Should have used barbecue sauce

Sometimes I watch Animal Planet on Sundays and wonder just how it happened that a hyena got to be a hyena and more importantly, why I got to be human and not a hyena. Then I think about whether or not Mr Hyena knows how great it is being human and all the cool shit he’s missing out on, like not being able to drive a truck or screw an Asian prostitute in a basket hanging from the ceiling.
And that makes me wonder about the whole cosmic narrative and who or what decided he was going to be a hyena and me human. Was it was luck of the draw, or was something else at play?
Something else meaning he probably fucked-up serious in a previous life and got sent back to Earth as a hyena, this in some hellacious form of penance. Seems plausible.

Lets say you ax murdered your seventh grade auto shop teacher and ate him for lunch. I totally get this.

God: “So uh, says here you killed Mr Hanson with a power drill and ate him…is that correct?”

Soon to be hyena: “Uh, yeah…all true God.”

God: “Well then, since you seem to have a taste for killing, and eating things uncooked, I’m sending you back as a hyena.”

STBH: “Can I say something in my defense?”

God: “Proceed.”

STBH: “After killing Mr Hanson, I really did plan on cooking him first, but I forgot to pay my power bill that month and the only way I could prepare him was on an old barbecue, and that’s when I got really confused. I didn’t have any bbq sauce on hand and ketchup seemed redundant…[God interupting]

God: “You missed the whole point—you shouldn’t have killed him in the first place.”

STBH: “Any chance I could stay and apologize to him, would that make things right?”

God: “Seriously? He’s sitting over there…in about thirty pieces on the floor.”

STBH: “Oh yeah, then there’s that.”

God: [poof]

Hyena: “Shit!”

My top 10, maybe 15 reasons for not sleeping

Despite the findings of the entire medical community, I’ve come to the conclusion, or perhaps more accurately, the conviction, that sleep is a monumental waste of time.
Now you may think I’m full of shit on this one, and from the world in which you reside, you may be right.
But hear me out. I believe my logic is pretty sound.

Let’s say you manage to live to eighty years old.
Twenty four of those years or roughly a third will be spent sleeping, another twenty or so in learning institutions and the remainder, unless you’re a perma-student, will be spent trying to eek out a living.
Ultimately, you, right along with with your octogenarian cohorts will while the time away in some raisin ranch where you’ll ruminate over how fast life passed all of you by, completely oblivious to the fact that 24 of those years were spent sleeping.

Well fuck that. Like Thoreau suggested, I’m marching (really plodding) to the beat of a different drummer—namely, Albert Einstein.

Using Einstein’s postulate of how time slows the faster one moves through it and connecting the dots between ones not sleeping being tantamount to their moving slower through time, I deductively reasoned how (assuming I’ll live to eighty) I can recapture at least 10, maybe 15 of those years.
I stopped sleeping three months ago.

The results are kind-of a mixed bag, but overall, Einstein was right. Time does slow down.
Here are my findings thus far…

Initially,  I was tired and grumpy the first few days, but that soon gave way to a heightened sense of awareness. Friends and family captioned this as my being a bit ‘jumpy’.
I suppose one could argue this ‘jumpiness’ may have been the result of my central nervous system freaking out, but I see it as the direct result of their continuing to move quickly through time while I on the other hand managed to slow considerably,  perhaps giving them the misguided belief I’m still moving quickly, when in all actuality I’m not.
I’m barely moving at all.

After a week or so, the jumpiness subsided and I began to see how Einstein was right on target. Time does in fact slow down—to a miserably excruciating crawl.
Minutes are now like hours, almost as if I’ve time traveled back to the eighth grade and am impatiently awaiting the seventh period bell.
There were other changes too.
Like how my body is unable to disseminate being hungry from being tired causing me to gain a couple of unwanted pounds. In this case it was ten or so. A small price to pay for adding some number of years back to to my life one would think.

