This Blog Is Not Funny

A Short Post About Short Penis

2008-01-09T16:36:00.000-06:00

You know what would really suck? Being a black man with a small penis. Can you imagine the constant looks of disappointment you would get every time you got down to business? You would always get an, "Oh. I was expecting something. . . well . . . different."

Out of all of the stereotypes out there, that is one that I think most black men could live with. Except for those few small-penised black men. I bet they hate that stereotype worse than they hate the use of the 'N' word.

This is what I was thinking about as my work day is coming to an end.

So ladies, next time you hook up with an underendowed black man, you look that small penis straight in the. . .um. . . eye. . . and say that you are not going to give into racism. You tell that penis that you are going to fight those vicious and harmful big-penis stereotypes.

This Blog Is Not Funny: Your Guide to Politics

2008-01-07T09:42:00.000-06:00

Listen folks, I don't want to get "all political" here on you. In fact, we here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide will not officially endorse a candidate for President of the United States. Because of my "celebrity status" I do not feel it is morally or ethically proper for me to influence your vote with my opinion. God knows, I could win Obama this election in a landslide victory were I to lend him my endorsement. Seriously, just envision the front page of the New York Times: "Garrett Reid (White Guy) Officially Endorses Barack Obama (Who Is, at Least in Part, Black) for President" However, I can't do it. It's just not right.

With the above disclaimer out of the way, I need to say one thing. I just don't get this Hillary v. Obama thing that is going on. It is being billed as "experience vs. passion" for the Presidency. Am I forgetting something? I heard one talking head describe Hillary as "the incumbent." Huh? It appears to me that Hillary is a United States Senator. She has been so since 2001. Before that she was First Lady, a title used to officially describe the "hostess of the white house." Before that she was First Lady of The State of Arkansas. She was also a lawyer (although that really doesn't qualify you for much of anything).

Barack Obama, on the other hand, is also a United States Senator. He has been so since 2005. Before that he was an Illinois State Senator from 1997 to 2004. Before that he was a lawyer (also doesn't qualify you for much of anything).

Are people saying that Hillary has "experience" because her husband was President? Is that what that means? Because it looks like Barack has more legislative experience than Hillary. Am I wrong? Am I missing something? Are people going with the "experience vote" based upon this woman's husband doing the job?

I've got to tell you, I've seen a picture of my proctologist's wife. She looks like a really nice lady, and he has been a doctor for 25 years. But there is no way I am letting her stick a finger in my anus.

I know some of you might say, "but Bill will be there as her 'ambassador to the world,'" or whatever. Great, but I still wouldn't let my doctor's wife shove that meaty index finger into the ol' rectum, even if her husband was standing right there applying the lube.

I'm just saying.

Of course, all of this is not to say that she shouldn't be President or anything. What this is to say is that I don't get the characterization, by universally everyone in the world, that she has more experience than Obama?

P.S. Please don't be angry at me for talking about politics. Also, please don't curse me for my political views. . . wait, who am I talking to? I've seen the site stats. I know there is no one left reading this stuff. I know you all jumped ship months ago. So you know what? Screw you. How's that.

P.S.S. I'm sorry I lost my temper. I don't know what came over me. I got upset thinking about how no one comments. That made me think that people would comment if I'd post something good. Which made me realize that I suck at owning a blog. But I'd probably be better if I had some commentary encouragement. So why don't you comment? What, are you too good? You think you are so great that you can't comment? You know what? Screw you.

UPDATE: (I didn't mean it. I was drunk)

Tis The Season

2007-12-21T15:23:00.000-06:00

Today marks the first day of Holiday gift giving. This year, I've adopted a new gift giving technique. I decided to go online to various companies and restaurants and purchase gift cards. Everyone I know that gets gifts from me received a genuine gift card to one of their favorites. They ranged in value from $25 to $50. My secretary/assistant got one for $25. My parents got one for $50. Unfortunately for me, I didn't do my research early to determine what people's favorite restaurants were. Also, I ran into trouble when I figured out that you have to go website to website to buy these gift cards. Unfortuntely, Amazon doesn't sell these on their site. So, I got tired of going to multiple sites after about 10 minutes. Therefore, everyone I know in the world will receive, or has already received, a gift card ranging in value from $25 to $50 for either Red Lobster, Olive Garden, or Outback Steakhouse.

My total gift buying time - 45 minutes
Total amount spent - $750
Amount of my love given to my friends and family, as expressed in my thoughtful gift - infinite.

For those of you wondering, I didn't just get my girlfriend some crummy gift card. She got both a gift card and a coupon for one night of Garrett-lovin'. She is so lucky. One night next week, we'll be dining on a Bloomin' Onion, baby. Merry Christmas.

I Know Just How to Whisper, and I Know Just How to Cry.

2007-12-20T13:21:00.000-06:00

Go check out this article about hot monkey lovin' and then come back here as soon as possible. Try not to get turned on by all the talk of nasty monkey sex.

Study Reveals Why Monkeys Shout During Sex.

I feel sorry for these poor monkeys. All their lives they are super monkey sexual dynamos. They are rocking numerous lady monkeys' worlds a week. Then one day a team of scientists show up and inform them that they are not, in fact, bringing their little monkey lovers to the point of ecstasy on a nightly basis. In reality, these monkey's have very much in common with their Garrett human counterpart. Like I, they have female partners that want the experience to be over as quickly as possible and will do anything to speed the process along. I suppose what this means is that girl monkeys and girl girls are not that different. Both will make a lot of noise, shout your name, tell you are the best they have ever had, just to get you worked up and decrease the number of pelvic thrusts.

These scientists actually watched these monkeys engage in the coitus. They actually counted the male monkey pelvic thrusts. Then they wondered why the poor monkeys were not able to get the job done, so to speak. If I had some chick in glasses, a white lab coat, and clipboard staring at my ass while I thrust away, I might have a little trouble finishing up too.

I'm totally kidding, of course. If you want watch my pelvic thrusting call me. Especially if you want to do it while wearing a lab coat and glasses. That is so hot.

Voices inside my head. Echoes of things that you said...

2007-12-19T13:03:00.000-06:00

Norm MacDonald used to do this old stand-up routine about playing a joke on your friend by dressing up as Satan and telling him to chop up his family into little bits. It ends something like this - So your friend is standing there and he says, "Oh Great Master of the Underworld. I have done as you have commanded. I have taken my family and chopped them up in to little bits, and I have them here in these trash bags. What do you command now, Oh Great Satan?" Then you take off your Satan mask, and say "Bob, it's me - Garrett. I was just fooling about. I'm not Satan." Then Bob will say, "Gee Garrett. Boy am I embarrassed. I mean, I've got my family here in trash bags. You really got me on that one"

The other day I was thinking about that comedy bit and two thoughts crossed my mind. The first was: Norm MacDonald's voice is kind of annoying. I mean, it's okay for a stand up routine, or for Weekend Update or something. But can you imagine taking a road trip with that guy and having to listen to his voice for eight hours in the car?

The second thought I had was: When crazy people hear voices in their head, what do they sound like? My thoughts sound pretty much like me talking. Like, I am thinking about this sentence right now, and reading it aloud to myself in my head, and my inside-my-head voice sounds just like my regular voice. Although when I think about the next sentence I am going to type I don't say "uh" as much, I just think it. Anyway, my point is - when a guy thinks The Devil is talking to him and telling him to do things, what does The Devil's voice sound like? Then I thought: If I think Norm's voice is annoying, what would I do if I had to listen to some demon talk in a raspy, deep, demon-like voice all day and night. You know though, it is probably only a vicious stereotype that demons speak in a raspy, deep, demon-like voice. I bet they sound just like you or I, and I bet they get mad as fucking hell when those raspy voiced demons start talking to regular folks because it gives them a bad image.

You know, you always hear about people hearing voices that told them to do terrible things. How come you never hear a crazy person talking about how his voices told him to do good things. We need more of those good voices around - not all of these Satan voices. I would not mind being crazy at all if the voices gave me good advice from time to time.

For example I'd be okay with a voice that said, "Yo Garrett, it's March 1 yo. Start on your taxes now or you will be up shit creek just like last year and doing them at 9:00 pm the day before they are due. Let's get with it, sucka."

Or maybe: "Garrett. Bro. That shirt does not look cool. Not matter what you might think you look like, you are not 22. You can not wear that fucking shirt to the bar. I'm just trying to keep it real, yo."

Possibly: "Garrett. I am voice inside your head. I am here to give you stock and investing tips."

Most Useful: "Garrett, I am a voice from beyond your dimension and know things that surpass all human understanding. Let me give you this tip on how to last more than two minutes during the sex. . ."

I'm thinking I could really use a voice inside my head someday. Another 20 or so years, and I am going to get pretty tired of only hearing my own voice all the time. Some company for my voice would be nice. Oh! What if the voice inside my head was a sexy girl-voice. Then my regular voice and the girl voice could talk dirty to each other and make out and stuff. Damn, that would be hot. Of course if the voice inside my head is anything like me, it won't be very good at the dirty talk and will say things like, "Um, well yeah, I would kind of like to fuck you hard, now that you mention it."

Is This Thing On?

2007-12-19T13:02:00.000-06:00

Does this blog still work? What the hell is going on here?

Apparently, I am an asshole.

2007-09-26T15:01:00.000-05:00

That's right. I know. I can't believe it either. I am as shocked as you are. But this is what a friend of mine told me on Sunday. In fact, her exact words were: "You know, you're a real asshole, and I'm not the only one who thinks so." So what could I possibly have done to cause such hatred from a good friend of mine? Well, I don't think it deserves conferring asshole status on me so much as it warrants, "thoughtless and insensitive" status.

I'll try and keep this short because - well, I know you don't care very much. That and I am a very busy person doing very important things.

Saturday night I had a party at my house. You know, on a side note - at what age do you stop having regular parties where everyone comes over and drinks and you start having dinner parties, or those kind of house parties where there is a bartender and caterers? All of my parties are the same. 20 friends come over, drink shit tons of alcohol and smoke on my back porch, until someone suggests we play a drinking game. Then 10 of us play stupid games around my kitchen table while the other 6 keep drinking while watching football on TV. Two people will probably have sex in one room of my house. Two people will leave early because they have kids, and having kids turns you into a gigantic pussy who can't stay out past 10:00.

Well this party ended when everyone was too drunk to see the playing cards, and with me checking my home owner's policy to see if it would cover a drunk driving accident. I thought it would, so everyone got to be on their merry little ways. And I got to feel secure in the knowledge that some insurance company would have to pay for the inevitable accident rather than me.

When everyone left, the girlfriend says to me, "hey - someone left a cell phone."

I excitedly checked it out. The cell phone belonged to my friend, Crystal. Plans immediately began being made for how to most appropriately use the lost cell phone to have some fun. On a side note here, having a girlfriend is trouble for me in these situations. Especially given just how awesome I really am. If she had not been there, I would have seen the cell phone, put it on the table and thought about all of the funny stuff to do. Then I would have fallen asleep after furiously masturbating to that picture I downloaded last week of that chick from that high school musical show. Since she is there I have an audience, and I also don't have a reason to masturbate (P.S. I'm sorry girl from high school musical that I have neglected masturbating to you since I downloaded you last week. I promise to get around to it. It's not you, it's me. I've been really busy. I've been getting some non-solo sex. I'm sorry. I'll do better next week I promise).

So we finally voted and decided the best plan was to send random text messages to mutual friends. Here are the text messages in order:

To her roommate (who was out of town): I can't wait for you to get back. I've been thinking a lot about "us" and I think we should take it to the next level.

To Amy (another single girl also at the party): Great time tonight! You looked hot by the way. Maybe just the two of us could go out some time and get to know each other better. I hope you know what I mean by that.

To Chuck (a guy that was not at the party - and who is married) Missed a great party at G.R.'s house. Too bad you and [wife] couldn't make it because I can't stop thinking about that tight dress she wore when I saw her last.

To Denise (her best friend): I think I am having feelings for Garrett! What should I do? I can't stop thinking about him and touching myself!

At this point, I got bored. It takes a long time to text all of that. We decided one final message would be appropriate. But I couldn't decide on what to do. Maybe I was too drunk to think clearly. Maybe I wanted to get the texting over with so some inappropriate and fairly degrading (to me) sexual activity could take place. I don't know, but I decided the final message should be sent to everyone in her contact list. That's right. Everyone.

It read: "To Everyone: I'm drunk and looking for a hook up! Call me!!!!" Then I turned off her phone and left it at that.

Cue the furious phone call the next morning. She was okay with the messages I sent to her roommate (the roommate alerted her to my joke with a phone call at 7:00 am). She was okay with the messages I sent to Amy and Chuck. She thought the one to Denise was hilarious. What she was not okay with was me telling everyone in her contact list that she was drunk and looking for a piece of ass. What I wasn't thinking about was the fact that her mother, her grandmother, her boss, her father (who is in Thailand or something), her childhood friends, and several people from her church were on that list. Oops.

Okay, I admit. This is one of the worst things I have done. I screwed up. I'm probably an asshole. However, in my defense I didn't do it to be an asshole. I just didn't think. I think she is going to forgive me. I told her I was sorry, and that I would bring her the phone. She said she didn't want it back. She told everyone who called her that the phone was stolen. She is getting a new one this week. But really, she shouldn't leave her phone just laying around!

Okay, let me have it. I'm an asshole.

I've Done It Again

2007-09-20T08:36:00.000-05:00

They have forced me once again to post something over at the B.R. Mustache Blog. Go take a look. I promise to have more up here later. Then again, like my mother always tells me - I am an untrustworthy son of a bitch.

Why Didn't Al Gore Invent This Thing in 1988?

2007-09-13T09:22:00.000-05:00

This week some lucky f-ing eleven year olds got to see some porn action.

The story is here: Fifth-Graders Mistakenly Shown Part of Porn Movie

I hate to sound old and bitter here (maybe I am though), but kids today do not realize how lucky they have it. When I was a kid there were only two sources of porn:

1) The rack of dirty magazines behind the counter at your local 7-11, totally inacessible to a 12 year old, porn craving kid who is eager to learn about his changing body.

2) The collection of late 1970's porn videos belonging to your friend's dad that he kept in the top of his closet. At first this would seem like a good option for porn watching, until you consider the prospect of your friend's parents coming home early from work to find you and another 12 year old boy sitting on the couch watching two overly-pubed people sweating and moaning into the camera in an abandoned warehouse (or some such thing - these are just examples people). Also included in this category are the friend's dad's collection of Playboys stashed in a box in the attic. However, looking at Playboy magazines from 1962 with a flashlight in a 135 degree attic is not as fun as it sounds.

A third option that only receives an honorable mention is the glimpse of porn you get when you tune the sattelite receiver in between two dirty stations and you get static-filled, black and white, no sound images of some sort of body movement, possibly involving intercourse.

Kids today have shit tons of porn available at a moment's notice. If you google "pussy" you get 55.7 million hits. 55 million! It's just not fair. Do you know how badly I wished to see vaginas when I was a kid? Hell, I bet half of all high schooler's iPods are filled to the brim with porn videos today. Not Fair. Now, according to Fox News, they are even getting porn on school computers during class. The teacher thought it was a Star Wars video. My Ass. That is because he labeled all of his porn collection with movie names so his wife wouldn't find them.

Damn those lucky little bastard kids and their prolific porn watching.

Of course, for the rest of their lives those kids will have a whole new meaning for "Use the Force, Luke."

Or maybe it is, "Show Me Your Force, Luke!"

(or possibly, "Your Force is So Big, Luke!")

Relationships

2007-09-12T23:13:00.000-05:00

Being in a relationship can be fun. As some of you know - I've been dating a girl. (By the way, her name is Susan - she would "prefer it" if I didn't talk about her on here. I told her, "don't be silly. If I mention you on the blog, it's not about you. It's always about me.") I'm learning all kinds of super fantastic things.

For example: Apparently, the best answer to the question of "you know what we should try this weekend?" is not "anal sex?"

You learn something every day, I suppose. (It turns out she was thinking more along the lines of trying a new Indian restaurant.)

Always Sunny

2007-08-28T09:46:00.000-05:00

I can't tell you how excited I am for the third season of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia coming in September. There is an 88% chance that it is the funniest show on TV (and I know because I am expert on funny things). I believe the first episode, "The Gang Finds a Dumpster Baby" airs September 13.

What am I - a fucking commercial? I need something to happen to me so I can write about it. However, when your days are spent having constant sex, drinking excessively and Rhymin' & Stealin' there is not a lot to write about.

Oh, here is a promo for that show that is pretty f-ing hilarious. However, only watch it if you are okay with getting immediately fired, escorted from your building and your phones being tapped by the FBI. Just kind of kidding. It's not really that bad - there is no nudity, but they do use the "f word" (that would be "fuck") and say "blowjob" about 20 times. And it has Fred Savage in the Clip (not on the show). Enjoy!

UPDATE: (P.S. I've been getting hundreds of e-mails telling me the video is not working. It works for me, so screw you. For real though, I suck at these things so I don't know how to fix it. It took me a half hour just to get it the right size. For those of you that can't get the video to work, Here is the Link.)

Danny DeVito & The Contract

Hungover

2007-08-27T10:09:00.000-05:00

Monday morning is here. The hangover is just now starting to clear (but it's not gone yet). I was drunk from Wednesday night until Sunday morning. What a life I lead.

One story I forgot to share was about my hangover from Friday morning. A bunch of people went out to dinner Friday night. Actually, we went out for drinks at a restaurant it seems. It was me and 6 rich bastards. They were buying. We started at a hotel bar before dinner and I had 3 vodka tonics. (I don't know about you, but I have always heard the acceptable recipe for vodka tonic is 1 part vodka, two parts tonic. This bartender apparently liked to reverse that mixture). We were only there for a half hour. Then we went to the restaurant were I ate grilled shark with 2 more vodka tonics. By the time dinner was over I couldn't focus my eyes very well across the table. Dinner lasted two hours and everyone was shit faced. (I saw one guy leave a $200 tip on a $400 bill). We went to a another bar near the restaurant, where I decided I had already had too much to drink (so I switched to beer). 3 draft beers later and I could feel myself slumping in my chair.

When I got home, no big deal. I actually felt pretty good. I drunkenly played some guitar. I played with my doggy. (That is not a euphemism - I actually played with my dog), and then I sat down to watch some TV. That is when I realized things were bad. It was a TV spinning, nauseated, must close eyes before I fall out of my chair, kind of feeling. As I sat in my char in a shirt and tie with my eyes closed, I fell fast asleep (read: I passed out in my clothes in front of the TV). I woke up Friday morning at 5:00 a.m. with a pain in my back from sleeping in a straight up position. I sat there for 10 minutes trying to figure out what the hell happened.

Cue the vomit scene. That's right my friends, I threw up. Big time. Everything came up. (At one point I swear I saw a part of a fin). I did this two more times while getting ready for work. After the third vomit scene I started to feel better and drove in. I had a 9:00 meeting which I was required to attend. At 9:15 I politely excused myself from the meeting and walked calmly to the restroom where I vomited again. I wiped the tears from the eyes (I don't hurl pretty), popped a mint in my mouth, straightened the tie and returned to the meeting. My God, I am trooper. Eight hours later I was on my second beer and discussing which waitress at the bar had the best breasts.

Now I am not drinking again for two years. (or this Friday, whichever comes first). I have pain all over my body and my eyes are continuously bloodshot. That isn't going away for some reason. It is probably unrelated to the drinking. I bet I have eye cancer.

I need a drink.

Drunk

2007-08-25T01:13:00.000-05:00

What lucky, lucky little people you all are. You are all witnesses to my first ever drunk blog posting. For those of you who can't tell, this is me drunk. What? No, assholes. This ISN'T what I am always like. Drunk posting isn't good enough for you? Well - okay. I'll also share this little secret with you. I'm naked too. How's that for excitement? Drunk and naked and sitting at my computer.

I've been entertaining important people yesterday and today. For the most part this involves shit tons of drinking, listening to old, married men talk about picking up some "bitches," listening to 25 jokes that begin with, "did you hear about the jewish guy who. . . " and getting drunk under the table by 10, 60 year old men. (drunk under the table doesn't sound right. . . Is that right?)

All night tonight I thought of fantastic stories that I was going to tell. Now that I am home and drunk, I can't remember any of them. Oh, I remember one thing I was going to say. You know what happiness is? Sitting in a business meeting and seeing a conservative 28 year old business girl wearing a business girl suit stretch across a conference table to reveal a pink dental floss thong under her business girl suit. Nice. Very nice.

Well fuck me. Now I don't have anything else to say. Fuck it.

Why didn't I get that business girl's number today? I couldn't think of a good line at the end of the meeting. How many times do have to go out with someone before it is no longer okay to ask out a pink thong wearing business girl? Hmm. Maybe I was just kidding a few lines ago when I said something about asking that girl out. Yeah, that was a joke. Totally kidding about that.

You know what? I wish I could be drunk all of the time. Being drunk is fucking awesome. I don't know if you knew that or not. But it is. It rules, actually.

Okay, I sound stupid now so I'm hitting "publish post" and calling it a night.

Word to your collective mothers and such. (Jesus God, you would think being drunk would make me sound cooler and at least a little funnier).

Three Things Happened Today

2007-08-21T23:30:00.001-05:00

The time is now 11:00 and I just got home from work. God I love my job. Don't these people know that it is hard to keep a blog going when I spend 15 hours a day sitting in the exact same spot staring at the exact same computer?

Three things happened today:

1) I ate some amazing chicken fried steak. It was awesome. It moved me. That's all I have to say about that.

2) While on the way back from eating said chicken fried steak, I passed a couple who were wearing matching pink polo shirts. I bet they were both under 21. She was wearing jean shorts and he was wearing jeans. His hair was spiked straight up. Man, what has your life come to when you wake up in the morning, you see two pink polos hanging in the closet, and you roll over to your girlfriend and give her a look as if to say,"let's do this." I really hope these people were on vacation or something because otherwise he might have run in to someone he knows. What the hell would he do then? How can you look any buddy in the face while you are wearing the same pink polo shirt as your girlfriend. At least they didn't both have popped collars.

3) I thought about using the restroom to masturbate at about 9:15. I decided against it when I thought about how much work it would be to have to walk all the way to the bathroom, think about sex-like things, keep erection for minutes a time, etc. Way too much work.

A fourth thing happened just right now - I had a realization that I used to have funny things to write approximately 15% of the time. This number has now dropped to less than 5%. God I suck. No masturbation energy and a crap blog. Life is grand. I need a drink.

Burt Reynolds' Mustache

2007-08-19T09:53:00.001-05:00

That's right. I'm over there again. Can you believe I am up so early on a Sunday and writing some story for a blog involving the upper lip hair of a 1980s film star? Me either. You know what it means though? That's right. It's that good. Go take a look.

A Date.

2007-08-17T12:57:00.000-05:00

Shhh. Don't tell anyone about this. I had a girl over last night. It was what some people call "a date." It wasn't a first date, but rather a come-over-and-watch-a-movie-or-something-kind-of-date. We made some popcorn, we rented a movie. We made out, yada, yada, yada - it was fun. What can I say? I am a romantic, big spender. I bought the microwave popcorn ahead of time. I paid for the Blockbuster rental. I provided the electricity for the TV - I really went all out for this date.

Anyway, there was a small problem - the movie choice. We ended up not watching the movie we rented, and instead watched a movie that I had TIVOd for myself. She found it while scrolling through my recorded list. The movie was The Greatest Game Ever Played. I don't know if you know this movie, but I had not heard of it before I recorded it. It stars the Shia LaBeouf as golfer Francis Ouimet. It is set in 1913 and centers around the U.S. Open Championship.

Before I get into this let me ruin the movie for you. If you don't want to know then stop reading now. Anyway, Francis Ouimet is 20 years old or something and gives up the game of golf at the demand of his father. His father works in a coal mine and believes that golf is for the upper class, etc. (Of course, at that time it was for professionals and the upper class). There is a bunch of dialogue about how he should "know his place" and so on. Well young Francis gets in invitation to play in the U.S. Open and goes against his father's wishes to play in the tournament against the world's greatest golfers. Before the tournament there is a confrontation, and Francis' father demands that he quit. Francis says he can't do that, and the father tells him that he has to find someplace else to live.

So the tournament goes on, and at the end of Round three, Francis is closing in on the professionals (against all odds by the way). On the 18th hole of the final round, Francis has a chance to tie the lead and send the tournament into a three-way playoff. Just before his final putt, the mother throws down her laundry she was hanging out to dry, and runs to the course to witness the final putt. She cheers wildly with the crowd as he makes it. The whole country goes crazy for young Francis, who is an international phenomenon. Even the President comes to watch him play, but his father still won't acknowledge him or his accomplishment. During the final round playoff, it comes down to a four foot putt (or so). If he makes it, he wins the U.S. Open as the first Amateur to ever win the tournament, and only the second American to win. Of course, he sinks it and the crowd goes crazy. They lift him onto their shoulders and carry him around the course. People are throwing money at him, and he shouts, "I can't take it. I can't take it." (Because he is an amateur). He yells to the crowd to pass the hat for his caddy to have the money. He taking money on the shoulders of the crowd for his caddy, and he reaches down to take someone's $1 dollar bill. When he does, he looks into the eyes of who is handing it to him. It is his father - still dirty from the coal mine - waiving a coal dust-covered $1 bill at him. His father looks up at him with a proud smile and they hug each other as the mother looks on from outside the crowd, with tears in her eyes that her husband and son have reconnected, and the father demonstrated his love and pride for his son.

The End.

The problem? I challenge any man in the world to watch that movie and not get a little teary-eyed at the ending. It cannot be done. The father showing how proud he is of the son. The against-all-odds sports story. The super-dramatic climax of the movie with the crowd cheering and the mother crying with pride and love for her family. Jesus God. I am getting a little misty right now just thinking about it.

So we are sitting on my couch watching that, and I am biting my tongue to cause enough pain so that I don't tear up. The credits roll, and she looks over at me, with tears in her eyes, and says, "That was a really good movie." I hop up quickly and say, "yeah, it was okay." But my voice cracked a little. Damn me and my flawed emotions. She didn't say anything, but I think she knew.

Tomorrow night we are watching 300. I can't risk that whole scene again.

Threesome Talks

2007-08-15T21:49:00.000-05:00

How is everyone today? I'm busy. Thank you for asking, that is so nice of you. I just reviewed my "to-do list" and it has reached two pages, single spaced, 10 point font. Being the model of organized efficiency that I am, my to-do list is prioritized by immediacy. So the top-priority items are things that need to be completed today, and if all else fails, they must be done tomorrow. I have 13 items in the top-priority category. I may be in trouble. I can't be sure, but I may actually have to consider doing some work at this place where they pay me shit-tons of money and give me a desk and at least four different color pens (and both green and yellow highlighters to work with).

Okay, enough of my whining. I do have a short little story. On Saturday I went out drinking with a medium-sized group of friends. That would be 6. As every conversation I have ever been a part of tends to do, the topic eventually turned to The Sex. I don't know when that phenomenon began exactly, but as I sit here now I cannot recall any conversation I have ever had outside the presence of work or family that didn't turn to sex. I thought about this intriguing factoid a few months ago and reached one conclusion on why this occurs. Men turn the conversation to sex because they want tips and pointers from me. Who wouldn't? Women turn the conversation to sex because they want to bed me. Who wouldn't?

So someone mentions threesomes.

Girl 1 says, "no way am I ever having a threesome!"

Girl 2: "I don't know - I don't think I would. Wait, would it be two guys or two girls?"

Girl 1: "Could be either. Which would you prefer?"

Girl 2: "It would definitely have to be two guys. I want all of the attention on me. I would feel pretty stupid laying there with nothing to do while the guy does stuff to the other girl. What would I do? Just watch?"

Girl 1: "I don't know. You wouldn't want to just sit around. You have to DO stuff."

