best game ever invented, draws to a close with the soon approaching winter. What that means? SNOWMOBILING!! Although not as frequent as normal this year because I will be preparing for the DAT, which I plan to destroy along with all posers, lame people and mountains that think they can stop me.

We played Ultimate Frisbee last night. My feet were freezing, until they went numb. (I play in bare feet.) It was so cold my balls retruded like reverse puberty. I looked like an overdue pregnant lady with my balls up in my stomach. Well sans boobs, feminine features, wide hips, long hair, make up, dainty hands, etc. Point is my belly protruded like a pregnant lady or an Ethiopian kid. Damn these disproportionate man features. They give my back hell. And my legs too, they're like wrecking balls. [pun intended, thank you] It's good my legs are strong and can withstand the abuse otherwise they'd snap like me at a feminist/hippy rally. I imagine only porn stars not Asians, Mexicans, etc. can commiserate.

We played until my legs were no longer able to respond to my mental commands. It's as if the messages to run grew weary from being transduced from the neurons in my brain to my spinal chord and acquiesced before reaching the motor neurons in my legs. Lazy impulses. Impulses, feel free to take this the wrong way. You're a gaggle of douches.

Anyway, here’s a random thought for you. If a gay man's anatomy was referred to in camera terms, his butt would have a low shutter speed.

Why do dirty minds have a negative connotation? I’m proud of mine. It took many years of careful cultivating to yield this well polished beauty. Dirty minds are not unsavory and insalubrious. I believe people, namely girls, should express theirs without censor. Women are not predisposed to sex like men are and should improve by enhancing their dirty minds. Ladies conjure up and act on the litany of dirty thoughts that enter your creative brains. I volunteer myself to be the recipient. Be altruistic ladies. Be whores. (Except anyone I'm related to.)

Until next time folk(s). Sorry, “folks” presumes too much about my readership in the sense that I optimistically think it’s more than just me. Silly fool.

My Fantasy Football teams are garbage.

My teams are great on paper but can't get it together to pull out a W. Week one was solid. Ensuing weeks have sucked engorged donkey genitalia. Watching their regression makes me want to throw up. It's as if my teams and the food I've eaten have conspired against me and established an esophageal recapture program. Despite my attempts to turn this anti-gravy train around, my teams have parlayed their suckiness with injuries. Nice job ladies.

I believe this post in many ways illustrates my proclivity for nerdism. Yee haw!!!

I am so tired.....

I can’t wait to make sweet love to my bed by way of sleeping in it.

In reference to a previous post.

A quick inequality for ya.

Chubbies ≠ chubbies.

Yeah, that was a boner joke. In that same vein , shouldn't cougars be called chubby chasers? They seem more apt to chase wood.

How can I make this work for my monetary benefit?

I need to discover a way to turn my ability to attract psychotic, stalker women into financial gain. I am so good there has to be a way to make some good money from it. If A-Rod can make $28 million a year from his gift to play baseball, I should be able to rake in at least a few mil a year from my gift. Yes, if playing baseball and ability to attract stalkers were equally paid, I would be making $28 million a year plus endorsements too. Do any of you nonexistent readers have any ideas? Me neither, but when I do I'll buy my mom something nice. Maybe I'll charge them to stalk me. Maybe somehow tap into the scrap booking market because I'm making them a killing from all the scrapbook material I provide my stalkers. They have myriads of scrapbooks detailing my every move, scratch and second of sleep.

Love life??

The other day I was asked how my love life was. I said I don't even have a like life.

Why is it called chubby chasing?

I don't believe there to be any element of chasing involved. Shouldn't it be called big game hunting instead? No, that's not it either. Hunting would mean they are able to escape or able to blend into their surroundings. It wouldn't be like finding Waldo because they'd be the only thing in your purview. I'm neither pro nor anti-heavies; I just don't understand the reference. How about "brotha bait?" Not unless you were trying to catch a brotha, which is not cool. Was that used to entice Africans to come to America as slaves? I don't know, don't be racist. Meanwhile, let's just call it what it is: hustling heavies, porking pork, entertaining elephants, boinking blimps, banging biggies, f-ing fatties, drilling dinosaurs, burrowing burrows (or beasts,) doing diesels. Whichever you select, I wish you luck "O lover of gargantuan women." Remember to bring your flour to assist you in finding that elusive wet spot. Good luck Lewis or Clark (whichever you prefer.)

Funniest thing I've ever heard.

Ha ha ha. I was told to act normal by a bona fide psychotic girl. Ha ha ha. You have to appreciate the irony.

I call B.S.

Whatever limited ability women think they have to multi-task does not translate to operating motor vehicles. Their inability to adhere to speed limits, follow at safe distances, talk on the phone, use a turn signal, turn off turn signal on the rare occasion it is used, etc. at the same time is absurd. If it weren't for men's ability to detect women drivers and avoid their crazy, mindless driving, there would be a whole lot more accidents. The only reason men get in wrecks is when they're graciously, chivalrously trying to avoid women smashing into them. Why again is insurance higher for guys?

After driving for a few days, weeks, months (whatever your learning curve is) driving becomes second nature and is performed without much brain input. As is their nature, women somehow complicate this ease and hide behind the misconception that women can multi-task. One fried told me that all muti-tasking means is that you can't concentrate on one thing. Well said. Did you hear that women? Quit thinking that means you can do many things well at the same time. It's a fallacy. Quit empowering yourselves with this false belief when all you do is consistently prove it wrong. Maybe it's the cell phone fused to your ear and face that fowls up the simple sequences of driving. Women are horrible drivers. They follow too close, brake too hard, drive unsmoothly. I feel like I need to call everybody I love and tell them I love them one last time before stepping in the car with a woman before she takes that chance away from me, or at least where a mouthpiece to avoid teeth breakage from the jostling I receive. Why don't you women pay attention to anyone else on the road? Other drivers are not your subjects and don't have to yield to you to your law breakin ass nor predict your unpredictable, idiotic driving decisions, be it cutting people off, merging into non-existent, occupied spaces , and so forth.

Also women, cars are not men. They are not to be abused, uncared for, beat to hell, and uncleaned. Think of them as a baby. They need to be nurtured, loved, washed and fed with gas, oil, windshield wiper fluid, antifreeze, etc. Take any woman's car and you will see a true testament of man's ability to build something durable and able to withstand the most excruciating punishment imaginable, next to marriage. You're welcome ungrateful women. When we give you a car it is not similar to how you treat our hearts. Please respect them, car and hearts equally. Love them. Value them. No more wiping your dirty ass with them.

Mothers!

Your children are now safe again. The mustachioed man shaved his upper lip. I am now sans stache. Much like Sampson, any power I had ever attained disappeared with a clipping sound similar to a hungry wood chipper with a big redwood being crammed in its mouth. I should have worn protective eyewear because the hair clippings were like hot shards of glass striking my retinas and face. I miss it and I know it misses me.

Make no mistake ladies, mustache rides are still available.* No need to sign up, just mount up.** Anytime. Anyplace.

*Ask about our frequent rider miles
**Please consult weight restrictions before.

Weight Restrictions
No fat chicks. No exceptions. If you're wondering if you are fat, you're fat and needn't attempt.

What is that magical feeling I'm feeling right now?

Oh that's just my mustache being all mustachey.....and awesome.

Want to see the best mustache video clip ever? Click below.

http://www.brightcove.tv/title.jsp?title=1232221362&channel=1214627974

You're welcome in advance.

Nice!

I apologize for the numerous postings lately. I impute these wonderful/horrible (you pick) ideas to recently endowing myself with a powerful mustache. Tom Selleck’s got nothing on me. His stache can only dream dreams of being as awesome and glorious as mine. Burn Tom Selleck. Tom, perhaps when your balls drop you'll be able to grow a real mustache.

