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 reasons for not wanting to be President

Let’s say there was a war to end all wars someday. A real doozy. A war so so devastating, its final campaign was the dispatch of a thousand nuclear warheads targeting the most populated cities of the world, ensuring the survival on no-one.
But just for shit’s sakes, remarkably, I somehow managed to survive the event. That only me and a bunch of half-wit cannibals from Papua New Guinea were all who remained.
I still wouldn’t want to be President of the United Whatever and here are my top ten reasons why:

1. There’d be no button left to push.  Half the fun of being President (I suspect) is having my admin ring up the President of Guam (or some other shithole nation) on days when I’m bored, informing him if he doesn’t sock at least half his country’s wealth into a numbered offshore account in the Caymans, there’s a big red button in my office with his name on it. But now, my Oval Office has been replaced by something resembling a homeless shelter with no big red button anywhere in sight. Shit.
2. No Cuban Cigars survived the blast. I love Cuban cigars but there would be none left. Not after a blast like that. Equally as disturbing would be the conspicuous absence of an idiot intern with whom I could bang with those same cigars. But there are no interns either. This makes me sad in a weird way but I’m not sure why. You’d think the absence of one would negate the need for the other but in my mind, it’s really unclear. In either case, I wouldn’t want to be President without both.
3. No slum neighborhoods. Every U.S. President throughout history has had a street named after him, and, its nearly always in a slum neighborhood. With all the slums gone, having been reduced to ash, I’d have to forgo having my own boulevard namesake. And while I could go around spray painting my name all over rubble with no consequences, somehow, it wouldn’t be the same.
4. Air Force One is now Air Force None. Yes the plane was joyriding, keeping the former President safe while the world was being destroyed. But now it’s just sitting there on the tarmac with no pilot, no fuel and, no President. (He eventually landed, stepped outside to take a peek at the devastation and was instantly fried by the radiation) This is really fucked-up, and, one hell of a reason for my not wanting to be President. Being unable to go cruising in AF-1 on a Friday night, doing low-speed passes over the local high-school football game would be a real downer. Besides, all my high-school honeys are now dust.
5. Porn. I don’t really see me getting my Presidential freak-on with some jabbering, low-hanging, pointed-tittied survivor from New Guinea. At least not without some jealous tribesman trying to kill and boil me in a big black cauldron. Fuck that. That’s why I’d need some internet porn. But the internet is now lint, and for me to conjure up distant memories of  my one and only adolescent sex experience—a high-school handy under the bleachers isn’t going to be enough to satisfy this Presidential libido. No sir. Another good reason to not want to be Pres.
6. There’d be no wars left to start. Part of the draw of being a U.S. President I would think, is how you’d be the most powerful man on the planet—able to start shit with any country—anytime, anyplace. Well not anymore. Everyone’s dead, taking all the joy out of fucking with other nations. Well, not everyone. There’d always be those fucks in Papua I could kill if need be. But I don’t see the point. They really don’t have anything I want. They’re broke and have no natural resources I could plunder like oil or uranium, and their women. Their women wouldn’t even make it at the Candy Store and that’s got to be the worst strip club in all of the United States. Besides, they draw flies.
7. No peeing in public. Unequivocally, the best part of having a non-presidential baloney pony is the ability to pee all over the place. However, as President, I can’t see myself going around pissing in public after a dozen or so pints. Presidents are not invisible. Not like me anyway after a night of drinking, making the likelihood of getting busted a real possibility. That just wouldn’t be right. In fact, it’s downright unbecoming of a standing (or sitting) U.S. President. I shudder at the thought.
8. Nothing would be illegal. One might think, and wrongfully so, that all my years of Catholicism made for an unhealthy fear of rotting in Hell someday, the result of a life fraught with debauchery. Again, wrong. Doing shit that’s illegal is half the fun of living. Whether it be psychotropic drugs or shoplifting a present for my kid’s 2nd birthday, all good fun. But imagine a world where no one’s left and everything’s legal. And, you’re the President. Where’s the fun in that?  Sorry, count me out.
9. Unspent Campaign Donations. If elected and on the off-chance there were unspent campaign funds remaining in my war chest, it wouldn’t be good. Knowing me, I’d probably go on a strip club bender until all the money was gone. One small problem.  No strip clubs (and no women) meaning I’d have to sit in the burned-out remains of some former strip club, tossing singles at cockroaches or rats or something. I don’t see myself doing this. Even as President. Do rats have tits?
10. Lying is hard. Ever since the time grandpa caught me checking out the neighbor girl’s bush and then lying about it to his face, I’ve never really cared much for lying. It’s hard and you need to be really good at it if you don’t want to get busted. I think Presidents are good liars and if the truth was ever known, probably did their fair share of ogling the neighbor kid’s hoo-haws too.  But with no cigars, women, porn, anything illegal, and no-one left to impeach me, I just don’t see the appeal of being President.