Girl 2: "If it were two guys I might feel weird with the other guy just sitting there during the lulls in action."

Garrett: (Hoping to keep this conversation going for as long as possible) "You wouldn't let them both do stuff at the same time. If you know what I mean."

Girl 2: Like what?

Garrett: Like double penetration. . .

Girl 2: No fucking way!

Garrett: What about one guy downtown and one guy getting oral? (I don't know why we were using these stupid euphemisms - but we just were. I guess I didn't want to be so vulgar as to talk about double penetration using real names for body parts and what not)

Girl 2: I don't think I could concentrate on the oral.

Girl 3: I've had a threesome.

Everyone turns and stares at Kim who has not been participating much in the sex talks. I don't know a whole hell of a lot about Kim. She seem normal enough. She comes out occasionally with her friend, who is a part of the regular group. She is good looking. She drinks moderately. She dances when appropriate, and laughs at my jokes. She is totally normal in every respect. Like I said, I don't know her that well.

Girl 1: Was it two guys or two girls?

Kim: Two guys. One was my boyfriend. The other guy was his best friend. This was about 6 years ago.

Girl 1: How did it happen. Did you seduce the friend?

Kim: We were all drinking one night, and we all got really, really drunk. My boyfriend and I started making out and his friend kissed me too. Things just went from there.

Girl 2: So how did it work. What did the friend do while you were getting nailed by your boyfriend?

Kim: Well I didn't offer to give him oral. They took turns.

Girl 2: Right, but what did the other guy do when he wasn't doing the nailing?

Kim: You know, he used his hands, talked dirty - that sort of thing.

Girl 2: What do you mean "used his hands?"

Kim: Just rubbed on us.

Girl 2: Us?

Kim: (looking a little red) On my breasts - on him - just rubbed I guess.

Girl 2: He rubbed on him? Where?

Kim: On his ass and stuff.

Girl 2: . . .

Girl 1: . . .

Everyone else: . . .

I took a long drink of my beer, cleared my throat, and began: Your boyfriend's best friend rubbed your boyfriend's ass while he was doing you?

Kim: I guess [She began to look a little nervous what with everyone staring at her]

Garrett: Your boyfriend, thrusting in and out [I make a little hip movement in my seat to emphasize my point here] and at the same time, his best friend's hand is caressing his naked ass?

Kim: Okay, I don't want to talk about this if you guys are going to just make fun of me.

Garrett: Was there any man spanking involved?

Kim: Garrett, stop, okay?

Garrett: Maybe your boyfriend had hip problems, and his friend was just spotting him to help with the thrusting.

Kim: GARRETT!

Garrett: He didn't slip in a finger in, well you know where, did he?

Kim: Okay, I'm leaving.

Garrett: Okay, in all seriousness. Kim, I am going to tell you this as seriously as I can. You got seduced by two clearly bisexual men.

Kim: Shut up. They were just in the moment.

Garrett: No, I have to disagree. Never, not even in the moment, do 100% straight men stroke other naked man asses. They have probably been getting naked with each other since high school and try to seduce each others' girlfriends every chance they get. I'd say there is a better than average chance they liquored you up and used you as a gay sex scene prop.

Kim looked at her beer for a few seconds, then shook her head looked up at us and said, "I fucking hate you guys."

What can I say? I am all about ruining the fond threesome memories of others. However, I can say that I have now firmly made up my mind that if I have a threesome possibility I will only accept on the grounds that it is two women and not another guy with a girl. What if I am mid-thrust and I get an ass-rub? I have to think it would throw off my rhythm at the very least.

Then again, who couldn't use a good ass rub and some dirty talk during mid-deed?

Comment Responding 2d

2007-08-09T10:20:00.000-05:00

If the last post was the worst post ever (according to some), this will be the second worst ever. So just prepare yourself now. What will follow are very poor attempts at witty banter. If you are easily shocked - please do not read on. (I can't lie - there is nothing shocking in this post - I just wanted to get you to read the whole thing)

From I'm Exhausted:

At August 02, 2007 6:55 AM, TK said...: What the FUCK? Man, your bathroom is like a war zone - shit in the trash can, vomit everywhere... how do you ever go back? And how do you ever have company over again?

Who can you trust, Garrett?

GR Response: I know. As I was cleaning up vomit, I was thinking to myself, "I am 31 years old and I am cleaning a friend's vomit after a night of drinking - what has become of my life." My bathroom has seen some hard times. It seems obvious that I am going to have to install security cameras in the bathrooms of my house. Come on over ladies!

At August 02, 2007 8:39 AM, onthevirg said...: Man walking into a room that's been stewing in puke all day. That's the opposite of good times right there. I think your friend deserves a dickpunch with no warning whatsoever the next time you two meet.

At the very least you need to get shit faced on several types of alcohol (thereby insuring vomiting) at his house warming party. Then proceed to puke at random around his house. Or him. Take your pick.
GR Response: It was very much the opposite of good times. He made a half-assed attempt at cleaning it up - but you could tell it was just kind of smeared around. Fucking ass. I am still pissed about it. Most of the "chunks" were gone, but not all. There were still some in the not-in-plain-site places like behind the toilet and on the wall behind the trashcan. Fucker. I am plotting revenge. A dickpunch - although satisfying - is not nearly harsh enough revenge. Puke would be fitting, but I am not a good vommiter. I tend to, you know, burst blood vessels in my eyes and shit when I hurl - so that is out. I'll think of something good.

At August 02, 2007 8:50 AM, New Texan said...: Well, if your friend did find a house in the area, I would suggest you take your revenge there... nothing says "new home smell" like a turd cooked on a skillet all day while he was at work. The great part of this is that you don't really destroy anything (other than the skillet) and the smell will take hours to go away. Best to do this when it is too cold outside (tough around here) to open a bunch of windows.

GR Response: That actually made me a little sick to my stomach to think of a turd cooking in a skillet. I don't know if I have the stomach to sauté a piece of shit. Maybe a crock pot full of shit? A crap piece baking in the oven? I feel ill now.

At August 02, 2007 11:15 AM, Erica AP said...: What about using the word, "Shlong" instead of "Wang"? Just and idea. It's pretty fun to
say out loud too.
GR Response: Shlong just might work. I just googled shlong to see if that was the correct spelling (apparently both shlong and schlong are accepted). Welcome to me getting fired any day now.

At August 02, 2007 11:29 AM, Jason said...

Just think - if the evening had evolved into a gay scene(which is cool, btw), you would've gotten off AND avoided the mass cleaning.
GR Response: Jason, I am not sure how it could evolve into a gay scene. How do those things work? Who decides each party's respective roles? I mean, in Brokeback - one cowboy turned the other over, spit, and went to town. In real life, wouldn't there have to be more conversation than that? What if cowboy number 2 had said, "Whoa there [cowboy reference], I don't want to be on bottom. You be on bottom." Then they would have had to stop and discuss the whole thing - and it would have just ended very, very awkwardly. Obviously, I don't understand these things very well.

At August 02, 2007 1:46 PM, mindy said...: This is the sexiest post I've ever read. Thank you.

GR Response: All of my posts are sexy. I exude sexiness, and it just comes out in the writing. I can't help it. It just does. It is my gift to you, Mindy. I give you the gift of sexiness. Take it and enjoy it.

At August 02, 2007 2:17 PM, A Lover and a Fighter said...: garrett- your friends may suck. i suggest getting new ones.

on another note, i will never piss off new texan. he's a vicious fothermucker.

GR Response: I am thinking about getting new friends. Where did these friends come from? Maybe I should just stop inviting people over to my house because everyone that comes over seems to have weird bathroom habits that I don't want to deal with. (and I am now scared of New Texan a bit)

At August 02, 2007 2:55 PM, Scottsdale Girl said...: I should send this post to the boyfriend, he was RILLY angry at me earlier because I left the dogs IN. They apparently shit all over the house.

But, you win.

GR Response: I have a very big dog, and she has, in the past, shit in the house. I will gladly scrub dog shit out of individual rug fibers any day over cleaning vomit.

At August 02, 2007 3:01 PM, kelsi said...: this is why blogging is awesome. because now? we know everything.
thank you so much for sharing... everything.

GR Response: I'm glad you like to hear it all, but to be honest it is not just people that read the blog that get to hear about my love for Drew Barrymore in Playboy, circa 1995 - or my love of masturbation - or my love of Barrymore-related masturbation. I tell everyone. I'm a sharer.

At August 02, 2007 3:43 PM, blythe said...: two words: upper deck.

do it. for revenge. not for fun at home alone.

GR Response: How you know the term "upper deck" has me very worried. Have you done this before? How does it work? Do you hover above the tank? What if you miss? Do you sit on the tank? What if the tank breaks from sitting on it and you get a porcelain shard to the rectum? Please report back on these things.

At August 02, 2007 4:02 PM, Mortarbored said...: One time I had to clean up my girlfriend's puke after she projectile vomited in a stranger's bathroom. I wiped with tissue, and we just walked out and left. Classy shit.

GR Response: If it was a stranger's bathroom - that is the only possible course of action. Cover and run. Get the hell out of there. What a trooper for cleaning up a girlfriend's puke though. She must have done something good for you to wipe the contents of her stomach with a tissue. I think I would have just grabbed the girl, locked the door behind me, told the host, "hey your bathroom is locked and there is no one in there" and then fled the scene.

At August 02, 2007 4:21 PM, Snow White said...: Okay, I read through the steps twice looking for the prefix "ex" before the word friend. Did this friend at least have an excuse when you called? Oh, and could staying up late and drinking have anything to do with why the meetings have been so hard to sit through?

No matter, I'm glad you're back posting!

GR Response: His excuse was, "Dude, I cleaned it up! What's your problem?" I'll still be his friend because I am certain that I will, one day, do something to him that is just as bad. You know - fuck is girlfriend - get him fired - accidentally stab him - something along those lines.

At August 02, 2007 10:24 PM, carrie said...: You are funny!!! you rule!! :)

GR Response: Thank you Carrie. You receive the Number One Commenter of the Day Award. You other people could learn from Carrie. (I promise I am not "carrie" leaving comments for myself).

At August 03, 2007 4:53 AM, HAR said...: I don't know which is funnier, your post or the comments.

"I think your friend deserves a dickpunch with no warning whatsoever the next time you two meet."

The mental image made me lmao.

GR Response: HAR - The post is most definitely funnier. Although I guess the comments do have some humor to them. A dickpunch is only funny if you are the dickpuncher and not the dickpunchee.

At August 03, 2007 11:18 AM, DanjerusKurves said...: When your friend gets a new place, try prying up random corners of the carpet and placing anchovies or raw shrimp underneath ... ;)

GR Response: That is a suggestion I just actually might be able to pull off. Except for - how do I smuggle raw shrimp into his house? Friend - "Dude, you smell a little like fish." GR - "What? Fish? I don't smell fish." Friend - "I definitely smell a fish-like odor" GR - "Tell you girlfriend to clean that shit out every once in a while then!" (Okay - maybe that was over the line)

At August 03, 2007 11:46 AM, So@24 said...: ahhh, the ol' cleaning up your friends' stomach contents. i love the nights when you dont even know which of your friends to call a "cunt"... it could have been any of them.

GR Response: Friends suck - but I will happily call all of them a cunt - I don't mind - I don't have to pick just one.

At August 03, 2007 6:31 PM, blythe said...: hey there,

since saturday night's alright for fighting, i would imagine that friday's fantastic for upper decking. let me know how it goes?

xoxo
-b

GR Response: Blythe: Did you just quote an Elton John song on my blog? I love the xoxo at the bottom of your comment about upper decking. And the sign off of -b. I feel like we are BFF now. Except for your obsession with upper decking. I am going to need some time to get past that.

At August 04, 2007 10:32 PM, dmbmeg said...: blythe-
my exact comment til I read yours: two words: top shelf

I can only imagine we meant the same thing.

Garrett-
you and your friends sound like a bunch of alcoholics. I suggest getting help.

GR Response: DmbMeg: How could I possibly have guessed that you would most relate to Blythe's comment. You two are like degenerate kindred spirits. My friends ARE alcoholics. Not me though. I can quit any time I want. I just don't want to. Instead, I think I'll just get rid of my friends. Getting drunk alone in my darkened house while playing "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" on my 6-string sounds better anyway.

At August 05, 2007 2:05 PM, Winter said...: I disagree with Dmbmeg, I suggest you drink more and then post pictures.

GR Response: Pictures of what? Not the vomit I hope. If I posted pictures while drunk, they would just all end up being pictures of my penis. No one wants that. Trust me.

At August 05, 2007 7:02 PM, Irish and Jew said...: Hmmm revenge... I really hope u come up with something good. May I suggest filling all the bottles of booze at yr place with water. Very very cruel.

~Irish

PS: I used to teach waterskiing :)
GR Response: You used to teach waterskiing? I am now officially fascinated by you. Next summer is the summer of learning to barefoot. I will either die from it - or become irresistible to women. I can't wait.

Comment Responding

2007-08-07T12:23:00.000-05:00

I have been so bad about responding to comments lately. For that, I apologize. To make up for it, I am making sure I respond to every past comment (Disclaimer: I am only starting with the post before last, and I am not necessarily promising that I will respond to comments in this post). The best way to do this is for me to just do a full post with your comments in it. This makes it easier for you to read because you don't have to go back and read the old posts and comments to see the hilarious things I wrote and will write. It also makes is harder for me because I have to cut and paste and format and shit.

If you are reading this site semi-regularly (meaning you stumble back in here every other month when you are drunk) and don't read the comments you are missing out because 1) there are people writing shit in the comments that is much funnier than anything I throw together, 2) the comments section is how you find the hot girl-bloggers, and 3) Occasionally I post a link in the comments section to a photo of my naked ass. Okay, I don't actually do that, but If you want to see my naked ass I will happily photograph it and send you a copy. (P.S. - Before responding, check yourself to make sure you are okay with light to moderate ass-hair).

From The Return Of Lisa:

CJ said...

dmbmeg- I've been locked out of my dorm room many times, but I was in the opposite situation... the sexin' wasn't happening inside the dorm room as much as it was on the outside of it.

Yeah, those were good drunkin' times.

Fun fact about the University of Oregon dorm rooms: the same guy who designed them, also designed the majority of prisons up and down the west coast...

GR Response: Why is it that DmbMeg gets more comments here than I do? Do you mean you got locked out of your dorm room and decided to go ahead and have the sex in the hall? If so, very cool. I have never done that, but I did once break up a fight between two drunk girls who had ripped each other's shirts and were semi-topless. I accidentally touched a breast during the melee. Damn, the good times I used to have. Crazy good times.

Snow White said...

Hmmm... I think some guys shave "down there" 'cause they think they're more likely to get,um, a little mouth action? Sorry, I guess I don't have your way with tact. *grin*

GR Response: Are you telling me that If I went bald "down there," there would be girls who might otherwise refuse oral action that would now gladly "go down town?" I have never had a girl refuse a blow job by saying, "I'm sorry I would like to, but you just have too much damn pubic hair." Normally, the response is, "I'm sorry, but if you want a blow job you need 10 more dollars."

Winter said...

I like the idea of it being pink and in the shape of a heart.

GR Response: If you ever find a guy that will shave it in the shape of heart, and color it pink, you have got a hold on to that guy because you will never ever meet another guy more pussy-whipped than that.

HAR said...

"I never fight with the ladies because 1) I am not a douche, and 2) The hot girls don't really "go out with me" per se." High five.

GR Response: Hive five right back at you. Was the high five for not being a douche or because I don't get any action?

TK said...

You're psychotic. Who on Earth asks that question? Awesome, man. I'd never do it, but I sure as hell am glad that I know someone who would.

GR Response: TK, I can honestly say without bullshit that I didn't think the question was THAT bad. I have since polled my friends in real life, and on this blog, and have learned that no one, anywhere, can believe I asked that. I mean, I knew it was somewhat inappropriate. I knew it was a little harsh, insensitive and possibly offensive, but I didn't think it was really, really offensive or anything. Turns out, I may be a heartless prick. Who knew? You saying, "you're psychotic" is one of the tamer responses I have received. Most people have called me a fucking asshole, homophobe, tactless fucking prick, or (my favorite) a miserable heartless son of a bitch. You live, you learn I guess.

onthevirg said...

That has to be a 985 out of 10 on inappropriate break room banter scale. I applaud your fine work sir. On the plus side, though she may never speak to you again, at least she didn't straight kick you in the nuts.

GR Response: You're right, of course. I guess I am lucky I didn't a kick to the ball baggage. However, she is speaking to me. She didn't seem that mad about it the next day. I don't think they are back together, but I'm afraid to ask. Shit - I wonder if she will tell him my question if they get back together?

Mortarbored said...

I just found this by reading the blogrolls of people on my blogroll while at work.

I can't believe you actually asked that. Was it one of those immediate regrets where you start wincing right as you start the last word of the question?

GR Response: I knew it sounded bad when I asked it - and that I should have set it up better maybe. But I didn't really expect her anger. I did wince a little as it was coming out. Maybe that is why she reacted the way she did. I've heard that women can sense weakness. They are exactly like wild animals.

kelsi said...

i was going to comment on the post, but then i realized that there's a club here that i'm not part of. :(

nonetheless - i'm totally into breaking into conversations and making everyone all awkward, so - she's clearly waaaaaay too uptight to be dealt with like a human being, if she couldn't shrug off the suggestion that she's been married to a gay guy for the last couple of years.

just sayin'.

GR Response: There's no club to be a part of. Most of these people just showed up here one day and started making fun of me. Like my birthday parties, only with more anonymity. Now if only I could get my uncle to comment by telling sexually explicit jokes to my friends it would be just like home.

Thanks for being on my side. I keep telling people who tell me what an ass I am that she needs to lighten up. My personal belief is that she reacted so strongly because she feels, deep down, that I may be right.

Okay - that is all I've got. The cutting and pasting is killing me. Maybe I'll get to the next post later. Word to your mothers and what not.

I've Been Away

2007-08-06T08:59:00.000-05:00

As I alluded to in my previous post, I was out last week in some meetings. I was totally gone Thursday and Friday (on assignment, as I like to say), and I avoided computer contact most of the weekend. What did this blogging semi-hiatus make me realize? I read way too many blogs.

Total number of non-spam, work related e-mails in my inbox Monday morning: 7

Total number of blog posts unread, according to Google Reader: 100+

How many is 100+ exactly? I don't really know, but I know that I deleted 20 Overheard in the Office posts and it didn't drop below 100+.

Either I read way too much crap other people have to write, or you other bloggers write way too damn much. So, today I am catching up on reading blogs, responding to comments and posting. After, you know, I read those seven e-mails and check my one voice mail.

On a side note: I passed a car this weekend with a bumper sticker pimping Texas Christian University - The Horned Frogs. The Horned Frog is also known as the Horny Toad. Which led me to the divine revelation that is the TCU Horny Toad's Football Team's new slogan:

"TCU Horny Toads - we have just enough pent-up energy to KICK YOUR ASS!"

Get it? They are both horny AND Christian. Get it? These ideas are gold people.

I'm Exhausted

2007-08-01T23:17:00.000-05:00

I'm exhausted. I know when I begin with a sentence as dramatic as that you expect a fantastically great story probably involving hours (minutes?) of sexual adventure. Normally, if there is one thing I am known for it is sexual adventure. Sexual adventure and waterskiing - those are two things I do well. In reality, I am not known for either of those things. I would like to be though. I would also like to be known for having a large wang. (Although I might actually have to have a large wang to be known for such a feature - but I was not so gifted - it can still be a fantasy though). Come to think of it I would also like to be known for vehemently opposing use of the word 'wang' or writing about 'wangs' in blogs posts.

Anyway - I am exhausted. My days this week have been spent in meetings. I am not talking about those pussy meetings where you sit in a conference room for 30 minutes to discuss your projects and action items and planning your agenda for your next 30 minute meeting. I am talking about all day, ass numbing, want to slit your wrists using your ball point pin, meetings. The kind where you listen to one guy drone on for 6 hours while staring at a giant projection screen on the wall and day dreaming about whether his next slide will be purple or pink.

My nights this week have involved nothing but gin, porn and guitar. I had a friend staying with me this week while he was looking at houses around the area. He did his thing during the day - and we met up each night for heavy drinking. This always devolved into watching porn. When we got bored with that we drank some more. To make it interesting, when I got super drunk each night this week I pulled out my guitar and clumsily played 1990s alt rock songs. I rule by the way.

[After re-reading that paragraph it all sounds pretty gay what with the porn and guitar playing. I promise it wasn't. It was cool. I rule. Just trust me. I rule.]

Last night was my friend's last night here. We drank until 3. I went to work at 8. He left sometime while I was at work. When I got home tonight my plan was to watch Entourage and go to bed (probably masturbate first, but I didn't think I needed to share everything - I might have thought about Drew Barrymore in Playboy, circa 1995 while masturbating - there now you know everything).

Instead, I am came home to a bathroom covered in vomit. Apparently my friendly house guest decided to throw up at some point last night or this morning. He apparently decided to miss the toilet and throw up all over the floor, walls, toilet and door to the bathroom. He also apparently decided to drunkenly try and clean the bathroom using hand towels and Formula 409.

So instead of a lovely night with just me and Drew, I spent the evening scooping chunks of vomit from under my baseboards.

Five steps to cleaning your friend's vomit from your bathroom:

1) Curse like a motherfucking sailor. Use the word 'cunt' no less than four times.

2) Call friend, use the word 'cunt' at least 3 times.

3) Don surgical gloves, acquire spray bottle full of bleach. Curse some more.

4) Use no less than two rolls of paper towels and one toothbrush - scooping, cleansing and brushing.

5) Plot revenge.

So that was my night. Now I don't have time for a good post because I have been knuckle deep in matter that was previously in my friends stomach.

I hope you had a good night, though.

The Return of Lisa

2007-07-25T08:54:00.000-05:00

This morning I had a talk with Lisa. You remember Lisa don't you? She with the bare-balled fireman husband. I heard from a co-worker the other day that he heard that Lisa and her husband had separated. (Separated seems to be married-code for "taking a break") I kind of knew this was coming because, like I said before, Lisa and her husband seemed to fight a lot. I always suspected it was because Lisa was hot and her husband was a douche. Hot girls and douches always fight a lot - it is a law of nature. I never fight with the ladies because 1) I am not a douche, and 2) The hot girls don't really "go out with me" per se.

After my last talk with Lisa, I began to wonder if they didn't fight all of the time because her husband was secretly gay and/or a porn star (what with the pube shaving and all). There has to something more to his story than a regular douchey guy who likes to shave the hair from his balls and ball-area to look like he is a 10 year old boy scout. I still don't have the answer to what his deal was, but I learned in the comments to the previous post that some women would be just fine with a shorn pubic region, and at least one preferred it. Most, however, seemed to think it was odd and would prefer a just a trim. I wonder if there are any women out there who request it? What would that conversation be like? What would I do if a girl I was seeing asked me to shave everything off? Hell, I guess if a girl was willing to have the sex with me, I'd dye the pubes pink and shave them in the shape of a heart.

This morning, curiosity got the best of me and I waited for Lisa to head for the breakroom. I followed her in, and thankfully, we were the only people in there. I immediately turned on the charming Garrett you all know and love dearly. I said, "Sorry to hear about you and your husband - yeah Mike told me."

She clearly did not want to talk about this with me over a donut and coffee. She replied only, "thanks," and gave a little smile to convey "thanks for bringing it up asshole - I don't want to talk about it." However, I pressed on. I asked her if she was doing okay. Yes, she was. I asked if she needed anything - help moving, etc. No, she didn't. I asked if the split was fairly amicable. Not really she said.

Then I asked what happened. She told me that they fought a lot, and over the dumbest things (no surprise there - damn those hot girls and douches). She said that one day they got into a big fight about where to go to dinner, and they were yelling at each other, and he said he was moving out. He hasn't been back. He sent a friend to get some of his things.

Then, with clearly no sense of the appropriate lead in to this question, I asked, "Do you think he left because he is gay?" As soon as I asked it, I realized there was no appropriate way to ever ask that question. I realized that it was a pretty offensive thing to ask. I realized I looked like a deranged person. She stared at me - with long, slow blinks of her giant eyes. She pursed her lips together and squinted her eyes a bit. As dumb as my question was to her, I could not tell what her immediate reaction meant. Was it anger at me for asking such an inappropriate question, or anger because she actually thought he might be gay?

She looked at me for a couple of seconds, and then I had my answer. "Do you, Garrett, think he is gay? You don't know him - so I would like to know why you think he is gay? Is there some reason, Garrett, that you think I married a gay man, and couldn't tell for these last two years? Why would you ask me that question?"

I immediately retreated. No reason, I said. I was just shocked by it all. Dumb question to ask. I am stupid, and so on. Then I left.

So I tried to get an answer. I was really hoping he left because he came out of the closet to her. Maybe, I thought - she had had him followed after their split to a gay bar where his hairless body was witnessed dancing the night away to the sounds of The Village People. Perhaps she discovered him on the cover of some gay porn in the days following his departure. Why would she be watching gay porn? Why don't women watch gay porn the way men watch girl-on-girl porn? Anyway. . .

I really wish I had the answer to the question of this guy's pubic hairs.

Top 2 Drunken Moments Experienced Not By Me, But By Someone In The Vicinity of Me

2007-07-24T16:31:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday everyone. I hope you are, like me, enjoying life by being slightly intoxicated at work (don't tell anyone) and contemplating your chances of scoring with the newest executive assistant hired in the office.

I thought we should celebrate this Tuesday with me telling you of the Top 2 Drunken Moments Experienced Not By Me, But By Someone In The Vicinity of Me.

I know that you have a very strong desire for me to tell you stories that involve stupid things I have done, but I'm not really up for that today. I don't want to tell you about the time I broke into the student union in college and got myself locked in. I am not going to tell you about the time I threw up 12 red, girl drinks on a tour bus at 3:00 am in Colorado. I don't even feel the need to tell you about the time I slept in the bushes outside of my dorm room because I couldn't find my keys (they were in my pocket).

No, today I want to tell you about the misfortune of others. I am what you might call a "caring friend." If there is someone in need, I will be there for them. Of course by that I mean I will be there to laugh, point, call others to laugh and point, and then run when the cops show up. I'm a nice guy like that. Think about it like this: If you are my friend and you get so drunk that you do something stupendously stupid - you most likely are not going to remember it the next day. If you want to know how you ended up with a transvestite hooker in your bed - then I will be there to remind you of the details the next day. Otherwise, how would you ever know what really happened. Plus, no one likes it when others intervene in their drunken escapades. It is best to let the drunkenness flow naturally.

In reverse order - Top 2 Drunk Moments Experienced Not By Me, But By Someone In The Vicinity of Me:

Number 2 - In college, my roommates and I were pre-gaming at our house. This began at 4 p.m. when the last of us got out of class and we went for Taco Bell and beer. At 10:30 (6 and a half hours of drinking later) we decided to go a party of a friend. Only, we remembered from the last time we went to a party of this girl's house that it was impossible to get inside because of how many people showed up, so it basically consisted of a shit ton of people standing around a front yard and drinking. We didn't know if there were going to be kegs there so we decided it was best if we brought a lot of beer. This is when my friend Danny came up with a genius idea: we would go to Wal-Mart and buy an ice chest.

You see, we started talking about what kind of beer we were going to buy, and then started thinking about holding this beer on someone's front lawn like a bunch of idiots. Danny's idea was best summed up by him when he said, "Dudes, if we get an ice chest we'll have some place for our beer, but also a place to sit if we get tired of standing." We were deeply concerned with looking like idiots while holding beer in the middle of a yard, so we decided the remedy of three guys sitting on an ice chest in the middle of a yard would be so much better. Anyway, the fucking ice chest doesn't have anything to do with the story - so quit fixating on it.

