Weith Kick

More Dancing With The Losers

2009-05-06T15:37:00.002-07:00

What the hell! Lil Kim was eliminated from Dancing with the Stars. That's messed up.

Dancing With The Losers

2009-03-20T05:50:00.006-07:00

So I've started watching Dancing With The Has-Beens again. I always tell myself I'm not going to watch that crap anymore because I know what's going to happen. I'm going to get all sucked into it and do I really need to get sucked into another stupid reality show. And what the fuck is up with Lil' Kim's face. Same with Belinda Carlisle. They look like they went to the same doctor as Priscilla Presley. Lil Kim's too young to be messing with her face. She used to look good, now she looks like one of those porcelain dolls, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Some men like that look. I guess. I don't though. Her damn face is frozen in time. But I guess that's the point. Freeze your face so it never gets old.

So I really despise, loathe getting all sucked into DWTS. These shows are time-stealers, brain-wasters. They rob you of your life; parts of your life that you will never get back; parts of your life that you could be doing something productive (like taking some damn dancing lessons instead of sitting on the damn couch and watching for chrissakes-although sometimes I will imitate some of the DWTS dance moves while I watch). Despite all this I continue to watch DWTS. To my credit though, DWTS is really the only reality based progam I watch. Oh, sometimes I watch What Not To Wear with Clinton and Stacy. And if The Surreal Life came out with new episodes I would watch that again too. And Room Raiders, and Wild Boyz and Jackass. And sometimes I will watch those crazy Duggars with all those 18 plus kids of theirs. Now that is one nutty family.

Someone must put a stop to all these reality shows. They're like crack and heroin and meth. You know they're bad for you, but you try them once and you're hooked.

The reason I wanted to watch DWTS this season is because Jewel was going to be on. I'm not a Jewel fan but there was a time when she first came out that I was mildly interested in her music. But then Snaggletooth got injured and that gave me good reason not to watch. But then I remembered insecure Denise Richards and America's sweetheart Shawn Johnson were going to be dancers and I was hooked...again. But best of all was the girl who got dumped on The Bachelor, Melissa. Now, I never watch The Bachelor, but we happened to watch what was probably the best and worst episode of The Bachelor ever. At least that is what I've been told. Misty and I were flipping channels one night looking for something to watch and we came upon The Bachelor when Melissa got dumped. And then a few nights later we see Melissa on DWTS. I got so excited I almost peed my pants. She's the one I'm rootin' for.

Frosty the Blogger

2009-03-02T21:09:00.003-07:00

Just like Frosty the Snowman, I'll be back again someday, but it will be before Christmas. I plan to get back in the blogging routine soon. Very soon, maybe this week, maybe next week. I want to blog and write all about nasty shit and read all about your nasty shit, even if it is not nasty shit you are writing about it I still want to read about it. Ms. Jackson if you're nasty.

My Balls

2009-03-01T13:45:00.001-07:00

I'm still exercising, running and working out on weights. When I run my balls chafe.

Got Lent?

2009-01-14T17:07:00.000-07:00

I wanted my New Year’s Resolution to be about blogging more. It’s a wise decision I didn’t commit to this undertaking because as you can see I am off to a damn fine start. Still, I would like to find the time to be a better blogger in terms of output. Ideally, my goal is to blog at least every other day and if at all possible every day. But that would require a lot of work, a lot of work I am not willing to commit to. Not yet anyway. So in the meantime 2-4 blogs a month will have to do.

What would be really cool is if I spent so much time blogging that come the season of Lent I gave up some of my blogging for Lent. But that won’t happen because I don’t give up anything for Lent anymore because I don’t Lent anymore. I haven’t observed Lent since I don’t know when-probably the last time was when I gave up Lent for Lent. For all you non-Catholics, Lent is this weird, wacky time of year when you are expected to give up something that you really like to do. Like berating others or doing the nasty or sucking helium or masturbating or flossing or eating waffles. Lent ends on Easter Sunday when you can finally go back to all your many vices and evil ways. Sinner.

Lent is all about sacrifice. At least that is how I remember it. It starts on Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is (you guessed it!) on Wednesday. This is the day you go to church and have the priest smudge ashes on your forehead in the style of a cross. Symbolism. Subtlety. And then you walk around the rest of the day with ashes on your forehead in the shape of a cross and people stare at your forehead when they talk to you and then you get home and look at yourself in the mirror and think, “Damn, not only am I cool, but I’m also Catholic.” And then you have unprotected sex because Catholics don’t believe in condoms or birth control. Lube is probably okay though. I'll check in the Catholic's Handbook and get back to you.

My Thesis on Tylenol PM

2009-01-08T19:12:00.000-07:00

I want all of you to know that I consider you competition. That being said, I have no problem stealing your material, ideas or whatever I read on your blogs, just so long as I get credit for it. But let’s not look on it as stealing; let’s view it as borrowing. Since I am borrowing that implies it will be returned, and yes, I will return it. With love and squalor.

Over at Swirly Girl, she’s all meshugenah you know, and what the hell is meshugenah anyway, and can a woman be meshugenah? But over at her site, in one of her recent posts she was talking about being sick and wondering if you can become addicted to Tylenol PM. In her comments section I said yes, I do believe you can become addicted to Tylenol PM. Here is my reasoning; it is by no means scientific but it belongs to me and therefore it must be trusted.

