Mr. Squishy and the Tauntress

Before I start today...

Got a new movie review of "Night at the Museum 2 - Battle of the Smithsonian" over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

Amy Adams: You haunt my dreams.

Ben Stiller: Seriously, dude. Stop making movies.

Carry on!!

***************

Mr. Squishy and the Tauntress

Alternate title to this:

My Wife, She Taunts Me - Part 2

Yeah...part TWO.

You can find Part One right here.

(points at crotch)

If you follow this blog, you know that I have to go to physical therapy for my stupid fucking broken hand.

That's my pet name for him: "stupid fucking broken hand."

(the masturbation is SO much better when he's angry)


It is here, in physical therapy, that I was given the greatest gift of all:

Bob.

But we're not here today to talk about Bob.

Today, we talk about Mr. Squishy.

* zziiiiipp

Woops.

Wrong Mr. Squishy.

About three weeks into my therapy, my therapist looked at me and said:

Therapist: "Well...you're coming along quite nicely."

Me: "Shut up and swallow already."

Then I got a new therapist.

Some guys have no sense of humor.


My new therapist looked at me and said:

Therapist: "You're just about ready for your own putty."

* GASP

A tear rolled down my cheek.

Just like that Indian guy in that old commercial when people were throwing trash and shit all over the site of his new casino.


My...my own...my own putty...?

OH! JOY!

My own putty.

You see...not only do I have to roll Bob around in my hands all day...

(just like Elizabeth Dole)

...but I now have to squish this fucking putty in my hands in the morning and at night.

So, yeah...now Bob has a new friend.

Introducing....

Mr. Squishy!


So that's Mr. Squishy.

Unfortunately for my wife, this has resulted in a lot of this going on in the house lately:

Me: "Hey...have you seen Mr. Squishy?"

Wife: "No."

Me: "You wanna?"

...or...

Me: "You want to touch my Mr. Squishy?"

Wife: "No. Not at all."

Me: "Yes you do. You want to touch him."

Wife: "GO. AWAY."

Me: "Touch my Mr. Squishy. TOUCH HIM!"

On a related note, these conversations happened pretty much every Saturday night even before I got the goddamn putty.

I cry sometimes.


So, of course, at one point...we were laying in bed.

My Mr. Squishy by my side.

This is when I decided to roll him into the shape of a penis.

Listen...

In my defense, you can't put squishy gooey putty in a man's hand and not expect him to do weird shit with it.

It's in the instruction booklet...page 42.

So, I hold up the Mr. Squishy penis to my wife.

Me: "Hey baby...want to touch my Mr. Squishy?"

Unfortunately, therapy putty has all the consistency of wet bread dough.

So, this is what Mr. Squishy looked like as I held it out to my wife:


She looked at it.

She poked it.

Then she spoke:

Wife: "It's too big."

* pause

She picked the gooey Mr. Squishy penis head up and it plopped back down.

Wife: "It's about the right consistency, though."

Then she started laughing.

* sigh

Me: "You're awesome."

Then I cried myself to sleep.

Well...

She IS awesome.

But thanks anyway for rubbing that shit right the fuck in, hon.

Bob wouldn't treat me that way.

The Shit I Learn - Marriage Edition

It's once again another entry in the "Shit I Learn" series.

Check out these other "Shit I Learn" classics!

Kid Vomiting Edition

Broken Hand Edition

Karate Edition

Collect them all! Amaze your friends! Be more sexy!

You know, you figure that if I'd learned so much...

...I'd have a better job than "Transgender Prostitute to the Stars."

Catchy name, though.

Keannu Reeves is much shorter in person.

Keep that on the down low.

Today's episode:

The Shit I Learn: Marriage Edition

(just in case the giant fucking title at the top didn't give it away)

This is where I try to educate the masses (my 4 readers) on the stuff I've learned through my vast experiences.

When I say, "vast" I mean "not many."

I hated English class.


Here goes...the Shit I Learn: Marriage Edition:

1) NEVER EVER EVER Under Any Circumstance is a Coffee Maker EVER a Good Gift for your Wife. EVER.

What?

We needed a coffee maker.

It wasn't all bad. I think I got her a card to go with it.

I sometimes still pay for this.

Me: "Hey...wanna...wanna go upstairs?"

* sexyfied wink

Wife: "Excuse me? You're kidding, right? You bought me a fucking coffee maker."

Me: "THREE YEARS AGO!"


Guys, if a woman ever says:

Wife: "Honey, for my birthday, PLEASE buy me a coffee maker. If you don't buy me a coffee maker I will never have sex with you ever again."

TRAP.

You've been warned.

2) Get a comfy couch

This is especially important if, for some reason, you ignored my advice and got her a fucking coffee maker for her birthday.

