Monday, May 25, 2015

Growing Old

A few nights ago I attended a going away party. One of my wife's coworkers was moving out west in the morning and a shindig was being thrown in her honor. At her parents house. Where she still lived.

Ok, so there's nothing wrong with that. It turns out she is still quite young and the house is quite nice and why wouldn't you take as many massive drags off the parental teet as you can until the support stops flowing because of menopause or whatever? I'm pretty sure that's how bodies work.

Anyway, we arrive and the sound of people leads us around back. There we are met by the guest of honor and it finally clicks who it is. I can never remember any of these peoples names and relationships to my wife. Coworker? Yoga? Fellow MHAAGA (Meat Hater And Anti-Golf Association) member?

In fact, I usually remember her friends and coworkers for random things and none of those random things involve names.

  • There's Boobalicious, The Girl From That Party At The Pizza Place Who May As Well Have Worn A Shirt With Arrows Pointed At Her Tits. She's also Serial Abuser of American Apparel High-Waisted Mom-Shorts Girl.

  • We also have Girl Who Threw The Party I Had To Drive Us 45 Minutes To On A Sunday Night. That's pretty self explanatory.

  • Then Girl Who Dates Or Is Possibly Married To, I Can't Remember For Sure, The Guy Who Looks Like Top Chef's Richard Blais.

  • Black Girl Whose Daughter Sells Cutco Knives. I suppose she's clearly old enough to be called Black Woman Whose Daughter Sells Cutco Knives. I'll make note of that in my binder.

  • New Tall Girl, Pretty, Had Her Boyfriend At That Party With The Cards Of Humanity Knockoff.

  • Jeff? Chris? You Know, The Only Guy Who Works At The Store.

  • Girl With Indian Boyfriend From Canada Or Something Like That, Maybe He Wasn't Indian, I Don't Remember.

And on and on. I do remember a few names of those who I've either been around enough or have some sort of lucky neural pathway connections to remind me.

Anyway, as we said hello and I thought "ohhhh, this is who's leaving" she offered us a drink. We chose red wine and after standing around drinking it for a few minutes I couldn't help but feel like I'd had the wine before but couldn't decide what I thought it might be. It was tasty. So I went inside to take a peek, and let's be honest here, pour another glass. I mean, I'd been at this party for like, 5 minutes already. It was time for another drink.

I make my way into the kitchen and locate the wine, which I've never had before. So don't go entering me in any sommelier contests any time soon. But while there I got to talking with this girl's mother and father. Who were delightful lovers of good red wine, good bourbon, steak, and curse words. Then, as if they were lobbying for my endorsement, they brought out an unopened bottle of tequila a "rich family" in Mexico had produced and given to them during a business trip.

It also was tasty.

And later I'd find myself realizing that, for the first time in my life, the words "your friend's party was fun. We should see if her parents want to hang out" almost came out of my mouth.

I guess I'm finally growing old.

As two of the greatest poets of my generation wrote:

"Fat titties turn to teardrops as fat ass turns to flab
Sores that was open wounds eventually turn to scab
Trees bright and green turn yellow brown
Autumn called 'em, see all them leaves must fall down, growin' old
"

- Outkast

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Hey

So, uhhh...

Hey.

We'll just pretend like I've been writing here nonstop since 2005, and we'll also just go ahead and pretend that there are more than 2 of you out there who will receive some sort of alert that there's a post here. I'm guessing it'll be Al, keeper of AOL email addresses and Level 12 Soco Whisperer, and me, my biggest fan. I'll certainly be notified that I wrote something here, likely consisting of the first google alert to hit my inbox since hitting boxes was something I was way more concerned with. Hear that, ladies of 2005?

Good times.

I think about writing all the time. I also have lots of time where I could write, but don't. So if I want to write and I have lots of time to write, why don't I write? 

The answer was inside of you the whole time.

(Wait, what?)

So today was a day of karmic payback. I wish it was the universe rewarding me with a lottery win what with all the holding of doors for ladies, agreeing to attend stupid stuff I'm invited to when I'd much rather stab my eyeballs with a shared needle, and pretending to like Swedes. But no, this was a much more subtle type of payback.

You see, a few days ago I was asked to take a picture of someone who was contorting themselves in a specific way.

(No, not porn. Perverts.)

Anyway, during the 3rd or 4th attempt to catch the best version of this pose I was rewarded with an unexpected fart from our contortionist. It was, as you'd expect, hilarious both in timing and in the way farts are just always hilarious.

So, me being me, I made a point of bringing it back up a few times for my own enjoyment. I'm nothing if not a beater of jokes to death.

(Also a terrific lay, believer in kegels, and 5-time Hit It & Quit It champion)

Now, before I go on I should note that I'm not a huge farter. Don't get me wrong, I find it hilarious. I just don't do it in front of my wife and I honestly don't even do it that often.

(Thanks, mostly cheese diet!)

Ok, so that being said I do find myself with a wicked case of the fawts (Boston medical term) and as long as nobody is around I'll let em fly.