Every damn time I see the Tylenol PM in the medicine cabinet I want to take one of those pretty, white and blue Geltabs. It’s only a flicker of a thought, faster than the whip of a dick, but the thought is always there, tempting me. The Tylenol PM, not the dick. I see that little Tylenol PM bottle and I want to drop one down my throat. The Tylenol PM, not the dick. But, alas, I do not. In fact, it is rare I take those things. I have to be really, really, really, really sick to put one of those little fuckers in my mouth, and then I don’t even get the chance to enjoy it because I’m all sick and shit. And that my friends is why I believe that Tylenol PM should be free to anyone and everyone who wants one. They should be given out like candy.

Also, currently, I am getting over a cold and I think the damn fool thing is finally in it's death throes. I have been throwing at it mass quantities of over-the-counter meds. You know the kind, the kind that help sniffling, sneezing, anything so you can breath medicine. BUT! I have shied away from the drowsy, sleepy kind, the kind I really like, and instead have opted for the daytime version of these drugs. The boring kind, because I know myself. Once I have a shot of Nyquil I’ll want another, and then another, and then another. You know, it has 25% alcohol in it. Woo-hoo! So, once again, I have to be in a fairly dire condition to take the stuff.

The Jowls of Life

2008-12-31T18:29:00.000-07:00

The jowls are the secret to it all. They hold the key to my fitness woes. I mean goals, not woes, but goals. If I can rid myself of these damn jowls then everything will be just fine. Is that even possible, to rid oneself of jowls, or is it that once you get them you have them forever? Sort of like herpes or syphilis. My hope is that jowls are more like a foot fungus or boob cheese, something that can be gotten rid of? I want to know these things. I need to know these things. If jowls are like herpes and syphilis and there is no way of getting rid of them, then perhaps I should say screw it to my current fitness routine, that I have grown to love, and return to the days of Boston Baked Beans, Peter Piper Pizza, Coke Slurpees and Entenmanns for the rest of my jowlful life. Woe is me.

Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. Within the past year or so I have noticed some slight drooping in the face. I am starting to develop jowls. Or sure, right now they’re little, they’re small, they’re cute and cuddly. But give them an inch and they’ll droop a mile. If I don’t nip them in the bud now one day I might look like this guy.

Remember him? Remember how he used to look in his prime? I used to look that way too. Well, not exactly, but in my own way I was fab.

I am not at the point where I can snip the little bastards off with a pair of gardening shears or a one of those really sharp Japanese knifes used to slice blowfish. No, I’m not there yet, but I can see that day coming. One day I’ll perform my own brand of plastic surgery and I won’t need no stinkin’ anesthesia. I’ll just carve them off and flush them down the toilet so when I get to the ER there will be zero chance of having them reattached. HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

Years ago a friend of mine showed me this ridiculous book she had by Morgan Fairchild. It was a book on beauty routines. The book gave tips on how to keep your face expressionless at all times in order to avoid wrinkles and aging. Smiles should be creaseless. Never raise your eyebrows and don’t squint. No lines, no seams, no creases equals no wrinkles. At the time I laughed at the book. I called it utter nonsense. I wish I had that book now. Morgan Fairchild was a genius and I was too dumb to know it.

It’s the time of year to make a resolution, a resolution of change. Mine is to rid myself of these dastardly jowls. And I’ll do it, by God I’ll do it. As God as my witness I’ll never have jowls again! It may require slicing and dicing the bloody things off while screaming bloody murder; my preferred choice is through diet and exercise. Come 2010, I plan to be jowless. Because I’d rather be jowless than joyless.

And now, I officially proclaim all photos taken of me from here on out must only be shot from the lower lip up.

Obviously, the person taking this picture knew what the hell he was doing. In actuality, my baby jowls only show up when I‘m not smiling. So, 2009 is going to be the year of smiles. Smiles everyone smiles; because while I may be miserable on the inside, I’ll be jowl-less on the outside.

My Personal Cum Story

2008-12-29T19:38:00.000-07:00

Holy shit! I just drove by this gas station and gas is like $1.49. That is so freaking cool! Especially when you drive a gas guzzling SUV from 1995 like I do. I'm cumming in my pants, that's so cool.

Wait. Stop. Before you cease reading this because I used the word "cum," let's step back a take a closer look at this vilified word.

Wait. Stop again. As I write this, I'm contemplating not posting this because it's about a word that causes such a visceral reaction in people. I'm considering not posting it because I'm afraid to post it. But whenever I'm afraid to post something because of its outrageousness factor that tells me I should post it.

I think most of us immediately react when we hear this word. We don't stop and think first. It's a reactionary word. And this is what I want everyone to remember. This is not about cum, it's about the WORD "cum" and the LETTERS that comprise the word, um, "cum." It's just a WORD with LETTERS.

It's sort of gross for me to see "cum" in quotes. "Cum." Yuck. What's grosser? Cum without quotes, or "cum" in quotes? I think "cumming" in quotes is grosser. I "came" in your quotes.

