The Return of Lisa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.