Today was one of those days. I was driving between appointments and found myself with ample amounts of gas just ready to pass. In between amazing rhymes, obviously. So I let fly. Repeatedly. Then I pulled up to my appointment and locked the car per my usual routine. No big deal, I thought. I've farted in my car many times over the year. In fact, I never even gave it a second thought.

Until I sat back down in my car and realized that somehow, through this unprovable concept of karmic payback and some sort of gastric magic, it smelled exactly like my least favorite vegetable, Brussels sprouts.

Fucking brussels sprouts.

All that kindness I've displayed over my 27 years on this earth and this is my reward? I hotbox myself with brussels sprouts? I don't care how blind, I'm never holding a door for another woman.




Monday, July 29, 2013

Test one, test two. Syphillis. Syphillis.

Friday, June 08, 2012

New Post?

I haven't posted in so long that the blogger interface looks like some sort of futuristic gaming device. AM I Q-BERT?

The short answer is no. Actually, the long answer is no also. Don't be an idiot.

So I sit here watching the United States soccer team beat up (slowly) on Antigua and Barbuda and I can't help but wonder if Barbuda is a made up place. I mean, I'm in my goddamn thirties and if I haven't heard of Barbuda by now I'm guessing it's bullshit.

Or horseshit.

Some type of shit.

And I'm typing my first post in a while, fueled by wine and boredom, but I don't really have anything to say. I just feel like I should be writing. I've occasionally felt this way but recently it's been tugging at me consistently, making me feel as if I'm missing some important opportunity.

What's the opportunity, you ask?

I don't know.

Maybe it's simply the chance to write BOOBIES in all caps.

Maybe it's more. I don't know.

All I can say is that it does feel good to jump on the old porn box and write a little something. Even if BOOBIES isn't the BOOBIES, or BOOBIES won't BOOBIES.

You know,  BOOBIES.

That is all.




Friday, September 23, 2011

Claw, Hammer

I almost started this post with, "Listen..." but realized that if you're somehow listening to this post you're doing it all sorts of wrong.

(And possibly hear voices in your head. You should get that checked out.)

Instead I guess I'll just ask you to read more intently, and read more intently good.

I am going to get down to my fighting weight. It WILL happen.

And when it does I will fight you. I mean, that's what you get to your fighting weight for, right?

With that out of the way let's talk P90X for a minute. Well, I'll talk and you listen. Fuck, I meant I'll write and you read. On a quick side note I'm forced to occasionally watch Kathy Griffin doing standup on tv every so often. The old lady seems to like her and, I kid you not, there is a new special on every third day. All year. It's on more than Say Yes To The Dress. Oh, that's a show about bridal dresses. You'd know if you had a woman in your life.

The point is she's apparently a comedian but she starts every "joke" off with "I think it's time we talk about..." and then she inserts whatever lame topic the country seems to have a boner for. And the crowd immediately goes nuts. There's no joke and they eat it up. I guess that's why that old saying is still around to this day: Men are from Mars and women are borderline retarded.

So I ask my computer savvy lady to download P90X for me. I don't want to take the 90 day challenge or start mixing things up in the message boards, I just want to have something that will work for me if I'm too lazy to go to the gym but still need to burn off the 7 slices of pizza I had for lunch. I settled upon the Kenpo Karate DVD. It starts with stretching, but quickly moves into yoga. Because why wouldn't it? Then, once you're good and warmed up in the gayest way possible you get to start pretending you're Bruce Lee.




I mean, who wouldn't want to pretend they were Bruce Lee, right? I even took my shirt off and sharpie'd some scratch marks on my chest in anticipation. The problem is, it's really more like Gilad from Bodies In Motion than Bruce Lee.





So I'm in the second bedroom doing punch and kick combinations and feeling like a jackass because Gilad's workout tights are way cooler than mine. All while my girl is asleep on the other side of the apartment. I'm praying she doesn't wake up and come see what I'm doing because I look full retard. "Claw, hammer. Claw, hammer. Double-time it now...HUH, HUH, HUH, HUH..." 

It's ridiculous. A good full body workout and all, but ridiculous.

So we get to the final quarter of the program where you get in "horse stance" to do blocks and punches. It's basically standing with your legs wide and in a little bit of a crouch. Then you do all sorts of blocks which reminded me of Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber during his dream sequence. Before he rips the dude's heart out though, because that was clearly badass.

I'm in the middle of blocking when I hear the other bedroom door. I hear some footsteps and wisely begin to pull out of my horse stance. Just as the door opens I grab my water and act as if I'm taking a little break. She sees I'm doing the workout, I inform her it's quite gay so she can't watch, she agrees without argument, and I've maintained my manliness (in her eyes) for another day. 

But nothing, and I really do mean nothing, I've done in the privacy of my own home where nobody would ever be able to see me has ever left me feeling so embarrassed. 