I know this girl who uses the phrase "cum buckets" to describe that place on men that is below their waist but above their crotch. She describes it as the place that only really fit guys have. It's like an indented V that starts at the waist and goes down to the crotch area. Or maybe she calls it "cum troughs." I was shocked and disgusted when I first heard it; then I wanted to know how she came up with the phrase. Then I was even more disgusted. But I won’t go into that part. Cum buckets. Yick.

This brings me back to taking a closer look at the word "cum." It conjures up all sorts of images and meanings. But it's just a WORD. Take it apart and what do you have: C, U, and M. Gimme a C! Gimme a U! Gimme an M! What've you got!

Separate the letters and they mean nothing. C means nothing. U means nothing. M means nothing. I feel nothing. But how come when we put them all together it affects us and suddenly I feel something? In my pants.

Why have we placed this word on a pedestal? A "cum" pedestal. It's the meaning behind the word that means something to us. The meaning that we have given this word is where it gets its power. I am trying to be analytical here in an attempt to take away some of the meaning of the word.

When I used to live in Phoenix there was this convenience store called "Kum-n-Go." I kid you not. What Einstein came up with that bright idea? "Hey, let's name our store Kum-n-Go." This should not be the name of a convenient store; this should be the name of an adult book store. Not that I know about such things. Anyway, the name was eventually changed to "Come-n-Go." Not great, but better.

I am still contemplating not posting this since it is about the word "cum" and I know that will repel some of you. You may have stopped reading already. I keep telling myself it's just a word. It's just a word and I am afraid to post this word. This tells me I should post it because I am afraid to post it. When I wake up the next day regretful and feeling foolish over what I posted, then I know it was the right thing to do. It's like when you're drunk and you say a bunch of stupid things and you wake up the next day and think to yourself, "I can't believe I said and did those things." Except, that I'm not drunk; I'm completely sober. It's just a word. It's just a word.

Okay, Mr. Smartey Pants, if it's just a word then why are you so freaked out about posting this?! Huh? Answer me that, Mr. Big Shot. Mr. Cum In Your Pants.

By now, you must be thinking I will post about anything if it gets a laugh. If it gets a laugh, then it's worth it, right? You're right. Comedy knows no bounds, after all. But I'm really trying to make a point here about the word "cum." But just remember this, it's not the sound of the word that's sticky, I mean icky, it's the meaning behind it, and WE give the word power by giving it meaning.

So, for me, give the word zero power. Take away the power of the word. Render it completely and totally immobile so that I can say cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?

Some of you may find nothing wrong with the word "cum." Obviously, you weren't raised Catholic. And if you weren't raised Catholic then you surely aren't aware that sex is a sin. And if you aren't aware that sex is a sin then you most definitely don't know that condoms and any form of birth control are sinful. And if you don't know those things you then you haven't been paying attention.

'Tis the season to be sinful, fa la la la la la la la la.

This post was brought to you by the letters C, U, and M, and the numbers 6 and 9.

I Am Delicious

2008-12-19T17:08:00.000-07:00

Since discovering the delightful world of blogging I’ve come to know many of you through your blogs. I’ve come to know your ups and downs, your highs and lows. I’ve come to know your families, your likes, your dislikes and all your many facets. I’ve come to know your private parts. The private parts of your life, that is. What the hell did you think I was talking about? Damn Perverts.

And through it all I’ve come to regard many of you as part of my extended family. Yes, I consider many of you family—just one big, happy family; just one big, happy, dysfunctional, delusional, in need of some cheap therapy and meds family. But family, all the same.

So it should come as no surprise to you, my big, messed-up, sloppy family, when I tell you that I have been exercising…again. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, “Why do you need to exercise when you have such a delicious body to begin with?” I keep this body delicious BECAUSE I exercise—not all the time, only when I’ve had it with being nasty tasting and no longer delicious. So, when I start to reek on the inside, it’s time to transform the geek on the outside, and thus begins the exercise regimen…again.

Currently, on alternate days, I am lifting weights and running. Getting started is the hardest part, but now that I have been underway for over a month I find that I am becoming addicted to exercise…again. This is good because I have an addictive personality. One of the joys of having an addictive personality is that when I’m addicted to something good, like exercise, then that’s a good thing. On the flip side, when you’re addicted to something bad, like pot or alcohol or pills or hallucinogens, or nitrous, or Boston Baked Beans, or Coke Slurpees, or Chocolate Chip Cookies or Brownies or Entenmanns, then that’s a bad thing.

Oh sure, there was a time when I indulged here and there in the booze and the pills and the grass and the hallucinogens and the nitrous, but those days are behind me now. That was a long time ago, before I met the wife, pre-1996. Now, I am a good boy and I lead a pure, clean life. Except for the sometimes Boston Baked Beans, Coke Slurpees, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Brownies and an entire box of Entenmanns all in one day.

These days I have a good wife and we have a good life. Oh sure, we've had our rough spots, like the time I drew her a warm bath sprinkled, not with rose petals, but with banana peels. Or the time I said the phrase “poop chute” over and over again for 24 hours straight. Or the time she went fishing, came home, saw that I did not clean the house and proceeded to beat my bare-naked buttocks with a giant flounder until I used our safety phrase, “NO, NO, A THOUSAND TIMES NO, YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER!!!” Later that night she made the best flounder with just a hint of ass.