So we get to the Wal-Mart. Danny decides we need a cart (for the beer) so he grabs the first one he sees, and yells to my other roommate Joey, "Get in. I'll push." Joey, being the smart guy that he is, jumps in. Danny begins running through the parking lot screaming like an idiot and pushing Joey. After his second lap he gives Joey a final push - which goes straight into the side of a maroon Ford Taurus. Joey flies over the hood on to the pavement in a heap. Danny and I both, being the concerned friends that we are, run directly to the side of the car, where we begin examining the side of the Taurus (which has a huge fucking scratch in it). Joey gets up holding his forearm, which he immediately declares is broken. We tell him to "quit being a pussy" and "to rub some dirt on it and take out his tampon" and other similarly supportive things.

Joey suggests we take him to the ER. Danny tells him we can't do that. He has been drinking, and he'll get arrested - Danny tells Joey. Joey, being the smart guy that he is says, "holy shit, you're right." So we head in to Wal-Mart, buy thirty beers or so, and head on to our party. Of course, Joey can't move his arm and has some pretty bad swelling in it - so he takes off his shirt, makes a sling out of it, and ties it around his shoulder. So there we are, three guys - sitting on an ice chest - one not wearing a shirt because it is wrapped around him in a make-shift sling. The next day, an x-ray revealed Joey's arm was broken in two places. What a trooper. Not one of us got laid that night.

Number 1 - My senior year of college I met a girl. Her name was Natalie. Here is what you need to know about Natalie. She was hot. When you walk into a room full of people there is always the hottest girl in the room. Universally, men can spot the hottest girl in the room within 4 seconds, and 98% of the time it will be the same girl picked by all men. For example, if you took two guys and faced them in the direction of 40 girls standing in a room, one guy could say, "damn - do you see that girl," and the other guy would immediately say, "fuckin' A - she is hot" (That is, of course, if he were the type of guy who says things like "Fuckin' A"). Anyway, Natalie was that girl.

Natalie and I had the sexual intercourse. I tell you this at the front of this paragraph because I am just so fucking proud of it. We did it. We had the sex. Anyway, we had been drinking all night at a karaoke bar. Things progressed and it soon became clear that I would be going to Natalie's apartment. The only problem - Natalie was drinking way too much. I knew that if I didn't have the sex soon, we would be past the point of sexability. Luckily, Natalie held up like the hot girl I knew she was. We both closed the bar with tequila shots. I won't get into the details of the sexual relations, but lets just say - I was amazing. Have you ever been in the middle of the sexing when you think to yourself, "Goddamn I wish I had looked at a clock before I started because this has to be a new record!" Well that was me. I was like Charles Bronson in the 'Great Escape' - I was digging tunnels.

So things in that department came to a end (so to speak). She was blissfully happy (as are most women that encounter me). We decide I am sleeping there because I am way to drunk to make it home. We both fall asleep in her bed. At 4 am - I wake up to her climbing and clawing over the top of me like an insane person. She is yelling, "I'm gonna be sick - move, move!" She makes it over me and runs for the bathroom door. Only she misses the door by 4 feet and runs smack into the wall at full force. I guess impending vomit is way more important than pain and humiliation, so she bounces off of the wall, adjusts course and sprints to the bathroom. Thereafter I was treated to a half hour of vomit-sounds.

Before you berate me and my coldheartedness - I tried to go in and help her, but she locked the door behind her. I don't know why. I knocked and asked if she was okay - she said she was fine - she was sorry - etc. What else could I do? I went back to sleep.

Thirty minutes later, I wake up not knowing where I am or what has happened, but someone is knocking on a door. I get up and go to the front door of the apartment - there is no one there. I return to the bedroom and hear the knocking again - it is coming from the bathroom. Natalie is inside and she is crying.

"Natalie, what's wrong?" I say as I try the knob - still locked.

"My door is broken!" She cries through the door.

"Natalie, its locked - you have to unlock it."

"I CAN'T GET OUT!" She screams at me through the door.

"Okay calm down - do you see the doorknob. . ." It was then that I realize there is no light under the door - the lights were totally out. Then I realize she is not jiggling the door knob like she is tyring to open it. "Natalie - do you have the doorknob?" I hear her scratching at the door, and then -

"I can't find the knob - it's not on the door"

"Natalie - the knob is on the other side - try your left side"

The door knob turns, the door opens and a teary eyed Natalie looks at me and says, "the doorknob was broken." Totally naked and smelling faintly of vomit she slid back into bed. Let me tell you, my lovely little people. She was still hot.

There you have it. The top 2 funniest drunk things (in my opinion) to have ever occurred in my presence. A close third (which I may tell some other time) was my friend getting drunk - pulling out his penis, and telling everyone how big it was. "You can tell how big it is when it is in your mouth" he said.

Have a great Tuesday, and remember that those times when you see only one set of footprints, it was those times when I carried you.

Light Weekend Reading

2007-07-22T22:50:00.000-05:00

Well I heard there was some new book on the market this weekend. I don't know much about it, but from what I can tell it has something to do with the homoerotic tales of a prepubescent wizard and his "partner."

While the rest of the world was reading about a young magical boy and his broomstick, I also engaged in a little light reading myself. I know these are nothing compared to Harry Potter and the Hendersons (or whatever the name of the book is), but I liked them. I only had time for four:

The Basic Works of Aristotle, edited by Richard McKeon (A little Metaphysics baby)

Homer's The Odyssey. (Although that Odysseus can be a bit of bitch)

A little Hegel. There's nothing funny about Hegel.

And my favorite of the weekend. Beyond Good & Evil by Friedrich Fucking Nietzsche.

Don't worry - I won't ruin the endings for you.

I hope you all had a fantastic weekend, because I love you and want you to be happy.

Bicycling and Sexism

2007-07-20T11:32:00.000-05:00

Three years ago this month, on a street near my house, I witnessed first hand two people peddling a two-person bicycle (a lot of numbers in that sentence). At the time, I remember thinking, "how lovely - a nice couple out enjoying some exercise together." Then they got a little closer and I thought, "Damn that woman really needs to peddle harder - look at that ass - her seat is screaming 'Oh Jesus, put me out of my misery'." My third thought as I passed them was, "I bet that guy doesn't want to enjoy nature with his wife, I bet he suggested this just so he could get his wife's ass out of the 'Look Out It's Gonna Blow!' category." Then I wondered how hard that guy was really peddling. Was he faking it just to give his wife extra exercise?

Over the next three years, I would see several more of these bicycles around town. I later learned they are called Tandem Bicycles. Every single time I saw one of these, it was always ridden by a man and a woman. I guess this is what counts as a fun afternoon for a middle aged couple in the suburbs. Since these sightings began, I have become obsessed with placement of the riders on the bike. Without exception, 100 percent of the time, the man is in the front and the woman in the rear. Let me tell you folks, I find this sexist as hell.

Examples from a basic Google Search:

Look how much fun these people are having. They are riding along, and the rear rider (ha!) is oblivious to the message being sent to the world by her partner. That message, "I'm a fucking Man. Shit, goddamn, I'm a Man. I make more money than my wife and I make her look me in the eyes when she gives me blowjobs."

What a lovely couple this is. She likes gigantic afro hair. He like tie dye t-shirts and black shoes. He might as well have "If you can read this, the bitch fell off!" printed on the back of that shirt.

This next couple looks like they are having a good time on vacation. They rented a nice tandem bike for a little tour of the city. When they get home, they'll pour a nice cup of coffee and reminisce about the vacation. His mug will have printed on the side: "Women are for making babies," and when they are done talking he'll say, "Bitch! Go make me a sandwich!"

What the holy shit is this:

The point to all of this is that I am declaring an end to sexist bicycling ways. No more should women have to stay in the subservient rear position. No longer should they be forced to endure the directional whims of their counterparts. No longer should they be forced to stare at their partners' ass crack for the entirety of a 5 mile ride. We can end this now. We have to band together and form a coalition. Just say no to sexism in cycling.

On a related note, how does a gay couple decide the positioning on a tandem bike? Is it a Top/Bottom thing? Do they flip a coin? I don't know. I don't have the answers to these questions.

Burt Reynolds' Mustache

2007-07-19T09:30:00.000-05:00

Today I am posting over at Burt Reynolds' Mustache. Please, for the love of God, go read it and leave a comment. I'm begging you here.

Frito Chili Pie

2007-07-18T08:42:00.000-05:00

We here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide, would like to formally endorse the consumption of Frito Chili Pie for lunch on a weekly or semi-monthly basis. As part of its endorsement, This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide, suggests consumers of Frito Chili Pie take the following measures while consuming:

1) Choose a quality chili from a well-known, respected and trusted restaurant or vendor of chilis.

2) Add shredded cheese to the top of the heaping mound of chili.

3) Onions are preferred as a topping by This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide.

4) Avoid the Jalapeño if offered. It will only take away from the natural goodness that is the Frito base, and dilute the natural taste that the combination of crunchy diced onions, over hot chili, creates.

5) If possible, request the Frito Chili Pie light on the Fritos. Then buy a second bag of Fritos. As you consume the Frito Chili Pie, add fresh Fritos to the mixture so as to prolong the sensation of fresh crunchy Fritos throughout the course of your dining experience.

If you live in a location that does not serve a Frito Chili Pie, your locale may be Godless and uncivilized. I suggest you move, and may God have mercy on your soul.

My Boss Now Thinks I Am Odd

2007-07-17T08:29:00.000-05:00

You can tell a lot about a person when you get in their car. Just as the type of car you drive reflects on your personality so does the interior of your car. Things to look for when you get into someone's car: 1) Is it clean? Are there two week old McDonald's sacks strewn about the back seat floorboard? If so, most likely a fat ass or bulimic (Those are the only people who appear to eat McDonald's besides me. I am normal); 2) What are the music options? (Note: not the preferred genre of music, but rather the medium by which the music is played) Are there cassette tapes lying around? CD's? Are the CD's in cases and put away? Are they in one of those sleeve things? Is there an iPod being played through some elaborate system of FM transmitters? And the worst: Is it a generic MP3 player? If cassette tapes, DO NOT GET INTO THE CAR. This person is probably a pedophile. Side note: I had to look up that word to make sure I was spelling it correctly. Talk about things that will get you fired. Google searches of pedophile; 3) Does the person smoke? If they smoke they are doing it in the car. Remember: If She Smokes, She Pokes; 4) Does this person like pornography? 99% of people who view print pornography (i.e. not internet porn like the rest of (normal) America) do so in their car while driving naked around public parks.

I could go on and on with this list, but it is even boring me to type it. I can't imagine what it must be like for you to read it. Then again, I can't really imagine how bad it must be to have to read this blog sporadically every so often, off and on, from time to time. I imagine the few of you that do come back after reading one post are like those cutters we learn about on MTV.

Anyway, my boss now thinks I am odd. This is because he took a ride in my car. In said car he found my print pornography from last night's trip to the park. I'm only kidding folks. (He didn't find it).

First, I would like to note how weird it is to have your boss in your car. I felt like I was his driver. He knew where we were going. He was in charge. I work for him, he gave me commands and talked to me in a demeaning manner. Come to think of it - I didn't just feel like I was his driver - I actually was.

So late last week we have to take a trip across town. I didn't know about this trip when I drove in that day. I didn't get a chance to clean out my car or anything. As we were walking to the parking garage he says we can take my car. We walk over to my car, he opens the backseat to put his briefcase in, and looks over and says, "Reid, what is that?" He points in to my backseat, in which there is a dirty, gigantic machete-type blade wrapped in newspaper. I am sure he immediately suspects I am a serial killer.

"Oh, that's just a lawnmower blade." I unwrap part of it to show him it is harmless. "I had to take in to get a replacement."

So I get in the front seat, put the key in the ignition and forget to turn the radio down. This comes blaring through the radio at ear drum deafening volume:

You know I’m such a fool for you
You got me wrapped around your finger
Do you have to let it linger

That's right, my little friends, The Cranberries at full volume. In my defense, it was on the radio, and when I exited the car, Eddie Vedder was singing this:

Oh please don't go out on me don't go out on me now
Never acted up before don't go on me now
I swear I never took it for granted just thought of it now
Suppose I abused you just passing it on

So my boss looks over at me, with an annoyed look on his face as if to say, "Reid, can't you play your girl music at normal volumes."

Next, we are driving on the interstate when a white plastic sack is blowing across the highway. It blows up from the car in front of us, and goes right against my window, and over the car. Without thinking I immediately quip, "That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

He looks over at me from the passenger seat, but doesn't say anything. I sort of stammer, "you know from that movie - with the guy - that filmed the trash - it was the most beautiful thing he ever saw - Kevin Spacey - the girls - American Beauty - you know - American Beauty?" I don't think he knew. After I finished stammering, he looked at me for 5 full seconds, then turned his eyes back to the road.

Not five minutes later, we see a church van with a flat tire on the side of the road. A whole gaggle of church-going teens is out on the side of the road watching someone put on a spare. Again, without thinking, I say, "I guess they could just pray for a new tire."

This time, he looks over at me like I am the anti-christ, devil child (AC/DC). He frowns, furrows his brow and says, "A real Good Samaritan, huh Reid?" Those were the last words spoken between us for the rest of the 20 minute drive.

I can't wait for pay raise season. If he were witty, my first paycheck after pay raise season, would have written across it, "Maybe you should have prayed for a raise, Reid."

Short Post

2007-07-13T10:48:00.000-05:00

I had a random, semi-anonymous e-mail this morning telling me that my posts were too long, and that if I want more readers I should write shorter reader-friendly posts.

How about I just start writing with all abbreviations? Wld tht b cool w u? I cld do ths 4eva. I rck.

Maybe I should stop writing elaborate stories and just focus on regular everyday things that happen to me:

Dear Readers: Today I woke up and took a shower. The soap was just a sliver, but I had already gotten in the water and I didn't want to get back out. I just made it work for me. Don't you hate that? Sincerely, GR (your BFF)

How about this for a suggestion? How about you have a nice bowl of shut the fuck up?

Is this post succinct enough for you, asshole?

ADDENDUM: Okay I feel bad now that DmbMeg said I was full of hate. I'm sorry semi-anonymous e-mailer. I shouldn't have told you to shut the fuck up or called you an asshole. You were only trying to make me a better "blogger." Maybe you are actually the King of Bloggers and you were providing benevolent advise. Semi-Anonymous e-mailer, since we are making up, I would like to say that I couldn't tell from your e-mail address if you are male or female. If the latter, maybe we could talk some more. You could provide me some writing advice in person, say over tequila shots and ecstasy. Send me a photo and your stats, and we'll talk.

The Virgin Wedding

2007-07-11T23:05:00.000-05:00

A couple of Saturdays ago I attended a wedding.

Normally, I have a very strict policy: I do not got to weddings. Exceptions to the strict policy: (1) I will attend a wedding if it is a family member getting married and another family member will make me feel guilty if I don't attend, and (2) I will attend a wedding if I am a guest of someone else, and by attending said wedding there is the slightest possibility that I might get some "action" (if you know what I mean).

Here are three good reasons never to go to weddings: (1) you have to engage in constant small talk with people you don't know ("Yeah, these centerpieces are really nice" or "No, I drove in on 412, saved myself 10 minutes driving time" or "yes, I do think the groom's mother looks like she has been drinking"), (2) you have to attend hundreds of mini-events (beginning with the engagement party and ending with the throwing of bird seed at these people as they cower for cover and dash for a limo. You constantly have some guy telling you what to do and were to be next. "Okay, now it's time to watch the Happy Couple cut the cake!" Then everyone shuffles over to a gigantic cake so they can oooh an aahh while the Happy Couple feed each other tiny little bites of cake). (3) you have to watch someone you know well stand in the front of a large group of people and say mushy things to one another like, "I take you as my friend and love, beside me and apart from me, in laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility, asking that you be no other than yourself, loving what I know of you, trusting what I do not know yet, in all the ways that life may find us." (Think about this - if you were at a party and a friend of yours grabbed the hand of his date and said this to her you would punch him right in a gonad without hesitation. (A) no one talks like that, and (B) nobody wants to hear you talk like that if you do) and I don't even want to get into the fact that I never want to stand, smile and clap for a buddy that is tongue kissing his bride in front of her parents.

So, back to the point. A couple of Saturdays ago I attended a wedding. This was the oddest of all that I have been to. It fell within exception number 1 - family wedding. This was my cousin's wedding. She was getting married to a guy that looked remarkably like Bluto from the Popeye cartoons. He had a big thick goatee and was probably 6'5, weighing something just north of a metric fucking-huge. Anyway - something you should know about 98% of my family - they are very, very religious. Like southern baptist kind of religious. Not just southern baptist kind of religious, but "the rapture is coming soon and Jesus will return to carry me to heaven" kind of religious. I hope you can deal with that revelation. I have learned over time to cope, and so can you. I have faith.

I wasn't really sure how religious my cousin was. The wedding was held at a non-denominational church, but I don't know exactly what that signals. Probably either so religious you can't be tied down by denomination, or slightly religious, but you like the rock band that plays Sunday mornings.

So i go to this wedding. I am sitting next to my mother and my aunt. The following is exactly what happened about 12 minutes into the thing:

Preacher/ Officiator: May I have the ring. [Takes the ring from the Maid of Honor - holds it up for the crowd to see]. Joseph, Today Kara is giving you a special ring. This is no ordinary ring. This, Joseph, is Kara's "purity ring." You see, several years ago Kara made a vow to God that she would keep herself sexually pure until her marriage. She made her vow to remain sexually pure because she loves God and wants to be faithful to Him, and because she knew that one day she would love you. Her love for God, and the love she has for you has kept her sexually pure. Today, she gives you this ring. With it she is giving to you the gift of her sexually pure body, and she will be giving you a gift later. [Ill-timed pause. . . bridal party shifts uncomfortably. . . Groom smiles sheepishly, looks at his feet. . . uncomfortable laughter from the audience. . . Bride glances slightly over her shoulder at her family sitting it the front row] Tonight, Joseph, she will be giving you her virginity.

Wow, it was rough. I mean, I sat there with a dumbfounded look on my face, thinking, "is this guy really saying these things at a wedding?" The most amazing part is, we get out of the wedding part to go to the next organized mini-event - "the non-drinking reception" and my mother and my aunt are talking about how beautiful the wedding was, how beautiful everyone looked, etc., and I say, "what was up with the preacher saying 'sexually' like eight times, and talking about them having sex later tonight?" The two older, serious-religion ladies look at me like I had said the bride looked like a big white cow holding a rose bouquet. My aunt responded, "well I thought it was nice." My mother, looking at me disappointingly said, "Garrett, that ring was very important to her. I thought it was a nice sentiment"

So there you have it, something else in the world I just don't get. Why in the world would she have wanted to stand at the front of a church, in front of her mother and little old grandparents, and announce, "I, KARA, HEREBY AFFIRM THAT I HAVE NEVER HAD A PENIS INSIDE OF MY VAGINA, AND I OFFICIALLY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT TONIGHT, AT THE HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS OFF OF I-35 IN AUSTIN, TEXAS, I WILL ALLOW THIS MAN TO ENTER ME, THEREBY GIVING HIM THE GIFT THAT IS MY VIRGINITY"

If ever I am getting married, and the guy holding the bible starts talking about the fact that I'll be fucking (making love to?) the woman I am standing next to in a few short hours, there might just be some curse words flying right there at the ceremony.

Also, while we are on the subject, does anyone know anything about these "purity rings"? What are the rules? Is it only intercourse that counts as causing "impurity"? Just the vagina-kind of intercourse or "other" kinds as well? What about handjobs? Is there an addendum for handjobs? Do you have to give back the ring if you have the sex? Does the "five second rule" apply (you know if he only "puts it in" for under 5 seconds)? Is she allowed to think about sex while masturbating? My god, is she allowed to masturbate?!

No word on whether the Groom was also giving the gift that was his virginity. If so, lets hope for both of their sakes, he watched an instructional video or something before stopping at that Holiday Inn Express.

Ass Smells

2007-07-09T11:10:00.000-05:00

I've been doing some car shopping as of late. I want a used car because 1) I hate car payments, and 2) I'm not a big "car guy" so having a really nice new car is kind of wasted on me. Some used cars - very nice. Others - I just don't get. I got in a car on Saturday that smelled like a mixture of day-old ass and feet (you know those kind of feet that really overweight women have that are all crusty on the heels, cracked, with big yellow toenails). Didn't the salespeople notice the smell when they were getting it ready to sell, hanging those red, white and blue balloons on it and writing on it with huge shoe polish letters? They show it to me, I sit in the driver's seat and get right back out. I really don't need anything else in my life smelling like ass. I already have an ass that smells like ass, and that really does it for me in the ass smelling department.

All of this talk of ass smells makes me think - why do asses have to smell? I guess, technically, asses don't smell any different than the rest of the body. Rather, poop smells. So, why does poop have to smell? If God was really the environmentalist/recycler everyone says he is, then why didn't he make poop smell and taste like strawberry jam, and urine like Grape Kool-Aid. Think of the landfill problems we could alleviate without the need for diapers. Have a baby? You got yourself snack food for the first two years at least. Instead of toilets that flush, you'd just have a nice little seat with the toaster next to it. Wake up, make some coffee, head to the restroom for a nice, healthy, environmentally friendly snack on whole wheat toast.

This post is, my friends, the downside to coming in without a plan. It started out a normal, rational post and devolved into something horrible.

I apologize.

People Ain't No Good

2007-07-05T21:45:00.000-05:00

You know what? If there is one simple rule everyone should follow, it is to be more like me. Wrap your mind around that one for just a cotton picking minute. If every person on God's green (but mostly blue) Earth were like me, the world would look a little something like this: There would be no drownings (I know how to swim like a fucking champ), there would be very few wars (how can world leaders disagree on anything when they get together at Camp David over a Rolling Rock and a story about the time I ran across campus with only a sock covering my twigs and berries), people would have blissful sexual fulfillment (I am what you might call "fucktacular" in bed), outrageous haircutting prices would plummet (I get a $15 cut every three weeks and my hair looks like Nick Lachey's wet hair dreams), men would be easier to be around because there would be no penis envy (all men would be delightfully average-sized, but perfectly capable of pleasing a woman as long as the right positions are used), gang violence would become a thing of the past (I don't really like to wear red, hate low sagging pants, and have trouble getting my fingers into gang sign positions), and third world child labor would cease (I haven't purchased clothing at Wal-Mart since that very ill-conceived "Skate or Die" t-shirt in sixth grade). Most importantly, every person on the planet would have a super fantastic sense of humor.

A good example: On Tuesday, a co-worker and I took a walk across the street for a cup of coffee. Well I take that back. I get a cup of coffee, he gets a chai tea latte with soy milk or some some such nonsensical thing. This guy and I used to be good friends, then one day he comes to work in a dark navy pin stripe suit, dark rimmed glasses and blond(er) hair that looks as if he spent the morning hanging from his feet on one of those upside down rack things, while filling his blond tresses with Vavoom. Around this same time, he began ordering Chai Tea Latte's with a copy of the newspaper under his arm. All of this is not the point - just some background before I say: We go get coffee together during the afternoon about three times a week. We used to be okay friends - now we get coffee together three times a week.

Anyway - we usually talk for a few while they make the coffee. This guy tells me all kinds of stories - and I always listen with my eyes squinted intently, my brow furrowed in interest, while I say things like, "wow, they did that?" and "I can't believe your wife would say that to your mother" or "I did not realize you had to shave your balls for a vasectomy."

So Tuesday we are walking out of the coffee shop when a guy walks past me on the sidewalk who looks EXACTLY like Harrison Ford. Well, he was a little taller. Now that I think about it as I sit here, I don't know how tall Harrison Ford is. Okay do this. Imagine Harrison Ford standing on the street in front of you, now imagine a guy 4-6 inches taller than that - that is what this guy looked like. Also, a little thinner than Harrison Ford. But not too much thinner - maybe a little lankier. But nonetheless, exactly like Harrison Ford. It actually could have been him. Or maybe his younger, taller, skinnier brother (this guy looked a few years younger). So the point is - I pass a Harrison Ford look-a-like. As soon as he passes I turn to my friend there, and say "Did you see that guy? He looked EXACTLY like Harrison Ford!?" Notice the exclamation mark. I was very excited about this encounter with a Han Solo clone.

My friend takes a sip of his girl-tea and says, "Hmm. Didn't notice." He didn't even look at him. He didn't try and get a look at the back of his head. He didn't look even look in that direction.

I say, "He really looked a lot like him. I wonder if he hears that a lot. He must because, damn he looked like Harrison Ford."

Mr friend responds with nothing. He just starts walking across the street in his sissy pin stripe suit. The point is: that was supposed to be conversation all the way back to the office. His response was supposed to be something like, "he didn't look THAT much like him" or "well the back of his head looked a little like him" or "I don't know - that guy looks like he would crush a Calista Flockhart vagina. . . What ever happened to that chick. . . Ally McBeal sucked ass hard . . . that hot lesbian was pretty good on the show though." But he did nothing.

Am I crazy here? If someone speaks of a celebrity look-a-like walking down the street you have to look. Everyone looks. Who wouldn't look?

I know this post makes me look boring. That and not funny or well spoken and a not-good writer. What else do people talk about at three in the afternoon on a work day? A guy who looks like the bad ass who played Indiana Jones is much better than talking about how bad your balls hurt after getting a vasectomy.

I need new friends.

There Be Pirates

2007-06-27T21:00:00.000-05:00

There are so many things that happened during my hiatus that I needed to tell you all about. For example: I had a crazy waitress one night. My boss is kind of mean sometimes. The Sopranos finale sucked an ass. Okay, I guess that is about all that happened. I can't really help it that I lead a very boring life. If I were banging models every other Thursday you would be the first to know, believe me. Of course I would also tell my co-workers, my dog Abigail, most of my neighbors, and my Grandma. I think she would be proud. (Dear Grandma, I am banging models every other Thursday. All my love, Garrett. P.S. Send more of those chocolate chip cookies. They're super swell).

So a few weeks ago I was invited to a friend's son's fifth birthday party. Before I go on, let me just ask what the hell is up with people inviting adults to these kids parties? I mean, I am not related to the kid. I get metric assloads of invitations to friend's kid's parties. The first problem with this arrangement (other than the fact that you have to go) is the present. How much money do you spend of a 3 year old girl's birthday present? For non-child friends, I usually just buy them a few shots and call it good. I guess I should follow the three shot cost rule. Or I guess I could just buy a case of Fruit Punch with a bow on top.

So for this kid's party I start the toy shopping by walking the toy aisle. Unfortunately for me, I did not plan ahead. The usual failsafe thing to do in these situations is to find out ahead of time what kind of game system the kid has, and then purchase a game. Sure you have to spend a little bit of money in this scenario, but the effort is very little. 1) Find game section 2) Pick game that looks like I might want to play it, 3) check rating to make sure the kid's mother doesn't cuss my ass at some later date for the "graphic" video game violence, like some guy getting a bullet to the temple. (On a side note, if you have a ten year old, you need to say up front if you are going to be a prude about murder scenes in video games. How was I supposed to know?)

Like I was saying, I didn't plan ahead. The party was in two hours and I was walking through the store. I couldn't really call my friend at that point, and ask about appropriate gifts - I'd look like a slacker. So I just started walking up and down the aisles. After a few minutes I came across the perfect gift. It was a Pirates of the Caribbean play thing. It came with a sword, eye patch, hat, hook - all kinds of cool stuff. When I was a kid, my friends and I had to get big sticks to play swords, so I figured this kid was going to have the time of his life.

When it came my turn for the kid to open my gift, he ripped the paper off of the box, saw what was within, then jumped up and down clapping and screaming, "A pirate sword, a pirate sword!" I said back, "Don't forget the hook in there, that is pretty cool too."

The kid, I thought somewhat inappropriately, hugged me.