Another side affect I should probably mention is how emotions are now set to high alert…DEFCON FUCKING TEN to be more precise.
I suspect this is the result of my central nervous system not keeping pace with our new sleep (or lack thereof) habits, but I have no empirical data to support this. For this reason, I’m going with Einstein again.

Time has slowed, meaning I have more time to do the things I never had time for before—namely, laughing and crying.
Prompted by little more than a traffic light suddenly changing from yellow to red, I now find myself weeping when the light turns red. Conversely, a green light is now a joyous occasion, one prompting cheers and laughter.
And while I seem to be more in touch with my ‘feelings’ these days, there have been some drawbacks to my newly found state of heightened sensual awareness.

Like how the laughter or crying may occur at inopportune moments.

BFF: “Dude, my mom passed away last night…I have to fly back home to Austin tomorrow”

Me:  “I’m sorry to hear that. [laughing wildly]

BFF:  [after short pause] “The fuck is wrong with you…why are you laughing?”

Me:  [hand cupped over mouth, suppressing laughter]  “Dude…I have no idea why I’m laughing. I’m really sorry.”

I haven’t talked to my BFF in a couple weeks. Or maybe it’s been a couple of months. I’m not sure.
I suspect it had something to do with his mom dying.
He’s probably bereaved.

Old school wisdom

I have to belive the person charged with coining the term “Two heads are better than one” wasn’t a straight male.

How to kill insects (when no-one is looking)

Running down a cockroach and smashing it with one’s shoe can get old over time, not to mention how a size 13 boot can take half the sport out of it. Let me suggest a new technique. Fire.
It’s easier than one might think, and not near as messy or crackly.

Here’s how it’s done:

1. Go to the store, get a can of Aqua Net hairspray. I suggest two, for when you see how much fun this is.
2. Leave the hairspray along with a cigarette lighter on the kitchen countertop before bedtime.
3. Wake up early, around three…head for the kitchen, being careful not to switch the lights on.
4. Fumble around in the dark for the hairspray and lighter.
5. I almost forgot, the flame adjustment on the lighter should be set to high…do this the night before.
6. Now flip on the lights.

Upon lighting the room, all the healthy roaches will scatter for parts unknown. Fuck them, you’ll never catch any of those guys. What you want is that older Darwinian fuck, the one that should have met his fate long before this. He’ll be easy to spot.

First, he won’t be moving.
It’s almost as if when the lights came on, he found himself standing there, frozen in his tracks, going; “Wait…where’s everybody going?”
While he’s standing there, thinking about his situation and just how fucked his life may be at this point (he’ll signal this by slowly gyrating his antennae like an old stripper’s tassels), that’s when you fire up the lighter, get the hairspray stream ablaze, and send his pestilent thorax straight to Hades where he belongs.

I think you’ll find this technique to be much more sporting (and rewarding) than traditional footwear and, with practice, you’ll eventually follow in the footsteps of such greats as Red Adair, or Boots and Coots; internationally famed oil-well flame extinguishers.

I should probably point out how this is a totally unsafe act.
And how ‘working’ with fire as a novice may have some unintended consequences, such as setting your nightwear on fire, or worse, blowing yourself up.
Or, if you’re even more unlucky….
Your wife will walk in on you as you’re setting up—torch fully ablaze—startling the absolute shit out of you, saying screaming something along the lines of;

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING???…TRYING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN?”

This, as you spin around [torch still ablaze] looking dumbfounded, responding with something like; HUH? What are you doing up at this hour? [flame still going] Things can go wrong super fast.

To this very day, I still have to hear about the time I set her late mom’s hand embroidered table runner ablaze.

IMPORTANT NOTE TO MOM’S AND WIVES EVERYWHERE WHO USE AQUA NET HAIRSPRAY:

Don’t leave your Aqua Net hairspray cans lying around the house, especially if you have boys or adult boys living at home.