So yes, my new extended family! I've been exercising again to keep my delicious body and delicious mind...delicious.

Pubic Seeds in the Back of My Throat

2008-12-04T17:14:00.000-07:00

Fuck it. Despite the fact that we are now a laptop only household I am going to give it a go and start using this damn laptop. The only reason I don't like using laptops is because I am not accustomed to them, but, like everything else in life, once I start using it on a day to day basis I know it will become as common as scratching my balls. Which reminds me, you won’t find me using a laptop on my lap anytime soon because I read somewhere about the heat from a laptop doing some sort of damage to a man’s johnson and his accessories? So the laptop rests on a desk for now until they start making laptops that won't damage my "man bizness." I also try to keep my cell phone out of my pocket for long periods of time because I heard a similar story about cell phones wrecking havoc on a man's spermies and junk. But if I do have a cell phone in my pants it’s always on vibrate. Perverts in the House Say “Yeah!”

Today for lunch I made this turkey sandwich with a poppy seed roll. I like poppy seeds. Well, ya know how poppy seeds are. The little buggers get all over the place. They're like bb's being loaded into a bb gun. They go all over. After I made my mesquite turkey, havarti cheese, mayo, poppy seed sandwich I also made a peanut butter and honey sandwich for a snack later in the day. I made the peanut butter and honey sandwich on the same plate I made the poppy sandwich and as I was cleaning up I got a little peanut butter and poppy seed mixed together on my fingers. Two great tastes in one candy bar. No big deal, I just licked them off my fingers. Well, on the way to work I felt something in the back of my throat, like a tickle that you can't reach or a pubic hair that gets caught in the back of your throat. (Oral Sex Aficionados in the House Say, “Yeah!”). No matter how hard I tried with my tongue I couldn't reach that pubic hair in the back of my throat. Except that it wasn't a pubic hair. It was poppy seeds. I figured that the peanut butter acted as some sort of epoxy-agent and stuck those damn poppy seeds to the back of my throat. For the rest of the day I kept using my tongue to unhinge those damn poppies. I stuck my fingers down my throat, a straw, an extra long pubic hair, anything to get those poppy seeds unstuck. It wasn’t until the next morning that I finally felt some relief.

And speaking of my balls…here’s a recent picture of me wearing what I like to call a badass mother f*****ng(shut your mouth) outfit.

For the record, this picture was not taken at our place of residence. But you have to ask yourself, why in the background of this photo is there a jar of vaseline sitting on top of a jar of peanut butter, next to some spices.

Our Computer Bit the Dust

2008-11-23T15:44:00.001-07:00

Okay, so I haven't blogged or read any blogs for a while. It's been difficult as our main computer crashed and hard, and now all we have is a laptop. I know, so pathetic to say all we have is a laptop. It's like telling someone, yeah, we have cable TV, but only 300 channels, not 500. I should be grateful at least we have a laptop. Since all we have is a laptop I rarely go onto to it because I don't like using it. But today, I decided to just to write something. We have just started the early shopping phase for a new computer. Once the economy is officially considered in a deflationary period then I think that will be the time to buy. I could blog at work, but that is not something I really should be doing as I work in HR and it is my job to enforce things like don't blog at work or read blogs at work. And besides, once I start blogging at work I know I'll never stop and I'll get nothing done. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pick my toenails.

Get on, get on, get on, get on the Groovy Train!

2008-11-05T18:37:00.000-07:00

So, you must be wondering where the hell have I been and what took me so long to blog again, right? Or maybe you weren't wondering that at all. Were you? Wondering that? You probably just went about with your lives, entertaining yourself, doing things, going on your 'ventures, drinking your Chablis, sucking your lover’s toes, spooning, taking baths in Epson salts. You didn't think of me at all while I was gone. Did you? Not one of you called to see how I was doing or stopped by the house and checked on me. Bastards. All of you. I could've been stuck in a ditch, or had a really bad case of lactose intoler-de-laurentis. What is that, you ask? Lactose intoler-de-laurentis is something you get for watching too much Giada on the food network. Actually I could never watch too much Giada; however, I can handle only so much Rachel Ray. Oh my God, will that woman never stop yapping. Yap, yap, yap. Shut up already and make a damn pie or something. Bake a cake, make a chicken, carve a roast, cook an egg, slice a carrot, mash some beets, but shut the hell up. Now Giada, there is a women with class.

And speaking of class, my man Barack won last night! Oh yeah!!! Is it just me or does Michelle Obama have a nice badonkadonk? I’m just sayin. I have one question for our lovely First Lady: "What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?" The next four years are gonna be F-I-N-E. You know what I’m talking about. It’s about time we had a First Lady with a nice backside. That’s the real reason I voted Obama.