Jackass.

Told ya.


Just get a comfy couch.

At some point you WILL end up sleeping on the goddamn thing.

Whether it's because of a fight...

(seriously...all I wanted to know is if she wanted pizza or Chinese food and somehow I'm on the fucking sofa now!? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!?)

..or because you snore...

(I have two-inch deep footprints permanently implanted in my lower back because of this)

...you'll find yourself on the couch watching Cinemax porn and whacking off at 3 in the morning.

I mean...um...

...sleeping.

You'll be sleeping on the couch.


One more thing, guys:

When couch shopping, DON'T give in and get the fucking down throw pillows with the couch.

My kids' favorite pastime is pulling out all the fucking feathers sticking out of the goddamn pillows.

I should probably get them into sports or some shit.


3) The Longer You're Married, the Less You Can Get Away with Looking at Other Boobs

Once upon a time, my wife and I would be walking through the mall when...

...you'd hear them...

GADOOSH

GADOOSH

GADOOSH

Heading right at you...

Giant boobies.


Back in the day, I'd do the whole "I'm looking at the ceiling" bullshit that guys sometimes have to do.

Wife: "Did you see those?"

Me: "Huh? No...What? I was admiring the Roman inspired ceiling architecture."

Wife: "Well, you just missed out on a huge set of boobies."

Me: "DADGUMMIT! That just burns my britches!"

Back then I idolized Wilford Brimley.


Nowadays, though...it's like this:

GADOOSH

GADOOSH

GADOOSH

And there I stand.

With unblinking giant googly eyes.

Wife: "That's nice. I can't believe you. You're really fucking unbelievable."

Ugh.

Couch, guys.

Get a comfy couch.

You're welcome.

Motivational Filler - Comfort

*******************

Motivate THIS.

(points at crotch)

Nothing to see here today...

...except a custom "motivational poster" made by yours truly over at Big Huge Labs.

Seriously...

...I have no idea how I made it almost 40 years without finding this thing.

Here's today's poster for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):


Shhhh...

If you listen closely...

...you can hear the terrycloth screaming.

If you want to see all of my custom posters, click here.

If you like them, feel free to post them on your site.

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

Traumatizing Your Kids this Memorial Day

Well...today is Memorial Day.

My wife was home the other night trying to find Memorial Day coloring pages for her Kindergarten class.

She teaches in an inner-city school.

If the kids aren't coloring something...

...they're usually coming at you with homemade shivs.

Sporks can be deadly in the hands of the wrong 5 year old.


So, my wife was looking for some coloring pages for the kids so they had something fun they could do for Memorial Day.

Here are a couple of the fun Memorial Day coloring pages she found:


Happy Memorial Day, kids!!

Here...why don't you color in this photo of a guy who is obviously suffering from depression...

...as he lays down flags at the graves of his fellow comrades...

...as the piercing pain of him having to deal with the fact that he survived the ambush while his friends did not eats away at his very soul until the day he dies.

Oh - look...

SNACK TIME!

Let's see if we can find something a little less heavy for you kids to color...

HEY.

Here's one:


Oh. Look.

A widow.

Well isn't that fucking cheery.

***********************

Dear Coloring Page Inventor people,

I understand that Memorial Day is about remembering our brave soldiers.

The holiday is to remind us to never forget and commemorate those who have fought and died to preserve the liberties of this great nation.

But, dude, these kids are fucking five years old.

Helpful tip in making up your coloring pages:

More flags and parades. Less suicidal and depressed people in cemetaries.

Thanks in advance.

************************

Happy Memorial Day.

And thanks to all our soldiers out there...and here's to returning home safely.

Like this guy did.

Moog out.

Lilu and the Unfortunate Urine Incident

I got me a special guest blogger today.

And by 'special' I mean 'velvety.'

And by 'velvety' I'm not really sure what I mean.

Sometimes I confuse myself.


Today, the wonder that is Lilu from 'Live It, Love It' has graced me with a guest spot.

Lilu is hilarious, and - based on their conversations - her boyfriend and I may be separated at birth.

I have a scar on the back of my head that I don't know where it came from.

So it's entirely possible.

If you don't read Lilu's shit (literally, in some cases), make sure you bookmark her.

You won't regret it.

Here is Lilu's post for me - an oldie but a goodie.

Thanks, Lilu!

Enjoy, everyone.


*******************************
Email from Lilu introducing the piece:

"FYI, it's from a year ago, before I met B and I was living with two hellish girls. Time flies... when you want to sterilize your roommates just to make sure they never procreate.

Feel free to quote me on that."

*******************************

Can We Just Drop All the Pee-Pipe Stuff Here?