Farewell Brother!

My friend J is moving to Seattle to go to graduate school. Very rarely does one encounter an individual as cool as this guy and have the prestigious honor of calling him a friend. Easing the loss is the knowledge that he's gonna be more than fine. Do you ever meet people that are so amazing that you just look at them and know the world is their pearl laden oyster? There is a dearth of people like this and I’m grateful for the chance I’ve had to get to know one. Well wishes holmes. Enjoy running through those Seattle hoochies. Hopefully there's not a high concentration of unshaven hippy chicks that would dissuade you from this worthy goal. Giddy up!

How boring.

My ring finger remains naked thusly preventing my body from being naked.

Bummer

I’m not prone to depression. When I feel a certain way, my analytical mind explores the cavernous depths of things and oft times spelunks way too far. You probably already knew that from my overactive imagination evident in my stories. Realize that I’m simply venting and exploring these feelings and not trying to clandestinely conceal some undisclosed depression.

I guess I’m not mad at women. I’m mad at the lame repetitive interaction I have with each of them. Each interaction can be described using the same word. Awkward. If one were to examine my uninspiring dating history over the last 5 years, one would put their arms around me, pat my back and try their damndest to console me. No swaying while hugging though. I hate how some girls do that. We’re not dancing. You’re not a buoy in an unruly ocean getting arbitrarily tossed about by the ocean’s whim. When you hug, imagine yourself firmly rooted to the ground and straighten your back as if lifting something. Don’t swivel your spine like a snake does to locomote itself. You’re not a stiff board though so don’t be a douche. Get in close and take care of business. Gentle bear hugs are best. Don’t lift them up like some Greco Roman wrestler though, creep.

Anyway, no matter the dating reactants (women), the same product ensues. Each and every product results in an ever expanding disdain. Recently these culminated into an insatiable black hole of frustration. It’s like frustration anthropomorphically coalesced itself into human form and displaced the usual me. Looking back it seems like a common theme doesn’t it? Inward and outward. Wait, was that a sex joke? I believe it was. Amazing, he took “onward and upward” and transformed it into a sex joke. I’m awestruck and somehow unexpectedly turned on. What the hell just happened?

Any former adeptness I had ever attained regarding women has sadly eroded away over the past 5 years much like a majestic mountain after many billions or trillions of years have elapsed. It sucks because my main hobby used to be women. It used to be so casual and carefree but now seems to have evolved into a cyclic frustrating mechanism. I don’t know how to escape. I feel like I’m a hybrid of diametrically opposed ideologies; the old me and the me that I don’t want to become but feel myself drifting toward like some vagrant comet being gravitationally pulled toward a star. I miss aspects of the old me. I feel my demeanor toward dating and women has strayed from playing it by ear to a long term outlook. Gradually, imperceptibly I have errantly conformed to the LDS way of dating; much to my chagrin. I have always tried to be the comfortable outlier to the LDS dating collective but when you are immersed in something for 5 years how can one hope to not become partially assimilated? I don’t like it. I want to go back to the way I was but find myself unable. It’s been so long that it’s not comfortable anymore. I feel like an unqualified douche when it comes to dating narcolepsy inducing LDS women or normal, non-LDS women. I don’t know what to do anymore. Never has a more sad realization ever distilled upon a person's mind.

A simple useless, factual formula.

I want you to be a smarter person. The only plausible way I could think to aid you is to provide you with this:

A = 1/B

A = Any hope for meeting a cool girl.
B = The number of attractive girls I meet.

From this simple formula, we extrapolate that A and B are inversely related. As A increases, B gets smaller. As B increases, A gets smaller. Using substitution we create two disappointing sentences. As any hope for meeting a cool girl increases, the number of attractive girls I meet decreases. As the number of attractive girls I meet increases, any hope for meeting a cool girl decreases.

Sadly fact cannot be disproven. Does anyone have any spare anti-depressants? I'm vacillating between crying and laughing at my sad, undesired reality.

Warning to all women and mothers!!

Me + Molest-ache* = Not attractive

*Molest-ache is a hella creepy mustache that can't be referred to a moustache because of its creepy nature.

It may be a hideous caterpillar looking thing now but it will soon be a beautiful butterfly of moustachedness.

Oh and by the way women......

You can't sing! At all. So shut the hell up!!

Girls must think I am a music producer disguised as a good looking guy who travels incognito looking for the next big singing talent. Sitting next to me does not equate to a singing audition. It is, however, the best way to get your larynx kicked in repeatedly. I know 99% of women can't sing. Please stop increasing that percentage by singing next to me, in my vicinity, within earshot, or eyeshot for that matter. I don't want to see you singing and have my brain mistakenly fill in the horrible notes I know someone within earshot of you is suffering from. When music is on in the background, car, restaurant, elevator, anywhere, that is NOT a cue for you to begin singing. Please let me enjoy or not enjoy the song as sung by its original singer. Your voice makes a magical song unbearable. No amount of singing makes you any better. In fact, it makes you worse. Each time I suffer mercilessly from another tone deaf cow, I mentally add another reason to destroy them.

Please women!! A simple request from a simple man. Do not sing, hum, tap your finger/foot to the beat when you're around me. Just listen. I'm not going to spontaneously rip off my good looking guy disguise and furnish you with some lucrative recording contract. The only document I can think of to supply you with would be a restraining order if you don't cease and desist with the auditory assault.

Chalk me up for another retirement.

I've always considered myself a hopeless romantic. No recent event has made me redact the statement, just a painful realization.......that I am indeed one, well, half of one......the hopeless half.

F@*# women. You all suck. (The non-fellatio variety unfortunately.) Pardon the discrimination. Allow me to correct my faux paux. F@*# everyone.

Retirement is the wrong word. I give up. Caring is too hard. The fact that this confession forever prevents me from being a Care Bear only augments the pain.

Some crass humor for that gluteus maximus.

We had our Fantasy Football draft last night because we are total geeks. A player got picked and my friend remarked that the player was molested as a child and that it was a touching story. I didn't tell anybody but my bladder released a small amount of urine into my undies as I laughed uncontrollably.

Dang!

I was playing pool with my buddy Richard last night. He was soundly beating me and so I rightly called him a Dick. It did not have the effect I'd hoped for.

I submit a sincere question.

Do think female cannibals get hungry or tempted when performing fellatio?

Makes sense right?

The next time someone asks me how I'm doing I will respond with: Shabby. That way down the road I can answer truthfully if I ever say "Not too shabby." You must first be shabby to subsequently be not too shabby, for comparative purposes. If you were here, I would slap you out of principle.

This post probably qualifies me as an a-hole.

The nights I cause people to cry themselves to sleep are the nights I smile myself to sleep.

***Attention Ladies***

I think well on my feet. I perform even better off my feet.

Ehh!! See what I did there? Yeah.

Question:

If the makers of Croc shoes made an athletic cup, would it be called a Crotch Croc?

Yeah, I think so.

Truly Amazing

In addition to being a sex machine, I am now a posting machine (when compared to past monthly averages.) It is much easier to post a thought than to write a whole story or delineate one of many miserable experiences. I just took my summer Organic Chemistry final this morning so I believe it to be time for another story. Hold your breath, and as always, slap yourself.

Ooohh baby!!

So I have been seriously contemplating getting a moob job. Nothing major, somewhere in the C+ range. Thoughts?

Hmmm........

I wish I was so clever I could outwit myself. That would be sweet and stuff.