I kid the President Elect and his First Lady. I wish them only good will. I got very little sleep last night and yet today I felt incredibly refreshed and optimistic. I cannot help but feel Obama’s win is a great thing for America because now, it is my hope, that the rest of the world will view us through a different lens. It is my hope that our standing with the world will improve. For a while now I have felt like America was on the decline, and yet now I am beginning to see the first signs that we can transform ourselves. We can begin again. We can live up to our true potential where we are the country that leads by example and not by force. Compared to the other countries of the world Americans are an incredibly optimistic and hopeful people, sometimes to the point of annoyance. This occasional blind optimism is maybe due to our age. We are a very young country. I can’t remember the last time I felt hope and optimism about America. But last night I did and today too. I have been very moved by this election. I’ve grown so tired of being told by my Government to be afraid and that I need to be fearful. Last night I finally started to feel the fear melt away. And it feels good. I am lucky and proud to have been part of and contributed to this historic election. We are living through history and it is exciting!!!

Get Out The Drunk Vote

2008-10-30T23:24:00.000-07:00

Hey Mother Fuckers and Daddy Rapers! How the fuck y'all doing? Make sure you vote on November 4. And if you have already voted well good for you then. We voted by mail and it made me feel so empowered. We voted HELL NO on all the propositions because I didn't understand any of them and also because Arizona is such a backwards state. I'm not going to tell you who we voted for President but I'll give you a hint: His name rhymes with "Go Sock Yo Mama." That sounds like the name of some Asian dude, except it would be spelled Gosock Yomama. Hmm, it still looks the same. I must be doing something wrong. So, I hope Gosock Yomama wins. If you voted for the guy whose names rhymes with Juan McShame, then I hope your guy loses. Sorry, that's just how I feel. I really shouldn't be getting all political and shit because then I might disenfranchise some of my readers and I certainly don't want to do that. So, I take it all back. I didn't vote and I don't plan to vote and if you are planning to vote for Juan McShame then I encourage you not to vote too. Just stay home all day and eat Doritos and get orange fingers.

Oh, and remember, no selling alcohol on erection day. But that's okay, because I don't drink. But I do get erections. Boing-oing-oing-oing-oing!

Blog Again

2008-10-27T16:19:00.000-07:00

I will blog again soon, I think, I hope, I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps. Probably. Fuck. Shit. Balls.

Long Time

2008-10-09T09:31:00.001-07:00

Wowee wow wow. It's been a long time since I've written anything. So I guess a little longer won't hurt.

Invasion of the Filthy Snatchers

2008-09-17T17:09:00.000-07:00

There is a strong probability that on weekends a 14 year old boy occupies my body. He travels from his past to my present in order to experience the "freedoms" that supposedly go with being an adult.

If it isn’t a grimy 14 year old boy then perhaps it’s a refined and cultured homeless man with a touch of class.

More likely it is a combination of both and they want one thing and one thing only: the freedom to do whatever the fuck they want which basically means a whole lot of nothing and a whole lot of smelling.

There’s a fine line between being dirty and sweaty and being soiled and slobby. A handsome farmer at a town dance on a Saturday night could get away with being dirty and sweaty. Drop me off at the same dance on a Saturday night and the locals might mistake me for one of their livestock and toss me back into the pen.

Let me explain.

During my workweek, which is typically Monday thru Friday, I shower, I clean myself, I brush my teeth, I floss, I shave, I wear deodorant, I wear clean undies and socks, I iron my clothes, I trim my nostril hairs, I trim my ear hairs, I dislodge my ear wax and I piss away the toe jam. Basically, my body with all its hidden nooks and crannies, that only the wife knows and loves, are clean smelling and minty fresh. But come Friday night that little 14 year old bastard and homeless guy take control of my body and stink it the hell up.

Without any restrictions placed on him this little 14 year old sumbitch sleeps in late, plays video games, eats junk food, stares at the TV for hours with drool hanging out his mouth, farts, smells his farts, smells his feet, flicks his boogers, sniffs his earwax, sneaks a peek at some boobies and snatch on the internet, gets a boner (and this is where the homeless guy takes over), doesn’t shower, doesn’t shave, wears the same pair of undies and socks all weekend, reads, listens to NPR, farts, smells his farts, smells his feet, flicks his boogers, sniffs his earwax, sneaks a peek at some boobies and snatch on the internet, gets a boner (and then the 14 year old boy takes over) and the cycle continues. It’s like 14 year old bastard child and homeless man take different shifts in me, trying to outdo each other in terms of filthiness.

Occasionally, 14 year old boy and homeless man get chastised by my wife for their perverted and slovenly ways, but that’s only when they get caught.

Once Sunday rolls around 14 year old bastard boy and homeless man exit my body because come Monday the fun stops and once again I am clean both inside and out.

On weekends, with the help of a time-traveling 14 year old boy and shape shifting homeless man, I cross the line into the land of the filthy and foul, the nasty and squalid, the disgusting and gross. And you know what? I don’t care. I like it.

No Mas Hospital

2008-09-15T17:04:00.000-07:00

I want to extend a big cyberspace thank you to all you peoples who expressed support and concern regarding my Dad’s health. I know he too appreciates the kind words from all my internet friends I have never met and might not be the people they say they are just like I might not be the person I say I am (insert "evil laugh" here). He has been back at home since early this month and is doing much better and is on his way back to dealing with my Mom nagging him 24/7 (kidding Mom). The time my Dad was in the hospital was one of the roughest, toughest and emotional I have ever been through, BUT there were moments of humor that helped ease the tension.

My Dad was pretty much knocked up the whole time with heavy drugs, i.e. mass quantities of morphine. I knew he was starting to get back to his old self when one day he announced that he “really, really liked morphine.”