I love my apartment. I love the location, I love my room, I love the view. The only downside to the three bedroom is that one of the bedrooms used to be a parlor, and the two bathrooms are inside the two original bedrooms. So, when Roommate 1 (we'll call her Greeny McCruncherson, as she was from Oregon) wants to pee, she has to walk through my room. Normally, I could care less about this, as I am a relatively sound sleeper, and I get to try out all of her products in the bathroom.

Now, there is one situation where this can get tricky... and that is, of course, the with the appearance of the "overnight guest." Greeny McCruncherson of course feels uncomfortable barging into my bedroom when I'm sharing my bed with someone, or maybe she just wants to avoid getting an eyeful of drunk, awkward white people mating. (Understood.) Anyhoosits, one particular evening this exact scenario occurred... and took an ohsointeresting turn.

It was a couple hours into the bedroom-portion of the evening when I received her angry text, "It'd be nice if I had access to my bathroom..." Seeing as we had already, um, 'had relations,' I quickly responded for her to come in, that the coast was clear (all hairy testicles were either packed away or under the covers). She entered quickly, occupied the bathroom for five or ten minutes, and stalked back out again. I felt sorry for making her uncomfortable, but I had no idea how truly bad it was...

Until the next night, when we were smoking cloves out the window of the living room, because we're klassy like that (or too lazy to go downstairs, whatevski). Being an extremely talented bartender, I had made us some amazing margaritas, and consequently, we were feeling just lovely (smashed) as we were discussing (making fun of) Roommate 2 (it's okay, she was racist).

I then realized that I had not yet filled in Greeny McCruncherson on my own adventures of the "overnight guest" evening, which involved him getting a bloody nose at a very, uh, inopportune moment. Let's just say his muff-diving skills could have used a little less... fluid. Nevertheless, no sooner had I finished lamenting the sex that wasn't (good) than she had cut me off, "Oh, you don't even KNOW."

Greeny McCruncherson: We had all that wine at dinner, and I really had to pee, but I figured you were sexing it up in there and I didn't want to walk in. I had asked the Racist Roomie if I could use her bathroom for the night, and she said, 'sure, of course!' and then slammed her door shut. Seeing as she hates me, I didn't really think it was worth barging in there, since she was probably naked (gross) and would bitch about it to you the next day.

Me: Right, so that's when you texted me...

Greeny McCruncherson: Yeah, and I came in and went into the bathroom, but then I couldn't pee! I had stage fright, just knowing that your "guest" was like 10 feet away and could hear me. I was sitting there forever, but it wasn't happening, and being in there so long was getting embarrassing too. So finally I just gave up and walked out.

Me: Ha! That's hilarious. I mean terrible! I had no idea... so what the hell did you do? Go in Racist Roomie's room?

Greeny McCruncherson: Nope.

Me: You... ohmygod. You didn't. Holy shit, you peed in the kitchen sink.

Greeny McCruncherson: I had to! I didn't have a choice!

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA That's awesome! How did you get up there??

Greeny McCruncherson: I just jumped up and sat down! I didn't know what to do... I thought about going outside, but I'm not very good at popping a squat.

Me: I know, I always end up peeing on my feet.

Greeny McCruncherson: Me too! The sink was the only option.

Me: Eh, whatevs. It's all drains anyways!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And of course, I was reminded of "The Wife" episode from Seinfeld, where George pees in the shower at the gym...

ELAINE: Since when is a drain a toilet!?

GEORGE: It's all pipes! What's the difference?!

ELAINE: Different pipes go to different places! You're gonna mix 'em up!

GEORGE: I'll call a plumber right now!

JERRY: Alright, can we just drop all the pee-pipe stuff here?

Indeed, Jerry. Indeed.

Lexi and Me

Today, folks...a rare opportunity for you:

You will peer into my heart and soul.

My alternate title to this post:

My Stupid Dog

On a related note:

My heart is black like the night.

Duh.


I've written a bit about my dog on this blog.

About the time that we were new in the neighborhood and I had a swearfest with the stupid bitch down the street because her fucking dog tried to eat my dog at 6 in the morning.

Stupid bitch.

Where was I?

Oh yeah...dog stuff...

There was the time my dog shit red.


And now...

...there's this time.

You see...we've had my mutt for about 13 years now.

She's old.

I've kind of been waiting for her to die.

Seriously...my fucking lawn is ruined from all her shit and piss.

There is no "Scott's Turfbuilder with Dogshit Repair Patch" to fix that.

Trust me - I've asked the folks at Home Depot.

I'm no longer welcome at Home Depot.


So, I'm pretty much waiting for her to kick it so I can have grass again.

Unfortunately...

This almost happened the other night.

At about midnight...my dog started coughing.

My dog started coughing so hard that she made herself throw up.