I knew within seconds that something was wrong. The kid's mother asked someone to hand her the package. She looks at it for a minute, then calls my friend over to further inspect it. They whisper something back and forth to each other. Then she looked at the kid, and said, "I don't know that this is the most appropriate gift." All of the parents at the party turned and looked at me like I just shot the kid up with meth. The other kids tried to get up front to see what was so bad about the present. My first thought was, "Holy shit, did I get some gift with a scantily clad woman on it?" I doubted this could be the case because I always notice scantily clad women, even on kids' toys. Then the mother said to the kid (and I am not making this up at all):

"Honey, pirates were not nice people. You don't want to be a pirate because they stole and killed people. Wouldn't you rather be a policeman or a fireman?"

"No! I want a pirate sword!"

"But honey, pirates were the bad guys. Nobody liked them because they hurt other people and were VERY mean." (She gave me a look when she said that).

"But I want a pirate sword"

"Maybe we should talk about it later" she said as she put of the pirate gear behind her, "let's open some other presents."

As things were wrapping up, I went to the mother and said, "I'm sorry I didn't realize pirates were off limits."

She looked at me sort of sternly and said, "Well you didn't know, but we don't like to encourage the sort of violence that those kind of toys promote." She turned on her heels and that was it.

So have things changed so much since I was a kid? I don't remember a birthday before the age of 10 that didn't include some sort of gun or play weapon of one form or another. What is going on in the world that kids are no longer given toys they can use to beat the crap of our their siblings with? I mean, it is not like I gave the kid a Jihad home starter kit. It was a fucking plastic sword.

So in case you have a kid's party coming up. I would recommend a nice set of plastic dishes, or maybe a lovely savings bond. The only good that came out of this party, I don't think I'll be invited back to the sixth birthday party.

All Midgets All The Time

2007-06-25T12:53:00.000-05:00

Apparently, there is a niche to be filled on the Internets. According to Wikipedia (citing Technorati) there are over 71 million blogs. I appear to be the only person (formerly) having a blog to have blogged about midget penises. My God, people want to know about the phallus of the little people! Men and women alike hunger for knowledge about our small-statured brethren's man meat. All of the Americas ache for information about shaft size of the small, the dong of the dwarf. For those of you who may not know I had a little post a while back wherein I discuss the midget cock (That term seems kind of offensive in some way. If you are offended by “midget cock,” try replacing those words with either 1) dick, 2) wang, 3) dork, 4) member, 5) pecker, 6) peter, 7) prick, 8) schlong, 9) tool, or 10) willy -- or possibly -- little person penis.

I have been long gone from this little blog for a short while now. I did not log into my gmail for some time after the final post. When I did, I had what you might refer to as a bit of hate mail. After a while, I started to feel guilty. I had people that were coming here every day to read the insightful things I had written. Before I left,I was getting quite a few hits a day (not to brag, but we are talking in the low 10s here), and I felt that I had let those folks down. So I got the ol' sitemeter out and checked the traffic to see if it had now dwindled to 2 or 3 people a day. What did I discover? It had a barely noticeable drop. Why you may ask? Because, even when I am not blogging on a semi-weekly basis, people still only come to this blog by typing the search term “midget penis.”

For example – check out this e-mail I received over the weekend:

hi we are parting [sic] down right now in sf, and were watching tv with a midget reality show. wondering if midgets have regular penises. ran across your blog and laughed our asses off. your shit was funny. we were bored and wanted to let you know fucked up drunks are looking at your blog. have fun in dallas, you belong in sf....,..

Micah

I also received a few one line e-mails, such as:

“dude - you talk about midget penis so much you must want one up your butt.”

That is an interesting concept, but I seriously doubt I could fit a midget up my butt.

“I dated a midget once, but I think he may have been gay because he didn’t like to have sex. When he did, he only wanted me ‘from behind.’ "

That got me to thinking, doggy style must be an excellent position for a midget. I mean, think about it, he gets to just stand there and go to town. You would have no knee problems to worry about - literally all you would have to do is stand in one place and move your pelvis forward and backward a few small inches. Even I could do that. And ladies, just so you know - when a guy wants it “from behind” it is not because he is gay. It is because he thinks you are unattractive. Just kidding. It is really so you won’t notice him watching Sports Center while doing it. Just kidding again, it really is because he thinks you are unattractive. (As a side note, I have watched ESPN during sex, and it is an excellent way to get you up to that five minute mark we all strive for - unless cheerleading competitions are on, then you are shit out of luck).

Moving on. Next e-mail:

“Oh my god! I am so hot right now. I just read your entire blog from the beginning. I don’t know if you are online right now, but if you are - call me at [redacted]. You are so funny, you make me have to touch myself right here and now. That’s what I am doing at his very moment – pleasuring myself while reading your blog – that and biting my bottom lip and whispering to myself ‘Oh Garrett!’ and ‘Holy shit Garrett, it is so big – not like a midget’s at all!' and ‘Hurry and up and finish before my husband wakes up!’”

There is a small chance that last e-mail was made up.

I am giving all of the credit for this post to Susan H., who wrote to me a few weeks back with this (in its entirety – even the praise of me) It was at the moment I received this e-mail that I knew I must someday return. My work must be finished. The people of the world need this shit that I am selling.

So, I'm on my couch watching a little Heroes on NBC... its season finale season and that's pretty much the highlight of my life right now...

The phone rings and my sister starts going into this story about one of her Judge shows that she watches and how the owner of a regular sized horse sued the owner of a midget horse for breaking into his pen and mounting her... thus producing baby 1/2 midget horses which were apparently not the stock he was going for when he sunk $12,000 into a horse. But I digress... She then draws me back into the conversation by posing this question... "So, do midgets then, like midget people, have normal sized penises?"

I, having been privy to a particularly fascinating midget wrestling match once upon a time, offer her the words of the wrestling midget himself, "People always ask me what I'm packing.... I tell em, I got a normal sized dick, but on me... it looks f'ing HUGE." In other words, yes, I assume midgets have a normal sized penis.

She then tells me she called our mother first but our mother suggested she call and ask me. Definitely something I'm going to ponder later. Anyhow, I decide that since my family believes me to be the authority on midget penises, I should try and be accurate so I do what anyone in my position would do... Google it. First I try google pics... naked midget. Nothing. Then "naked midget male"... still nothing. So, I decide that before I'm flagged by the Patriot Act internet search squad, I'll just run that search on the web one last time. And yes... it brought me to you. Even more ironic is the fact that just this afternoon, I too watched the tale of "The Shop Around the Corner" and thought to myself "Don't cry, Shopgirl? How could this not be mocked as heavily as 'You had me at hello' or 'Ditto' or any of the other lines from any of the other movies Meg Ryan has been in?" I actually sat here and thought to myself that I have never seen that referenced anywhere... until now. Midget penises and Meg Ryan. You, my friend, are gonna make some lady very happy one day...

Thanks for the blog,

Susan

My Response:

Susan:

This is an excellent, excellent e-mail. It took me a very long time to read it though because I could not get past the first paragraph wherein you discuss a regular sized horse being mounted by a midget sized horse. How does that work? Or was it the owner of the midget sized horse mounting the regular sized horse?

Now that I think about this topic more - I should address it in a full blog post.

Garrett

Her Response:

Hi Garrett, I can see how that might be distracting. I was, frankly, more concerned that someone thought of me as an authority on midget genitalia than that the horse had been mounted at all. I'm not exactly sure how it happens... The only logical conclusion would be based off a variation of your own theory about midget porn and porn actors in general. So, say that porn typically uses the male with the largest penis... one could assume then that when choosing "studs" for breeding, the stud with the largest penis would also be chosen for the best chance of success. In other words, I can only assume that this midget horse had a particularly large wang. That or it was a particularly ingenious circus pony.

My Response:

I think I would go with the large horse wang explanation. Although, is there a correlation between the best "stud" for breeding and largest penis size? For example, I know that I am sought after for my breeding ability and good genes, but my penis is particularly unnoteworthy. I do generally have a pretty good "Chance of success" - that success just comes within seconds and results in less than positive judges' scores.

Garrett

That was the last I ever heard of Susan H. She won my heart, and then went away. I still think of that one day back in May when she wooed me with her tales of a wrestling midget. I wish her the best of luck in all of her future endeavors. If only I would not have scared her off with my ill-timed attempt at humor and tales of my penis, who knows where our relationship could be today. She might have written a third time, wherein she would have confessed her love for me. She might have let me know she was a nymphomaniac phone sex addict who just got an unlimited nights and weekends plan. The point is - we don't know.

It wasn't until today that I realized that what Susan H. did to me, I did to all of you. You fell in love with me. You stalked me a little bit. You girls (ladies) began to have many, many sexual fantasies involving me. The men began to envy me and my totally awesome life. Then I left you. Now I understand the heartache you must feel. Just like the loneliness I feel every day when I log into my e-mail and see that Susan H. has not written to me, you feel hurt and rejected by my sudden departure. For that, I am sorry. Now I know your pain.

So there you have it folks. I am back and open for business. If you have a genitals-related question for me, please feel free to e-mail it or ask in the comments. To those of you searching for midget penis answers, I don’t have them really. Go and find yourself a midget and ask to look at his member. I am sure he will oblige (who wouldn’t?). For those ladies in my area that need a “normal sized” penis for comparison, I am happy to be of scientific research for you.

The End.

2007-05-10T13:27:00.000-05:00

On the advice of my lawyer (and my wife!), I am shutting this thing down. (Apparently, a jury may not actually like stories about pube shaving or girls who don’t know how to properly poop.)

In honor of this occasion, I have written a little song:

This is the end, beautiful friend
This is the end, my only friend, the end.

Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again

Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand
In a...desperate land

This is the end, beautiful friend
This is the end, my only friend, the end

But you'll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end

Of, if you don’t fancy that one, I have composed a second, more simple song:

Oh yeah, all right
Are you going to be in my dreams
Tonight?

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make

There’ll be a drum solo and guitar solo in between the verses, in the final version, I mean.

So there you have it. You’ve been very good to me. Thanks for reading. You Rock (with a capital ‘R’ - because that is how you roll. (Get it? "roll" - like rock n. roll. Get it? Get it?)).

To Keep You Happy

2007-05-02T12:24:00.000-05:00

Things are going down here at work, and I am not at liberty to discuss. I need to lay low this week. I will try and post from home. To keep you happy, I have penned a very short, recent story. Also, I plan to revisit the shaved pubes subject again in the next couple of posts since there was some recent commenting activity that I never had the chance to address. So, if you want to comment again (or for the first time) seize the day!

Enjoy the story:

Last week I was enjoying a nice, quiet dinner with a rather hot female companion. World renowned French philosopher, Rene Descartes walks into the restaurant and sits down at a table next to mine. The waiter comes over and asks if he'd like an appetizer.

"No thank you," says Descartes, "I'd just like to order dinner."

"Would you like to hear our daily specials?" asks the waiter.

"No," says Descartes, getting impatient.

"Would you like a drink before dinner?" the waiter asks.

Descartes is insulted. (It is against his religion)

"I think not!" he says indignantly, and POOF! he disappeared.

(Je pense, donc je suis, after all).

Please remember that I love you with all of my cold little heart.

Breaking News

2007-04-20T14:50:00.000-05:00

I am sure some of you have seen the story about Alec Baldwin and the voice message he allegedly left for his 11 year-old daughter, Ireland. Well, we here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide, wanted to get to the bottom of this thing. I don’t know what you folks did this morning, but my morning was spent in Alec Baldwin’s luxury penthouse suite, interviewing him regarding these recent developments. The results are not easily summarized. So below, I provide you with the full transcript of the interview.

GR - Before we go on the record I want to just say I think you are great in 30 Rock. You play a cold, insensitive, self-serving prick better than anyone. Turns out, though, it may not be all acting.

AB - Now wait a minute, you listen to me you fucking little asshole, you little asshole bitch. I shit people like you for breakfast. When I wake up in my 25 million dollar -

GR - Whoa, hold on. My bad. Turns out we WERE on the record. Oops. By the way, I am not sure that “shitting for breakfast” thing makes any sense.

AB - Well, I was just playing around with you there. Just a little word banter between friends. [Alec takes a long, slow drink from his scotch - but never takes his eyes from me].

GR - So let’s get right down to this voice mail business. From what the gossip sites are saying, you left a rambling, profanity laden, insult-filled voice message for your young daughter, where you called her, and let me quote this, “a rude, thoughtless little pig.”

AB - Well yes, you’ll get this scoop, because I am going to admit right here, right now that I did leave that message - Wait, who did you say that message was for?

GR - Your daughter, Ireland.

AB - Is that why I have been getting hate mail all day long and my publicist keeps calling this “a nightmare?"

GR - I’m not sure I follow you.

AB - That message wasn’t for my daughter, it was for my pet pig, Daphne. I lost her in the divorce as well. . . God I hate that little thoughtless fucking pig.

GR - Um.

AB - You would think an 11 year-old pig would have learned some respect by now. . . My god, that fucking pig. [Alec takes another pull from his scotch glass (his second) and finishes it off. He walks over to the mini-bar and pours himself another] The times we used to have together, and the trouble we pulled. . . I could tell you some stories, that god-damned little pig.

GR - Uh. . . Why -

AB - I remember this one time in ‘98 Daphne and I went to Monte Carlo for the weekend, and there were these two African prostitutes. Hey asshole don’t write that down, that’s not a racist slur, they were actually from Africa.

GR - Mr. Baldwin, why were you leaving a voice message for a pig?

AB - Listen you fucking prick, you can of prick juice, she has a name. Daphne. It means "laurel" in Greek. In Greek mythology Daphne was a nymph turned into a laurel tree by her father in order that she might escape the pursuit of Apollo. All of that seems so ironic now, doesn't it?

GR - So why were you leaving a voice message for Daphne?

AB - That fucking ungrateful, arrogant little shit of a pig. She won’t return my calls. When I do reach her on her cell, she just sits there not saying anything. Her mother made her like that. That bitch, she has turned my beloved Daphne against me. I can see it in her eyes. Just last weekend I flew her to New York to visit me. While we were watching Failure to Launch I could tell that something was missing. It is as if her mind was somewhere else.

GR - Mr. Baldwin, does Daphne speak to you?

AB - What is your name again? Garrett? Okay listen Garrett, don’t be a cunt, okay? Of course she doesn’t speak. Not like you or I. But she communicates with me. We speak to each other in a language no one could comprehend. Our love transcends human communication. But that fucking, rude, thoughtless pig has turned on me. I tell her what time I am calling, and she doesn’t answer. Last week I called her 25 times between 2:00 am and 2:15 am, and not even the common decency to pick up the phone.

GR - Well I think I have everything I need.

AB - Listen to me Garrett. Listen to me. Are you paying attention. Look me in the eye. Look me in the goddamned eye. If you make me look bad, I will stab you. I will straight up kill you. Do you understand? You will die, and I don’t mean one of those easy “oh hey - I just got shot in the face by Alec Baldwin” kind of deaths. I mean you will suffer. I know people. Tell me you understand.

GR - I understand.

AB - Tell me that I am the greatest living actor to walk the planet Earth.

GR - You are the greatest living actor.

AB - To walk the planet Earth . . .

GR - To walk the planet Earth.

AB - Now get the fuck out of here, I have 2:15 massage with Violet.

Joe Francis = Big F-ing Baby

2007-04-13T13:11:00.000-05:00

Apparently, American hero, Joe Francis, is a huge fucking cry baby. For those of you who don’t know - Joe Francis is the man who brought you such classics as Girls Gone Wild, Girls Gone Wild: Island Orgy, Girls Gone Wild: Sweet Young Sex Maniacs and Girls Gone Wild: Doggy Style (hosted by Snoop Dogg). Here is the story as I know it: Joe Francis flies around the world on a big-ass jet to exotic locations, where young, tan, nubile girls willingly take their cloths off in front of him and often allow Mr. Francis and his perpetually-erect crew to film them “supposedly” engaged in their "first time” with another woman. Francis is four years older than I, and reportedly makes 29 million a year. It used to be that I would look to Tiger Woods and think, “look what someone my age can do.” Now, I look to Mr. Francis and say, “That fucking prick, I would Heather Mills my right leg for that guy’s job.”

Well, Joe Francis got into some trouble with the law. Actually, Joe Francis has been in a lot of trouble with the law. The complaints against him are too numerous to list here, but lets just summarize them to say they involved some alleged underage activities, alleged rapes, and alleged calling of women “bitches” and “whores.” That’s right. He is a tough, but sensitive guy. A friend to women, if you will. Well apparently seven girls are suing him because he “allegedly” filmed them while they were underage. During settlement talks, Mr. Francis (always the level-headed man that he is) shouted profanities at the women, and threatened to “bury them.” This pissed off a federal judge, who ordered that Francis be arrested for contempt of court. Francis, being the tough guy that he is, refused to be arrested and called the federal judge a “judge gone wild.” Clever, isn’t he?

Finally, Mr. Francis took a break from masturbating while looking at underage areola to be arrested. While in jail, Francis “allegedly” offered a jail guard $100 for a bottled water. When the guard refused, Francis (who may have been parched from the amount of semen he was already forced to swallow by The Sisters) showed the guard $500. When they searched his cell (may be code for “ass”), the po-lice found prescription sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication. He was then charged with bribery, three counts of possessing a controlled substance and five counts of introducing contraband (cash and drugs) into the jail. He could get up to five years in prison for each count.

Here comes the good part. You all now know that Joe Francis is a tough guy, who loves him the women (even if he “allegedly” loves them while they are sleeping from drugs he gave them). Well tough-guy Francis apparently pulled a Johnny Sack, and as he was being leg from the courtroom in cuffs wept for his parents, as his mommy blew him a kiss. What a fucking baby. I have to go with Phil Leotardo on this one and say, “take it like a fucking man, asshole.” What did you think was going to happen? You smuggle drugs and cash into a federal jail, offer some of the cash to the guard for a bottle of Perrier, call your judge “judge gone wild” and film underage girls showing their breasts on camera, and then you cry for your mommy when you get arrested. What a douchebag.

Joe Francis, millionaire douchebag.

Somebody Call 911! Lickety Split

2007-04-12T12:50:00.000-05:00

There is no secret to the fact that I am a glutton. Ninety-nine percent of the things I do, I do in excess. Drinking, gambling, womanizing and cross-dressing. I also enjoy gorging myself with all kinds of food. Easter candy is no different. I know, I know - it is a little late to be writing about this, but it is topical nonetheless because as I write these words I am dying. Actual, real death. The things I am saying right now may very well be the last things I ever write. Ever. Fuck, I had better say something smart-sounding. Sesquipedalian. How’s that bitches?

Anyway. On the Saturday before Easter I went to my local Walgreens, where I purchased a four egg set of Cadbury Creme Eggs. I decided to wait until Sunday to eat those eggs. Sunday came, and I celebrated Easter by drinking beer and watching golf. (You know, in honor of Jesus being raised from the dead and all. I figure he died for my sins, so I certainly don’t want his death to be in vain. This is why I try and sin as much as possible. Logically, it is the only way to be a good Christian. It’s all logic.)

Creme-filled chocolate eggs don’t go well with Quesadillas and beer, so I decided to wait until Monday. I brought all four eggs with me to work on Monday, and I ate all four of them in a span of 6 minutes for lunch. Then I got to thinking. You can’t buy these eggs at any time other than Easter. That means I am going to have to wait an entire year to eat these again, and I only ate four. Four in one year is not very many. That equates to one egg every three months. That is nothing. So last night I went to my local Walgreens to purchase some more.

Walgreens seemed to want to get rid of their Creme Eggs, because they had them on sale for 50% off. I like Walgreens, and I want to help them out. I would hate for these things to go bad, or for some Walgreens manager to have to take a bunch of them home to her kids. You know, because childhood obesity is a problem and all. So I bought a few.

First, I bought 4 more of these:

Then, I bought 3 of these - just three eggs, not three cases. (because I like Baby Ruth and wanted to give them a shot):

Then, I bought 2 of these (because caramel is good in anything, especially chocolate eggs):

Then, I bought 3 of these - just three eggs, not three cases. (because my Grandfather loved Butterfingers, and he died a few years ago - so this was in his honor):

I went to the counter and purchased 12 chocolate eggs. Nothing else. (Strangely the cashier scanned each one individually, even though they were the same price).

For lunch today I ate 12 chocolate eggs, filled with various things. And now I will die. My hands are a little sticky, but I am scared to get up from my chair for fear of vomit.

In case you were wondering, the classic version is my favorite, followed by the Baby Ruth version.

My Triumphant Return

2007-04-07T12:33:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know. I know. I have done this to you before and I came back with excuses and promises. Once before I sheepishly returned, roses in hand, promising that it was a one-time thing - that I was drunk. Over the past month I have received many, many e-mails and comments expressing kind sentiments such as: “What the fuck? Update, asshole!” and “Dude, write something (although this blog is just as good when you don’t write, as when you do.” However, my favorite has to be “Are you really surprised your sister got knocked up? She has always been kind of slutty.” (Now that I write that one out, I suspect it might not have been about the blog, but more meant for me personally).

Well my lovely little friends, I am back. And once again, I have an excuse. Here is my story. Before we begin let me just say this: I am not ashamed of the things I have done, only those which I did not do. Also, the world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think. Additionally, humor is the only test of gravity, and gravity of humor; for a subject which will not bear raillery is suspicious, and a jest which will not bear serious examination is false wit. Finally, allow me to impart to you that men acquire a particular quality by constantly acting a particular way. . . you become just by performing just actions, temperate by performing temperate actions, brave by performing brave actions. I hope that you will take these words of wisdom I have to offer and learn from them. Tell the world my story so that others may learn what you have learned. (Or will learn in just a few seconds after reading this story).

Just under a month ago, I was up late one night preparing a blog post for your pleasure, (because I am all about your pleasure), when I get an e-mail. It is from our little friend over at Hobocamp, A Lover and A Fighter. Now, every single one of you who has been to her blog know just about everything about her. You know about her roommates, you know about her pretend work crushes and you know how her grandmother was once injured because of her gigantic, anatomically correct vibrator. Despite the fact that everyone knows all of these things, in addition to her name, I was once greatly chastised for referring to her by her first name in a comment. Therefore, we will refer to A Lover and Fighter for the length of this post as “Oprah.” So, anyway, Oprah e-mails me. I e-mail back, and then we begin an Instant Message chat that will forever change my life. I, being the nice fellow that I appear to be, ask how her day was. On a normal day I can assure that Oprah is as sunny as the day is long. However, on this particular day she was a bit down. Your hero (me) asked her what was wrong. Oprah launches into a tale of dismal, bleak, cold, big city life. I won’t get into the details, (men trouble), the particulars (run ins with the law) or the finer points (the racism allegations). Instead, I will just say that she was having a bad day. We continued to chat well into the night. Before I knew it we had been IMing all night long. By morning time I was online purchasing her a plane ticket to come for a visit. This may seem like a quick step to some of you, but when you IM with someone on your laptop at the same time you are urinating (I had to sit down to do so, and I don’t want to discuss it) you get pretty close with someone pretty quickly.

Two days later I was at the airport to pick up Oprah. You might think that meeting someone for the first time like that would be awkward, but it really wasn’t. We immediately hit if off. For those of you who saw her “This is Me Posing in My Underwear Because I am Not Ashamed of Semi-Nakedness” post before it was taken down, you will know I am telling the truth when I say that she is even hotter is person than she is in that picture of her with her black bra on the outside of her shirt.

Her trip was supposed to last for the weekend. We soon both realized that her visit would have to be extended. One week quickly turned into two, and the second week quickly turned into two weeks and two days. Before I knew it I was waving good-bye as her plane took off, and a single tear traced its way down my cheek. After two weeks and two days, I was left only with some photos of her visit, and a pair of her underpanties that she ‘accidentally’ left behind. I’ll share the photos now.

Shortly after she arrived, we went for some coffee and muffins. We took them to the park where we watched a spontaneously formed frisbee golf game and munched on the muffins. Oprah plucked a fresh flower for me and snapped this photo.

We went from the park to "inspiration point" where we hiked to the top of a peak and watched the sunset. She remarked that I reminded her of the Greek gods from the stories of her youth and commented that she wanted to take this photo as a constant reminder of the majesty of the "male form."

Over the next few nights we went to a variety of clubs and dance halls. We saw everything from rave clubs, to piano bars, to a "swingers club." I am not sure exactly what that last one was, but Oprah seemed to be pretty comfortable there. On the night we visited the piano bar, when the jazz pianist took a break, Oprah jumped on stage and began to play. At this moment she is transitioning from her introductory, Chopin's "Prelude in E minor" to Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag." I know she looks odd in that photo (a little child-like), but the lighting was "off" in there.

We even had a chance to run in a small marathon. Here is Oprah warming up before we left the house. She is very limber. I don't recall why she stretches naked.

On our final day before she left we took a walk in the park along a winding canal where merchants and street performs lined the sidewalk. At one point we stopped to watch a painter go about capturing the scene in an abstract work of art. As we stood there watching, the artist looked up at us and stopped painting in mid-stroke. He gasped a little and exclaimed, "YOU are a work of art standing there, I must capture you." We both demurred. He insisted. Over the next two hours we stood and modeled for him. The result is now hanging above my fireplace:

You may have noticed that our little friend, Oprah, has only been posting sporadically over the past month. She asked me not to say this, but she posted from here. She even e-mailed her friends, acting as if she were just at home with an illness. She said she needed to "keep up appearances so that others don't judge." Because she implored that I not, I will not regale you with our exploits. I only say that I am changed, and each night that I look up that portrait, I am reminded of the pilfered underpanties tucked neatly under my pillow.

The lesson, you ask? There is none, I just wanted to keep you reading until the end. It is a literary technique. Writers use it. Because that's what I am, a writer.

(also I promise I will never disappear again).

An Addendum

2007-03-07T10:06:00.000-06:00

Some of you have doubted the veracity of my story. This was perhaps (as was pointed out to me several times yesterday) because I used such phrases as "this story is totally made up," and "I didn’t have sex with Alterna-girl," and "all of this story is fake, and "this is all made up."

Let us just say that I like to keep you guessing. So, without further fanfare and ado (and whatnot) I give to you:

My gigantic puppy, Abigail Road.

A picture of the aforementioned tattoo (cropped ever so carefully so as not to reveal more of my body than necessary, thus avoiding the possibility that you throw up little bits of your Sausage McGriddle from this morning).

This is Why Nothing Gets Done Around Here.

2007-03-06T15:21:00.000-06:00

For the past hour I have been procrastinating by reading about why people procrastinate. I read that some people’s procrastination may be linked to depression. I had no idea I may be depressed. So I started thinking about whether I was depressed. This lead me to the conclusion that I may, in fact, be suffering some mild depression. This realization has made me so depressed that I am cannot seem to get any work done.

I May Have Messed Up.

2007-03-05T13:40:00.000-06:00

What I am about to tell you will shock you. You should prepare yourself accordingly. If you are at work, make sure you muffle your impending audible gasp. If you are at home, please clear beverages away from the computer area so that you don’t knock them over when you raise your hand to your mouth like they do in movies when someone is shocked. If you are neither at home nor at work, and you are sitting at a Starbucks having a Chai Tea Latte, or on a park bench watching little birdies while you browse your way across the internets - well then fuck you. You heard me, fuck you. The rest of us have to work for a living and you are probably some guy who is living off of the royalties you inherited when you grandfather created The Gong show or some similarly stupid thing. However, if you are actually just off work today from your job in aerospace engineering, and you decided to grab a Chai Tea or stroll in the park, my sincerest apologies for saying “fuck you.”

So back to the shocking news. This weekend I went on a date. It was actually date 2 and a half with this girl. The first half-date involved me crashing at her apartment at 3:30 in the morning after a night of heavy drinking. She is a friend of a friend and we met when my friend brought her along to a night out. I have been trying to think of the best way to describe her for you. When I described her to some friends this weekend I called her Alterna-Girl. Her hair is an unnatural shade of red. She has many, many piercings in strange and phenomenal places, and she works at a tattoo parlor/piercing place/book store. You know when you are walking down the street and you see a girl whom you immediately know would be into some strange semi-illegal sexual practices. This is her. Basically, she is a hipster.