No Title (In Other Words, I'm Unable to Think One Up. See Below For Reason)

Aiding my ability to not do well in Organic Chemistry is the fact that I don't really care this summer. My mind is broken. My butt is too from repeated kicks from professors. Does anyone know where I can buy new ones? There I go again, supposing someone reads this. Forgive me self. You're forgiven, just try harder next semester. Will do.

Wow! I just had a conversation with myself. What's even worse is that I told myself that. That's super special. I need a hug and someone to tell me I'm beautiful.

What would you have me do Mr. Hawking?

If I ever meet Stephen Hawking, I would do the robot while he spoke. When he mechanically asks what I am doing, I will tell him that I am interpretively dancing his words.

[Imagine a clever title here]

I would say sorry for not updating often but that would require someone to apologize to. I can't imagine that anybody reads this thing. If so, my apologies. Not for not posting but for reading my blog. Oh wait there is one person who reads this! Hi mom! No, that's a lie. Nobody reads this. [sniffle]

.....................................

Sorry I'm back from audibly weeping in the corner. It's not that I have a shortage of things to say. I could fill many hard drives with my dating misadventures. I could even synthesize endless upon endless fictional stories. I could extol the virtues of what it is to be me. But alas, I haven't the time. [sniffle]

...................................

A bug flew into my eye causing it to tear and then into my throat causing me to cough it out. I realize it looked and sounded like I was crying again but I wasn't. I promise. My man card only allots me one cry a month.

Regarding the recent onslaught of posts

I write fictional stories every once in a while. Hope you enjoy them.

One comment in passing. You know those retards that wear their shirt tucked in in the front and untucked in the back? Isn't that like a fashion mullet; business in the front and a party in the back? Note to these retards: Stop doing it. It's lame. I thank you for trying to draw attention away from your face but do it in a different way like a clever t-shirt or something.

Random Thought

Ummmmmm.............

Red Vines 1

It all began with an email to a co-worker of mine.....

A certain individual, whose full name will remain a mystery, misappropriated your bag of Red Vines. I witnessed the act and feet obligated to furnish you with my account of what happened. The only indication I can give you as to who performed this caper is that I believe his name starts with a Mike. He was wearing a black ski mask and a black jumpsuit equipped with a pouch in which to stow the pilfered item. He looked like a black kangaroo but without the tail, floppy ears, protruding snout, beady eyes, shortened arms, beefy supporting legs, fur, etc. Okay maybe he didn’t look like a kangaroo but slightly resembled a kangaroo because of the pouch. Anyways, he suction cupped his way across the ceiling and used an elaborate pulley apparatus to gradually lower himself within snatching distance of said item. He also used some hi-tech gear the likes these eyes have never laid eyes on. He performed this pseudo-clandestine act with such flawless precision that any surgeon would be immensely jealous. I respect his touch for the dramatics but don’t understand what compelled him to attempt such theatrics. It could have been completed much more surreptitiously. I mean I was sitting at my desk in plain view of anyone who cared to look around. I was talking to a member and was audible within a range of say 20 feet. He was clearly in my line of sight and was unsuccessful in being unnoticed. At one point I even put the borrower on hold and asked him just what the heck he thought he was doing. I received no answer. I then said, “Hey you, the one hanging from the ceiling.” Nothing. I again attempted to engage this person in conversation with a, “You there, the only person in the building dressed in all black suspended above Rebecca’s desk.” Nothing. He was so ensconced in lifting the Red Vines that nothing else mattered. Either that or he is deaf and blind and I’m in no position to make a ruling, but if that’s the case you gotta wonder what he’s doing stealing stuff that probably requires a lot from these missing senses. If I ever meet this mad man, I will suggest that next time he try an alternate route, perhaps from the floor thereby blocking my view, or maybe using a cloaking device, or possibly even using a look out that has functional vision and hearing. There are so many options available that it’s hard to choose a favorite. I feel the heist was hastily planned and even more poorly executed. I do, however, have to give him props because he did manage to escape with the goods unscathed. I tried my best to prevent the act from occurring only to be thwarted in my attempts. I somehow managed to blurt out as the masked bandit was fleeing, “Who are you?” To which he replied, “Mike, errrr um I mean Batman,” and then he was gone. I stood there awestruck for like 47 seconds before I was able to regain a sliver of composure and discover that I had soiled myself. I don’t know why this part of the story has any bearing or relevance and I’m embarrassed to have said anything. I wish I could rewind and edit that part out or somehow delete that. How the thief regained his hearing I don’t know. What I do know is that I failed miserably and have to do laundry now.

I hope this helps in uncovering this evildoer. I think it’s obvious it was an inside job or someone who had access to the building’s schematics. Whatever the case, he is definitely not a professional. Keep on trucking and good luck on your quest.

Red Vines 2

Upon completing the last email to my co-worker, I figured I couldn’t let the crook escape without a chase so I changed my moistened undies and picked up the chase. My tenth great grandmother is Pocahontas and this proved to be a priceless inheritance. Thanks to my Indian lineage I am an expert tracker. I followed the scent of evil to the garage where I discovered some licorice residue on the bench press bar. The urgency to escape was clearly paramount in the mind of Mike, Batman or whoever he is because he stopped and apparently did a set or two on the bench. (For future reference we will refer to this criminal as Villain.) I quickly tabulated the weight on the bar to see what strength, or lack thereof, I was up against. After carrying a couple ones and consulting my abacus I deduced the weight to be one million pounds. While I thought of my next move I took advantage of the exercise equipment and did a set of 100,000 reps in roughly two minutes. I quickly collected myself and got back to hunting down Villain. There was a faint smell of recently consumed licorice in the air and at that singular moment I knew the pursuit was going to come down to death. Him or me. Neither one of us would concede until the other had breathed his last breath. Prison was not an option for him and failure was not an option for me. A deadly concoction. With the smell of consumed licorice in my nostrils fueling my tracking instincts, I followed the trail that would be undetectable to any other person but was lit up like a billboard to me. I proceeded with caution, unsure what my unseen opponent had in store for me. I tried not to think of the fate of the stolen licorice. I can’t imagine what sick things lay in store for it and couldn’t let that deter my focus. I will never understand the sick, demented mind of an individual who steals bags of licorice in a black jumpsuit. There is a place reserved for people like that, it is called Hell, and my duty, my obligation, nay my life’s purpose was to usher Villain to his permanent residence there. There was a sound! My senses were inordinately acute and I had a heightened sense of awareness of all things. My ears, which have the range of sonar, detected a wicked cackling laugh, the only kind you hear when a psycho steals a bag of licorice and is enjoying the contents. Adrenaline inundated my system and I gained the strength of ten men, which, when calculated, is equivalent now of 50 men because I have the strength of 5 men. This is not crucial to the story but merely a nice tidbit of side information. I silently ran toward the sound. Any remaining fear was quickly dissipated from the onslaught of adrenaline surging through my veins. There was no him or me anymore. Only me. He was going down. I just hoped I could get there fast enough to recover some of the pilfered licorice. I arrived on the scene to find him cramming handfuls of licorice into his face. Licorice was everywhere like a licorice rain cloud had unloaded its bevy. Barely in control of my anger and the fact that I was propelled by crack, I mean adrenaline; I opened my mouth to speak. Before I could utter a word, he asked if I would like a piece. Yes, I said and then we polished off the bag. We had a smoke and that was that.