That said, I've done it a number of times to offset pizza and keep myself from having to leave for the gym. I'm feeling pretty good about my kenpo skills. In fact, I'd say that at this point in my training if you were to attack me on the street I'd be more prepared than ever. If my horse stance doesn't scare you away, perhaps occasionally blocking one of your punches or my gentle sobbing might confuse you and save me any further beatdown.

It's progress.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Cyrus

Caught the tail end of Cyrus. That's the Cyrus about serial killers and not the Cyrus about Jonah Hill cockblocking John C. Reilly. Which, speaking of the Hill/Reilly Cyrus, you should check out. But back to the shitty serial killer one...

I've seen serial killer movies before. The killer is always a deeply disturbed person. Look, I'm not a moron. I understand you'd have to be disturbed to kill people, eat people, or kill then eat people, or bang then kill then eat people, or dress up in the skin of another person, tuck your penis between your legs, and pretend you're your sister. All quite disturbing. I get it.

(And it won't work, by the way. You can tuck it all back but it's impossible to stand up straight afterward)

(Um...)

(I hear)

But watching Cyrus I was reminded of how similar the craziness is with all of the killers immortalized in film. They're always that scary, psycho crazy. Never, just odd crazy.

Like, for once I'd like to hear about how the serial killer would abduct people and force them to play scrabble for hours on end. Maybe he only kills them if he can't beat them. One that makes that bitch he just yanked from a deserted park wallpaper his house and dance to ABBA with him. They can't all be the exact kind of fucked up, can they?

But the worst part of the movie was the young man and young woman interviewing some dude who knows all about Cyrus (Who was never found) and he offers to take them to see the house Cyrus used. In the middle of the night. And they agreed! And, surprise, he was in cahoots with Cyrus!

Oh, and how did we watch that movie?

On our Apple Tv.

Suck it.

If I get off my ass this week and rewrite it, I'll post the story of how my fiance and I accidentally committed a hate crime.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Tuesday > Monday

Yesterday sucked.

Besides being Monday, which in and of itself is a shitty day, it featured one of the most delightful cappers to terrible day I've had in quite some time. (By "delightful" I mean "dreadful". I like to say one thing and mean another. It's a writing thing and I'm trying to expand my writing things. How, you ask? By writing more things that mean other things, among other things.)

Clear? No? Solid.

Moving on...

My soft contact lens decided it wanted to stay in my eye. 10 minutes of focused efforts on pulling that bastard out had failed and left my eye swollen and angry. Sort of like a penis, now that I think of it. Only my eye wasn't about to do the ol' in-out, in-out and if an off-white substance were capable of shooting out of my cornea I'm pretty sure you'd have seen me in Vivid's EyeGasm 1 (thru 25) by now.

So at first I was like, "Aww, that's so sweet contact! You want to stay in and help me see better!" But then I realized that it wasn't being sweet at all. It was being a total douchebag.

So you're thinking, "What's so bad about a contact not coming out of your eye easily?" And I'm thinking, "Why are you asking me so many questions? Are you a narc? You know you have to tell me if you're a cop, right? This is my blog, compadre!" And you're thinking, "Hey, this is a blog I'm reading and I will NOT engage an inanimate object in a conversation. That's ridiculous. And neither of us are Hispanic." And I'm thinking, "Ohhh, that's right bitch! I'm in your head now and I'm never coming back out. Prepare for a mental Braceleting all day, every day. I have no filter, nothing to do, and my number one priority will be undermining your confidence! Plus I like tortillas and know a Puerto Rican (ka-KAW!) so we're good." And you're thinking, "This is getting really weird for me. I just googled 'Rick Fox Herpes' and stumbled upon your site. I'm not looking to start anything." And I'm like, "Then why did you just show up with your fancy one-line quotation thingy around what you googled like you're some kind of Harvard math wizard?" and you're like, "You mean english, not math, right?" And I'm like, "I will cut you, ese."

So it's stuck. And if you have contacts you'll know that the standard way to get those assholes off your eyeball is to slide them to the corner of your eye and it causes them to bunch up a little and gives you better grip with your thumb to unsuck them from your eyehole. Only, if the contact doesn't really slide to where you think it is and you then use your finger and thumb to pinch a contact out of your eye all you're pinching is eyeball. You try it and know right away that you didn't get it out because it's pretty obvious when you have a contact folded between your fingers. So you try again, assuming that contact is sitting right there just being stingy. You grip it a little harder and feel something start to pull up but your fingers slip off and you're left with nothing. You try this a bunch and then realize that your contact isn't really sliding over to your spot and you're just yanking on your FUCKING EYEBALL!

*whole body shudder*

So after coming this close (I just motioned with my hand but you couldn't see it) to putting my fist through the door from the heebie jeebies I had my lady friend come pull it off my eye for me.

Today my contacts came out easily and I had a double deuce of champagne quality beer (High Life) hanging out in the fridge waiting for me.

So yeah, yesterday sucked. Today, not so much.

I'd write more but I'm contractually obligated to something or other...