Like I said we have been on 2 and a half dates. The first half-date involved a drunken, sloppy tryst on her couch in the early morning hours two weeks ago. I called her the following Monday and suggested that we actually go on a date where we could interact and talk and such. We went for Thai food and a movie. Mistake number one was assuming that an Alterna-girl would be interested in such a date. It did not go well. No groping action followed. Profound disappoint abounded. I made a conscious note that if I wished to see more of that little cross tattoo on her hip I would have to change things up a bit. Well, a big change happened.

On Saturday night we were supposed to go out again. This time she asked if I wanted to go see a band in which her friend was playing. We met late and drank heavily again (always a good sign). We moved bars to where her friend was playing. We watched a few songs then went outside for a smoke. She, once again, expressed boredom. I suggested that we go to my house and drink some more. She seemed excited about that idea (and why wouldn’t she?).

We left her car and took mine. On the way there, she said she wanted to stop by her work to see if someone left some thing for her. We went in together, where I started talking to the tattoo guy.
Scenes from the next twenty minutes:

Me: I’ve always thought about getting a tattoo.

Her: (jumping up and down, giddy with excitement) Please get one it will be so cool!

Tattoo guy: Because you came in with her, I’ll do it for half price.

Her: (after I told her there was no way I was getting tattooed - her with pouty bottom lip and everything) I was really hoping you would do it.

Me: (Trying to keep her excited - but without needles entering my body) I don’t even know what I would get - I should think about it and come back next weekend.

Her: (Seeming a little turned on) Lets look through the book and find something really hot.

So people, (as your surmised) I am now the proud owner of a huge fucking tattoo of a weirdly-designed sun on my left shoulder blade. It is big and black and it hurt like a mother fucker.

This officially goes down as the most I have ever done to have sex with a girl. I am modest, so I won’t talk about any details. However, let me just say that it totally worked. She was a ferocious sexual beast that could not get enough of me, and it was one the Top 5s of sexual experiences of my life. We did things in ways that I previously thought not possible. You know that scene in Zoolander where they all have peyote-induced sex. It was like that - only with Southern Comfort instead of peyote. My dog actually barked because she thought someone was being murdered by the amount of screaming. I don’t want to talk about it though. I’m too much of a gentlemen for that.

The worst part is I don’t think I am going to see her anymore. She has a weird sexual thing she did that freaked me out a bit. So yeah, I got a tattoo for a girl I was on a second and a half date with, that I am no longer going to see. I’m a fucking winner. Big time.

For those of you that know me in real life: This story is totally made up. I didn’t have sex with Alterna-girl. There is no need to feel weird around me now. All of this story is fake. Please don’t tell Alterna-girl about this blog. I am a little scared of her, and I don’t want her to know I told everyone in the world what occurred. Not that anything occurred since this is all made up. So there.

Disturbing Things

2007-02-27T23:04:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I went down to the break room on my floor. There were a couple of girls (women) down there talking over some juice and a pastry. I grabbed a Krispy Kreme, poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down with them. One of the girls (women), I know fairly well. She has been working here for about 8 months and she has joined our group several times for drinks after work. I talk to her in the break room quite a bit because we seem to refill our coffees at about the same time. I’ll call this girl Lisa.

Lisa has been married for about a year, and I get the impression from speaking with her on several occasions that her and her husband have a tumultuous relationship. Lisa is 25 years old. She has no children, and if there is one important thing that you should know it is that Lisa is kind of hot. There is a 95% chance that I will think of having sex with her within a 24 hour period. This is not to say, of course, that I will actually have sex with her, but I will damn sure think about it. For those ladies reading this blog, this is something you should know: If you are hot, all men you come into contact with on a regular basis will think about having sex with you. Most likely (and I don’t mean to scare you here) they will do so while pleasuring themselves. In addition, if you are hot, and the man knows you, he will probably be fantasizing about you doing all kinds of nasty, fairly degrading things. I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you these things, but this is just the way life works. Men get bored when they pleasure themselves (most likely because they have been doing it every day since they were 12) and they have to think about something new and exiting. I mean, how many times can you go back to the memory of the time your eighth grade civics teacher let you touch her left boob behind the History and Geography section in the library? I mean, it was a great memory and Mrs. Barnes had a nice rack, but you have to move on at some point.

Let us say you just happen to be the hot girl that buys coffee from a guy every morning on your way to work. Unbeknownst to you, you are now a full fledged participant in an elaborate scenario involving you telling that guy you "must have him right here, right now," on the just-delivered copies of the Dallas Morning News. I would venture a guess that if you are smoking-fucking-hot you have been a participant in no less than 120-145 masturbatory fantasies by the time you are 30. If you work in a place with a great deal of co-workers (50 or more), this number jumps to 250 to 425, give or take. Chances are, even if you don’t think you are hot, there is still somebody out there whacking it to the thought of you tying him up with his own necktie and forcing him to lick the bottom of your red pumps. I’m just saying.

Anyway - sorry for that tangent. What was I saying? Oh yeah, Lisa is hot. She is married. Her husband is a very big fireman. He looks like a fireman. Whatever you pictured just now when I said he looks like a fireman, that is exactly what he looks like. Of course, that is the primary reason that I will never have sex with Lisa. The second, obviously, is the fact that she is hot. That, and oh yeah - the fact that she is married.

So Lisa is in the middle of a conversation with our co-worker, complaining about her super-muscular firefighter husband. Today she is bitching that he leaves their bathroom in a state of disrepair every morning. I sit and listen while she complains about the towel that he won’t hang up, the underwear he leaves on the floor, and the puddles of water accumulated while drying off. I secretly curse her because she is probably having sex like a mad cow, morning and night, and she is complaining about underwear on the floor. Anyway, this exchange occurs:

Lisa: . . . and I don’t even want to get into the mess he makes while shaving.

GR: How does he make a mess while shaving?

Lisa: There is shaving cream every where, stubble all in the sink and water all over the counter.

GR: Shaving is not that hard, you wouldn’t think he would make that much of a mess.

Lisa: Well he says that he makes a mess because he is trying to balance with one leg hiked up on
the counter top.

GR: . . . . . . . (blank look on face)(look at co-worker)(look back at Lisa - still blank look)

Lisa: You know. . . when he shaves, balancing on one foot. . .

GR: What the hell are you talking about?

Lisa: When he shaves "down there" (she says while motioning down to her "special place")

GR: Are you saying your husband shaves his pubes with his leg hiked up on the bathroom sink?

Lisa: Well, yeah. (said like this is the most normal thing in the world)

GR: Why doesn’t he do this in the shower or something?

Lisa: Because it takes too long and the hot water runs out.

GR: What exactly does he shave?

Lisa: Everything (again in this same voice).

GR: Are you saying that your husband shaves all of his pubes off?

Lisa: Well, yeah.

GR: Everything?

Lisa: Yep.

GR: All of it?

Lisa: Yeah.

GR: He is totally bare?

Lisa: Yeah.

GR: He’s got no pubes?

Lisa: Yes!

I excused myself, where I went back to my office and spent the rest of the day thinking about this exchange. Hey - I am for partial depilation as much as the next guy. I think it common courtesy to engage in a bit of a trim and what not (of course, only on the off chance that a lady will one day want to go downtown). But I have never met (nor seen) a guy that shaved everything. What does he say to his friends in the locker room? Are other men doing this? Is this a new trend that I don’t know about? My god, if I was lucky enough to hook up with some hapless girl, what would her reaction be when I revealed "the goods," and she is face to face with a completely bald, unhidden, set of genitalia?

I have no way of answering these questions without your help. I need every single person to leave a comment. For men: Do you do this? Is this common? Do women like it?

For women: Have you ever seen this phenomenon? What would you do if you stumbled upon a bald set of twig and berries? Do you find this sexy? Would you laugh if some guy dropped his underpants to show you a freshly-shorn pubic area? Or would you feel like you are raping a 12 yearn old?

This entire post is a little disturbing. Is anyone taking bets on how long it takes me to be fired for sexual harassment in the workplace?

Reid's Philosophy of Time Travel, vol. 1

2007-02-23T00:24:00.000-06:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about time travel. I know what you are thinking as you sit there at work trying desperately to waste your company’s resources. You are thinking, “why I am wasting my company’s resources by reading what this idiot has to say about time travel?” Well my little friends (and a few mortal enemies) I have a point. It will take me no less than 1000 words to get to that point, but it will happen. Oh yes, it will happen.

Before we get in to the down and dirty (as I like to say). I want to point out that it is 10:57, post meridiem, as I begin writing this thing. So I want you to know the level of dedication that I have to you. I love you and want you to be happy. I know that you haven’t been happy with me because I have been getting some death threats accompanied by pleas to post again. I have also received a few requests to discontinue all efforts at writing this blog, but I assume those people are just kidding around.

Okay folks, back to time travel. I have always been a fan of time travel movies and books. Donnie Darko, Twelve Monkeys, the Back to the Futures, Millennium, etc. I tend to think about these movies much more than necessary. Then I begin thinking about things such as The Grandfather Paradox (if you invent a time machine and go back in time and kill your grandfather you would never be born - so you couldn’t build a time machine - so you couldn’t kill your grandfather - so you still should have been born). The movie The Butterfly Effect is one of the best at demonstrating this paradox. At this point in my thoughts, my mind is usually blown. So I smoke some pot and listen to The Beatles White Album.

Okay, I am working towards the point, give me a little bit of a break here. It is only 11:04 and have some time to kill. So the other night I am watching The Butterfly Effect (even though I have a deep hatred of Ashton Kutcher (or A-Kut as we used to call the fucking pretty boy back in Cedar Rapids)), and it got me to thinking about something of particular relevance to our little discussion here tonight. I went looking for other people that might have written about this subject. However, no one seems to have broached this important scientific question, and because I am scientist (even though I just had to try three times to spell scientist - don’t judge me) I will do it here tonight.

Let us say that you are a 40 year-old married man living in Madison, WI. You got married to your college sorority sweetheart when you were just 22 years old, having just graduated from the University of Wisconsin. (None of these details have anything to do with the point here, I am just giving you some background because that is the kind of thing us serious writers do). So anyway, you are married and you’ve got a couple of little kids running around the back yard in the snow. In your garage you just built a time machine. If that were me, one of the first trips I would take would be to go back in time and observe myself at different times in my life (sort of like A Christmas Carol). Lets just say that on one of these trips you run into a 20 year-old version of your lovely little wife. Being the man you are, you think of a way to get the version of your wife that is 20 years younger into bed. You might come up with a story about how she died at the age of 30 and you came back in time just to see her once more, etc. Basically you say whatever it takes because, well, she is kind of hot. Your future (past) wife is so moved by your love for her, she agrees to do this for you and makes love to you all night long.

So the question is: Is that cheating on your wife? If you go back and sleep with a younger, hotter version of herself, does that count as cheating on the older worn down version? That is kind of close to cheating, right? My guess is - she would be pretty fucking pissed off when you go back to present day and she waiting outside of the time machine in your garage. I bet she would be standing there with a "you fucking, asshole, cocksucking little bastard" look upon her face. But I don’t know that much about women so how would I know.

These kinds of things are never addressed in time travel movies. (Although in Terminator, John Connor did send his best friend Reese back in time so that he could have sex with his mother and become his father - so that shit is weird)

The other thing I would do (and we don’t need to talk about it here because I don’t want you to start thinking I am odd or something) would be to go back in time and find myself. Then I would convince my past self that we did not spend near enough time having mad amounts of sex. Then I and myself would try and drunkenly seduce ladies into threesomes. If you think about it this makes perfect sense. Having a threesome with two guys and one girl is always going to be awkward because there is another naked man there. If there is one person I am comfortable being naked with, it is myself. The added benefit, of course, is that there would be no penis envy because you both have the exact same package. Surely the penis doesn't change too much in 20 years time.

Of course this adds a problem. Remember that crappy movie "Threesome" with one of the Baldwin brothers. During that movie the one guy touches the other guy’s ass during the threesome. The problem: the crossing swords issue. If you accidentally touch your past self’s penis during a threesome does this make you gay? Or since it is really just a past version of your own penis is it just masturbation? I would vote for some pseudo-masturbation definition. These things need to be clearly defined the moment time machines are invented because you don't want to have weird feelings about touching your prior self's penis during a threesome. That kind of thing could really traumatize you.

These are the things that keep me up at night. I only tell you these things because we know each other so well, and I know you won’t think ill of me. It is now 11:27 (I had to break to urinate and get more beer). I’ll leave you with my Top Four Places to Visit if I had a Time Machine (in reverse order).

4) New York City circa 1932 (just to see the place - and get a cup of coffee).

3) New York City, Café Bizarre, to see the Velvet Underground play when Andy Warhol first watched them play, circa 1965.

2) The Beatles playing the Casbah Club, circa 1961.

1) To 10:56 p.m. tonight to write a better post.

Good night and good luck.

All About Me

2007-02-15T13:00:00.000-06:00

I have been receiving many, many e-mails about what I am like in "real life." I understand, people want to know more about what it is to be me. Some want to know what I was like in my "rock star" days. It's a little embarrassing to talk about really. First, I hate to use the phrase "rock star." I mean, sure, I was adored by millions for a short while. However, it's simply an exaggeration to call me a "star." Chris Martin is a rock star, not me. The person who wins that American Idol show will immediately ascend the throne of rock stardom. I am just a guy who used to play for crowds of hundreds of thousands. Secondly, I don't like to talk about those days very much. As a role model for thousands of school aged children in Mozambique, I cannot advocate the lifestyle of Quaaludes and Playboy magazines that I lived then. Third, I cannot talk about it because of the gag orders in the legal proceedings currently pending against me in the States of Nebraska, Wisconsin or Rhode Island (not to mention the one from the Dominican Republic). Fourth, I don't want to talk about it here because you can read about it in my upcoming book and VH1 special, "Please don't stab me and steal my guitar. . . again (One rock star's struggle against madness and venereal disease)" -- We are tweaking the title.

But for those of you that insist: I have enclosed for your viewing pleasure a taste of what it was like to be me. Here I am performing in Cincinnati in 1970. Some will say that I copied my performing style off of Iggy Pop. This I vehemently deny. Sure we have the same taste in women and an affinity for shirtless androgyny. The difference is obvious though. I know how to rock. Some say that's all I know. I Rock. Rock N Roll. With a capital "N". That's right.

It is Valentine's Day for Fuck's Sake

2007-02-14T10:31:00.000-06:00

I don’t know if you have noticed this or not, but today is Valentine’s Day. I know that it is a very cliche thing to say, but this day is pretty f-ing stupid. Valentine’s Day is supposed to be the day that lovers express their love for one another. In theory this is a fine idea. However, we all know that there is only one true way to express your love for another person. That is, having the sexual intercourse with said person (or if you are incapable of intercourse because of a tragic lawn dart accident, a sexual act of some type). So if today were to involve people fucking like mad little rabbits instead of exchanging stupid little cards with one another then I would be perfectly happy with the day.

We (meaning one guy with a blog that very, very few people read and you who has nothing better to do with your life than read a blog that very, very few people read) should do something to better society - by changing up Valentine’s Day. No more cards, gifts, flowers or candy. Only two things are necessary to celebrate Valentine’s Day: 1) a semi-rigid penis 2) a place to put a semi-rigid penis. (If you are a lesbian couple, you are on your own because I am not really certain how lesbians have sex. On a second note, if you are lesbian couple (that may or may not like some man-loving on the side) and want to show me how lesbians have sex, please e-mail me and I will immediately give you my home address and phone number). So everyone spend today skipping out on work and having the sex. I am working to change the world one orgasm at a time.

I also should have mentioned a second way to express your love for another person: very expensive gifts. To truly be a gift demonstrating love, the gift must be over $500. If you can swing that, then you get out of the sex. If you don’t want to spend that, then get to humping.

I asked the ladies around the office and, surprisingly, no one is up for getting a hotel room across the street and spending 12 minutes in sexual bliss. I even offered room service. To console myself, I am taking option two. I am spending over $500 on a gift for myself. Today I will leave work early and go straight to the Best Buy where I will purchase both a Nintendo Wii and a Playstation 3. I couldn’t decide which to buy, so I am just getting both. My evening will be spent trying to reunite Link and Zelda, and then pleasuring myself while listening to Hank Williams’ I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.

Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.

P.S. If you took my advice and spent the day having the sex, please send me an e-mail or comment letting me know. Also feel free to describe the sex in great detail including, but not limited to, the number of different positions experienced, whether you moaned or screamed, and whether you photographed or video taped the encounter. Peace out.

Three Quick Things

2007-02-12T13:18:00.000-06:00

First

I was driving down the street yesterday afternoon to pick up a mid-afternoon sushi snack when I saw a sign staked into the ground at the intersection where I was stopped. It read:

VIAGRA
MADONNA
DIET

I tried to get out my phone to snap a picture, but before I could the light turned green. I am much too lazy to go back out and take a picture, so no picture for you. I also didn’t write down the number or I would most certainly have called yesterday to find out what the diet entails. I can only assume that the diet is for men, and it involves three basic steps. 1) Take a full dosage of Viagra. 2) Wait 30 minutes until fully engorged. 3) Take out the photographs of a nude Madonna (taken at a time when she was hot) **WARNING: LOOKING AT THIS LINK WHILE AT WORK WILL TOTALLY GET YOU FIRED** 4) Beat the holy fucking shit out your penis until you begin to perspire. 5) Rinse and repeat.

It is estimated that a 45 year old man could lose up to 40 pounds in a month simply by wacking it to Madonna’s Sex book.

Second

I hate February. I don’t hate it because of the cold weather, lack of quality holidays, or because of that stupid fucking leap year thing. I hate February because the cursive ‘F’ sucks. Isn’t the point of cursive to join all of the letters together so that writing is quicker and easier? With the ‘F’ you have pick up your pen three times. What a waste of time and energy! Then you have that stupid cross through the middle of the letter. What the hell is going on with that? The print ‘F’ doesn’t make you cross all the way through the letter. It is only a line drawn on one side the letter. The cursive ‘F’ thinks it is so damn good that it has to have some little flag off the back end AND a line all the way through the letter. Fuck that. Don’t even get me started on writing the cursive lower-case ‘b’ into the ‘r’.

The second reason February sucks. What is going on with that fucked up pronunciation? Is it me, or is that ‘r’ in there just wasted. I found this on Wikipedia:

Many people pronounce "February" with a round 'u' instead of an open 'u' vowel, which forces the first 'r' to be eclipsed, viz. 'FEB-yoo-air-ee' instead of 'FEB-roo-air-ee.' That is, it elides into first half of the trailing diphthong. Otherwise, the flanking mid vowel ('e') and back vowel ('u'), combined with the final -ry syllable (front vowel 'ee') make the 'br' difficult for Anglophones to pronounce in the first place. The problem does not usually arise for Scotiaphones, however. The Scottish names for the month are "Feberwary" and "Februar," the latter usually pronounced with a long "ay" vowel in the first syllable.

If you need this much explanation for why the pronunciation is fucked up, it is time to change the name. I propose we do away with February and call the second month “Reid.” It has a great ring to it: January, Reid, March, April. . . etc. As the namesake for Reid I immediately move that two extra days be added to Reid to give it a more significant status. The added benefit is that you will never have to listen to one of those people born on January 29 say, I was born during leap year. . . This year I turn 8 years old! Get it, I am really 32. Get it? You get it? Leap year? Get it?

Third

I am trying to determine how long I can go today without talking to anyone in my office. Non-verbal communication doesn’t count. I nodded to the receptionist when I walked in and she said “good morning!” Since that time I have had no communication whatsoever with anyone here. I wonder if I can make until six without saying a word in this office. I’ll let you know how this goes. I am sure you really care.

Hi, My Name is Garrett.

2007-02-02T12:58:00.000-06:00

Many of you are here because of this:

Two sons of Andy Reid targets of gun, drug probes

While I enjoy guns and heroin as much as the next guy, I am not the Garrett Reid you are looking for. However, I want to welcome you here and invite you to stay and look around. I have a couple of stories about a girl that refuses to flush her toilet paper, one about bad Mexican food and a few others about. . . well, I don't really know what my stories are about. Mostly they tend to ramble, lack humor, or a point. Often they are riddled with spelling errors, contain glaring grammatical mistakes and show no sign of proper sentence structure.

My credentials (partial list):

Once, when I was 12, I was asked to pose for the "swim suit" issue of "Boy Scout Magazine" by my boy scout leader. He was sent away before my modeling career even began.

I was having sex with high school teachers long before it was popular to do so.

Sometimes, when I masturbate, I think of Jane Pauley.

Yesterday, I ate an entire box of Fruity Pebbles cereal.

I am being stalked by no less than 3 women. (two of which I may or may not have had sex with).

So, you be the judge.

Huge F-ing Dilemma - The Second Part.

2007-01-30T21:28:00.000-06:00

The First Part is Here.

Okay folks,

I have been appropriately chastised for not timely posting what happened with the poop situation. By all means, if you want to join in chastising me, feel free to leave me a comment, e-mail or instant message me throughout the work day. I like it. A whole hell of a lot. However, in an effort to avoid further rebuke I am here at 11:30 at night writing a story about a girl that poops in others’ houses and freely deposits the paper with which she wipes her anus in my trash can.

Before we begin - you should know two things. First, I fell asleep watching Studio 60 a bit ago and woke back up, so I am a little tired and a bit out of it. Second, I am drinking a nice warm cup of coffee while listening to August and Everything After, the Counting Crows debut album from 1994. At this very moment Rain King is playing. I don’t know what 1994 was for you, but for me it was a pretty fucking fantastic year. I was 18 and starting college, and August and Everything After, along with Pearl Jam’s Vs., were the soundtrack to that year.

"What is the fucking point?" you ask. Well, there is none. I just wanted to let you know what I am doing at this moment. It is helping us bond, and become best friends forever (BFF). Now we can e-mail each other about our hopes and dreams. We can intimately discuss who you have a crush on, or whether George should be with Callie. When you are lonely late at night you can call me and we can discuss whether Ingrid Bergman should have gotten on that plane or stayed with Humphrey Bogart. I am pouring my heart out here people. Show a little appreciation.

Without further ado, here is how the evening went down:

Near 7:00 o’clock on Friday evening, Jason, Susan and Jamie show up at my place. Prior to their arrival your hero surreptitiously removed the trash can from the bathroom. Let me set the scene a little. My house is a little large for me. At last count it is a 3000 square feet, four bedroom, 2 and a half bath, recently constructed suburban home. (Note: the size of my house has nothing to do with the story, I just wanted to make you New York City folks a little envious.) Anyway, my living room is downstairs. If you go down the hallway a bit from the living room I have a half bathroom, which guests tend to use. There are no cabinets within the half bath, only a commode (I like that word) and a sink. Further down the hallway is the door to my bedroom. If you go through my bedroom, another door leads to my bathroom. Inside my bathroom is another commode, and this one is enclosed in a small little room. I call it the pee room.

So the plan was to watch a couple of episodes of Extras, and drink like mad cows. About a half hour into the evening Jamie decides she has to go. So I try to keep my eye on the bathroom door so I can enter as soon as she leaves. I try to hang just outside of the door because I was a little overzealous and obsessed with what was happening in there. I would estimate she was in there the normal time it takes a girl to expel urine from her body. However, there was no flush. The door opened and out she came.

I gave her a little nod, and then went in like I was waiting for the bathroom. The water in the toilet was calm, and didn’t look as if it was in a post-flush refill. The sink was dry, so I know no hand washing occurred. The point is, she didn’t go. I did a little look around to make sure there was nothing stashed anywhere, but there was not. I don’t know what there is to do in a bathroom besides piss and shit, but maybe she was doing some girl-thing in there. I don’t know. But I know she didn’t urinate.

Okay, now lets fast forward to Garrett at five beers later. I saw Jamie go down the hallway to the bathroom a few times, but at those particular moments in time, I did not care about what she was doing with her vagina-wiping paper. My only thought was to consume more alcoholic beverage. Which I did with abandon and vigor.

To make a long story short, I had sex with Jamie. It was amazing, and a little magical. I cannot even describe it as “sex.” It was “making love.” I love her with a passion that I cannot describe in words.

Are you fucking kidding me? I did not have sex with the poop girl. I did discover something though, after my little friends were gone.

As soon as they left I went down through my bedroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and through my bathroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and into the Pee Room (which was closed before, but - well it was still closed). As I stood there and urinated in a drunken stupor I looked down at the trash can to discover several wadded, balls of urine-soaked toilet paper. “Well, fuck me!” I believe were my exact words.

She fucking switched bathrooms on me. I am astounded. Dumbfounded, you might say.

So that is it. This girl so feels the need to deposit her excrement wiping substances into something other than the toilet that she has to change bathrooms to find one with a trash can. I no longer think it has to do with being a farm-girl or with plumbing in any way. I think she must have some kind of weird psychological ailment or sick fetish. Maybe it is like when animals mark their territory, and if I went to her apartment I would see a Shrine to Garrett. She comes to my house so she can deposit pee to mark my house as hers, and every night she writes in her pink diary, "I am one step closer to becoming Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid."

So what do you think of that?

This Is Me Stalling

2007-01-30T09:16:00.000-06:00

I promise to provide a semi-lucid post today regarding Friday's poop-girl antics. I started writing it last night, but just could not finish it because I got tired. (That should read: I couldn't find any good porn on the internet so I had to turn to my much-loved stock of Blair from The Facts of Life photos, and subsequently fell asleep dreaming of Blair's flowing golden hair.)

In the mean time, I give to you The Funniest Thing to Ever Be in a Movie:

Lunch Plans

2007-01-25T10:52:00.000-06:00

I want to eat at a little Greek diner downtown, but I don't know the best way to pronounce 'Gyro.'

I polled the office, and received four different proposed pronunciations. The ordering pressure is too great. Maybe I'll just get a slice of pizza.

In other news, I invited Jason, Susan and Jamie over on Friday night. I am going to remove the trashcan from the bathroom, and see how things go down. "Go down" was a little pun there. Get it?

In related news, I think Jason's Susan thinks I have a thing for Jamie now because I specifically invited Jamie over. I couldn't tell Jason the plan because he might tell Susan. You can't trust men when it comes to keeping secrets from their girlfriend/wife. Women have a way of getting secrets out of you. They have secret super powers (I suspect the secret super powers have something to do with the vagina). Women are all like Wonder Woman and her Lasso of Truth. (Except it is more like the Vagina of Truth). Whatever. I'll end now because the post is getting exponentially more stupid by the word.

My Coffee

2007-01-24T11:25:00.000-06:00

I am not really a scientist like some of you, but I think it may be a bad sign that my coffee ate through my Styrofoam cup and leaked all over my desk.

From this occurrence, I have logically reached the only two possible reasons for what has happened. One, someone is trying to kill me by poisoning my coffee. This is a very real possibility. I just added up the number of people who might want to see me dead. I stopped counting at number 9, and I wasn't even through co-workers and on to ex-girlfriends yet.

The second possibility is that someone is trying to slowly drive me insane by poking very small needle holes in the bottom of my coffee cup while I am not paying attention. This would obviously involve a very elaborate scheme of distracting me while accomplices turn my cup into a sieve. Normally, I would not consider this a realistic possibility, but I have done it to someone before. (On a side note: the results of that prank were fantastic. The prankee eventually began using two cups stacked together - then when that didn't work, he quit drinking coffee altogether because he was convinced the coffee was eating holes in his stomach. On a second side note: I felt bad that he spent over $1500 in medical bills to have his insides scanned and checked out. On a third side note: It is good to get your insides scanned from time to time - so I probably did him a favor. He should thank me - if he ever found out what I did).