Red Vines 3

Upon finishing my smoke, I told Villain that my water had just broken and I needed to get home. However, my real intention was to get to my secret lair and analyze my findings. My mission was not over. As soon as I had encountered the individual in the alley, I knew I had the wrong guy. Villain attempted to throw me off the scent by hiring a vagrant to wear his discarded black jumpsuit. A clever ruse, yes, but I saw through the disguised impostor. The charlatan smelled of booze, whereas Villain smelled of distilled, pure evil. Anyone with nostrils knows the difference. His plan to temporarily throw me off the trail only played into my hand. The adrenaline had nearly depleted my sugar reserves and I was in dire need of replenishing. I used his gambit against him and refueled my sugar reservoir with the licorice so that I could combat evil with full vitality. I also wanted to see if I could glean anything from the shoddily costumed drifter. I learned nothing of substance other than how to make a killer hobo martini. It’s so simple, all you have to do is smear some shoe polish on a piece of bread and then strain some alcohol-free vodka through it, add a green olive and viola. It tastes like birthdays. This could come in handy. I thanked him and went about my way. I reached my lair, a seemingly dilapidated abandoned tree house in my parent’s back yard but a fully operational command center that resembles NASA’s. I dismounted my pink Huffy outfitted with banana seat and pink handle bar frills while going 100 miles an hour, did a somersault, a round off and leaped 200 feet in the air and landed gracefully at the entrance of my secret lair. I cannot fully reveal how you enter my secret lair although most of it is pretty standard. After completing the required motions, bird calls, actor impersonations, waiting for underwriting to approve my entrance, I was in. A new record, 2 weeks. It seemed like 2 seconds. Analysis of the licorice from the bench press bar yielded less than I had hoped for. Examination of Villain’s saliva acquired from the licorice specimen told me he had been recently been in Japan and had consumed some mercury laden sushi. Nothing I didn’t already innately know. Most humans have 5 senses. I have 17. I would go into detail about them but you just wouldn’t understand. It’d be like telling one of our southern neighbors to follow the legal process in which to inhabit the United States, they wouldn’t know what you were talking about. I felt the anger envelop me again but promptly cast it aside. I couldn’t have it exhaust my sugar reservoirs. I needed them for the battle I knew would soon ensue. Where to go now? The trail had gone cold. Villain probably used a few tree branches to sweep away any traces he left behind. Why didn’t I just follow the brush marks that would lead me straight to Villain you ask? Apparently you know nothing of tracking and even less of the craftiness of Villain. He would have positioned several traps down along the way in hopes of ensnaring me. The traps would have never worked but I had to let him think he had the upper hand. With this synthetic sense of advantage he would slip up and get casual and then just like gravity, he goes down. It’s all too easy. I determined to place cameras in the vicinity of where the crime had been completed. I had a strong suspicion he might return to the scene of the crime, perhaps to see if there were any other goodies to confiscate. Call it a hunch, call it woman’s intuition. Seemingly a shot in the dark to most I know, but hunches pay off. Like this one time when it was 4:25 in the afternoon I had a hunch that in five minutes it would be 4:30. And what do you know? Five minutes later to the second the clock registered 4:30. It was uncanny. Meanwhile returning to the regularly scheduled program, I decided I might give Villain a taste of his own medicine and devised a trap for him. I broke out my loom and began weaving an intricate tapestry that I would later tailor using my Singer sewing machine. Having abandoned his black jumpsuit, I knew he would be longing for a new form fitting jumpsuit in which to traipse the streets. I would quench that thirst and capture him in the meantime. Intricate planning, split-second maneuvering, and the spirit of the bear were all going to be required of me. I couldn’t mess up even the slightest degree. Everything had to be planned down to the last nanosecond. If it wasn’t, failure, and that wasn’t an option being offered this semester. I pictured him laughing manically as he inaccurately thought he had outsmarted me. I had allowed Villain to elevate himself onto a lofty pedestal only to witness him fall further then he would have without his self appointed promotion. The only thing sweeter is alum. Actually alum is not very sweet. It is the thing they use to dry out pickles. I promise to work on my metaphors and similes. With my cameras ready to detect any movement around Rebecca’s desk, I also set up an elaborate, complex and a multifaceted high-tech trap to catch Villain. My trap consisted of a big metal box upside down with one of the sides elevated at an angle by a stick with a rope attached to the stick. When Villain would enter the trap underneath the box, I would pull the stick and enclose him within the box. I don’t expect you to understand the complexities of the trap but wanted to give you a mental picture of what it looked like. I had to take into account geometry, the angle of the moon in relation to the North Star, the outside wind velocity (even though the trap is inside, it plays such a huge variable that the trap would be useless without factoring it in), also how fast the cars were moving on Bangerter Highway, the planes flying overhead and many other components required for a successful trap. Under the box I put the new modified black jumpsuit on a mannequin with the same measurements as Villain and placed the display on a rotating circular floor with lights illuminating it from the bottom. Villain would be unable to resist the urge to strip the costume from the model and slip into it and feel it against his skin. The uniform had been so expertly customized that he would feel less restricted and more able to move than if he were naked. He would feel as though he were gliding when he walked. I had set up my temporary command post at my desk and cleverly camouflaged it to appear as though the desk were vacant. It was just after midnight when my ears perceived a slight noise inconsistent with the normal sounds of an unoccupied building. Villain. No question. It was his time to go down. My careful planning and infallible trap would ensure success. Failure would not be obtained because the vending machine was all out of failure. There he was, slowly creeping into my well laid trap. Just a few millimeters more. NOW! Got him! I sprung from my veiled hideout and leaped over the divider. “Mike, Batman or what ever your name is, is that you?” “Yes,” came his reply. “Just what the heck do you think you’re doing here?” “Well I had noticed an almost empty bag of licorice on Rebecca’s desk and, being the good samaritan that I am, I took the liberty to take the nearly empty bag and replace it with a full bag. Is that a crime to do something nice for one of my coworkers?” He wasn’t lying. I would be able to tell if he was. “You mean you don’t endeavor to do evil?” I asked inquisitively. “No,” he replied, “I look for opportunities to enhance people’s lives.” Man I felt like a fool. My overactive imagination had gotten the best of me. The whole elaborate scheme was a sham. “I apologize,” escaped my lips. Slowly, begrudgingly I lifted up the box with one hand only to discover Villain was adorned in the jumpsuit. “Wow this is amazing,” he said, “It’s like I am gliding when I walk.” “Yea, I know,” I said, “Let me buy you a crème soda.” He agreed and as we were walking toward the exit he said, “By the way my name is Fred, what’s yours?”