Maybe it was the stress but Robin, my sister, developed these two prize winning zits on her face during the ordeal. One day my Mom suggested (in absolute seriousness) that Robin consult with my Dad’s medical team. Since he was still in the hospital my Mom thought it would make sense for Robin to take advantage of his team of cardiologists and nurses, because if they know something about cardiology then they must surely know something about zits. The two sorta go together. Zits and cardiology, cardiology and zits. I can see her now. “Uh, excuse me, doctor? You just performed open heart surgery on my Dad, what recommendations can you make for these two massive zits jutting out of my face?”

There were other moments like when my Dad told one of the nurses bending down in front of him that he could see her boobs. After that she put her top back on.

My Dad is one of the most tolerant and accepting people you will ever meet. He doesn’t care if you are gay or straight, if your skin color is orange or blue. I think his credo is that everyone has a story to tell and he is always willing to listen. This was shown by the way he treated the hospital staff. He wanted to know everything about them and he never hesitated in asking them questions about themselves. Since many of the staff attending to him was from another country this made him even more interested in their story. One day he said to one of his doctors (an Iranian) and one of his nurses (a Russian chick) that he thought it was great they were here in America. He told them, “We need more fresh blood like yourself in this country.” Hear! Hear!

One thing I learned during all of this is that ICU is where you want to be if you have to go to the hospital. The treatment is like that of a five star resort. Anything lower than ICU is like a cheap motel where you pay by the hour.

Oh, and one more thing. Sarah Palin sucks big donkey balls and John McCain is creepy. I’ve met him before. He has clammy hands. It’s gross.

Politics and Bestiality

2008-09-14T21:19:00.000-07:00

Sarah Palin Sucks Big Donkey Balls!

There. I've said it. It's been bothering me for weeks now. The truth is out. I feel much better now.

Actually, it's probably big moose balls or yak balls or beaver balls or bear balls or salmon balls or whatever type of species that calls Alaska home.

My Dad

2008-08-27T22:37:00.000-07:00

This past Monday I found out my Dad had been admitted to the hospital for chest pains. I left work immediately and drove the 150 something miles to the town where my parent's live. By Tuesday he was having major surgery for his heart. The surgery went well and the doctors are pleased with my Dad's progress and I am so thankful. As you can imagine it has been a highly emotional week and there have been moments when I've been just a big, blubbering mess. I hope to do some blog reading and writing soon, but right now I am focused solely on family. My Sister has written more of what is happening on her blog if you're interested. http://cakebread17.blogspot.com/

Holy Balls, Another Meme!

2008-08-24T19:01:00.000-07:00

My mission, if I choose to accept it, came from Ms. Bar B at A Place of Comfort. It goes like this: tell you, the reader, "10 interesting/random/quirky/normal/silly things about [me] … things [I'm] looking forward to, things about [me] personally, whatever [I] want." And now, in no particular order, here they are.

1. I once got kicked out of a bar for jumping on a pool table and pretending to be a monkey. As you can imagine, this was one of my prouder moments.

2. I also got kicked out a bar for using a pool cue towards a woman in an obscene manner. These two incidents (1 and 2) happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away when I was young, dumb and full of cum.

3. In the 7th grade I was expelled from school for three days for getting drunk on campus. I ended up doing lots of stupid things including profusely expressing to Ms. Kendall the school librarian how pretty I thought she was. Once my expulsion ended I returned to school only to have all the other teachers shun me. But not Ms. Kendall. Whereas before I was just another sweaty, dirty kid at the school, now her attitude toward me changed. For the rest of my time there she was always kind and nice to me. Getting drunk in the 7th grade turned out to be another shining moment in my life. My parents awarded me with the grounding of a lifetime. I'm still grounded today.

4. I don't drink alcohol anymore.

5. When I was ten years old I swallowed a pin. It came out a few days later...the way nature intended. It didn't hurt going down, but oh how it hurt coming out. Children, do not attempt this at home. I'm serious. Really, I am. Really.

6. I have been acting on stage since the age of 12. I have a strong involvement in community theatre and always have. I'm a graduate of The American Academy of Dramatic Arts, which is why I work in an office today listening to employees tell me about piss on the bathroom floor. In your FACE, professional actors everywhere!

7. My wife and I have the exact same birthday, just different years. She's younger. She's my mail order bride I won in an online card game. Not really. But we really do have the same birthday. Really, we do. I'm serious. May 6. Taurus Rules Ass!!!

8. In the 5th grade I had a very angry girlfriend. Her name was Michelle "always pissed off" Jones. I was the only person she was nice to. As a present she once gave me a pair of smelly, old shoes. She once got so angry that she picked up her desk-chair in class and threw it. Shortly after that I dumped her. Years later I think I saw her on COPS.

9. In 1992, I saw The Grateful Dead in concert 4 times. It was during this period that I flirted with the idea of dropping out of society and becoming a Deadhead. Fortunately, I shelved the idea after I realized that I would have to always be filthy. Pigpen probably grew up to be a Deadhead.