Of course, there is always the possibility that they make the coffee really, really strong and really, really hot up here, and I am killing myself by drinking it. But that would just be kind of ridiculous.

Another Not Funny, Boring Post About Work.

2007-01-23T12:08:00.000-06:00

1. “That is the dumbest idea I have ever heard.”

2. “Did you even read the article?”

3. “It sounds like you need to research this a little before you talk to anyone about it.”

4. “Next time, think things through before you come in to my office and talk to me.”

5. “What the fuck are you even talking about? You are not even making sense.”

6. “You are staring at me like you are confused. Do you need to go to your office and think about what I said, and then come back so we can finish talking?”

7. “We don’t pay you to write memos, we pay to you analyze a subject and give us your opinion.”

8. “This memo includes way too much detail. The CEO doesn’t want to read this much. Shorten your memo to be a summary of the subject.”

9. “Did you even read your own memo before you brought it in to me?”

These are all things that were said to me in a five minute meeting I had with my boss this morning. Last Thursday, I was asked to provide a memo to him on a particular topic. I spent exactly 31.7 hours researching the subject matter and then drafting a 12 page memorandum on the subject. The memo was broken down into 4 subparts, and 2 of those subparts had 2 sub-subparts each. At the end of my memo, I provided a page and a half of opinion regarding the course of action the company should follow given what my research revealed.

I dropped the memo in my boss’ office at 10:00 a.m. this morning. At 10:15 he called me in to discuss it. I guess he is fast to be able to read the 12 pages and analyze them so quickly.

Now I am back in my office with the daunting task of interpreting what my boss said to me and converting that into a actual changes to the memo. Given the fact that the memo was exactly what he asked me to do in the first place, and two other people from my office read it last night and characterized it as “excellent.” I am not sure where to go from here.

Since I couldn’t respond to the torrent of profanities coming towards me from my boss, and did not want to risk my job by pointing out what an idiot he is - I will provide my replies for your reading pleasure. (And yes I realize that blogs bitching about work are really dull - and a little stupid. I am probably 10 minutes away from being fired. Fuck it.)

Refer to the numbering system at the top of this post:

1. I am sorry you feel that way. My idea is pretty much the only option the company has, unless it wants to get sued for millions. The research is clear.

2. Yes, asshole. If you would read page three of the memo, I spent three paragraphs discussing the article and providing my thoughts about why it does not apply. I am sorry that your cursory review of both the article and my memo do not reconcile with your non-researched “gut” feeling about the proper course to take.

3. Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? That is what the 12 page memo is. My fucking research. How clearer can it be? The first fucking sentence of the memo says, “my research reveals. . .”

4. Think things through? I spent four days thinking about this. I worked for 8 hours on Sunday thinking about this. Your telling me to think about things makes me want to jab this gold-plated letter opener into your jugular.

5. I am talking about everything that is on page 5. I am talking about what the law is. Have you heard of a statute? It is sometimes referred to as a “law.” These “laws” control what the members of our society can and cannot do. Sometimes, if companies break the law, they can get sued. Lawsuits are things companies don’t like. They cost money. Stop rambling about this nonsense and fucking listen to what I am saying. Read the fucking memo.

6. This is not a confused look. I am wondering how quickly I can get over your desk to stab this gold-plated letter opener into your jugular.

7. Jesus Christ. That is what a memo is. My research and opinions in written form. Would you rather I had a dramatic reading of my research at 3:00 in the West Auditorium. Maybe I could find a drummer and trumpet player, and recite my research in the form of a beat poet like Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer.

8. Those things on the bookshelf in the library. That is the subject matter. The memo is the summary of what is in those books. Now you want a summary of the summary. How about I draw it in crayon.

9. Well considering the fact that I wrote it - typed it myself even - yes I read the memo that I wrote. Then I had two other people in the office read it and let me know of any mistakes or gaps in my logic. Then I ran Grammatik and Spell Checker. Then last night I proof read it three times. Did you notice something specific or were you being an asshole just for the fucking fun of it?

The sad part about all of this - It is just another day in the office. That is actually part of my job description. Another of my bosses told me once: “We pay you a lot of money to take shit from us.” So there you have it.

Disclaimer: None of this really happened. Any similarities between this story and actual events is purely coincidental. I don’t even have a boss. My name is not Garrett. I have never had a meeting with anyone. I don’t even know how to use the computer. What is this “memo” of which you speak? If anyone in my place of employment finds this, it is obviously a libelous attempt to sabotage my job by one of my co-workers. Probably Jim. That fucker.

A Story

2007-01-20T17:46:00.000-06:00

I logged in this evening because I had a fantastic idea to write about something enormously embarrassing, yet funny, that happened to me once. After my last post, I have become acutely aware that you all perversely enjoy mocking my humiliation and pain. In fact, you are all perfectly okay with the notion of aiding my neurosis by further insinuating traits of gayness. So thanks for all that. I also realized that you are all homophobic, but that is a post for another day.

I finished the first paragraph of said post when I realized that said post was a horrific mistake. Why should I further humiliate myself with a story about “alleged” sexual inadequacy, public ridicule, and failed revenge? However, I need to write something tonight. I hurt my back yesterday afternoon and I have a terrific buzz caused by a mixture of Rolling Rock and Lortab. This combination of substances has given me the motivation to move from my couch to the computer, and begin to type. Of course, I can't see the letters because they all blur together, and so far I have only spelled 12 words in the last two paragraphs correctly. That is what the fucking spell checker is for - drunk, drugged morons who type fast and use words they don't understand, much less know how to spell.

Perhaps rather than write about my own humiliation I should write about the humiliation of others. There I have it. The most embarrassing thing to have occurred to someone close to me, in my presence.

In 1993 I dated a girl named Shelley. This was a fairly serious high-school type relationship. The kind where you feel certain that you will stay with this person for ever, and you don’t understand why your parents are so nonchalant about the seriousness of your feelings for this person. In retrospect, most of these feelings were caused by your overwhelming desire to have sex on a regular basis, and in a way that didn't involve the use of gymnast-like positions in your girlfriend's Ford Festiva. Well Shelley, being in a serious high-school type relationship, wanted to meet all of my family and attend important family events, such as holidays, weddings and funerals.

In 1993 Easter fell on April 11. For the entirety of my life my family spent Easter Sunday with my Grandmother in a very small town (technically not even a town, but a “community”) in west Texas. For the entirety of my life my Grandmother attended a very small Baptist church in her community. I believe the average attendance at this church was less than 30 people. I believe the average age of the church members was 68. So it was a very big deal when my moderately large family attended church with my Grandmother. It was an especially big deal on April 11, 1993 when Shelley attended church with us.

At small Baptist churches, the end of the service is punctuated by an “invitation.” Following the invitation the church pastor asks a member to lead the congregation in prayer. During the prayer the pastor goes to the back of the room so that he can shake each person’s hand on his way out. Such was the scene when Shelley was exiting the church. The sanctuary to the church exited straight outside where there was a small covered porch-type area. There were five steps down on to the grass in front of the church. Shelley and I were one of the first 10 people out of the door. This is when Shelley began to fall down the steps. Shelley was wearing, as girls were known to do in 1993, a flowery sun dress thing. As she fell she tried to brace/stop her fall. She ended facing up, and falling backward down the steps. When she hit the grass, her legs were spread eagle, her dress was above her hips, and 20 people were behind me gasping at what was happening. When the 20 people crowded in to help/stare they were treated to a lovely view of Shelley’s white, silk, g-string undergarment with little red hearts all over it. This vision was further enhanced by the fact that Shelley was on her back at the bottom of the stairs, with her feet near the top of the stairs.

On the drive home, Shelley cried.

I know - it is a really, really fucking sad story. But what can I say - I am kind of a bad person, and this story makes me chuckle at least 6 times a year when I think about it.

This was, in my opinion, the most humiliating thing I have ever seen. 20 senior citizens staring at your silk-clad goods staring back at them as they exit a sermon about the resurrection of their savior. That is some comedy right there. I like to wonder about how many men got in trouble with their personal lord and savior about the impure thoughts they had about a 17 year old Shelley and her silky underpanties that day. I would guess about 65%. Shelley was pretty hot. The percentage would be greater, but the other 35% didn't have vision good enough to see what happened.

Something Weird Happened to Me at Work on Friday.

2007-01-14T17:45:00.000-06:00

Something weird happened to me at work on Friday. (Don’t you just love it when the title of the post is the same as the first sentence? It meas: “This guy is not fucking around - something weird really did happen to him on Friday, and, by God, I had better listen up!” Only you should know that the weird thing was not REALLY that weird, just moderately weird, and this story is not that good.) I had a meeting in the next building over from mine. So at 3 o’clock I take a little stroll on over. The waiting area is fairly large with two couches, a coffee table and two chairs. There are magazines strewn about the end tables and such. There is also a large desk with a receptionist sitting behind it. The receptionist is very hot. This, my little friends, is where things get weird.

I announce myself and the subject of my meeting to the hot receptionist. I am terrible at describing how someone looks, but because I love you and want you to be happy, I will give it a shot. She was about 5'6 or so, with short dark hair. Her hair was not so short as to be the spikey/lesbian kind of hair, nor was it long enough to be called shoulder length or anything similar. When she looked down at her keyboard, it hung about her face, but it seemed to magically stay far away enough from her face that it did not necessitate her brushing it back constantly. That's it - she had magic hair. Short, dark, magic hair. She was wearing a black shirt and black skirt. The shirt, however, was very low cut to reveal a significant amount of cleavage. This little detail made me ever so happy. I would describe her look as a 50s’ retro hipster look. With her skirt, she wore bright red heels. After I announced myself to her, she dialed the appropriate person and asked if I would like to have a seat. I did like to have a seat. So I sat.

Upon sitting, the hot receptionist comes over to where I was sitting, ostensibly for the purpose of straightening the magazines. She says something about the weather, I respond with a joke. She asks if I like working for my company. She tells me she is going to school at night to be a court reporter. I tell her I know a court reporter and she likes her job very much. She asks where I went to school. She sits down on the chair adjacent to my couch. Things are going very well for our hero (me). Then she tells me that she was “hoping to go to a movie tonight.” I take this as my cue, and think of how best to ask her out. Her next statement was: “Hey, you’ve probably seen it already, what did you think of that movie ‘Brokeback Mountain?' It is on cable tonight."

I was already thinking of what breakfast I was going to make her the next morning. I was mentally taking inventory of prophylactics in my home. I was already trying to decide which boxer shorts are my “sexiest.” I had already sized her up to see what sexual positions she might be interested in. (Just and aside - I determined that a 25 year-old hipster would be interested in the majority of sexual positions that I could accomplish - and would likely teach me three more). She then asked me what my thoughts were on the most well-known gay movie of all time. She also added, “hey, you’ve probably seen it already.” I can only assume that she assumed that I am a gay person.

I, of course, realize that not everyone who watched Brokeback Mountain is gay. However, I cannot imagine a circumstance where a single girl would ask a single straight man about Brokeback Mountain. Unless I saw it on HBO when would I have seen Brokeback Mountain? It is not really much of a "date movie." I couldn't go and see it with another guy. (As another aside - I did watch it on HBO and thought it to be an okay movie - except for the part where the one gay cowboy spits into his hand and, presumably, wipes it on his gay cowboy penis before giving it to the other gay cowboy. That part just made me a little queasy.)

So I am not sure what happened there. However, I did spend the rest of the afternoon asking co-workers, “Do I seem gay to you?” or “Do I have a gay-vibe” or “Do you think these shoes are ‘gay shoes?’”

I don’t really have a problem with someone thinking I am gay, with two exceptions:

1) If women I think are hot think I am gay, this is not a good situation for getting me some action.
2) If some women think I am gay, then surely some gay men must also think I am gay, and no gay man has ever asked me out (or even for some gay roadside bathroom sex). Is there some reason I am not attractive to gay men? That kind of pisses me off.

I have no ending for this post. I told her I had not seen the movie. She went back to her desk. I couldn't concentrate the entire meeting because I was thinking about this situation. My co-workers think I am strange (or stranger than they already thought) because I asked them about potential gayness all day.

Huge F-ing Dilemma

2007-01-03T22:23:00.000-06:00

I’ve got a big-time dilemma on my hands here, and what would a blog be without seeking advice from readers. Just so you can stay up on the game, here is the format we’ll follow. First, I will give a little bit of background story to set the stage and illustrate the mood and feel of the story. Second, I will hit you with the big scenario which lead to the big-time dilemma. (Should “big-time” be hyphenated? I don’t know but I bet Lover and Fighter will tell me!) Then I will present the dilemma to you and pose a question regarding said dilemma. Finally, I will close the post with further witty observations, more questions, and general confusion. All of this will be highlighted with a consistent lack of cognizable writing style and punctuated by a general lack of skill. On second thought, maybe I should not have revealed the secret code. All I need is tens of hundreds of copy cat bloggers out there seeking to capitalize on my success. Well, what’s done is done. Here we go:

Last week I invited my friend Jason over to my place to have some drinks (*editor’s note: please take notice that Jason is not his real name, but his name does begin with a ‘J’ - just because I’m creative like that). This invitation went down like this:

1. I replied to an e-mail Jason had sent with a “if you want, drop by Friday night we’ll have some beer and shoot pool.”

2. Jason replied, “Sounds good. Let me check with Susan to make sure we are not doing anything.”

Okay, allow me interject here. This is not what this post it about, and it really has nothing to do with anything, but let me offer some advice to others out there. When you tell a friend that you have to check with your wife or girlfriend before you do something it makes you look like a pussy. That’s just the truth. I understand completely that you have to check. Everyone in the known western world has to check with their significant other before making plans on a Friday night. But for God’s sake just lie about it. Say anything but that. If he had told me he has to cancel his scrotum wax I would have had more respect for him. He could have said he needed to move his pedicure appointment and he would have looked less pussyish. Just some friendly advice on how to not look like a completely whipped slave to the vagina - from your neighborhood blogger.

Back to the invitation:

3. Jason replies two days later with, “Is it cool with you if Susan comes?” Whatever. There is nothing more I can add to the point of how sad he is. I’m fine with it. Bring as many people as you want, I don’t care. I reply, “sure.”

4. Jason replies three hours later with, “Susan wants to know if her best friend, Jamie, can come with us.”

5. What the fuck? I thought this was two guys getting together and drinking, watching some football, and shooting some pool. However, I am a smart MF, and I know that I cannot say, “dude, I thought it was going to just be the two of us. Now I am hurt and confused by your lack of consideration.” So instead I say, “Great, sounds good.”

Now, here is where things get weird. Friday afternoon Jason comes to my desk and says, sort of sheepishly, “Susan wanted me to tell you to make sure you have trash bags in your bathroom trash cans.”

I stare at him blankly for several seconds, and he begins to explain. He tells me that he didn’t want to bring it up, but Susan told him he had to tell me. He tells me that it is not Susan or he that wants the trash bags, but he is concerned about Jamie. I say, “Jamie wants trash bags?” He then tells me that Susan does this every time Jamie comes over because - and here it is - she doesn’t flush toilet paper.

I lean back in my chair.

I put my hands behind my head.

We stare at each other for seconds.

“What do you mean,” I ask. “What does she do with it?”

“She puts it in the trash can.”

“She puts it in the trash can?”

“She puts it in the trash can.”

He tells me that Jamie has done this since Susan has known her, and that Jaime never flushes. She just wads her toilet paper and places it in the trash can.

I ask, “Wait, are you telling me that she does this when she takes a shit?”

“Yes.”

I am disgusted. Taken aback. Shocked. Who does this? How can this be?

As soon as I got home I went into the bathroom and put a trash bag in the trash can. So Friday night comes, and Jamie, Susan and Jason come over. We drink until all hours of the night. We have a great time. We shoot pool. We do some X and have an orgy. (Well not that last part). I have forgotten about the weird toilet paper thing. Jamie, Susan and Jason leave. The next morning, horror ensues.

I went to the guest bathroom. There, sitting on top of the lined trash can was a piece of wadded toilet paper with some shit, wiped directly from Jamie’s ass, peaking from the inside of the wad. Of course, I disposed of this while wearing rubber gloves.

I need your help with this one. What should I make of this? Is this normal behavior? Do other people do this? Have you ever met anyone else that does this? Have you ever heard a similar story? What the fuck?

As a side note - does a normal person go to another’s house for the evening and take a shit? I know women are all weird and different, but do you take shits wherever you go? Just because you are sitting down doesn’t mean you have to drop some kids off at the pool does it? Do you just sit down and think, “oopsy, I have a little poo, better get that out of there.” Because, let me tell you, I don’t shit anywhere but home and my favorite stall at work. There are some exceptions of course, but drinking at a friend’s house is not one of them.

The bad part is, they said they wanted to do this again soon. Do I say something? I don’t want to dispose of shitty toilet paper again. I am in fear.

Things you may want to know to answer these questions: 1) Jamie is a country girl, but moved to New York City at 19 and lived there for 6 years. 2) Jamie appears normal in every respect. 3) Jason tells me that she does this even when there is not a trash bag. 4) I asked around at work, and no one has heard of such a thing. But, then again, I only asked two guys and both wanted to know if she was hot and single, and why I didn’t “hit that.”

So there you have it. Comment please.

Just So You Know. . .

2006-12-13T12:50:00.000-06:00

It is quite possible that there is not one single person on the entire planet more masculine than me. Well, it is possible that a half-shaven soldier standing in a desert in Iraq, holding an automatic weapon, smoking a cigarette is a little more manly. Also, a fireman, that just saved an entire family from a burning building, and responds to the frantic mother, "I'm just doing my job ma'am." That guy, I can't compete. The cowboy who spent all day ranching (or whatever modern-day cowboys do) and comes in for the night telling how he just helped birth a calf. That guy is a bad-ass. Whatever, you get the point. I am more manly than most, and for one reason. Allow me to elaborate:

Last night I went to get a beer. I have a second refrigerator in my garage. It is not one of those puny, dorm room sized, refrigerators. It is a regular, big ass, refrigerator. In the freezer, I keep only ice, chilled beer mugs, and liquor. In the regular refrigerator part I keep beer. I have every different kind I like. So, I went to get a beer about 7:30 pm. (I'm telling you the time to give you a sense of mood and setting - I am a great story teller - what can I say) I got a Corona out, and reached for the bottle cap opener that I keep on top of the fridge. It had somehow gone missing.

I want you all to know that a lesser man would have panicked in such a situation. However, I kept my cool. I went to my make-shift tool bench and pulled out a pair of needle nose pliers. I grabbed hold of that bottle cap, and ripped it from the bottle with a pair of pliers. At that moment I became a complete man. I found the bottle opener this morning, but think I am going to keep opening my beer bottles with the pliers. Now, all I have to do is get a girl to observe the opening, and I'll be set. Because that is the kind of thing that turns women on - beer and tools.

Working

2006-12-10T23:05:00.000-06:00

It is 11:32 on Sunday night, and I am working. What is the world coming to? This isn't my life. What have I done to deserve this?

In happier news: I just created a Playlist I called "Uncle Tupelo and Its Progeny". It contains 236 tracks of Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy, Jay Farrar, Wilco , Son Volt and Loose Fur.

Remember the book that begins: "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters." I think that Chapter ends: "Then God looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good! And evening passed and morning came, marking the sixth day." My Playlist is about like that. Upon its completion I looked at my iPod and said, "This is good! Look at what I have created!" I know I didn't actually write the lyrics, or compose any music, or do anything creative, but I did organize some songs that I like into a neat list so I can play them in an order that pleases me.

Three things:

1) If you don't know who those bands/artists are, go look them up and then you can be cool too.

2) I know that screwing around with my iPod and blogging is not really working. So, I am procrastinating. Screw you for judging me.

3) Did that sentence in the Bible begin with the word 'and'? Am I missing something? I thought that was a no-no. You would think a book like the Bible could get the grammar correct. I blame those Gutenberg people.

Okay people. Remember - it is not about who you are on the outside. It is about who you are on the inside.

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND!

2006-12-08T14:08:00.000-06:00

As you can tell from the many, many, many comments below, people have missed me and have been begging for me to write. I have been getting, literally, hundreds of e-mails and comments from people asking when I am going to post again. When New York Times reporter, David E. Sanger, texted me saying, “Dude, WTF?” I knew I needed to get off my ass and do something. Well folks, let me just say that “I am sorry.” I have let you down. I know you are disappointed in me, but really you should just get used to the feeling. I let people down all the time. More often that not really. Eight months ago when I asked my friends, family and ex-lovers to use one word to describe me, I most often got “unsatisfactory” (especially in the ex-lover department). I also got “douchebag,” “fuck face,” “tool” and “cunt.” Although I got to point out to my dear sister that “fuck face” is two words, and I had to sternly tell my grandfather I never, ever condone the use of the “C word.”

My sabbatical (by the numbers - as they say in the industry)
17th - the last time I had a post
26th (of September) - the last time I had a post that was any good.
10 - number of days I have taken off work since the 17th.
9 - number of days I spent off work doing nothing but watching daytime TV and porn.
28 (give or take a couple) - number of times I have masturbated since the 17th.
4 - number of times I masturbated looking at Britney’s bald box.
6 - number of pounds I have gained (apparently masturbation does not burn that many calories).
4 - number of large pizzas delivered to my house.
1 - days at work since the return form my vacation that I have spent actually doing work.
5 - number of days at work since the return from my vacation that I looked really busy at work (including today).
4 - number of women I flirted with at the video store/grocery store.
4 - number of women that looked at me like I was Charles Manson when I flirted with them at the video store/grocery store.

There you have it. What I Did with My Time Off . . . by Garrett Reid. (Forward by Garrett Reid).

Here is the deal (my excuse). I took two weeks off of work. The week of Thanksgiving and the following week. I came back to work this week. I didn’t tell you that I was going to be gone, well, because I am lazy and I forgot to. I didn’t blog while I was off work because I am lazy and I was on vacation. About day four I decided I needed to write something. After that much time away I thought I should write something really good and really funny. However, I couldn’t think of anything really good and really funny. So I didn’t write. Time continued to pass and I still kept thinking the post had to be bigger and better since even more time had passed. Then guilt started to set in. I didn’t read my blog e-mail. I didn’t look at site meter. I didn’t really read anyone else’s blogs. All because I felt guilt when I did so.

See how much I love you. I felt as if I was betraying you, and so I turned my back on you. That is true fucking love. I loved you so much that I ignored you. You should appreciate that. You should love me more. You should send me nude photos as a result of how much I love you.

As you can see, I eventually gave up on the idea that this post should be really funny and awesome. I opted instead for - just write a bunch of stuff and tell people they should love you.

Maybe I should try and do better. However, in my defense, naked breast pictures would have really motivated me. So this is really all your fault.

Welcome Freaky Porn People!

2006-11-17T16:34:00.000-06:00

If you have found my blog because of a search for “midget penis” or “porn” or “midget porn” or “ass peeing pics” or “porn vagina” or “Kristi Yamaguchi” - Welcome! It is great to have you. My blog hits have doubled the last few days because of a certain post I wrote regarding midgets and their penises. If you are here because you are looking for pictures of pornography, midgets, vaginas, or Yamaguchi’s then you might be slightly disappointed at first. However, I want you to know that you can stay if you like, take a look around, read some stupid thing I wrote and then tell me about your life in a very detailed e-mail.

Seriously, within 15 minutes of posting the midget penis post the hits started coming. What is up with that? They just kept flooding in by the twos and threes. I appreciate that there are many people out there looking for porn on their home computer so they can easily masturbate to the fetish of their choice, but I don’t really understand whey they would actually click on my blog. My suspicion is that there is a guy out there looking for some hot “ass peeing pics” (whatever that may be), and is sitting as his bedroom computer, boxers around ankles, lube at the ready. He begins his search for “ass peeing pics” and then sees This Blog is Not Funny. “Hmm,” he says to himself, “very interesting.” He clicks on in and starts reading about the stupid drivel I write about. He quickly realizes this is not the blog of an "ass pee-er" and goes someplace else.

One more thing, If you are the 15-20 people who have clicked here by searching Blogger for “porn” you need to narrow your search, my friend. Who searches the internets for “porn?” Isn’t that a little generic. What kind of porn? Lesbian porn? Gay porn? Bondage porn? Monkey porn? American-Indian Transvestite Porn? You need some specifics, buddy.

I’ve written “porn” so many times now it is starting to not look like a word. Porn. Porn. IS it a real word? Porn. Hmm. Very interesting.

I promise I will try and write about something better later. I suck, I know. God help me. How about this, everyone that is reading this - e-mail me and tell me about yourself. Not in the “where you work” and “whether you leave your bedroom blinds slightly open,” but more like in the “I like bunny rabbits and singing in the shower” way. We’ll converse. I’ll write something embarrassing about myself, you’ll tell me it is “okay” and not to be embarrassed. We’ll bond. We’ll become life long pen pals that never meet, until one cold day in autumn when you will find me outside your Upper West Side apartment with some flowers and my Golden Retriever at my side. You’ll say “I wanted it to you be you,” and I’ll say “Don't cry, Shopgirl. Don't cry.” Then we’ll walk through the park, happily whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Is there anyone out there NOT creeped out right now?

Midget Porn

2006-11-15T09:38:00.000-06:00

I spent a good portion of last night looking at midget porn. (I’m not exactly clear on the correct terminology. It might be “little person porn”, or “dwarf porn.” While this distinction might matter to some, I don’t think it matters to the three foot tall girl doing a gang bang in an abandoned warehouse). Some of you (but not all) may be inquiring of yourself at this very moment, "Why is Garrett, whom we have come to know, love and trust to be a decent, respectable, God-fearing member of the human race looking at something so degrading as web sites with titles such as "Bang A Midget" and "Midget Sex Mania"? Well, it is all in the name of science my dear friends.

You see, I watch a little show that I love with all of my heart entitled Nip/Tuck. If you don’t watch it, turn to FX right now and catch a glimpse because it is awesome. For my female readers, there is at least one bare male ass in every episode. Basically the show features two wealthy doctors who have a lot of sex and engage in a tremendous amount of immoral behavior. I know - right up my alley. Anyway, this season Dr. McNamara’s wife, Julia, begins having an affair with the male dwarf-nanny, Marlowe (I know, I know - there really couldn’t be a better name for a dwarf-nanny!) So this lead to a discussion with a co-worker. I now pose this question to you in the hopes of finally reaching a rational conclusion: Can a relationship between a regular-sized woman and a midget/dwarf man ever be fully satisfying to the woman because of the midget/dwarf sized penis?

I posed that question to my co-worker. The ensuing, sometimes confrontational, conversation went like this (for ease of reading I will use letters to symbolize who is speaking. "M" will represent me (because I am too fucking lazy to type the "e") and "F" will represent my friend - I would use his real name, but he is a lawyer and God knows he will probably sue me:

M: Can a relationship between a regular-sized woman and a midget/dwarf man ever be fully satisfying to the woman because of the midget/dwarf sized penis? (I know we already covered this- fuck off and keep quiet during the conversation)

F: Are you serious?

M: Uh, yeah. Midget man equals midget penis.

F: You are an idiot.

M: What are you talking about?

F: Midgets have normal sized penises.

M: Shut the fuck up. That is impossible, they would hang to their little midget knees.

F: Trust me, dude, midgets do not have "midget sized penises" (said with derision in his voice)

M: It just stands to reason, is all I am saying. If a 6 foot tall man has 6 inch penis, then 3 foot tall man must have 3 inch penis. That’s just basic logic and math skills. Third Grade man. Editor’s note: The numbers used herein are for example only. I have a penis much, much bigger than 6 inches. Just ask your mom. Zing!

F: Why do I even talk to you? (Looks at me in disgust and turns and walks away)

As soon as I got home from work I started looking me up some midget porn. This has led me to the following conclusions:

Conclusions:

1) Man midgets are vastly underused in porn. I looked at many websites and I saw the same man midget on every site. There is only one man-midget in porn. This means that if you are a midget and into doing many, many girls on camera, then there is a potential market for you.