Yeah, no…I don’t want to be President. Ever.

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.

A reasonable alternative

The prospect of death frightens me, but there are days when it has its appeal.
Then I remember how I never erased the playlist ‘Creed..fuck yeah‘ from my Ipod.
Listening to it seems a reasonable alternative to death, only without the actual dying part.

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.

The irony of genius

Throughout the years, my friends have often referred to me as a genius. Their doing so supports the notion that anyone abating from the present to momentarily wander off into space, appearing to confront life’s great cosmic narrative in what appears as a pensive gaze, is a genius.
What a laugh.
I’m just a guy who as a young man, scoffed at the notion that lysergic acid diethyl-amide (LSD, for the non-genius) would have any mood altering side affects thirty years after the fact like the experts warned.
Boy was I ever wrong.

And those pensive (euphoric) gazes? The ones where I’m enveloped in an out-of-focus bubble, catatonically adrift somewhere in the cosmos?
Well my friends, that’s what some folks call genius.
What a serendipitous gift this irony.

Poverty’s silver lining

Whenever I see news reports showing people living in squalor—their domiciles looking more like hand-made cardboard huts, I don’t feel sorry for them.
Instead, I reflect back on my youth when me and my cousins routinely fashioned whatever junk we could find in our alley’s trash containers into a clubhouse. Once built, we would sit inside talking and giggling for hours, right up to the time when mom would order me into the house to eat and my cousins to go home.
This is why I don’t feel sorry for hut people.
I think the irony of their being poverty stricken and living in a hut (or clubhouse, depending on your point of view) somehow gets lost on the idea that there may be a happy group of folks inside, sitting around giggling and talking for hours, just like me and my cousins.
Well, maybe except for the part where mom busts up the party by sending everyone home because it’s time to eat.

Dreams gone bye

A good dream in days past used to consist of me and some number of Swedish bikini models getting our freak on until we’re as blue as Smurfs.

Today, a good dream is having my truck stolen by a gang of lowly creeps, sleuthing them down, whipping out my 9mm Berretta, and shooting them all in the knees.

Funny how age tempers that whole sex thing.

Unbaby me

A friend posted this on FB today.

After reading a recent post by a fellow blogger where she expounded on her un-love of children, I ‘m dedicating today’s post to her.

http://www.unbaby.me/

Olympics: from the non-sports journalist perspective

Life is about making choices. We make hundreds of them each day. But the really big choices, the ones having a meaningful impact on our lives, well, those don’t happen every day. Those only happen on days when you conveniently forget how your SAT’s are scheduled the day after a hellish tequila and NO-DOZ bender; eventually becoming the fodder that is your life’s folly.  542 verbal? Seriously? I was a solid 700 and they knew it. Yet another shining example of the man trying to keep the little guy (with a slight collegiate alcohol problem) down.

Anyway, Phoenix College, a fine institution in its own rite, but certainly no Stanford, doomed my writing career I suspect. Or maybe it was the 542 verbal, who the fuck knows. Writing that antithesis on women’s orgasms from the perspective of a disenfranchised twenty year-old virgin-geek probably didn’t help much either. I only know that with a few more credit hours (33) from anywhere other than Phoenix College, my Olympic reports would dazzle.