Winter

I awoke to a sound of scratching which was odd because I normally sleep through storms, paint drying, earthquakes, grass growing, rockets taking off, mice squeaking, etc. Maybe it was the annoying nature of the sound, maybe it was because I was on my period. Who knows? The sound slightly resembled reindeer hooves on the roof scratching in anticipation for Santa to return to the sleigh. I grabbed my shotgun. That burglarizing fat man was going to get what’s been coming to him. Breaking in and entering, treat stealing, present dumping in a no dumping zone. That night the law was in my hands and I was serving justice as the main entrée, Walker Texas Ranger style, the most lethal and painful kind of punishment. A couple of years ago I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe. Unfortunately the mommy in my house is my wife and that S.O.B. Santa, Kris Kringle, Father Christmas or whatever you want to call him, I personally prefer dead man, will no longer sample any more goods at my house. Treats or wife. I slipped off my red lace negligee and put on something equally as comfortable but less susceptible to tearing, a wrestling singlet. I gradually tiptoed down the stairs. I heard moaning. Was that horny guy going after my wife again? I noiselessly slipped back upstairs to check the bed. My wife was sawing logs at ear drum rupturing decibels so I knew it wasn’t her. Wonder why I couldn’t hear that from the stairs? Unimportant. I don’t have any kids so who was he assaulting?? Oh no, not the dog! What’s with this guy? This sick pervert’s going to get it. I’ll pump him so full of lead he’ll be using his you-know-what as a pencil. Can you imagine? Sir I’ll just need you to sign this credit card slip, do you need a pen? No thank you miss, I’ve got my own. Zziipppp! Creepy! Aaaanyways, back to the story. I got to the bottom of the stairs when the dog ran up and leaped up on me. Now I was really confused. If it wasn’t my wife and it wasn’t the dog, who was the jolly fat man with? By the way, this little problem of Santa’s is why he became known as the jolly fat man. Always trying to get his jollies off wherever he goes. He has since spun it to mean jolly as in jovial and ebullient. Spot on, fat man, nice play. It makes you wonder what he means when he says, “On Prancer, on Vixon, on Donder, on Blitzen, etc.” Does that mean that he is on them? I don’t know and it’s probably best not to think about it. Santa is a sexaholic and doesn’t care how he gets it apparently. He also is a raving drunk with a penchant for eggnog. I did a quick recon of the house and discovered nothing out of the ordinary. I was unable to locate the origin of the sound. With one last place to check I donned a fur coat and Ug boots and headed to the garage to get the ladder. The Ug boots are mine and not my wife’s. Please don’t laugh at me, they are comfortable. I only wear them when I get my nails and hair done and when I get the ladder from the garage. Please stop laughing. Meanwhile, I had to see if Santa had been here and left. That would explain the disappearance of the sound that woke me up. I just realized this is kind of like Twas the Night Before Christmas. Unintentional I promise. There are similarities merely by coincidence. I grabbed the ladder and went around back where the roof was the lowest just in case I slipped off the roof and landed on my spine. Motoring around in a motorized wheelchair sounds fun for short periods but not for life. No offense to those that have no choice. Being a bionic, composite person that’s half man half machine has its perks. As I rounded the corner my jaw dropped along with the ladder. There was someone standing at my window looking in. Why didn’t the sound of the clanking ladder scare them off? I cautiously, slowly approached unsure of what they were capable of. “May I be of service,” I inquired? “Mmmm, aaaaahhhh, baaaaa, baaahhh.” I am not well versed in gibberish and had to ask, “Come again?” Same reply. “Please turn you head and face me. That way I might be able to decipher your incoherent ramblings.” No change, same reply. I inched closer, silently wishing I had brought my baton. No not a police baton, you have to be a police officer to have one of those, but a twirling baton. A deadly weapon when in the hands of an expert. I normally keep it tucked in my thong for quick, easy access for when the situation arises that requires a sound baton beating for an assailant. What the hell was this?!?! Remember that movie “A Christmas Story” when the kid gets his tongue stuck to the metal pole. Apparently this gal was doing her own reenactment of the scene and had gotten her tongue stuck to my metal window sill. She seemed harmless so I went into the house and got some warm water to drizzle over her tongue to unstick it. She was frozen to the bone so I invited her into the house to warm up with a mug of hot chocolate. After a ten minute period she regained the use of her tongue and was able to formulate sentences again. She explained that she was a stalker with a horrible memory and couldn’t remember who she was stalking so she was peeking in random windows to see if anything came to her remembrance.

Clownin Around

Before there was ever a thought about dentistry there was clown school. Masquerading as a deliverer of smiles and fun was an appealing and surely rewarding profession.

One day in elementary school I was wondering what I would be when I grew up. My eyes searched the ceiling above my bed as if it possessed the secret. Professions floated in my mind for consideration and just as quickly were discarded. My eyes were lazily doing concentric circle patterns that slowly expanded down to the antiseptic white walls of my room. Covering them was a thick tapestry of famous clown posters. Bozo, Shakes, Bobo the clowns were all heroes of mine. I especially liked the Joker from Batman even though he isn’t technically an entertainment clown. He’s considered the rebel of clowns but still my favorite. I prognosticated that I would become the most famous clown there ever was. Little did I know this seemingly innocent goal would lead to death threats and kidnappings from those bastards at The Hobo Convention, the dirty, dirty wanna be fraternity. Nobody could make me capitulate my dream! Call me stubborn, call me recalcitrant just don’t call me late for dinner. I am venturing off topic and I apologize. I will start from the beginning. I worked hard all through high school to get a cumulative grade point average of 0.00. It was tough because one semester I almost ended up getting a D- but after talking my teacher out of it I ended up with my desired F. It was mandatory that I impress the clown schools. They don’t like overachievers. They, like the army, want someone they can mold. I would present the most moldable person I could while withholding any smarts I possessed. My little secret just like My Little Pony. It’s not supposed to make sense. Much to the dismay of my parents, when I was 18 I had a red round ball surgically attached to my nose and also got an enlarged red mouth tattoo around my lips. I felt like a hard ass. Other clown hopefuls were only clowns for the evening or for a gig, I would be a clown forever. I sailed through the acceptance process and began classes at the Hobo Hopefuls University. Hobo was originally a clown until he was disgracefully excused from clown service due to unmentionable infractions. Needless to say it was not an amicable parting of ways. The name has since become a reference to homeless wanderers because that’s what he did after his dismissal. Nobody knows what became of Hobo he just wandered off into the sunset, never to be seen or heard from again. At school I selected Bozo II as my school mentor. He was taught under the direction and guidance of the original Bozo. Can you believe it?? He was the one that posed as the infamous Holiday gas station clown and has his ubiquitous mug in clear view for all to see. I was gleeful and made a vow to learn as much as I could from him. I delved into my classes with an unmatched verve. I wanted to know everything there ever was and is about clowning. History, clown pioneers, techniques and everything else I could get my hands on was unable to satiate my hunger. I wanted my clowning to be reminiscent of some of the classics but with updated flavor incorporated. Things were going along swimmingly until midway through my sophomore year. I took a clownship, equivalent to an internship, and ventured along with a practicing clown one evening. The throwers of the party were dog aficionados and had an eclectic collection of dogs. Long story short, things got out of hand, some dogs escaped and I ended up getting my right butt check bit off by a massive, viscous beast. I think you call them Chihuahuas. Modern science and surgeons don’t get the credit they deserve. They restored my butt check using implants and a donated butt cheek from a cadaver. My current strutting around is facilitated by my composite butt. This is largely the reason why I don’t like doing balloon animals anymore. Anything that resembles a dog gets me shaking worse than Muhammad Ali, Michael J. Fox and Shakes the Clown combined. The minority component is because being a manipulator of balloons resembling animal figures is from the old school. I was going to infuse some much needed revamping into this aged profession. Preliminary twistings included the likes of The Leaning Tower of Pisa, Yankee Stadium, The Parthenon, Stonehenge, Mount Rushmore and other monumental creations. Once I even did a landscape of a barn scene with a wheat field that would pantomime an actual wheat field undulating in the wind. It was amazing! Self taught too. No pathetically simple animal balloon creations would find their genesis from my hands. Exquisite art pieces flowed from my hands. I once asked a prop-fessor, that’s what they call professors at clown school, gay, I know, what he thought of one of my pieces only to hear an intricately woven fabric of obscenities escape his lips. Every defense I could muster yielded the same result, me being scolded for ignoring traditional modes of clowning. I ditched my next class and fled to my dorm room to immerse my self in a few rounds of soda water spritzers. It was going to take a lot to wash away the grief. While mixing my 4th round of drinks, Bozo II burst into my gloom ridden room and asked, “What are you doing? Why aren’t you clowning around?” “Huh? I always am, look at me,” I said woefully. “Very funny smart ass. I didn’t teach you to be a professional only to have you be a half assed clown,” he scolded. “Sir, if you can recall the incident during my sophomore year I think you might be a little more considerate of my feelings. Why didn’t you ask me if I was bummed out too? Both quasi-humorous references to the absence of my homegrown right butt cheek but painful nonetheless. Thank you for helping me re-live that horrifying experience again. Are you teaching How To Be A Sensitive Clown class next semester? Please excuse yourself from my room.” The room suddenly got cold and I felt so alone. I should have worn my padded bra because my nipples were poking out for all to see.