2) 99.5 percent of all midget porn sites are pictures/videos of girl-midgets getting fucked by some big-penised guy. I have a theory that these sites are popular because regular joes would like to have the intercourse with a midget to make them feel like they have huge, giant-sized penises.

3) Although most midget porn sites are straight sex (regular guy/girl midget), there exists every other possible variety: a) full-sized girl/girl midget, b) girl midget peeing on guy, c) dominatrix midget, d) midget girl on midget girl, e) mature midgets.

4) I was not able to ascertain the penis size of the average dwarf/midget. The one midget I saw had a regular sized penis. However, in regular guy porn they use the guy with the biggest penis, usually at least 8-10 inches. Therefore, it stands to reason that they would use the midget with the biggest penis, so maybe the rest have small penises. I decided it was not a very scientific endeavor to seek to determine the penis size of the adult male midget by looking at porn.

5) There is not an article on Wikipedia addressing midget penises. Could someone look into that.

6) I felt like an idiot going to medical websites and typing into the search engine: “Dwarf penis size”

Okay that’s it. I don’t know the answer. I really wanted to come into work this morning with some medical literature and hard core midget-porn printouts to support my arguments. Does anyone out there know the answer? Can anyone help?

Write me if you are:

1) actually a midget/dwarf and are still reading this post after being so obviously offended by my insensitivities.

2) a girl and have had sex with a midget.

3) a guy and have had sex with a midget (yes I did look for gay midget sites - none).

4) know a man midget and are willing to ask him the length and girth of his midget member.

5) just like to talk about sex in general and don’t mind if you immediately become the subject of my masturbation fantasies.

Lets get those e-mails going. I need an answer by lunch. Keep the faith and walk the walk.

Oh Baby, Baby

2006-11-08T14:09:00.000-06:00

For those lucky few citizens who read the last post, thank you for your many thoughts and prayers. After I wrote that post, the Coors sightings stopped. I think they figured out that I was on to them, and ceased their scandalous activity. I am safe for now.

Now our attention turns to the biggest news of yesterday. Britney and K-Fed .

To K-Fed: I’m sorry, yo! I didn’t mean for mine and Britney’s relationship to interfere with your marriage. After all, it is purely sexual. What can I say, she likes to get herself some of this, yo! She just likes to play, “pet the magic monkey” a lot. I’m sorry that she told me you have an unusually small penis, and oblong-shaped testicles. In conclusion, keep it real, yo. Keep rappin’

The best part of Britney/K-Fed news is the story headlines they come up with. My favorite so far: “K-Fed is Now Fed-ex After Britney Files for Divorce.” Simply hilarious.

Also fun to observe is the different treatment the divorce of Brit/K-Fed gets from the Reese/Ryan split. When you tell people about Reese/Ryan, they give a little tilt of the head, a little sigh and say something like, “I always liked those two, I thought they would go the distance.” The reality is that they did go the distance, but only by Hollywood standards. The stayed together long enough to create little blond-headed babies who would grow up to be Oscar winners. Isn’t that what life is all about anyway - creating other beautiful people so that we have someone to leave our money to besides charities, homeless people and starving china-people. So when I broke the news to my secretary about Britney/K-Fed, her exact words were, “It is about damn time, she should have kicked him to the curb a long time ago.” When I told her that I saw this article saying that K-Fed may have found out by text message, she laughed gleefully. Actual glee! That women hates the K-Fed. I just feel sorry for him. It must be tough to go through life with oblong-shaped testicles.

I am not really certain, but I think texting your spouse to tell him he will now be poor and divorced has to be the saddest thing possible. Apparently he had no idea since a few hours before the divorce was announced he was quoted as saying, “I've been away from the kids for like a week right now. It's killing me inside, you know, but, baby, I'll be home soon [yo]” That really has to hurt. I don’t know if you know anything about lawyers, but it usually takes them longer than a couple of hours to draft the necessary paperwork, etc. Britney probably had those lawyers draft a set of divorce papers to keep on file, just in case. She had her lawyer on speed-dial and as soon as K-Fed pissed her off, she had a lawyer on the way to the court house. My guess is that she had the papers drafted when she heard the rap album. I mean, if I had a spouse, and she started rapping, I would hire a lawyer too. Who wouldn't?

Well folks, you have once again wasted some time reading this pointless stuff. I can’t believe I just wrote over 500 words about Britney. Pathetic and sad. Please forgive.

Danger!

2006-11-03T12:27:00.000-06:00

I may be in a small amount of trouble. Well, to be honest I don’t know how "small" the trouble is. My life may be in danger. I want to tell you all because, um, I don’t have anyone else to tell. I think the Coors Brewing Company may be out to get me.

On Tuesday I posted a little bit about me drinking a Coors Banquet Beer. (It is, after all, like a banquet in your mouth). Within the hour, there was a hit on my blog. I notice the hit because, well, when they come in ones and twos by the day, you tend to notice them. This one especially caught my eye. The location was Golden, Colorado. If you are not familiar with the glorious city of Golden it lies at the mouth of Clear Creek at the edge of the foothills of the Front Range. It was founded on June 16, 1859 and named for Thomas L. Golden. (I just stole that directly from Wikipedia). Golden is known for being the home of the world’s fifth largest brewing company, Coors Brewing Company.

When I saw the City of Golden on sitemeter, I got excited. "What a coincidence!" my naive, silly self thought to. . . uh. . . myself. Then when I clicked on the statistic, I became concerned. The ISP was from Coors Brewing Company. Obviously, they have some kind of sophisticated software that allows their spies to see when anyone on the entire internets types the word "Coors." I was concerned at the sophistication and technology being employed by Coors, but this concern had not yet reached the level of fear.

I am just a worthless blog guy. I have nothing to offer to the world, and the words I type mean little to anyone, especially since they are read by so few. Why would the world’s fifth largest brewing company care what I have to say about one of their products? Unfortunately, I may never discovery the answer to this dark secret. When I left the office yesterday and entered my car in the parking garage, I noticed the unmistakable scent of hops. Surely you are familiar with what hops are. Hops come from the flowers of Humulus lupulus, and contain several characteristics very favorable to beer: (a) hops contribute a bitterness that balances the sweetness of the malt, (b) hops can contribute aromas that are flowery, citrus, fruity or herbal and, (c) hops have an antibiotic effect that favors the activity of brewer's yeast over less desirable microorganisms. While hop plants are grown by farmers all around the world in many different varieties, there is no major commercial use for hops other than in beer. (I also stole that from Wikipedia).

Did you hear that people? No other use, other than beer. I’m fucked.

So then I get home and I see a white van parked near my house. I swear to god it had a refrigeration unit on top, like someone that is transporting beer might have. Got to keep that stuff cold, you know. The van was parked there for about 20 minutes after I got home, and then drove away and out of the neighborhood. I couldn’t see anyone inside the van from my angle, but I suspect it was a Coors operative. I have now stopped logging on the internet from home and stopped talking on the phone because I suspect that my computer and phone line may be bugged.

There is little say now. I am probably endangering my life by writing this to you, but I love you. I feel I must share this with you, lest anything undesirable occur. May God have mercy on my soul. If I am back with another post later, just ignore this stupid little rant. If not, tell the world my story.

Beware of Women in Skirts!

2006-10-31T15:13:00.000-06:00

Check out this article.

This is scary stuff. “Women dress to impress when they are at their most fertile.” I don’t know about you, but I am now avoiding all women dressed in sexy attire, because, according to cnn.com, they may be unintentionally trying to get themselves impregnated. “They tend to put on skirts. . . and dress more fashionably.” So when you are out walking around today, if you see a “sexy lady” out and about, beware! She is trying, desperately, to get knocked up. Signs that a woman may be on the hunt for your sperm: (according to cnn.com) 1) She is “dressed to impress,” 2) “more fashionable” clothing, 3) flashy jewelry, 4) skirts, and 5) showing some skin. Avoid fashionable women in jewelry at all costs.

Who funds this research? What is going on in the world today? Teams of researchers hired a panel of men and women to look at photographs of young college women in an attempt to ascertain if those college women were ovulating based solely upon their fashion choices? Am I alone in saying, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Is this study going to do anyone any good? I know there is that one couple out there who is struggling to get pregnant, and they just can’t seem to determine when the missus is ovulating. One day she will wake up, slip on a skirt that is above the knee, pick out the cubic zirconium ring, and, in a moment of divine realization say to herself, “Fucking A! I’m ovulating! Lets Fuck!” (Or more likely since it is the woman saying it - “lets make sweet love and conceive a child to bless us. ”)

In other news, I am not going to any Halloween parties this year. I am not dressing up, and I will not be trying to bed a slutty nurse dressed up as a slutty nurse. I don’t celebrate Halloween because it is a pagan holiday honoring Satan. Instead, I will stay at home, watch the Charlie Brown Halloween Special (I wonder if the Great Pumpkin will be seen this year?) and read the Bible.

Actually, I will be handing out candy to those Trick-or-Treaters that come to my door. I will be dressing as Guy Drinking Can of Coors Banquet Beer Handing Out Fun Size Snickers. What is ideal about Coors Banquet Beer and Snickers is that they both really satisfy. However, only one of them satisfies intense feelings of loneliness and self-loathing.

Happy Halloween everyone! Remember to have your parents check your candy for needles.

An Enlightening Conversation with My Boss Regarding Hispanics

2006-10-25T13:47:00.000-05:00

Something Ace Cowboy wrote yesterday reminded me of a story. My story is in no way funny, and you should probably stop reading here. You will be disappointed. What Ace said:

. . and for the first time the Mexican assistant and I locked eyes and telepathically agreed: what the fuck? [ed. note, I'm not racist on that last point, the dude actually is from Mexico, the World Cup brought us together.].

About four years ago, I was in my boss's office sitting across from his gigantic, dark, rich wood desk. Interestingly, his chairs are kind-of extra high-back chairs. The back of the chair looms what seems to be about two feet above your head as you sit there. The effect of this is that the chair feels huge, and in turn, you feel small. It's all about the mind-fuck with the executives. So I am sitting there feeling very small as this 65 year-old man is leaned back in his chair asking me about my weekend.

He asks, "Reid, How was the weekend? Anything exciting?"

"No sir, just attended a wedding."

"Well, son, that's something exciting, isn't it?"

It actually was kind of fun. It was the wedding of my brother's wife's sister. The groom was an Hispanic gentleman, and the wedding was full of traditions I have not since seen. The groom is also from Mexico. Mexico City to be exact. Soon after the wedding the bride and groom moved to Mexico City. During the conversation with the boss, I referred to the Groom as a Mexican. This, apparently, makes me a racist. The conversation continued:

"Well I guess it was a little exciting. It was my brother's wife's sister getting married to a Mexican man, and . ."

"Whoa, Reid. I am certain you meant to say 'Hispanic'."

"Well, actually sir, he is from Mexico."

"I don't care where he is from Reid, we do not use that term here."

"We don't use the term 'Mexican'?"

"Exactly, the proper way to refer to them is 'Hispanic'."

I sort of sat there staring at him with a dumbfounded look on my face. My first thought is that the entirety of my education in political correctness had somehow gone awry. I looked across the desk at the Boss's furled brown and disappointed expression. I thought about it for about 10 seconds. He clearly wanted me to apologize and admit my faux pas.

I slowly stood up. Walked over to his big fucking desk, put both hands down, looked him in the eye, and said, "Listen you old fuck. The man is from Mexico. That makes him a Mexican. He is a fucking citizen of Mexico. He lives in fucking Mexico City for God's sake. He is Mexican. It is not derogatory to refer to him by the county of his citizenship. I mean, what the fuck?"

Actually, what really happened is that I nodded my head in agreement as I said, "I am very sorry sir, I certainly meant no offense. It won't happen again." If there is one thing I have learned in my 6 years of working in the corporate world is that you don't get very far pointing out other people's stupidity, questioning the boss, or asking any type of question at all for that matter. You kiss ass. That is why they pay me the big bucks now.

The next week a booklet was circulated regarding "diversity in the workplace."

So my little friends, what have we learned? 1) The boss is always right. 2) Sell your soul if you can get a little extra in Christmas bonus. 3) The more money you make entitles you to bigger chairs. 4) If you can't leave the bar with the one you want, just drink more until you don't know the difference.

A Few Moments Ago, I Almost Died

2006-10-24T13:48:00.000-05:00

A few moments ago, I almost died. 15 minutes ago, to be exact. I don’t really want to write about this because of the subject of my last post. Some might begin to think I am morbid. However, I feel the need to write about this because, well uh, I don’t have anything else to write about right now. I was going to write about something, but I can’t remember it as I sit here. I have a small amount of memory loss. I think I do anyway. It is hard to be certain about the memory loss because I can’t remember if there was something I have forgotten. Maybe I didn’t have anything to write about, and I didn’t really forget - I just think I forgot. Great! I am now a fucking rambling and babbling idiot. The pain is killing me. It is intense. It is hard to type because I keep having to hold a rag to my forehead to curtail the bleeding. Fuck - why am I typing this? Why do I have a blog again? It is not funny, no one reads it, the people who do read it don’t really like it, it is not getting me laid, I haven’t received one e-mailed photo with a naked woman in it, and no woman has said she will blow me because of this blog. (Note: notice I said “no woman” - To the guy from Waynesboro, Georgia and the guy from Elkhart, Kansas I sincerely appreciate the offers, but 1) I don’t even own a sex swing, 2) I don’t see how that is anatomically possible, and 3) I am not really all that gay.

What was I saying? Oh, I hurt myself. I nearly killed myself. I may have a small concussion. I was in a supply closet. I dropped a box of staples. I bent down to pick them up and hit my head on a filing cabinet. Blinding fucking pain. Seriously! I hit it hard enough that I saw stars and split my head open. Blood running down my forehead right in the middle of my office. All of the “motherly” women in the office immediately began to care for me in my weakened state. The bad part is that none of the non-motherly types wanted to care for me. They looked disgusted at the blood and slunk away making comments like “Sorry Garrett, that sucks” and “that must have hurt” and “fucking asshole, serves you right”

Now I am sitting at my desk in pain. I am starting to feel nauseated, and I can’t stop the bleeding. I am actually starting to feel a little light headed talking about it. I am going to stop this post for now. If you don’t ever hear from me again, I love you all. I think of you as my family (except for my female readers - I think about you in naughty ways).

Dogs and Cats Living Together - Mass Hysteria!

2006-10-19T22:45:00.000-05:00

I just got back from my little local Starbucks. Do they have those everywhere or is that just a HERE thing? Anyway. While there I observed several disturbing things that made me believe the world is coming to an end TONIGHT. First, Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl couple. This is a combination I cannot figure out. Let me just say that there is no one more racially sensitive than I (not true), but I don’t get it. Very rarely do you even see the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl couple in real life. It only happens in TV sitcoms, and with rich guys. I bet you can't name one couple that you actually know that has the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl combo. I am not talking about the guy that has a few extra pounds to lose - in his late 40s. I am talking about the morbidly obese guy with the half hot dog stuck between two of his chins and the pack of ding dongs rolled up in his sleeve in case he gets weak while taking a shit. It just doesn’t happen. Also true of the White Man/Black Girl combo. I base this on years of scientific anthropological research and studies. Black girls just don’t dig the white guy. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it, its not logical - but it is reality folks. So, when you see Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl its like finding a five leaf clover. Either you are one lucky son of a bitch or there is some nuclear mutation shit going down.

So I’m standing there waiting for my Chai Tea, observing the human aberration, when I observed the Second Sign: Preppy Girl with Goth Guy. When I saw this I looked to the sky fully expecting the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. What is this about? I would try and describe what the girl was wearing, but I am terrible at such things. I would guess she was 17, and if she were at my high school she would have been the hottest, most popular girl. She was a little edgy. She was wearing a little yellow T-shirt with a girl skateboarding while smoking a cigarette, but she was definitely not Goth. I would say she was a burgeoning Hipster Chick. However, the guy with which she was holding hands - Dyed black hair, black lip liner, eyebrow piercing and lower lip spike. I was astounded. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. I can only assume that she was desperately rebelling against a rich, lawyer father and Goth guy had a big penis. I wanted to grab Goth guy by his unusually long bangs and tell him to live in the moment because she will soon see that her Daddy’s money is way more valuable than her sense of rebellious youth.

To end this stupid and sordid story - the Final Sign of the End Times: Starbucks Girl took my order, smiled at me, told me to have a good evening, and generally seemed pleasant and kind. I at once began confessing my sins (there were many) and preparing to be swept away to the sweet by and by (I don’t know what that means - but it sounds like a nice folksy way of saying we’re fucked).

Its possible that the End is coming a little later tonight. That is the reason for this post. I just wanted to warn you people. You have been coming to this site rather irregularly and haphazardly for several days now, and I feel that I owe you this. It has been fun. Go do whatever it is that you want to do in the last few minutes of your life. I am going to masturbate to the Girls Gone Wild Commercial. Good night and good luck.

My Drunken Weekend

2006-10-16T23:39:00.000-05:00

I swear to God you folks are killing me with the incessant e-mails about when am I going to tell the story, how long until I post, and on and on and on. I do have a small life outside of this thing and reading other people’s things. I seriously have received at least 2 e-mails about the post. Anyway. Sorry for the delay, but I found a website with every original Nintendo game online for free playing. Awesome.

As you surmised I drank some this weekend. Well, “some” is not really the right way to describe it. You know that one Nicholas Cage movie where he plays the guy that drinks himself to death. Well that was me. Only I wasn’t hanging around a hooker the whole movie, it wasn’t in Vegas and I didn’t die in the end. It all began on Wednesday when some friends said they were getting together and going to our college town for some drinking, debauchery, decadence and some other cool word that I can’t think of which starts with ‘D’ that means roughly the same thing as those others. Hotel rooms were booked. Alcohol was purchased. Driving plans were made. Road trip was on. Let me just say that I am not proud of the things that I have done. But what is done is done. I can’t take them back now. All I can do is tell you all about it so you can laugh at me as my best friends in the world have done.

As I lay in my little bed on Wednesday night dreaming of good times, I devised two goals for the weekend. 1) Drink - a lot. 2) Do my best to have the sexual relations. If number 2 failed, I at least wanted to either make out with a hot girl that was a little out of my league (most are) or achieve orgasm in a way that didn’t involve my hand and a circa 1992 photo of Kristi Yamaguchi.

Let me just get right to the good stuff because this post is already too long and I have lost most of you I am sure. So, we got there we looked around the campus. I don’t think I have been there in 7 years. Some things changed, some stayed the same. You get the F-ing point. Then we hit the bar. The same bar that I hit for four of the best years of my life. If there is one piece of wisdom that I would like to pass on to the next generation below me it is this: Don’t ever, ever leave college. College involves very little real responsibility, much sex, much drinking and sleeping until noon on days when you don’t have class. Could there be any better life than that?

Much like every small college town, this bar had a drink special. They had these 24 ounce cups that they were selling full of nasty cheap beer for $2. That’s pretty unheard of I think. I, at once, slunk into predator/neanderthal mode. Must get as much beer as possible before it runs out. I bought three immediately. This damaged the lady prospects some since I was carrying around three gigantic plastic cups with both hands, and looked like a complete idiot. We couldn’t find a place to land so I was stuck holding those three beers for about half an hour. When I tried to drink from one, the other two would slightly spill, getting my hands and sleeves wet. Classy, I know. So I drank. And I drank. And I drank. Goal Number 1 in the bag. Unfortunately the harder I hit Goal Number 1 the harder it was to hit Goal number 2. This was fully realized by me when I was standing around my group of friends (consisting of three other guys and two girls - one girl was the wife of one guy and one girl was the girlfriend of the other guy - got all that?) and I was trying to convince them of my attractiveness to the opposite sex. Finally I decided to demonstrate said attractiveness by baring my ass, giving it a little slap and proclaiming, “what lady wouldn’t want some of this?!” This was after my 6th beer, at approximately 1:00. They turned on the lights 45 minutes later, after I had attempted to drink the beer in the bar dry.

As my friends led me out, I think I was saying to women, “I am Leo DiCaprio. I am fucking movie star!” At the time it seemed kind of funny since I, in no way, resemble Mr. DiCaprio. So as we got to my car, and I proclaimed how much I love my car - I vomited on my car. Yes, it’s a lovely site to see a man completely humiliate himself in front of his closest friends. Normally, I am not one for huge hangovers. This day was the exception. I began heaving and did not stop until the heretofore mentioned McDonald’s incident.

I did not achieve goal two, nor either of the fallback goals. Sad really. However, the highlight of the evening came when we all got back to the hotel. As we (the group minus one couple who had left earlier) ate some Taco Bell on the way to our rooms we paused before we went to our separate rooms. It was then that we heard something. We stopped. We listened. We strained our hears. There it was, coming from room 417. “Mmmmmm. [Pause] Mmmmmm [Pause] Mmmmm, Oh My God. Mmmmmm.” You get the point. We heard the sounds of sex. 417 belonged to the missing couple. What we heard was my friend Justin and his girlfriend having the sex. More importantly, we heard Justin’s girlfriend enjoying the sex. My first thought was “good for him, he is making a woman moan. Fucking lucky bastard.” Then a second thought crossed my mind, Justin had given me his second key earlier so that I could run back up to his room to get beer we forgot. It was then that I devised my evil genius plan. I was going to accidently walk in on them. Brilliant. Hilarious. Brilliant.

I communicated the plan, and got the go ahead from the others. The plan was for me to pretend that I thought it was my room, and they were following me in for some reason (we really didn’t get that far). What I saw was one of the funniest sights I have ever witnessed. Justin wearing nothing but a pair of socks. His girlfriend on top of him. Justin’s hands tied behind his head with some kind of scarf and both of them with a look of horror on their faces, looking at four drunk people in their doorway. The joy I felt in that moment will likely never be surpassed.

So that was Saturday night into Sunday morning. I sill hurt. I am exhausted. But it was all worth it because I got to drink heavily and see two people having sex. Maybe my life is complete now.

Teaser

2006-10-16T14:46:00.000-05:00

Tune in tonight for a rare prime-time post. I am too tired to think this afternoon. Still hungover from Saturday night where I attended a college reunion of sorts. Highlights of the evening include: 1) Me showing off how good my naked ass looks since I began a) working out and b) shaving it; 2) me puking on a) the hood of my car; b) a trash can in the lobby of my hotel; and c) the bathroom of the McDonald's while waiting on a sausage McGriddle; and 3) me accidentally-on-purpose walking in on a friend having sex in his hotel room. Awesome times.

By the way, those things above aren't multiple choice, they all happened, but not necessarily in that order. You'll just have to come back tonight to find out the order. I bet the suspense is fucking killing you.

Blog Whoring

2006-10-13T12:14:00.000-05:00

You may have noticed that I updated the Links on the sidebar here. These are several of the blogs and such that I check daily. There are others, but I am embarrassed to tell you about them. Some that I didn’t link to are Girl Blogs. They write about their boyfriends, wine, menstruation, and Grey’s Anatomy. For some reason I keep going back to them. I keep telling myself it is because I want to understand the opposite sex so I can get women. However, (and I have never shared this with anyone) I am worried these blogs are turning me gay. If you leave a comment on a blog about how you wish George would find his soul mate or about how Meredith should totally pick McDreamy, does that automatically make you gay, or is it just a factor in turning you gay. I haven’t decided yet, but I am trying to wean myself from those blogs before I suddenly find myself in Williams-Sonoma buying monogrammed linens.

So, anyway, go to these blogs. While there, tell each person that Garrett Reid reads their blog. Tell them that he is your hero, and that they should link their blog to his. Tell them how he won you over, and made you fall in love with him. Tell them to write and entire post about how pathetically sad he is, yet devastatingly charming. Tell them the story about how there is a small African community that worships him as a deity. (Is that a racist thing to say - I hope not) Tell them about how mesmerizing it is to read a blog from a guy that has nothing to say, no good way in which to say it, and spends most of his posts insulting entire classes of people. Tell them that he is, in reality, a 12 year old boy with cancer who wishes only for a lot of traffic to his website before he dies.

There it is. I am a whore. I am throwing myself at other blogs with my shirt unbuttoned and my hairy chest exposed. I am flexing my ass as I bend over to pick up a paper clip that I “accidently” dropped.

Garrett Reid - Accused Plagiarist

2006-10-11T12:59:00.000-05:00

It was pointed out by Ace Cowboy in the comments to my last post that the last post may resemble a Seinfeld episode. Well, to be honest he didn't really say "resemble" he said "lifted straight" from Seinfeld. He even linked me to the transcript of the episode. I did watch Seinfeld back in the day, and I can't say for sure that I have seen that episode, but I bet I did because that was high school/college and what else did I have to do besides drink heavily, try and have sex with freshmen and watch TV.

In my defense - I didn't mean to steal shit straight from some old TV episode. Secondly, that was a long ass time ago. That episode was on 11 years ago for Christ's sake. 11 years ago! Do you know what I have done in the last 11 years? I can’t remember every TV episode I have seen, especially ones that I watched while (allegedly) doing X. On the other hand, my post was pretty similar. Even the percentages were close. They said 4-6% undatable. I said less than 5% good looking. Although I did say that people drink out of depressions from hooking up with ugly people, and they said people drink so that they can hook up. In reality, these differences are so far apart that no one can compare my post to the episode. I also talked about nipples in my post. You don't see Seinfeld talking about nipples do you?

Here are the exact lines from Seinfeld:

JERRY: Elaine, what percentage of people would you say are good looking?

ELAINE: Twenty-five percent.

JERRY: Twenty-five percent, you say? No way! It's like 4 to 6 percent. It's a twenty to one shot.

ELAINE: You're way off.

JERRY: Way off? Have you been to the motor vehicle bureau? It's like a leper colony down there.

ELAINE: So what you are saying is that 90 to 95 percent of the population is undatable?

JERRY: UNDATABLE!

ELAINE: Then how are all these people getting together?

JERRY: Alcohol.

I don't want my adoring fans (and by that I mean the 4 people that seem to keep coming back here from time to time) to think I am plagiarizing Seinfeld. Keep it real I like to say. Also, sometimes I say “power to the people.” From time to time I say “Black Power” (although I am not black so I don't know if that is allowed - so I just say it in the privacy of my own bedroom). Thanks to Ace Cowboy and his astuteness. Sorry to Tom Gammill & Max Pross who seem to have written the episode. Sorry to Jerry. If you are reading this I am sorry for the pain I have caused you and your family. I hope you and Jessica are doing well, and those three little ones are staying out of trouble. Most of all, I say I am sorry to my family. Mom, you raised me better than this. Dad, well you didn't raise me at all, but what the hell, sorry anyway.

To the readers: Let me just assure you that someone from my writing team will be immediately fired. His/Her house will be burned down, and several unsavory comments will be made about his/her spouse in internet chat rooms.

If you would like a refund. Please print out the front page of this blog and scan it in. Circle the 4th, 17th, and 19th words, underline every other "T", diagram every forth sentence and then e-mail it to me.

Please tune in for tomorrow’s post when I write about how my best friend’s wife left him for a lesbian, and I’ll update you on the two girls who live across the hall from me named “Ronica” and “Machel”.

Nipples, Ugly People and Ugly Drunks

2006-10-10T13:22:00.000-05:00

A couple of hours ago I took a little walk around the building. I haven’t done that for a few days. One, I have been a little busy with some work stuff. Two, taking a walk around the building isn’t as much fun since the onset of Fall clothing. Can’t someone design a sweater that will provide comfortable warmth and still show copious amounts of cleavage? I’m not into clothing design too much, but I do know one thing about the world: Men like women’s breasts. It took me a long to figure that one out. I mean, I always knew that I liked breasts, but I thought I was alone in my desire to get a quick peaky peak at some nipple. It turns out that many, many men in the United States, as well as, in some cases, around the world like the mammaries of a woman. Go figure. Anyway, men like breasts. Where was I going with this. I started thinking about nipples and lost my train of thought. . .