Women’s Swimming: Sheer elegance capped by an effusive outpouring of excitement. (Winners) Who knows what the losers are up to, they probably can’t wait to high-tail it out of the pool and out of camera range. Oh, and just for the record, it wasn’t my idea to go out that night, not until I learned how Kelly Smith was going out with everyone. She never went out drinking. Anyway, I got pretty buzzed and the rest is history. Now I’m sitting here banging out Olympic posts because of some teenage prom queen who never gave me the air out of her ass to cool my soup. I should have been published three or four times over by now if it wasn’t for her. Probably have a wildly popular column in the L.A. Times too. Anywho, women’s swimming, to this self-proclaimed journalist is a thing of beauty. ‘Poetry in motion’ as is often heard, doesn’t come close to describing this sport and its participants. Additionally, I have it on good faith that someone (Lonnie) roofy’d me that night with some low grade acid, I’m not sure. I don’t have any proof, other than how the he and Kelly were inseparable after that night. And me? A hangover for the record books and a fucking 542. Props to you both. I hope you burn in hell.
Missy Franklin is a remarkable swimmer —she killed it in the 200m backstroke. Her mom looks kinda old. Weird.

Men’s Synchronized Swimming:  I didn’t care much for this event. Watching these guys I now know I missed my prime somehow. I thought all young people got a prime of life. Not me. I was born without abs apparently.

Women’s Beach Volleyball:   The weather must not be cooperating. The women are in sweats. I watched a Big Bang Theory rerun instead. Sheldon’s interaction with Penny is precious!

MEDAL COUNT

Yeah, I dunno. I’ll have to get back with you on this one. Right now I’m busy trying to figure out a reasonable defense (lie) for my court appearance tomorrow. What the fuck is it with those red light cameras anyway? I need to break out my old Ronald Reagan mask whenever I turn onto Thompson Peak Parkway I suppose.

Olympics update

In an effort to rekindle my old love affair with sports reporting, I’m submitting the following Olympic update. I should probably mention how I was a mere 33 credit hours shy of my degree before switching majors for the 3rd time.
What a mistake!
I should’ve stuck with journalism since business turned out to be a real bundle of joy. Fucking Wall Street and its credit default swaps. What were they thinking? I guess no-one was watching when Nick Leeson took down Barings Bank, a centuries-old institution in England. He thought derivatives were safe too. Fuckers!!

What? [voice in background]
Oh, yeah…the Olympics. Sorry.

Women’s Water Polo: Lots of wedgies here, but you’ll never know it. The camera work is detestable, all of it from an aerial viewpoint in lieu of underwater. Waiting for time out’s are excruciating but worthwhile, when upon exiting the pool to huddle with one another, the cameraman finally earns his salt. Time out’s are your only hope of catching a glimpse of these finely-tuned (and wedgy’d) athletes, that is unless someone gets hurt or ejected. I did see one woman limping back to the bench but somehow it wasn’t the same. The wedgy affect is severely diminished by a bad limp.

John McEnroe:  Apparently, NBC sports hired JohnnyMac as a reporter. I think we all know why. I’m waiting for one of his ‘off-camera’ remarks when he becomes unhinged at his cameraman after taking too long to get the lighting right. I ♥ John. #notgayjusttolerant

Women’s Kayaking:  Weird. I think I pulled something in my low back yesterday weeding the front garden. Why do I have to pull weeds anyway? And on a Sunday no less.  What are those lazy-as-mud landscapers charging me for? My only day off and I have to garden so my bitch neighbor doesn’t report me to the HOA. I hate her. The jury is still out on women’s kayaking. I’m not all about this sport just yet. This could have been a great wet t-shirt opportunity if it wasn’t for those pesky life preservers. Lots of left turns. Reminds me of NASCAR without the dub-t audience and confederate flags. Oh, and the water…duh.