On driving

Yielding to the hellish criticisms endured while driving with my wife, I finally wised up, asking her to drive the car whenever we go somewhere.
It hasn’t payed off yet, but hopefully it will someday when she smacks us into a utility pole or something and we both live to tell the tale.
I reckon at that point, I can drive however the fuck I like without so much as a peep.

A real man’s pedicure

Being a “man’s man”, I know dick about women’s fashion, styling, or any other matter involving their beautification. In fact, it’d be fair to say I know shit from apple butter in this department.
But I do know one thing.

If you’re a man, and you wear Roper boots on most days, never tending to such matters as pedicures, then, one day decide to break out your flip-flops on your way to the community pool, all the while gawking at the young women fashionistas’ finely pedicured toes and thinking; “jeez, their toes look remarkably similar to mine…go figure.”
That’s the time your wife informs you  how theirs are the product of something called a ‘French Pedicure’, while yours, the product of something called overgrown toenails.
Personally, I don’t get it.
To me they look exactly alike except for a little dirt here and there.

 

Divine intervention

Something was dreadfully amiss Ralphy conjectured when upon his wakening, he discovered one of his nuts had mysteriously vanished. This had happened before, but as a child; when his playing with them one day caused him to discover how easily they could be pushed upward into the fleshy part of his groin, concealing them from plain view. What an astonishing feature he thought as they remained tightly stowed in the newly discovered cranny. He was equally astonished by their absolute insistence on remaining there until his administering a certain pressure, at which time they’d quickly slip back into their awaiting sack. This was the kind of secret Ralphy would share with no-one. Ever. Or at least until some years later when he would meet LaDona, a signally exotic beauty who was uncharacteristically shy, and, who was endowed with two inverted nipples.
Ralphy would eventually come to realize how his seemingly endless hours of adolescent nut-shuttling was little more than divine intervention—breaking out his finely honed skills on LaDona’s tits one night when, despite his best attempts at foreplay, her inverted nipples remained stubbornly lodged in place.
Ralphy’s nut reappeared later that morning when bending over to tie his shoes before work.

Something is seriously wrong

Well, the best way to describe it is this….

Think about the existence of some old hermit lost at sea many years ago. Shipwrecked and marooned to an island, yet he somehow managed to survive all these years. Miraculously, the only thing he was able to salvage from the wreck was the ship’s radio; a short-wave radio, capable of tuning in to all sorts of radio stations, albeit mostly ham radio frequencies.

Now imagine there’s background static—white noise that sometimes, often times, renders his entire broadcast unintelligible—key words or phrases fading from the static, causing you to fill in his missing words with your own.
This all plays out nightly in my head. The static, the in-and-out fade of his voice….

Doctor: “Hmmm. [condescendingly, I'm certain of it] Does this person have a name?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s Gums.”

Doctor: “Gums?”

“Yeah, Gums. Anyway as I was saying, Gums is kind of creepy, often asking his fellow broadcasters the color of their underpants after only a couple minutes into their exchange. Super weird.”

Doctor: “What do the other broadcasters do? Or rather, better yet, what do you do?“

“They hang up on him. Me? I just listen intently, I kind of like Gums.”

Doctor: “Go on, please.”

Anyways, I like where Gums is headed most of the time, but because he’s so rude, the conversation never really develops and the next thing you know, all I can hear is Gums repeating his call sign, looking for another ham radio operator who speaks english to sign on.
Actually doctor, just hearing me say all of this out loud makes me realize how fucked-up Gums really is.
Is this a breakthrough, or what?

Doctor: “Seriously? ”’GUMS”’?”

Me: “What, is something wrong?”