Walkin

One day I was walking down the street, which is funny because I normally drive, but I felt like living dangerously. I guess I needed a little something to spice things up and break the monotony. Anyway, I was making good time. Rushing, even though I had no place to be. No destination in mind, just moseying quickly. I had my comfy walking shoes on, my 8 inch stilettos with a color resembling Dorothy’s pair from the Wizard of Oz, the kind that doesn’t draw much attention. I had some old jeans on that were pretty ragged but I just couldn’t part with because they fit my body like a glove. There were tears in them at odd places, like under the butt and in the knees but they didn’t reveal much so I still deem them acceptable to wear in public. It had taken years to break them in right and to discard them now would mean many years of painstaking jean wearing to make a new pair conform to my chiseled hind quarters. No thanks. The outside air had a nip to it so I had also adorned myself with a long sleeved flannel shirt that had also been worn to perfection. Moseying had worked up a powerful thirst inside me so I veered off the road to hit a convenience store and purchase a refreshing beverage. Just as I planted my foot to lift my other foot onto the curb, I felt my whole body descend as though I were in an elevator. As I pondered the reason for this for about 1/8 of a second I felt a hot excruciating pain shoot up my body as I used my crotch to stop my descent. I had apparently fallen into a sewer grate. Really? After trying to swallow my balls back down my throat unsuccessfully for about 5 minutes in order to breathe, they finally slipped back down past my Adam’s apple and into their proper placement downstairs. Not only were the contents of my man bag hurting but more so was my pride. I reached down the grate with my right arm to take my pumps off so that they didn’t become dislodged and fall off as I pulled my legs out of the grate. I grabbed the right pump and went to lift my arm out but got my shirt stuck on something and ripped the whole sleeve off. Honestly what the #%*@ is going on? In an attempt to preserve my left sleeve, I tired to reach my left pump with my right arm. I was prevented from doing so because of the awkward positioning of my body. My swollen family jewels looked like a pair of kid’s legs on a teeter totter because they were split down the middle by a metal bar. Every time I tried to contort my body to reach my left leg a new unwanted pain would shoot up my spine. Hesitantly, cautiously I lowered my left arm down to grab my other red, glittery pump. Right as I had lifted my foot out of the pump some guy lifted me out of the grate ripping my pant legs off to the butt so that the skin fold at the base of my butt showed. You know the part where butt becomes leg, also referred to as the but-leg junction. I looked down and also noticed my empty left sleeve and the bottom half of my shirt dangling on the grate. The man said he was sorry about ripping my clothes but he just couldn’t bear watch me in that position any longer because it made his goods hurt to look at me. I verbally thanked him although my face displayed utter disgust and hatred. You would think he would first ask if he could assist! So there I was in ripped pants, now shorts, looking like French-cut cut offs and a flannel shirt ripped at the shoulders and across the bottom 2 inches above my belly button. Somewhere somebody whistled. I paid no attention. I was too embarrassed and emotionally hurt. I asked if anyone could give me a ride home because I was too embarrassed to walk home. You would have thought I just farted because everyone took off running. Some guy even threw down some old lady and ran over her face twice. What an ego boost. No kind soul wanted to be seen with me. Oh well, I would just walk it off. My gait was no longer quick but slowed and awkward. When I was unceremoniously hoisted out of the sewer grate my knees hit the borders. So now when I walked I limped with both legs and it made my hips switch back and forth like a lady. I was almost as graceful as a one legged ballerina. Almost. It was going to be a long walk home. As I seemingly but unintentionally walked provocatively down the street, I noticed a charity face painting stand set up in front of a foster home. The kids were trying to raise some money for new clothes to make them more appealing to potential parents. I couldn’t refuse the cause and thought my luck might turn around for supporting them. They asked what I wanted them to paint on my face. I told them a smile. They looked at me funny then proceeded to use my face as their canvas. I should have first asked to view their portfolio first because what resulted was extremely disheartening. They made me up to look like a clown and a whore had met one evening, done a lot of crack, procreated and produced a lust child. I tried to stymie the disgust that arose in my heart from registering on my face. I couldn’t break their hearts even though I wanted to break their necks. My disgust turned to blinding anger as my eyes slowly drifted down to the instruments these hack artists had used to decimate my face. PERMANENT MARKER, the markers blaringly declared. My mind was clearly elsewhere when I sat down because I didn’t think it was weird that I was at a “face painting” booth and some hopefully not aspiring young artist was drawing on my face with a marker. I should have been able to feel the difference between a paint brush and a felt tip. What a day, what a day. After contributing to their clothing fund I took up the journey home. If I was any lower I would be walking underground. As I crossed over the train tracks one of my pumps got stuck in the track. I leaned down to see if I could jostle it loose with my hands and unintentionally exposed my whole backside because there wasn’t enough material to span my whole buttocks while bending over. As I fumbled with the stuck pump I heard a loud squealing of tires. What the hell?!?! I looked to my left to see some dude in a Trans Am staring at me with one thing on his mind. “How much?” he asked. “Oh, no it’s not what you think,” I said. “No it is what I think. Why else would anyone be dressed so pretty and slutty down at the train tracks?” “Long story brother. You realize I’m a man right that can kick your butt?” I said with authority. “Yeah, why do you think I stopped?” he said as he opened the door from the inside, “That’s the way I like em.” I briefly considered ending his life but the consequences of the poor decision smacked my brain like the business end of a 2 by 4; there will be more guys like him in prison. Damn. Even though one red pump was stuck I managed to clink my free heel into the lodged one thrice while chanting the words, “There’s no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.” Much to my chagrin I opened my eyes to the sad realization that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Double damn. I wanted to fly away but opted to vomit all over the inside of his car. Was I in a dream? Was this for real? You couldn’t script something like this, it was too weird. But it was real and it was happening. In order to fully convince him of my appreciation, I released the remaining contents of my disgruntled stomach in an arcing cylindrical column of spew via my esophagus. “That’s nice. Get it all out. I don’t like fat guys,” the creep said. “Just get the hell outta here,” I screamed. He peeled off leaving me in two clouds; one of smoke and one of sorrow. A cool breeze swept over me and chilled my bare stomach, lower half of my butt and all my legs. I pulled my socks up as high as they could go to combat the chill and pointed my runny nose toward home. The sun was going down in addition to the temperature and I was still a mile away from home. I trudged toward home to a cacophony of honking horns, whistles and cat calls. How humiliating. Up ahead a car eased into the emergency lane and a stunning woman emerged from the vehicle. “Can I help you ma’am, sir, umm thing?” she said as she chuckled. “Sorry I didn’t mean to be rude I just couldn’t tell your gender from the rodeo clown/hooker/crack whore/nymphomaniac uniform you have on.” I’d had enough ridicule for the day that all I could do is laugh. “That’s fine. I know I look ridiculous,” I somehow managed to say as I got lost in her eyes. They were like tractor beams pulling my heart and soul into them. The sun wasn’t quite past the mountain ridges yet and the way the light illuminated her face against the sunset backdrop made me weaker in the knees. Stunning wasn’t an adequate description for this gorgeous being in front of me. I had to be careful; I didn’t have much pant material to spare. (If you catch my drift. Wink. Wink. Poke. Poke.) “You look like you need a pressure washer, a bleach bath and a tailor,” she said as she shot me a wink. “Hop in I know just the place.” I was ecstatic and curious at the same time. What kind of place specializes in those three things? And so I inquired. “Why, my house silly,” came the reply. There was a sound of ripping jean material that pierced the silence within the car. “What was that?” she asked. “Oh, I think you must have run over something,” I sheepishly stammered as my face temperature increased by 500 degrees. “Too bad I was kinda hoping it was jean material being stretched beyond its limits,” came the response from her sugar coated lips. I hope I would have the chance to de-sugarize those things. The temperature increase in my face relocated to my special area and I tried desperately to think about baseball. Was she attracted to me as a man? Or as a man dressed like a cheap skank? Or was she attracted to the skank? Who the hell cares, she was interested in horizontal refreshment and I would happily indulge her!