Men’s Beach Volleyball:  Finally, a sport where the men’s junk isn’t all up in your face. Totally worth watching if you’re a straight male. I’m a straight male, but I’d like to point out how I’m not a homophobe. This is important. I accept people for who they are. If you happen to like dudes, well, that’s your business. I like dudes, I just don’t like their dicks or hairy butts. In fact, I can barely stand my own, but that’s another story. Anyway, I was saying, this is a pretty cool sport and fun to watch. I don’t know who’s winning, mainly because I keep backing up the women’s water polo recording in hopes I may have missed an important time out. The American men look really cool with those Oakley shades and reversed visors,  much cooler than my Chrome Heart sunglasses anyway.

Cool

An Olympic report

My take on the Olympics thus far. I should mention how I’m only 33 credit hours away from my sports journalism degree.

Bicycle racing:  Be still my fucking heart. It’s just that fascinating!

Archery:  Wait, what?

Men’s Water Polo:  Men in baby hats and weenie-huggers playing catch in the pool. Too many dicks flopping around in loose Speedos for my comfort—why isn’t there any shrinkage? Is the water treated with something? I don’t like the swimsuit fabric either…seems like it should be thicker, or padded at the very least.

Men’s Swimming:    See Water Polo above. (sans baby hat)

Women’s Ping Pong:   Get the fuck out. An Olympic event? Hang on a sec. [turning to buddy] Are you going to pass those fries or were you planning on eating them all…Jesus, you fucking hog!  Alright,  where was I?  Oh, who cares.

Fencing:   Worth watching if only to see if mom’s prediction about getting one’s eye poked out will ever come true. Appears unlikely with those goofy masks.

Women’s Weightlifting:   Chicks with huge thighs and bulging veins on their tits...gross.

Women’s Skeet Shooting:    Should be using real pigeons. It’s not like Trafalgar Square has a shortage of birds. They could inject the logy ones with caffeine.

Women’s Beach Volleyball:  Twenty one doesn’t seem like enough points for this sport.  The matches are going by super  fast. Maybe they could go up into to the eighties or nineties.  I don’t care much for  the swimsuit fabric either.  Not sheer enough for this cub reporter.

Men’s Basketball:   Third world countries should make up some excuse about getting sick from shellfish or something, save the embarrassment of getting trounced by the US Men’s team.

Men’s Rowing:  Got my fill of that shit in an eighties film featuring Rob Lowe where he attended Oxford and stole someone’s spot on the rowing team. Boring.

Women’s Gymnastics: Weird hair do’s. They all look like pixies. What’s with all that glitter and blue eye shadow? Apparently no-one approached MAC for an Olympic sponsorship.

MEDAL COUNT

Some athletes have won gold medals thus far. Interesting fact; there’s only six grams of gold in an Olympic medal. At todays prices, that’s about 350 bucks. The trend for precious metals is down. A year from now on the same trend line, a gold medal will only fetch about $150 or so. Sad. Silver is falling too. Bronze isn’t even precious for Christ’s sakes, just ask Penn State officials. So what’s bronze doing in the Olympics anyway? Platinum probably cost too much back in the day. You know what’d make a good medal? Kryptonite.  Plutonium would be way cool too but I hear it causes birth defects. Not cool.  My portfolio sucks. I should have bought gold a year ago. This is because my broker is a complete tool. Besides that, I think he’s sleeping with his new admin, I see the way she gazes at him. What’s he doing? He’s got a lovely wife and two kids. I hope she leaves him.

SUMMARY

These athletes are so ripped it’s sickening. I need to start working out this week and get off this damned Wellbutrin once and forever.
Where’s Beckham? Isn’t he an East-ender? I haven’t seen him since the speedboat thing Friday night. Does the Queen ever smile?
I haven’t seen a Cockney representation either. Shouldn’t they be doing that whole ‘Rine in Spine’ thing?
It’s early, maybe that’s still ahead.

Kinda hard to take these guys serious

Lust, and all its riches

In what I can only conjecture as all the perverted minds on the planet uniting in a common effort, I’m officially declaring July 23, 2012 Three Boob’d Women day.
For on this day, unlike any other day in my WordPress writing history, I received 811 views. 792 of them on my post; Lady boobs, a really poor design.
The post features an image of a woman with three tits.
On most days it gets a dozen or so hits.
Not July 23rd.