When not to hit the ‘like’ button

My conspicuously long disappearances between social media visits often find me doing something I very well shouldn’t when I do finally decide to check out my FB page—namely, pour down the list of posts, randomly hitting the like button on practically all of them.
It doesn’t matter how silly the post, I like it.
Actually I don’t.
Actually, I could give a rat’s hoo-dilly that someone felt the need to tell us how hot it was working outside today—in Phoenix—in the summer. (huge DUH)
Or how someone made “the best” dinner salad e.v.e.r.
Or, and this was the best, copied an article out of Huffington about Obama’s re-election bid. Who the fuck cares.
Not me. (Personally, I think if America does re-elect Obama, it would be tantamount to Captain Smith ordering the Titanic into reverse to have another go at that iceberg).

But I hit the like button anyway on all of this inane bullshit and do you know why?
Because I’m just egotistical enough to believe my opinion actually matters to others. It doesn’t of course. But the very fact that I’ve been absent for so long, not weighing-in on life’s (according to them) more important matters, now has me frantically trying to prove to everyone how we’re still friends—validating their dumb-as-a-bag-of-hammer’s shit and ultimately, warranting their befriending me in the first place.

Yes, my hitting the like button is little more than a shameless effort to not appear as some indifferent asshole and I suppose, in short, the easiest way I know to tell someone I still care about them. And all for less effort than a tambourine player in a lame rock band.

Perverse as it may seem, this where I tend to shine.
By not only hitting like on all the posts, but by seeking out the stray post where I can get the most bang for my buck.
By singling out that one lonely post—the one where no-one out the person’s 513 friends has liked or even commented on it for a couple of days. That’s my big fat chance to pounce.
When, in the most shameless of attempts, the grandaddy of all things shameful, I maniacally hit the like button, illuminating someone’s little red notification button, putting  a ’1′ in it, saying in no uncertain terms…

“Hey, ya know what? Everyone else thought this post was too dumb to comment or like…but not me.”

The all caring, still supportive, loving, technological, fair-weather friend I truly am.

Does anyone have a kleenex?
I think I just threw up in my mouth.

Naming your child…a new method

In the world of child-naming, I think the current methodolgy is seriously fucked-up. After all, when a person or couple is in their child-bearing years, what do they know anyway?

An example of this is when a couple names their kid after someone they thought was cool at the time, but later turned out to be a major heroin addict with a kiddie-porn collection. The name isn’t so cool anymore is it? But why would your parents care..they’re not around to see their idol, your namesake, now in his sixties and being led away in handcuffs and prison garb. But you are.

For this reason, I’d like to propose we get a placeholder name until somewhere around puberty, when we get to choose a new name.
This name could last for the next twenty or so years. A sufficient period of time to see whether or not the person who inspired the name has irretrievably fucked their life up. For this reason, you’d get one more name-change. Your last however.

Realizing there are no do-overs at this point, and armed with the wisdom of someone now in their forties, you’d probably opt for a more conservative name this time, one that’s stood the test of time and is not associated with negative world headlines.

Had this methodology been around at my birth and during my lifetime, I would have been:

Diego till my nuts dropped.
Tommy, till that video with Pamela gave women the idea that anyone named Tommy was bagging at least nine feet of dick.
And finally, Winston for my remaining years.
Hoping like fuck no-one besmirches Sir Winston during my remaining days.  Not like they did J. Edgar Hoover anyway.

My loss

It was a cautious respect. I wouldn’t hurt him so long as he did the same.

THE day we met he scared me, leaping from behind the fence, his countenance in full attack mode.
A brindle colored dog, half pit bull, half mutt coming at me as if to attack but now stopped. His instincts sharp, an animal of the streets no doubt.
I introduced myself in my own street-wise fashion by raising both arms and lunging at him, teeth bared and screaming a mighty roar.
Stopped now, mid-charge, he stood there, bewildered. I suspect he knew he wouldn’t fair well in a fight with me. Or maybe he thought I was crazy. For whatever the reason, he didn’t attack.
From that day on, neither would bare their teeth again.
Both wary of one another and the harm we could inflict, we kept our distance, this despite his nightly return.