. . .

Oh yeah. I discovered something. There are not very many attractive people out there. My guess is that less than 5% of the population (maybe less than that) is above a 6 on the 10 point scale. When you count out anyone ten years older or ten years younger than you, that leaves very few people. That leads me to my next point: How are these people that are 3s or 4s getting the sex? I understand that society puts on us certain standards of what beautiful is. So if I am a guy that is a 3 wouldn’t I still be attracted to 8s, 9s and 10s? If that is the case, then I would be greatly settling for the 4'11, 250 pound girl with the stubble on her chin. This led me to my third thought: I know why so many people are alcoholics. They settled for a woman with stubble on her chin. If there was a woman that would have sex with me, I think that I would have no problem imagining that she was Jessica Alba. However, 250 Pound Chin Hair Girl can never be transformed into Jessica Alba, even in the mind of greatest of fantasizers. It just can’t happen.

I would drink too If I had to worry about scruff burn from kissing my girlfriend.

I think I will spend the rest of the afternoon looking online for a sweater design that shows some boobies. Fucking turtlenecks. Listen ladies - it doesn’t matter how tight it is, if it don’t show me some skin, it don’t do me no good.

So to summarize:

1) Men like to see breasts, and in turn, nipples.
2) People are generally ugly.
3) People drink because they are ugly and they hooked up with another ugly person.

Aren't you glad you come here for these important life lessons?

Go Tell it on the Mountain

2006-10-06T11:30:00.000-05:00

I know many of you have been sitting at your office desk saying to yourself, “This Garrett Reid guy is the funniest mother f-er I have ever read in my entire life! How can I tell my family, friends, and neighbors about him?” I understand. We here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide get hundreds of e-mails a day from readers with questions like:

“Dude, you are funny. Are you gay?”

“My wife had a heart attack from reading your site. My lawyer needs your address.”

“You are deeply disturbed and need professional help.”

“This is the most stupidest site I have ever visited. Kill yourself now, please.”

Okay, some of those weren’t questions, but you get the point - People love the blog and want more of it. I have composed an e-mail which you can forward to your friends, family, neighbors, etc. so that you can tell them all about the newest blog sensation, Garrett Reid. Just circle where appropriate:

Dear *Mom/Dad/Mustache Guy at the Liquor Store/Gynecologist/Hooker from Last Night:*

I know that you *raised me/stare at my ass/stick your finger in my vagina/let me have butt sex with you* but I also know that you are a fan of quality humor at an affordable price. I would like to take this opportunity to share with you what has been a large part of my life the last couple of months: This Blog is Not Funny.

Remember last *Thanksgiving/week when I called the cops because you were staking me/month when you checked me for herpes/night when I spanked your ass and told you to call me “Captain Charlie of the Cock Police”* I knew then that I needed to tell you about this exciting new sensational website: This Blog is Not Funny! I can’t even believe I am about to write this, but when I read this guy’s stuff I *get hot down below (if you know what I mean)/pop a little woody wood*. Its just that funny.

Sure the guy can’t spell. He has terrible grammar. He is offensive to the point of embarrassing himself, and I heard from someone that he pees himself a little when he laughs really hard. But he is still a little funny. I mean, he is slightly funnier than The Three Stooges reruns. He is not nearly as funny as Alf Reruns. If he were a character on a TV show he would be Antonio Scarpacci from the hit show Wings. If he were a fruit he would be a cantaloupe.

Please take the time to go to his website. It will change your life forever. By that I mean it will completely waste your time and probably cause gastrointestinal difficulties.

I love you very, very, very much. I hope to see you *at Grandma’s funeral/at the police lineup/next week (I have a little burning when I pee)/never again (I have a little burning when I pee).

Peace be with you.

So there you have it - your dream come true. An easy way tell everyone you care about what you have been doing for 2 minutes and 32 seconds during your lunch break every third day.

Keep it real - and remember, Power to the People.

My Informative Take on the Rep. Mark Foley Scandal

2006-10-04T12:45:00.000-05:00

Let me begin this post by saying that I would never make light of the terrible, scandalous, inappropriate, lewd things Rep. Mark Foley has done. I mean, have you seen the IMs?

What I don’t get is the discrepancy between what the Teen is writing and what they say he did after having the IM conversation. Later he calls Foley “sick, sick, sick?” What is the deal? I probably would not have long conversations about male orgasms with an old guy, and then say, "wow - that guy is sick." I mean, he obviously is sick - but I would try and recognize that up front and say it then. Just a thought.

I have some experience with old men hitting on me. Well, lots of experience (lets be honest). Mostly is has been with Uncle Ralph wanting me to come and “sit on his lap and chug a brewski” or with that old, homeless guy at the park who keeps offering me a half eaten Quarter Pounder if I will “show him my ding-a-ling” behind the bushes. But I also have experiences from when I was a teen too. Like the one time that my best friend’s dad wanted my friend and I to “help rake leaves.” Yeah, I knew what he meant. Sick Bastard. He even offered to pay me $5. Can you believe that? I screamed, “my body is not for sale. Its not for sale!” As tears streamed from my face I ran and ran. I just ran. Whew, this is really an emotional post for me. I can get through this.

There was also the time when I was 10 that my Mother’s friend from across the street offered me some “milk and cookies.” What a sicko! I was 10! Even at that young age I knew what was going on. After I suppressed my growing erection, I told her, “I’m sorry Mrs. Morris I am just not into that kind of scene.” Interestingly, her daughter (who was 3 years younger than I) turned out to be a crack whore. So I guess we know where “milk and cookies” parenting gets you - sucking the dick of methed out drug dealer behind the 7 Eleven. Let that be a warning to you parents out there.

Here is how the situation would have gone with me and Foley:

Maf54: Did you spank it yourself this weekend

GR: Dude, I’m not talking about that with you.

Maf54: What are you wearing right now?

DR: I’m not gay. If I were, I would not be interested in you. You are old.

Maf54: You get me so hot.

DR: Seriously - Not gay! Why am I even IM-ing you? This is not cool.

Maf54: I think about you all the time

DR: You are obviously a child molester. Do you think I would ever hook up with a child molester. Leave me alone you sick old son-of-a-bitch.

Two general rules (with three sub-rules) I follow in my everyday life: 1) Only talk about masturbation habits with hot women, and 2) Only talk about masturbation habits with a hot woman a) that you have had sex with many, many times, b) that is about to demonstrate her masturbation habits for you, or c) is in prison and has fifteen minutes on the phone with you every other week.

Sorry for the lack of timely updates. I have, for some unknown reason, been having to work at work this week. More on this later.

Stay cool.

House Cleaning and 11 Year Old Boys.

2006-09-29T13:32:00.000-05:00

Last night I had to clean my house. I have some people coming in town and they plan on staying there. I say, “they plan” because I sure as heck-fire didn’t invite them. Sure, they are old friends from college, and sure I plan on drinking myself to death with them this weekend, but letting them sleep in my two spare bedrooms is just a little much. For one thing, the last time they stayed it took me a week to get the smell of stripper vagina out of the house. They don’t really advertise a cleaning product that will accomplish that goal. (“Try Formula 69 - for that nasty skanky smell your hooker left behind”) For another thing, I don’t really have much food in my house. I really only eat dinner there, and it mostly consists of odds and ends that I am able to gather up together. Like skittles and pop tarts or ranch dressing and stale crackers. If I do ever have a woman over, why in the F would I feed her? I operate under the theory I like to call “The Hungry Lady Syndrome.” It is a scientifically proven fact that when you are hungry you have an overwhelming desire to put things into your mouth. When it is just me and a lady-friend alone, why would want to take away that desire? I figure God put this desire there so that I would have a .001% greater chance at getting Mr. Wiggly The Wonder Worm a little tongue bath. (I just made that name up on the spot - wow, I am a super-creative creature devoid of any redeeming social value)

This theory has never actually worked yet, but I am staying the course. Most of the time the woman I have lured to my house ends up saying, “Okay I am here, so what is this dying wish you were talking about, and oh, by the way, if you don’t give me something to eat soon I am going to leave - then I am going to tell everyone I know how you “accidently” exposed yourself in the KFC parking lot.”

Where was I with this stupid story? I have so many non sequiturs it is hard for even me to keep up sometimes. I wish I was better at this for you my dear reader, but hey - you get what you pay for I guess. Okay, so I have friends coming over, I had to clean up. I’ll write more about the friends’ adventure another day. The point is, I clean up rarely. I haven’t done dishes in two weeks. The place is a pig’s anus. Seriously. Something has to be done about this. By “something” I mean, something has to be done about this other than me actually cleaning on a regular basis.

I’m thinking of adopting a Malaysian boy. Angelina did it, didn’t she? Surely she adopted for some good reason like cleaning her mansion and stuff. If I adopted a Malaysian he could clean the house up and have my socks ironed for me when I get up in the morning. Before you say anything (and really it is not okay to judge me - I don’t go to your blog and judge you do I - asshole), its not that different than having a real son to cook and clean for me. I remember from American History that farmer’s often had large families so as to have an abundant source of labor. Do you think anyone protested the American Farmer when he worked his 11 year old in the fields all day picking cotton or doing whatever it is you do to tobacco plants? Hell no. It’s the picture of America. So I am thinking about an 11 year old Malaysian Boy. I immediately nixed the idea of a girl. That would just be too weird and people might start to talk.

His life would probably be better than my childhood. Do you know how many times I had to stand next to the TV, switching stations, while my dad sat with his beer can balanced on his belly, saying, “not that. . . next. . . next. . . goddamn it boy why can’t you find M.A.S.H. on TV?” I have a remote control for my TV. So, I promise never to do that to my little Malaysian. Unless, I lose the remote. Or my thumb gets tired from changing channels. Or if I can’t find M.A.S.H. on the TV.

Remember, don’t judge me. Just love me. By “love me”, I mean “send me pictures of your naked private parts.”

Tears for T.O.

2006-09-27T12:28:00.001-05:00

To my dear friend T.O.:

"When the day is long and the night, the night is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of this life, well hang on
Don't let yourself go, 'cause everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes

Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand
If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone

Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on"

Listen to Stipe, man. Listen to Stipe.
Come over some time - I'll cry with you. We can hold hands and sing together.
And by the way - can you lend me some of that pain medication - I mean, if you aren't using it anymore.

Dear Lord I am going to hell.

Toothpaste and Socks

2006-09-26T12:53:00.000-05:00

I noticed something last night. I had to go out to my local Wal-Mart to pick up a tube of toothpaste and a pair of black socks. That is, by the way, the beauty of the Wal-Mart. You can get just about any combination of “stuff.” I bet the cash register girls just have tons of fun telling their husbands (after they get home from their job holding those little orange “slow” signs on the side of construction projects) about the interesting combinations. For example,

Register Girl - “Hey Billy! You ain’t never gonna guess what I beeped in this afternoon!”
Orange Sign Guy - “Bitch! Tell me after I’m done with my fuckin’ quarter pounder!”

20 minutes later

Register Girl - “Okay Billy! Listen to this. This girl comes up to my register. She totally looks just like that Jessica Simpson. I just hate that fuckin’ Nick Lachey for what he did to that poor girl. Anyway, this Jessica girl bought herself some Preparation H and a pink lace bra! Can you believe it? I wanted to say to her ‘Girl, you ain’t gonna be needin’ no pink lace bra to show off to no man with those hemorrhoids comin’ outta your ass!’”

Orange Sign Guy - “Was she hot?”

And . . . scene.

So the point - I was there buying stuff. I wish I could write that I had to buy cooler stuff like a new drill bit and a 72 pack of Trojans, but I just needed the toothpaste and socks.

None of this is what I wanted to write about. I noticed there is no one in the store who has any money. Seriously. Where do rich people buy their toothpaste? Do they go at some special time? Is there an upscale version of Wal-Mart? Do they have happy hour for people with gross annual incomes of greater than $150,000? I am not talking about the super rich people that have maids and butlers and what not. I am talking about the average very-well-off-guy. Where are those people? I just don’t get it. I bet there were only 10 people in the whole store with all of their teeth.

Is Target where I should be going? K-Mart? Is there some trendy little place where you buy hair gel and a fishing pole at the same time? What if you need a gallon of milk and a tire iron? I don’t care where I go exactly. As long as I can buy my toothpaste without standing in line behind a 17-year-old girl and her boy-friend/husband/baby’s daddy, with their two screaming kids, while they buy a 30 pack of Miller High Life, a US Weekly magazine, a pack of “smokes,” and some formula. God help me.

2d Haiku

2006-09-21T14:05:00.000-05:00

Writing haiku can be fun. I have composed a second. An ode to what I love with The General’s Chicken:

my god, Mountain Dew
dancing naked in underwear
green cans get me hot

Chinese Chickens

2006-09-21T13:10:00.000-05:00

I love The General’s Chicken.
I mean really love it.

You never really know what you are capable of until the time comes,
but I think I could murder someone for a plate of The General’s Chicken.

You know that scene from American Beauty where the naked girl is laying on a bed of rose petals?

I dream of naked girls in The General’s Chicken. (And there was once where I dreamt of a naked chicken on a bed of The General’s Chicken - but that was just plain weird).

I wrote a haiku:

The General’s Chicken
Oh, delectable delight
The tongue longs for you

Jesus God I need to eat before I write these posts.

Word to your mother.

Mexican Food

2006-09-19T13:11:00.000-05:00

Okay folks - I don’t want to get crazy here, but there is something I need to talk to you about. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. For that, I am sorry. This is a touchy subject, and it may get a little messy. (So to speak). Don’t worry about it too much though. It won’t be as bad as the time that your daddy set you down to tell you that he likes other “daddies” and not just mommy, nor as bad as when mommy and daddy set you down to tell you that your new “uncle” Raul would be moving in to share mommy’s and daddy’s bed.

What I have to talk to you about is - Mexican food.

One day a long time ago (last Wednesday evening) I went out to dinner. I tried a new little Mexican restaurant. Usually when you go to a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall you can expect a little nervousness. I had heard good things about this place though. I have a motto that I try to live my life by. This motto has gotten me through some tough spots in this life: Judge Mexican Food by Both its Entrance and its Exit. Rosarita can bring you free queso all day long, but if those two things aren’t good then never look back.. At this place, I was swayed by the strength of the margarita and by the free, mouth-watering sophapias. For me, the entrance was good, the exit was bad. If you know what I mean.

So I get home about 9 o’clock at night. I head straight for the commode. 9:45 rolls around and I am able to start moving again. I felt so bad that when I turned on the TV, and left the remote across the room, I was too sick to get up and turn the channel from Golden Girls. Man, that Sophia is one feisty old gal. And Blanche, well don’t get me started on that whore.

So fast forward a few more hours. No sleep. Many trips to The White Throne of Truth. Stomach pain. At one point my ass waved a little white flag begging me to surrender to death. I decided that Pepto and sleep was the way to go. To get the sleep I doubled up a dose of the NyQuil. Then I headed for the Pepto. Unfortunately, I was out of the old “pink stuff.” To make a long, uncomfortable story short (too late). I hop it the ol’ convertible to drive to the nearest Walgreens. The only thing stopping me from ass relief was that stupid guard rail, which came out of nowhere as I was dozing off, dreaming of solid poo.

This is where things really hit rock bottom for me. I got a bit of a knee injury. When I say “bit of” I am playing it cool so that women will still think I am tough and want to have the sex with me. (Although I am not sure if that will ever happen again after any read this little post). My knee swelled to the size of a grapefruit, and turned purple and black.

Okay my little comrades, what do you get when you cross bad, bad Mexican food with an inability to walk. That’s right. A night spent sleeping on the floor of the bathroom. I made a little bed on the cold white tile, and called it a night.

Please forgive me for the lack of updates. I am back at 50% strength now, and will be back to writing about inappropriate subject matter in no time. Keep it real.

At Least It Is Something

2006-09-19T10:36:00.000-05:00

My deepest apologies for the hiatus on posting. It seems there is a small amount of truth to that old wives tale, “don’t drink NyQuil before driving at one o’clock in the morning.”

Please don’t fret over me though. The guard rail got the worst of it. I am back at work now, and will resume regular activities after I check my e-mail, drink four more cups of coffee, read sports news, read the 30 blogs I read daily, and get a little (and I mean a little) work done.

Expect something around 1ish. I love you all (more than you will ever know).

The Post About My Job

2006-09-12T13:31:00.000-05:00

I haven’t written much about my job on here. This is because my job could be written about in two sentences or less. I have one of those jobs most people dream about. Not in the super-star actor or professional golfer kind of dream. Rather, I make a lot of money and do very, very little. I once took a two week vacation, and when I came back I had no voice mails, an inbox with only spam, and no work on my desk. I decided then and there I could never do that again. If people noticed that this place could function the same without me here, then I would be out of a job. I go to meetings every day about important things, and I spend the meeting scribbling three dimensional boxes on my notepad. My standard answer when asked a question about something in the meeting is to say, “I agree. I agree totally. I think we should put together a committee to look at this item in much more detail.” This is what my graduate degree has done for me.

Okay, I realize that was longer than a two sentence description of my job. Give me break people, and quit harassing me. Assholes.

So today, my standard comment backfired on me. My boss put me in charge of the committee. Can you believe it? When we left the meeting I asked if I get extra pay for having to be in charge of something. He laughed like I was joking. The thing about this job is that everyone loves me. I mean really, really loves me. I don’t know why. I have done nothing to deserve it. Mostly, I smile a lot, tell the secretaries they are doing a good job, and tell jokes at appropriate and opportune moments. I counter this good stuff with things like leaving every day for an hour and a half sometime between 2-4. Usually, I take a poop break for about 20 minutes. Then I go downstairs to the newspaper/book store and rummage through magazines like Stuff and Maxim for about 30 minutes. Then I walk around the block slowly as if I am out for a Sunday stroll. It is the highlight of my day. Well, that and when the assistant from the Fourteenth floor brings me something to my office. (One day I’ll think I’ll respond to her statement of, “here is the package from accounting” with a lovely, “close the door behind you, and I’ll show you a package of my own.” - However, getting fired for sexual harassment doesn’t seem like a good “career” move.)

I am now in charge of a committee looking into a $750,000 project. There will be 15 other “team” members, and we were asked to meet weekly for the next 3 months. I need a Xanax (and some liquor to wash it down with). God help me.

Sins of the Flesh, etc.

2006-09-08T13:09:00.001-05:00

So I stumbled across this site today:

www.mysecret.tv

It is seriously, but unintentionally, cool. By cool, I mean cool in the - you should stroll on over and take little look-see - sense, and not the cool like the time my two female former roommates made out for one full minute to avoid having to go on the next beer run. Of course, both things are cool, but only one of them haunts you nightly in your dreams as you wonder why you ever moved out of that house, and if you ever missed a crazy impromptu lesbian kissing session after going to bed for the night.

Anyway, the premise of this website is to confess “sins”. It has been set up by a church group or something, and people write in with their anonymous confessions. When I went to the site, I went straight to the “addicted to pornography” section. What I found stopped me in my tracks and may have changed my life slightly for the better for the rest of my days. This revelation is so great that I cannot stop giggling like a school girl before the season premier of Gilmore Girls. Women look at porn. Wow. Just wow. Some claim to be “addicted” to porn. There was one post where a woman said that she sneaks on to the computer after her husband has gone to bed to look at porn and masturbate. Oh my God.

As I was strolling through these confessions, a thought came to me. I know how to make this church (and the Lord in turn) some money. They should market this as a confession site/dating service. I would pay at least $298.54 (because that is everything in my checking account at the moment - I looked it up) to get the e-mail address of the woman that can’t stop herself from looking at porn day and night. Yes, yes I know I am going to hell. There is no need to remind me.

I know you are saying, “this Garrett guy is one low-life MF.” Well, it is no worse than the time I joined the local sexaholics anonymous group. Not because I had a problem, but because the women there make me so happy that I want to skip joyously along singing that Yankee Doodle Dandy song. I only fell off the wagon eight times before they kicked me out of the group. Hypocrites.

Okay people, peace out.

P.S. I swear this is my last post about porn for a few days. I am starting to look like a psycho.

Double Penetration and the Super Mario Brothers

2006-09-05T12:52:00.000-05:00

Okay people (and by people I mean the three people who seem to have stumbled upon this thing), I was just sitting here in my office looking out upon the sea of cubicles when a thought crossed my mind: How do those people look at porn when they work in a freaking cubicle? I mean, its not like you can be sitting there scrolling through double penetration sites when Judy from Accounting walks in to talk to about the new Purchasing Invoice forms.

As this thought was passing from my head, a guy walked by my office door. He was wearing these overalls that were some sort of green color, and he was rocking a big, thick mustache. That is when another thought entered my mind, and this one I would like to talk to you about: What is the deal with those Super Mario Brothers? They weren’t really “super” in the classic sense were they? It has been a long, long time since I have picked up my old Nintendo controller to give the Red ‘A’ and ‘B’ buttons a little rap-a-tap-tap, but I don’t remember them being able to do anything really “super”. I’m talking about the original SMB - not those other weird versions. I know they could do all kinds of strange things in the other versions. Sure they could break big blocks that were floating in the sky, and they could shoot fire if they ate that flower (or rubbed it all over their naked Mario Brother bodies - I don’t know what they did with it). The point is, that was really the flower with the power, not the Brother. As far as breaking blocks, that’s not much of a super power. They basically went through all of these various worlds, with some dumb song playing the entire time such that it was probably stuck in their heads for the rest of their lives, and killed the bad guys by jumping on their heads. I’m not certain about this, but I am pretty sure that you could name any other video game character in the history of video games, and they could kick one those Brother asses.

Okay, I have that off of my chest. Now its time to finish the MacGregor file (Of course I mean - after I review the Double Penetration file).

Formal Apology

2006-08-31T13:09:00.000-05:00

On behalf of This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide, I would like to formally issue this apology to the French as a result of my inflammatory and offensive post yesterday. You have made your point with the hundreds of e-mails and well as the threatening phone calls. My statements regarding the “French Fry Mafia” were not meant to imply that the French people are involved in organized crime in any way. I know that this stereotype has been following the French for many years now, and I, for one, did not intend to perpetuate the stereotype by speaking of the French in the context of the mafia, mafioso, or organized crime in general. I know, personally, of the burden dealing with stereotypes may cause. I know France has been fighting other stereotypes that just will not seem to go away, such as “being totally full of bisexuals” or being “cowardly bisexuals” or being “cowardly people of a homosexual nature” or being “croissant kissing gay people”. Let me just be the first to say that when I say something unintentionally offensive I will stand up and admit my mistake. I am sorry French people. Please forgive this troubled soul for my terrible and degrading comments regarding organized crime.

Tater Tots and the French

2006-08-30T12:41:00.000-05:00

Why is it that tater tots are universally similar in size, shape, color and taste, yet french fries vary from restaurant to restaurant. If I go in to a Coney Island in Poughkeepsie, FL I know my order of tots will taste exactly the same as those of my local burger joint. Sure, sometimes the tots are undercooked for overcooked slightly, but overall pretty universal. I think I have the answer to this age-old question. It is because the "tot" industry is not controlled by the French as is the "fry" industry. If it were, we would be getting all kinds of hokey, half baked (no pun) versions of tots - like "crinkle cut" tots or "tot wedges" or "waffle tots". Damn the French and their "French Fry Mafia".

UPDATE: I was just informed by an interested reader that in Australia, the tater tots are known as "potato gems". My God, you have to appreciate the Aussies and their sense of histrionics.

By the way - to my many readers in the United Kingdom (or "U.K." as I like to call Her) - what are the tots known as there?

A Hot Girl in the Stairwell - A Romantic Interlude

2006-08-28T13:44:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it is the little things in life that make it worth living. Take today: I walked down eleven flights of stairs to get some lunch because the elevators in my building are broken. You read that right. Elevators. Plural. From my floor we have 6 elevators. All of them were inoperable. How can that be possible? I thought about sending an intern, but management frowns upon forced humiliation towards interns. Humiliation doesn't begin until after you are a full-timer. Anyway, as I was passing floor 6 there was a very hot girl walking up the stairs, coming toward me. She obviously worked in some other department since I had never seen her before. When we reached one another, and passed, I made an attempt at humor, saying, "I hope the company updated the life insurance policy to include death from stairs" ha, ha - I know. The point is, she responded, "you look like you are in pretty good shape to me." That was it - then she just kept on walking. Did I mention how hot she was?

There is no point to this story. I just wanted to share that with someone since no one was around to hear it. Hot girl said I looked good. She looked me up and down and thought to herself, "I must have him - tell him he is incredibly sexy and breathtakingly handsome!" Now that I think of it though, no one is around to read this either. If no one hears a hot girl say she wants your body right there in the stairway, did it really happen?

So I walked 22 flights of stairs (11 down - 11 up (try and keep up with the story)). I saw a hot girl. Hot girl and I almost had sex on steps 3 and 4 of floor six.

Good Luck and Good Night

2006-08-25T12:30:00.000-05:00

I have a theory that good luck and bad luck occur in cycles - much like the phases of the moon or that thing that happens to women's vaginas every month. Basically, the theory goes like this - when you are up you are up, and when you are down. . . well you get the gist of it. I have been on a down cycle for about 2 years (approx.) During these past two years my car broke down on the side of the road three times, I have had the flu four times, I got evicted from my apartment, I "accidently" caused a hooker to OD, and my dog died of a rare genetic disorder that generally only affects cats (damn the irony).

Anyway - back to my theory. This week - good luck started rolling in. I got a raise! I am now the proud owner of an extra 50 dollars a month. Hello strippers and triple X pay-per-view. (If only it were $75 I could afford both at the same time - although I don't know if my heart could take the bliss). Second, it turns out the DA's office is not going to file charges. I have been advised by my lawyer not to talk about it, but let me just say that the bastard got what was coming to him and I'll be damned if I am going to let "society" tell me what I can and can't do in the privacy of my own bedroom. Third, and I know you are going to think these things are made up when you hear this one - my credit card is sending me a refund check - saying I overpaid my balance. I am certain this has never happened in the history of the modern free market economic system. Needless to say I will find something entirely self-destructive to do with that money. Perhaps I should use the money to hire a mercenary that can track down the bastards from the credit card company that have been on a steady campaign to ruin my credit and my life for the last five years. I don't have proof of this yet, but I believe they are even calling ex-girlfriends of mine to gossip with them about what a low-life I am. Fuckers. I will get even. Even if it ruins both my credit and my life. I will get even.

Back to the theory. When something goes up - it usually goes back down. With me it usually goes back down within 1-2 minutes and way, way before anyone is "satisfied". So, I have had three good things happen to me. That is usually the limit. The last good luck streak was in July 22-28, 2004 when I won $20 from the lottery and got a blow job in the same week. That never happened before, and will probably never happen again. (I mean the blow job part, not the lottery part - winning lotteries is easy - getting blow jobs, well, the odds are against you by far) Now we can expect a fall so great that I will be lucky to survive with all four limbs. I predict impotence, death or mental retardation (of course I am about half way there on each already).

If I am alive - expect another post soon. All my love. . .

This Blog is Not Funny

2006-08-24T14:07:00.000-05:00

This is what you need to know: This blog is not funny. There is one primary reason for that: I am not funny. Something else you might need to know: I think I am awesome, but I am probably not really very awesome. Actually, now that I think about it, I AM probably awesome. At least more awesome than you. If you think about it, I am only writing this to myself right now. There is no one reading this. So, of course, I am more awesome than YOU. YOU are some guy/girl who wondered upon this blog and read the first post. If you don't have better things to do with your time than read this crap, then I KNOW I am more awesome than you. Then again, I don't have anything better to do than to write this crap - so we are back to square one.

My god, can I use the word "awesome" a few more times. I really suck at this. But at least I am honest, right? Not funny at all. But probably still funnier than you.