10. One of my first jobs as a kid was delivering Pennysaver newspapers. I picked up a bundle on Tuesday, folded and bagged them to be delivered on Wednesday. I hated this job so much that I eventually stopped delivering the papers. Instead I picked them up and Tuesday, tossed them all in a garbage dumpster on Wednesday and still collected a paycheck on Friday. Ah, the American Dream: to cheat The Man. I was eventually fired.

The Art of Peeing

2008-08-19T17:16:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along the way I've forgotten how to piss. Put me in a cage with a sign around my neck that says, "Forgotten Pisser."

I’m wondering if I ever knew how to piss properly. It seems I’ve forgotten my pissing manners. Yes, yes, yes, I know the mechanics of pissing. Whip-it-out, aim and shoot. At least those are the mechanics if you are a man, which I am, hear me roar. Roar.

If you are a lovely lady, well, I’m sorry you were left out of the “whipping-it-out option” when you were created. That’s just not my fault now is it? While men have 3 steps involved, you ladies have only 2 steps: squat and shoot (or is it squat and spray, I honestly don’t know; I never got into the whole golden showers thingy). No aiming for you ladies involved at all. So easy. But you still have to deal with the issue of an “up” toilet seat. So I guess you do sometimes have a 3rd step depending on if you have failed to properly train the men in your life. Fortunately my wife has me trained well. Hear me roar. Roar.

Whip-it-out, aim and shoot. It has to be done in that order for men. Any variation on this theme spells Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for Piss. Aim, shoot and whip-it-out won’t work. Whip-it-out, shoot and aim also ain’t good. Just shoot without the whipping-it-out and aiming also a no-no. And then there's just whipping-it-out and whipping-it which is an entirely different subject altogether.

There is an art to pissing and I don’t seem to know what it is anymore.

Here’s the story, morning glory. At my job one of my duties is hearing, listening to complaints. One of the complaints recently made to me came in the form of a female and it sounded something like this. “I am sick and tired of going to the bathroom and seeing piss on the fucking floor.” The bathrooms here are unisex.

Before her complaint I never paid attention to such things at work, but once she brought this heinous offense to my notice, I became more aware of my surroundings upon entering the bathroom at work.

The next time I had to take a leak I looked for pee-pee on the floor. I saw nothing. What the hell is she talking about, I thought? So, I whipped-it-out, aimed and shot, then flushed and washed my hands. But then as I was leaving I gave the floor one last look, and there it was. Staring back at me was a tiny puddle of piss. My God! Could I be the pee culprit?!

Since that fateful day I have become aware that I have some renegade droplets of piss that refuse to follow the leader. I think I may have a defective pisser. So now at work I am much more aware of floor piss and I immediately clean it up leaving zero evidence behind (even if the floor piss may not be mine).

Why have I been so blind to floor piss at work? I’ve always been aware of floor piss at home. What gives? Have I always been so ignorant to floor piss in public restrooms? (And don’t worry; if I am at someone’s house I am always aware of floor piss. Yours, mine and ours). It seems when it comes to public restrooms I have just pee-pee'd wherever the hell I wanted. Why? Who knows? Who cares? Why bother.

Cleaning up piss at home is fine, but cleaning up piss in a public restroom, even if it is a work restroom, can make a person grow bitter and resentful. Maybe this is why I never became a janitor (that's not entirely true. I did do a stint as a school janitor while in college. I was the worst janitor there was. I don't think I ever cleaned the bathrooms). So, the next time you see shy, little piss drops on the floor, think of me and smile. Or not.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a mean-ass pee-pee.

Wandering Thoughts

2008-08-12T17:49:00.000-07:00

Not long ago I was pulled over by a cop, which led me to the question: are there people who go to the dentist for their regular cleaning who don’t really need a cleaning because they never have any plaque or tartar on their teeth?

The last time I was at the dentist I asked the gal, whose hands were deep in my mouth, “Excuse me,” I said. Actually, I gave her the universal symbol for time-out.

She pulled her rubber gloved hands out of my mouth and wiped the dribble off my chin. “Yes?” she said.

“Do you ever see people who never have any evidence of plaque or tartar on their teeth?”

She gave me a sympathetic smile and then a simple, “Yes. Anything else?”

“No,” I said, “you can go back to sticking your hands in my mouth, sweetie.” If you want to increase the pain during a visit, always call the dental hygienist “sweetie.” They like that.

I suppose I could’ve pursued the matter further and asked, “Who are these bastards? Why the hell would someone who doesn’t need a damn cleaning go to the dentist!? What kind of masochistic shits are these people?!” They must know they have perfect teeth. I imagine them marking the days, like a prisoner in his cell, eagerly anticipating their next appointment. The day of the appointment comes, I can see them sitting in the waiting room all smiles, ready to piss their pants they’re so excited.

I curse you, you people with the perfect pearly whites. I’ve seen you at my work. You run to the bathroom after every meal. You keep the toothpaste and the toothbrush in your desk. You floss at your desk and make-a-me sick. I’ve seen you in your car, flossing and driving, driving and flossing. You are a menace to our roadways, you with your sparkling incisors. I’ll wager they have more traffic violations than I have cavities! Ha! The cops need to be on the lookout for these most dangerous of public flossers.

Folks, I ain’t saying I’m some hillbilly when it comes to taking care of my teeth. (No offense to all you hillbillies out there). I brush, I floss, I don’t drink sodas, I try to stay away from sweets (the operative word there is “try,” I try to stay away from sweets, I try).