Some nights, he would sit curled up against the fence, watching me, until I’d gotten too close for his liking as he bolted for safety.
On one such night, he was simply too tired to run, simply laying there exhausted. He needed food.
It wasn’t a fair fight between us any longer, not with him in this condition. I chose to do something about it. After all, his being healthy served our tenuous relationship. I wanted him strong. I fed him.

This changed our relationship. I was now a food source instead of a combatant.
Not a friend.
Or a pet-lover.
Simply a means to his own instinctive survival.
I liked the relationship.
I didn’t want to be his friend—I didn’t want the responsibility.
I didn’t want to care for another being.
But I didn’t want to see him die either, a result of his being too weak to fight the coyotes that came haunting nightly.
If they did come for him, it should be a fair fight I thought, for I knew he’d fair well. But not in this condition. He needed help.

Weeks went by as I watched him get strong, the result of my looking after him, feeding him, making sure he had water on those hot desert nights.
Until one day when upon his seeing me, he began barking again.
I was glad for him, he was back.
The brindle colored dog who once threatened my being was now at full strength in all his glory.
And yet only for a brief moment.

As mysteriously as the day he showed up, he had now vanished.
I always knew of this eventuality. I knew it was his nature to roam, but somehow I’d hoped for more time with him, thinking how maybe someday we would be friends. But it wasn’t meant to be.

And so it is.
Another being, mysteriously entering and exiting my life.

I hope to someday know why.
I miss brindle dog.
I miss my old friends.
I loved you all in my own way.
But like brindle dog, I just needed more time.

Tips on packing a lunch

Sometimes you get sick of dining out. I do. That’s when I pack a lunch.
But not just any lunch.
I use the deli meats I was going to use to make a sub sandwich tonight. And that juicy ripe heirloom tomato I was saving for a salad.
The imported provolone looks good too, throw it in there. Maybe some hot chili peppers.
Now put it on that baguette leftover from last night.
Fuck.
It’s 7:26 am and I just ate it on the way to work.
I guess I’m dining out after all.

Camp Morningwood

God-

Why is it that only men wake up with a boner in the morning? What’s that about?
Was it some kind of sick joke?
Why is women don’t wake up shitballs horny?
Were you all like;

“Hey Jesus, check this out…I’m gonna design men so they wake up each day with a hard-on. And, I’m going to design women with a receptor located in the small of their backs, that when poked at repeatedly, switches off the horny. What’dya think?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. What’s he going to do if she starts swatting at it?”

“That’ll be the best part. Rejected, he simply goes to the bathroom and tries to piss with it. How funny will that be? Not only does he get rejected, she wakes up to a bathroom with piss everywhere. Now they’re both pissed off.  

“That seems cruel God. Why don’t you just make the woman horny too? Wouldn’t that be a lot easier?”

“No, Jesus. Life doesn’t work that way son….life doesn’t work that way.”

Thoughts on being domesticated

Jail…on a scale of one to five

The following is a review I submitted to Yelp, a popular review website.
I use a cumulative rating system, the unit of measure being a star. The rating scale ranging from 1-5 stars.
Enjoy.

 

Phoenix Police Department

First, let me say the ambiance and decor were first class. The service was a little on the poor side, but the food?
In a word..horrendous!
Let’s break it down.

Five stars for my arresting officer and how interested he seemed in my life…asking a ton of questions. He saw me as a real person and not just another perpetrator, appearing genuinely concerned for my well being. Under any other circumstances, I could totally see me and him as besties.
You just don’t see that kind of caring in an arresting officer these days.

Another five for his using nylon ties in lieu of those pesky handcuffs.
Three more for the super clean backseat in his squad car. I thought it would smell like puke or crack dealer or something, but surprisingly it smelled sweet, like cake frosting. Weird.

Where are we…thirteen thus far?

