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.

There Be Pirates

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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).