Who Googles ‘Three tittied woman’ images anyway?
Fucking perverts.
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Gym time (Haiku style)

Look up at the tv on the wall.
Look down at my gut.
I hate the Olympics.

The ultimate dichotomy

Being a successful businessman not only sucks balls at times, it sucks them with such wind tunnel force, it accidentally sweeps one in whole. Only you don’t swallow it. It gets lodged somewhere in your epiglottis, preventing you from using your glottal stop to utter the term; uh-oh, the all-telling notification you may have just taken one too many risks. Or in the non-business vernacular; seriously fucked-up.
It doesn’t stop there.
Lodged in your throat, your fervor for ‘The Deal’ now finds you metaphorically running around, naked and exposed with one nut in absentia, looking for someone (Investment Bankers) to Heimlich your sorry ass, but no such luck. You took too big a risk and have to pay the price.
So you swallow it. Whole. Get sick from it for a few weeks until such time as the problem has corrected, notwithstanding how the problem, now corrected, was tantamount to passing the nut in the same manner in which it was ingested—whole.

Successful Businessman. The ultimate dichotomy.
This is why you often hear others describe business risk takers as having big balls.
They’re not really big. They just seem that way when they’re lodged in your throat, and, test the upper-end limits of your sphincter.
But the money’s not bad.

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.

 

Sweet dreams (are not made of this)

Dream sequence featuring Annie Lennox…

Me: “Can we go over it one more time?”

Annie: “WHAT…WHAT DON’T YOU GET?”

Me: “This. I’m still not sure what ‘this’ is? You never really come right out and say what sweet dreams are made of, only this. You point around at a lot of shit in your video, but that’s about it, nothing really conclusive. Oh, and by the way, ‘this’ doesn’t even sound like ‘this’, it sounds like these.”

Annie: “Jesus you’re dumb.”

Me: “Why? Why am I dumb? Is it those gold records you’re pointing at in the video, are those ‘this’? I get how having a number of gold record sales could give you and Dave some pretty sweet dreams.”

Annie: “NO…IT’S NOT THE GOLD RECORDS FOR FUCK’S SAKE, IT’S A METAPHOR. ‘THIS’ IS A METAPHOR. DON’T YOU GET IT?”

Me: “And what’s up with those dairy cows? Are they a metaphor for something too?” 

Annie: “Exactly how in THE FUCK did you get into this studio again?”

Me: “My brother-in-law’s the security guard.”

Annie: [Dialing 911]

Me: “Wait..hold on, one more question, please? Is that a riding crop or a cane… is it yours?  Do you ever smack Dave around with it?  You guys seem kinda weird.”

Annie: “PLEASE LEAVE…NOW!”

The non-survivor

If I was ever chosen as a contestant on one of those reality tv shows, like Survivor, I hope the other contestants would have the good sense to boot me off the first chance they got. I’ve weighed this out, taking into consideration the shame and humiliation associated with having my tiki torch extinguished on week 1 as compared with the lunacy of spending some number of weeks in front of a national audience; starving, parading around in dirty skivvies, (not quite the same affect as a girl in her dirty bikini) making alliances I can’t wait to break, grumbling myself to sleep each night, pissing and moaning about how stupid the others are, eating bugs, falling for the pretty contestant in a dirty bikini, and eventually, being voted off by same dirty bikini chick and some cool guy. (I knew I should have made an alliance with cool guy instead of that lying little bitch).
Besides, I’d probably lose it on the cab ride to the airport when the cameraman, the same cameraman who caught me trying to get my freak on with bikini girl when I thought no-one was looking, is now perched in the front seat motioning me to speak, hoping upon hope I’ll make an even bigger ass out of myself.
This would be the point where I lunge for his camera, shove it up his ass, turn and roar to the cabbie; “YOU WANT SOME OF THIS TOO?“, ordering him out of the car, take the wheel, and drive the fucking thing right into an embankment. And I’ll do this why?
Because whatever level of pain and suffering I endured over the last sixteen weeks won’t even begin to rival what my wife’s gonna dish up.

Yeah, no…I’m probably not ‘Survivor’ material.