Minus five for the precinct officer who fingerprinted me and failed to acquiesce my request for a hairbrush and some gel prior to the mugshot. I looked like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey’s illegitimate child.

Another minus five for the Madison Street Jail facility and its ‘open’ toilets inside the holding tank.¹

I’m deducting another two for what I think may have been an egg Mcmuffin they served for breakfast, although I’m not really sure what it was.

Another negative two for their letting my wife post bail instead of my cousin David.

A whopping negative five for evicting me from my cell earlier than I would have liked. I was having a pretty good time with all the boys until the guard informed me my wife was in the lobby.

Deduct five more for the rude behavior of practically every officer in the precinct…their laughing at me while my wife lectured me the entire duration of the hallway as we left the building.

Overall, I’d say this wasn’t as bad an experience as some of my friends let on.
Given my druthers, I would have stayed and visited a few more days, or at least until my wife cooled down.

What does that leave us with, negative eleven?
I wouldn’t have guessed such a low rating taking everything into consideration.
Probably won’t repeat.

¹ If you have shy bladder syndrome, this may not  be the place for you after a night of prodigious drinking.

The Life Coach: How they can help save your marriage

Do you find yourself waking up naked in the driveway from time to time?
I know..used to happen to me a lot too.

No worries, next time it happens here’s what you do.
After waking the neighbors from your furious fist-pounding, and she finally decides to let you back inside, you can bet there’ll be a ton of yelling in store.
First and foremost, don’t say anything…not just yet. Let her rant.
Once she’s off her tirade and has finished throwing shit at you, the only weapon she’ll have left in her arsenal will be to threaten you with divorce.
Again, no worries.
When she finally comes up for air, it’s your turn.
Time to speak.
As somewhat of a life coach, I’ve taken the liberty of scripting your response.

Baby…it’s me. All me. I’ve got a drinking problem and I know it. I just thank God I’m lucky enough to have someone like you who still cares.
Tomorrow, first thing when they open, I’m signing up for AA.
I’m going to beat this thing, once and for all…for us, baby. I believe in us.

Only you’re not actually going to sign up for AA. Are you fucking kidding?
You don’t have a drinking problem.
The only problem you have is a judgment problem and that’s easily remedied.

Here’s how.
Go down to your nearest bowling alley the next day and sign-up for the Men’s Spring Bowling League. They meet every Tuesday, same night as the AA meetings, and, it lasts for 37 weeks…about the same duration as AA.

Next, when Tuesday rolls around, get dressed and head down to the lanes for some good times. Only you will need to limit your beer intake to say around 10-12 pints, staying well out of word-slurring territory.
When the evenings activities are over, head for home.
But not before eating a huge bag of popcorn along the way. Popcorn has such a glorious smell, she won’t be sniffing around for anything else once she catches wind of it.

One more thing, and this is important.
Crack a beer the minute you get in the door. Any residual breath alcohol will now be masked for good.

Of course she’ll ask why you’re drinking.
Here’s your pre-scripted response.

We learned tonight how in order to face ones demons, a person needs to confront them…head on. This is why our assignment for the next 36 weeks will be to come home and have one and only one beer. We’re not even supposed to finish it. This to exercise our will power over drinking, while demonstrating commitment to our loved ones.

Now, clean out your wallet and pants pockets looking for any receipts from the bowling alley, sit back, and enjoy the next 36 weeks.

She’s happy you’re finally off the bottle.
And you my friend are on the road to recovery!

We life navigators like to call this a ‘win-win’ scenario.

When you want good seafood…

Here’s a review I did of Legal Seafood. Based in Boston, they now have one in the Philly airport.
I gave it my highest rating—five stars.

Legal Seafood
Airport Arrival 1, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

There are two things on the planet that smell like spoiled fish…and one of them is spoiled fish.

