Disturbing Things

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

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

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

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

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.

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.