Momma always said to share.

Transformers Rule!

My adventure began with a yearning desire to become the first owner of the Transformers DVD…..

In order to become the first proprietor of this coveted DVD I had to go to The Big Apple. All stores would be selling the DVD that day but because of time zone differentials, New York businesses would open earlier than the rest of the country. After careful research and many bribes to those with inside information, I found the name of the store that would open first. Many are not privy to the underground world of store opening betting. It’s big business. Most believe that a store opens at the indicated time on the side of building. Untrue. There is so much more that goes into opening a store than just a guy unlocking the doors. I have neither the time nor the inclination to go into the pertinent details. I needed to get the time off from work so I placed a call to my boss and feigned endometriosis. I complained of uterus cramping and Fallopian tube pains. I was given a few days to recover. To ensure that I would be the first patron of the store that morning, camping out would be required. Camping requires provisions like a tent, 7.6 feet of twine, a king size inflatable mattress, an inflatable dresser for my effects, an inflatable mirror and so forth. I picked up these items and finished my other preparations. Most people travel by plane, car or train. My preferred means of conveyance is a pogo stick. I loaded up my essentials and hopped to the outskirts of Times Square. Two hours later I arrived and wasn’t even breathing hard. There were only 23 hours left until the store opened its doors for business the next morning. Adequate time to guarantee my position I thought. I purchased a hot dog from a street vendor and made my way to the heart of Times Square so that I could stake my spot in line and settle in for the night. To my utter disappointment I discovered I was to be second in line. Someone had beaten me to the store’s entrance and was perched in his chair. Many thoughts inundated my mind: “Was he here for another movie? Was he just hanging out?” I hopped over to him, dismounted my pogo stick and leaned it against the wall so that I could make up camp. I was furious. Maybe he was here for some other reason. I had to know. “You here for the Transformers DVD or just a lazy door greeter with no name tag and no tunic?” I asked in a jocular tone. “The Transformers DVD of course. I saw the movie 17 times in the theater with my daughter and can’t wait to watch it at home with her. You see she’s terminally sick and doesn’t have much longer to live. She is in constant pain and is unable to use pain killers because of fatal allergic reactions. The only time my wife and I have seen her smile lately is when she watches Transformers. That’s why we’ve seen it 17 times. It would be more but the medical bills we’ve been incurring haven’t allowed us to go as often as we would like. I have been awaiting the release of the DVD for a long time so that we could play it over and over for her. You should see her, she smiles the entire movie but as soon as it ends her face returns to the contorted face of never ending pain. It’s such a miraculous sight to behold.” I knew then that I would have to kill him. I had to become the first owner of the DVD. I also made a mental note to avoid any trivial conversation with this guy. Due to my experience as a deep cover special agent I am a proficient assassin. With many different methods available at my disposal, I had to utilize a technique that would not draw attention or raise suspicion because we all know how lightly frequented Times Square is. I decided to employ a sniper method. I assembled my pink tent with frills and inflated all my necessary equipment. It felt like home but with less pink. With exaggerated actions of fatigue, I told my neighbor I was going to take a snooze. He bought the subterfuge. Within the confines of my pink tent I began to silently drill a hole through the concrete like Bugs Bunny does in cartoons. I tunneled a passage to a deserted alley and then scaled the fire escape to the roof of the building adjacent to my camp site and the undeserving thief that stole my rightful place in line. His execution would be swift. My yearning desire to be the first owner of the DVD was no longer a desire but a mandatory necessity that wouldn’t acquiesce. I no longer had a choice. Steadying my aim I expertly handled the boomerang. I opted to use a boomerang because it made no noise, would return to me leaving the police clueless as to the weapon used, and because with the speed with which I would throw it would remain invisible. Just as I was finishing my throw and the boomerang was about to be released, a gust of wind arose and deflected the proper angle of my throw. Being true to form, the boomerang arced around and began its journey back to the origin of the throw. I had thrown the boomerang with such a velocity that catching it was next to impossible. I had anticipated the boomerang would slow down once it struck the thief below. Now that it hadn’t, I was in trouble. I couldn’t see when the boomerang would arrive because it was traveling so fast. The best thing I could do is duck for cover and reduce my exposed surface area in an attempt to avoid contact. I wasn’t quick enough. I felt the impact as it crashed into my throat. I tried to emit a few selected curse words but was unable to draw or expel breath. As I laid there prostrate struggling for air, I decided being first wasn’t worth taking this man’s life and widowing his wife and little girl. All I would need to do is trip him as the horde of people stampeded into the store and I would be home free. I successfully tripped him and he disappeared under the throng of people. I can now say I am the first owner of the Transformer DVD.

My First Encounter With a Mute

It’s time again to vent some frustration. Sexual frustration? School related frustration? Consistently dating lame girls frustration? Only A and B? All of the above? Configure your own permutation. I will not rant about dirty hippies again but simply make a sincere request regarding them. Next time you see a hippy (hint: you will smell them before you see them because their stench is quicker than the speed of light or damn near) will you politely slap the stink off their fetid bodies? It will take a huge time commitment, wherein you may find yourself in between slaps asking how many slaps it will take to get them clean. Who knows? You might not succeed, but keep going I promise you will like it. I thank you in advance for obliging the request. No, no ranting this time but rather a story because writing is prodigiously therapeutic for me.

It all began with an encounter with an angel incarnate……..