So LS smells bad when you walk in, that never stopped you before…why should it now?
Just hold your nose, take a seat, and get ready for some of the best pus….err, seafood you’ve ever tasted.
Start with the chowder. (pronounced chow-da) and a Yuengling beer.
Move on.
Time’s a wastin and your flight is miraculously going to be on time for once.

Go for the fried clams.
Absolutely heavenly and quick too.
Do this if for no other reason than to experience the difference between a real fried clam, and that thing you’ve been calling your girlfriend.
You know—the one who forgot to pick you up at the airport because she’s tripping balls on Ritalin and vodka.

How an addiction can actually be healthy

 

If you love something set it free…if it comes back, it’s yours, if it doesn’t it was never meant to be.
How poignant.
It’s also bullshit.

I’ve loved plenty of things and set them free. Only to have them return and fuck-up my life even more than it was before they left.
Concluding that perhaps the saying needs a 2012 makeover…

If you love something, set it free…then change the locks, alarm code, your email address, phone number, delete your blog, cancel your Facebook account, Yelp under an assumed name, find a new Starbucks, laundromat, city park in which to walk your dog, and start parking your car in the garage…if it comes back, call your friend who raises cattle, ask him for some of those veterinary grade tranquilizers and prepare to live life in a blurry fog…repeat until she finally goes away for good.

I’m pretty sure it’s not an addiction if you really love something—is it?
Or is it.

Yeah, no, it isn’t.
Is it?

Yesterday's news

If I had to live my life over….

Todays post is a tribute to Nadine Stair’s ”If I had to live my life over – I’d pick more daisies.”
With one small twist—

Her version…

If I had my life to live over, I’d dare to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax, I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I’d have fewer imaginary ones.

You see, I’m one of those people who lived sensibly and sanely, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I’ve had my moments, and if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I’ve been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat and a parachute. If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have.

If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.

My version is similar to Nadine’s with one small change in the last paragraph….

Yes, if had to live my life over, I’d have bought my wife a bicycle helmet to wear during sex, to protect her from the brain-damaging, headboard-kissing blows she must have sustained throughout the years. Had I known then what I know now, mainly, how her vocabulary would be limited to phrases such as “Do you know how much I saved today?”, and “I don’t feel like cooking tonight,” or the ever popular “Do these yoga pants make my butt look big?.” I’d have demanded she wore a protective device of some sort.

Brace yourself hon....

The top 10 reasons to clone me

God-

Do you have any rules on cloning?
The reason I ask is because I was thinking how great it would be if they cloned me, only with a pair of working tits. Oh, and maybe a cha-cha too, everything else stays the same.
Well, that is, except for my face, which if at all possible should resemble that chick from the cover of Sports Illustrated, everything else stays the same.

It makes a lot of sense if you think about it, in fact, I can’t think of any reason not to order up a clone of me, unless of course it breaks some kind of weird commandment or big bible rule I’m unaware of.
Anyways, I thought having another one of me around could be useful, and here’s a list of reasons why.

My top 10 reasons to clone me

1. I’ve always liked me, sort of, now I could actually love me
2. A threesome with me, myself,  and boo is now a distinct possibility
3. I’d always have someone to blame shit on whenever I screw up around the casa
4. My clone could smack the bejesus outa that asshole neighbor kid who screams incessantly for no apparent reason
   

   This could be me...or not

5. She would be my full-time designated driver, I’d teach her how to outrun the police too
6. She could learn simple phrases like; “ON YOUR KNEES MOTHERUCKER, I’VE GOT A GUN“, making routine trips to the bank much more rewarding
7. She could skate on her credit cards bills, write hot checks, and shoplift cool stuff for me
8. She could escort me into all the hot clubs I normally wouldn’t get into otherwise
9. If we get low on cash, I could pimp out her out a couple nights a week.
10. If anyone tells me to go fuck myself, I’d summon her to the event, making them eat their words. Ewww, I think. Not sure.

Does any of this makes sense, or should I just send away for one of those Russian mail-order brides.

Love, times two

Diego