As I lay in the dental chair I begin to relax to the calming sounds to spit being vacuumed from my mouth and my anger starts to lift. And then my mind begins to wander as I wonder if there are people who have never been pulled over by a cop. More on that later....

Meme

2008-08-10T16:25:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged for a meme by Renee at Cutie Booty Cakes. I was actually tagged before by my sister Robin at Party of Five. I was planning on answering the call of the meme from Robin but at the time I didn't know many bloggers. Actually, I knew none except for Robin. Now that I know more of you I can pass it on. Or not. We'll see.

This is the meme. List 6 unspectacular quirks of mine.

1. If I see someone I know in public, i.e., a grocery store or mall, I will avoid them.

2. I think I am a horrible conversationalist.

3. I have a strict no shaving/no showering policy on weekends. This isn't a "house rules" policy. It only applies to me.

4. Almost every night I will get out of bed and call my work phone and leave a message for myself on something that I need to do in the week. This drives Misty nuts.

5. I can't sleep on my left side because then I can't breath. Deviated septum? How the hell should I know?

7. I hate, I loathe, I detest, I despise onions. But I like onion rings!

Here are the rules when you get tagged:
1. Link back to the person who tagged you 
2. Mention the rules on your blog 
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours 
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them 
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

Those are the rules but I don't feel like tagging anybody. I quit. Game over.

Another Major Award

2008-08-09T23:06:00.000-07:00

I've won another Major Award on the same day from two different people!!! It's a Major Award! Fragile!

(Does anyone get the Major Award-Fragile joke? It doesn't matter. It's probably tired and not funny anyway).

But I did get another Major Award! Fragile!

Thank you to Trooper Thorn over at Dogs and Jeans and Mama Dawg over at Two Dogs Running. The both of them gave me the same Major Award on the same day. Fucking, eh! I'm gonna cry.

This is the award. I'm putting it up twice because I got it twice. I can do that if I want. It's my blog. So no bitching.

So now I have to pass it on.

But first I gotta put this instructional part up in italics because that's how everybody is doing it. Everybody's doing it doing it doing it, picking their nose and chewin' it chewin' it chewin' it. Okay, here it is.

Do you know any bloggers that kick ass?

Maybe they've got incredible, original content. Or they're overflowing with creativity. Is it someone that helps you become a better blogger? Or a bloggy friend you know you can count on? Or maybe it's someone who simply inspires you to be a better person... or someone else who sends you to the floor, laughing your ass off.

Whatever the reason may be, I'm sure you know at least a couple of bloggers that kick ass.

Well... why not tell 'em so?

I ain't sure how many other folks I'm supposed to give it to but 5 seems like a ripe old number. Okay, here goes.

Of course, I must begin with family. Family always comes first, right? So Robin, my sis, over at Party of Five this is for you because you introduced me to this world of blogging. Oh, and also because you can't smell your own farts. It's true.

Next it goes to Dani at Give Me A Second To Think About It because Dani might just be the sweetest blogger out there.

Then it goes to Renee at Cutie Booty Cakes for always giving smart blogging tips and advice and having the most adorable little boy.

Maricris at Zen Ventures gets it for having what I think is an interesting, quirky writing style. Did you know she pumped gas for the first time recently?

And finally, I'm passing it on to Swirl Girl at Swirl Girl's Pearls because she was one of the first to comment on my blog.

More rules that I forgot about:
* Choose 5 bloggers that you feel are "Kick Ass Bloggers"
* Let 'em know in your post or via email, twitter or blog comments that they've received an award
* Share the love and link back to both the person who awarded you and back to www.mammadawg.com
* Hop on back to the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky then pass it on!

Okay, that's it. Bye.

The Voice of the Zit

2008-08-08T07:22:00.000-07:00

What the dilio?!

In the course of two days I got two pimples on my face. I get maybe one pimple a month, if that, and then this week there are two of these little fuckers on my face. Actually, one little fucker and one big fucker. As Nancy Kerrigan once so eloquently put it, "Why me? Why, why, why?"

The bigger of the two has transformed into three tiny little whiteheads, an axis of evil, and Misty is all like, "You gotta pop those. You gotta pop them." And I'm all like, "Hell no. I ain’t poppin’ no zitties."

It's true, I don't pop zits. I let them run their course. I've never been a zit popper.

I don't give a harvey fierstein if I got this huge whitehead the size of Paris and just as pretty staring back at everyone saying, "Hey dummy, I'm a whitehead, what the fuck are you looking at?" I see the stares my whitehead gets when someone is talking to me. The conversation starts out normal enough. But then they spot it and their eyes lock in like a missile finding its target. They’re transfixed, their eyes widen and they stare hard, hard, hard. My whitehead hypnotizes them with its power. It calls out to them and no more can they look me in the eye or hear what I say. All they hear is the soft voice of the zit. It speaks to them in hushed tones. “Listen to me very carefully,” it says, “you are in my command. You will do as I say.”

This is why I don’t pop zits, especially big, gnarly looking zits like the one on my face right now that has three cute little whiteheads, because zits have power. Also, it hurts too much.