“How are you doing beautiful creature? My name is E.”
The seconds began their metronome ticking on my mental clock. Uhhhh….was I supposed inform her that this is where she responds? I thought that was common social etiquette. The question is not meant to induce a delay. Is she retarded? Does she speak English?
“I’m sorry, did you not hear me?” I queried.
The silence was deafening. My sublime powers of deduction allowed me to deduce that she was neither a mannequin now a realistic blow up doll because I could see her vacant eyes blinking rhythmically. Most unusual. I employed another tactic by asking the first question again in sign even though if she were deaf she would see my mouth moving directly at her. I can only assume that for most deaf people this is a fundamental cue that someone is attempting to engage you in conversation. Nothing. Oh for three. I gave up. I signed one last two letter phrase that is concisely articulated in a simple gesture executed by extending the middle digit upward and presenting the back of the hand in their direction. My nephew knows that one and he doesn’t even speak yet. Apparently my attempts short-circuited her meager intelligence because they all resulted in the same lifeless, blinking response. I shuffled away expertly defeated to find a safe place to regroup, collect my thoughts and analyze what just happened. My cerebral faculties flipped into hyper drive to try to find an acceptable solution. The silent treatment? Couldn’t be, I didn’t even know her and hadn’t had an opportunity to earn it yet. What was it? In my twenty some odd years of breathing oxygen, I can not recall a time when I have been more nonplussed. My confusion could only be described as majestic. An unusual adjective paired with confusion I know, but like a snobby art critic attentively gazing upon a painting with their acutely refined visual ability, my tangible confusion warranted a few minutes of contemplation to try to make sense of it. The entropic levels reached could have elicited a call to Guinness Book for the highest measurement ever recorded. My bewilderment contained more layers than a bag lady in the middle of the winter. After going over every possible explanation and variation I could think of, I concluded she was a single LDS girl. Pretty much par for that bassackwards course. Bolstered by my suitable explanation, I crawled out of the mental pit of confusion and plotted my next course. Since there were no other notable visually appealing undertakings worth my time I decided to venture on to a more accommodating scene and sauntered over to the doorway. I planted my right foot outside the door with my right hand on the handle the same instant someone not so gently pulled me back inside causing me to shut the door on my leg and cause my head to slam into the doorway. What manner of idiot could have pulled such a brilliant yet insolent maneuver so furtively? Darkness immediately enveloped my inner screen. It was so sudden I thought I was going to black out. The darkness came quicker than disgruntled bowels telling you that you shouldn’t have eaten that burrito with extra hot sauce an hour ago. As I waited for the mist of darkness to dissipate, I distinctly heard a voice laced with lechery say her name was Victoria. Victoria huh? Now I had a name to complete the sentence I most wanted to say. F@#* you Victoria! The move was brilliance embodied in one efficient, fluid motion and I wouldn’t have been happier observing it implemented on someone else. When you are the innocent victim, murderous thoughts immediately engulf the brain causing an electrical storm among the neurons, each relaying their homicidal intentions via neurotransmitters to the next. Little devils join the melee and swim through your grey matter singing sweet little songs about killing people and making it seem so right. So what if it was a girl? Her end would indemnify me. I couldn’t have produced the necessary mental fortitude to overpower the gripping urge to end her existence. The darkness began its leisurely fading. I would soon see who could be so bold as to execute a maneuver that would leave me no recourse but murder. I’ll be damned! It was the smoking hot mute from earlier. Was this part of her strategy? First belittle me by ignoring all attempts proffered to acknowledge me and then publicly perform a flawless execution of the old slam-leg-almost-balls-into-doorway-garnished-with-a-severe-cranial-fracture-via-same-doorway gambit. An antique, but still relevant and funny today. The residual vapor of the darkness that had enshrouded my mind dispelled and I was rendered speechless by her piercing opaline green eyes. They weren’t that way before when she was absently staring at some hidden spot that was anywhere but my eyes. It was probably best that I was unable to command my larynx, tongue and mouth to coordinate together because those little devils were singing another catchy little number and any utterances would have divulged the nefarious plan that was deliciously marinating in my mind. “Death dah dah dah dah such a beautiful thing dah dah dah. Mercilessly, viciously choke her out dah dah dah dah that’s what she would want you to do dah dah dah.” Wow! These guys are good. I wonder if they have an album out. The solitary strategy my now confused mind could summon was to scorpion kick™ her belly. The scorpion kick™ is performed just as it sounds and infinitely lethal. You swing your leg over your head in the same manner a scorpion does with its tail to sting its prey. If I were a superhero or in Street Fighter II, this would be my special move. So what was I to do? I had debilitating bruises and bumps simultaneously forming on my leg and melon. I had a hot retarded girl staring at me like I was the a**hole who had impeded her departure and now owed her an explanation for doing so. Did I mention I think she was retarded? I determined to see what the heck she wanted.
“Did you need someone to dance with darling?”
“No, I was looking for someone to wrestle.”
This was hardly an establishment that facilitates impromptu wrestling matches and she certainly didn’t exhibit a wrestling frame. As she talked I concluded she looked more like talking sex. (Discover your own interpretation of what that means). Her lips curved to articulate each syllable like a professional dancer seduces with sultry, gentle contortions. I momentarily divorced my earlier angst and fell victim to her entrancing mouth. I saw the solutions to all the world’s problems contained within her inviting lips but could only retrieve them by kissing them out of her. So be it. Reality struck me like the business end of a two-by-four. This wasn’t happening. Taking kindly to those who previously ignored me is not my forte. I work with the one strike system. Best put your best looking foot forward or you get no play. You can go from gorgeous to busted horse’s rectum in the time it takes you to utter a sentence. With that said, I had jumped off the fence with this girl but was promptly ushered back on by her lips. I decided to take her lead from earlier and play dumb.
“Sorry doll I have an old knee injury that prevents me from Roman Greco wrestling foreign women that smash me in doors!”
She responds with, “If I were a university I would want to be acronymed F.U.”
That was a new one. Very bold. Nothing obscure there. I vowed to be apathetic and cagey and act like I missed the implication.
“Did you mean University of Florida……U of F? I think your acronym would more appropriately be for any remedial high school rather than undeservedly shooting for an institute of higher learning.”
Yea I said it, sub par intelligence undercurrents and all. She wants to play games. Games it will be. Recalling her recent ignoring and physical abuse provided all the necessary propellant needed to fuel this malevolent woman’s defeat. I will win and then lock those wonderful lips in the most beautiful lust filled exchange ever fathomed.
“Whatever that means, I just want to take you home and make some bad decisions,” she said snapping me out of my reverie.
“How about becoming a meth addict? Know anyone with AIDS you could sleep with? Ever thought of moving back east to Amish country?” I offered.
“What the hell……..? No, what the heck are you talking about?”
“I thought that if I gave you some suggestions of some bad decisions we could just skip the part where you take me home.”
No I am not gay and I am not a moron. I know that I could have said something smooth, or anything really, that would have resulted in making jungle noises with this persistent little cutie. A kiss ass sycophant I am not and I felt no compulsion to satiate her desires after the earlier debacle. To strengthen my resolve, I relocated my blaming of someone else for all the ills that have befallen me in my life to her. She was now the source of any reason I’ve ever felt bad and she needed to lose this game. But man I wouldn’t mind losing and having her pay reparations to me by way of procreation practice. Snap out of it man! That kind of thinking only works against you. I looked down and noticed my balls on the ground. How did they get down there? I thought you couldn’t detach them until you say “I do” and immediately transfer possession of them to your wife. I’ll have to see a doctor about that.
“Not quite the response I had envisioned. I was hoping your response would involve some soft hair pulling and ear nibbling,” she divulged as she slowly batted her eyes.
“Did you get something in your eye?” I asked feigning complete idiocy.
“No that was female Morse Code for take your clothes off.”
I do not disparage ambitious women, especially if they are ambitious about getting me in the sack. In fact, I lobby for all women to adopt this worthy goal. Her direct coquettishness was wearing down my defenses. I am a softy for directness and for women trying to lay claim to one of my renowned bed performances. Upon rereading that last sentence, I would like to mention that my use of the word softy is not synonymous with the flaccid kind of softy. Anyways, most nights I would river dance us both to the sex grounds, I mean bed, but not this night. She was going to have to give me a piggy back there. I wanted her back to ache like a five year olds after a double shift at the sweat shop. Wanting and getting are two separate words for a reason. For those slow folks out there, wanting and getting don’t mean they same thing. At this point, I imagine this odd encounter to end something like this:
I pretend like I am going to make her night by obliging her desires and then walk off amidst her cries for the contrary. I take a few steps, turn around and tell her to clean her tear/mascara stained cheeks because she’s filthy. And then I will say, “Burn,” and sashay my tight butt out the door.
I mightily hope I can remain sturdy and not topple.
“Oh,” I stammered, “I am not versed in that mode of communication.”
“Would you prefer something a little more hands on?”
Oh s*@t!! A crack in the dike, (as in dam, not lesbian that is spelled dyke, I think). Where the hell was that little Dutch boy?
“How about a mammary palpitation to check for cancerous bumps?”
“Not a doctor. Wouldn’t know where to start,” I blurted too quickly. I was rapidly losing my ability to retort with any degree of credibility.
“Right here,” she said as she ripped her blouse open causing a button to hit me square in the eye.
I took a deep breath, looked straight into her eyes, and put voice to the lust I could no longer contain within me.
“Let’s do this. But afterward I get to be the little spoon.”