My wife and I sat with her for hours...

...consoling her...patting her...

...making her comfortable.

We were pretty sure she was dying.

I took time off the next day and took her to the vet.

She was still coughing and throwing up...and I feared that the kids had said their last 'goodbye's' to Lexi earlier that morning.

As they took Lexi away to have x-rays done, I started thinking about her and everything we've been through in 13+ years.

It was like 'Marley and Me' except no Jennifer Aniston and my nose isn't quite as fucked up as Owen Wilson's.


But I got to thinking about her anyway.

How she was our first 'kid,' she got all the attention before we had real children.

She appears in every single video I have...always mugging for the camera.

She was my girl.

And now...

...now I'd probably have to part with her.

I stifled back tears...

...the emotion welling in me to the point where I thought I'd break not even fully knowing the outcome.

It was harder than I thought it would be.

(I was going to write 'that's what she said' right here...but it occurred to me that no woman has ever said that to me)


The doctor came back in with Lexi, and showed me the x-rays.

Doctor: "Looks like she has bronchitis. I'll give you a prescription...she should start to get better in a few days."

A miracle.

She was going to be okay.

Me: "Phew. Thank you, doctor. Thank you so much."

Then I went to check out.

Receptionist: "You're Lexi's owner?"

Me: "Yes."

Receptionist: "Okay. That will be $217 dollars."

* blink

* blink blink

Me: "What? 217 dollars?!"

Receptionist: "Yes, sir."

* pause

Me: "How much to put her to sleep?"

Fucking dog.

Motivational Filler - High School

Before I start today, I've got that Quantum of Solace movie review repost over at Moog's Movie Reviews.

If you remember, I pulled it when I decided to see Wolverine.

On a related note:

I'm stupid.

Carry on!

*******************

Motivate THIS.

(points at crotch)

Nothing to see here today...

...except a custom "motivational poster" made by yours truly over at Big Huge Labs.

Seriously...

...I have no idea how I made it almost 40 years without finding this thing.

Here's today's poster for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):


I didn't play basketball...

...but I DID dribble a lot.

The small bus is funner than you think it is.

If you want to see all of my custom posters, click here.

If you like them, feel free to post them on your site.

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

Spring Things and Loud Chirping Asshat Birds

"YAY, Daddy! Look! The lawn grubs are back!"

* num num num

Fucking ay.

Third week in fucking May and my lawn looks like dog shit already.

Awesome.

Thus begins Spring in New England.


How do we recognize the coming of spring in New England?

1) It's the time when the birds return from their winter jaunt to the land of the heat and elderly.

I know they're back because there's 400 of the little fuckers sitting in the pine tree next to my bedroom window fucking chirping their little shitty fucking bird heads off at 4 in the morning.

Nature is stupid.


2) It's the time when the five feet of fucking snow melts and I can actually take my fucking Christmas lights down unlike my goddamn neighbor, Jeff, who keeps them up all fucking year SERIOUSLY JEFF TAKE THE FUCKING LIGHTS DOWN YOU'RE DRIVING DOWN MY HOME'S RESALE VALUE YOU GODDAMN LAZY PRICK.

Ahem.


3) It's the time when women drive really really badly.

Oh. Sorry.

That last one is pretty much a year round thing everywhere.

You know it's true. Don't give me that shit.


Spring in New England...

4) It's the time when you can hear the crackle of the motorcycle exhausts as soon as the temperature peaks above 40 degrees.

Me: "G..g..ggett...yourrr...rrr...mmmmmm...mmootooorr...rrunnn...runninn....FUCKING DAFFY DUCKSHIT I'M COLD!"

It takes me 45 minutes after my morning motorcycle commute to find my balls.

That's 1 minute more than usual.

Stupid miniature scrotum.


5) The dog shit in my back yard is no longer frozen in snow and is now the consistency of some type of hairy stink shit-pudding

Mmmm.

Smooshy thawed 5 month old defrosted dog shit.

And...why is it hairy? Who has hairy poo?

That's a fucking blast to try to pick up off the lawn, by the way.

I'd have an easier time trying to not throw up at a Sarah Jessica Parker meet-n-greet.


6) Girls show up outside in shorts and skirts!

Unfortunately, for some reason girls are now completely happy being giant fat pieces of shit with bellybuttons that show through their shirts.

Now, instead of me lying about shit like:

"No, honey...I didn't see her giant boobs hanging out of her tube top."

I have to say shit like:

"ORCA!!"

For all you goddamn feminists and anti-Barbie broads who are all, like:

"Just be happy with who you are"

..and..

"You don't have to be perfect to be pretty"

..screw you.

You're ruining my fucking spring.


7) It's time for the kids to play sports

Sports.

Thus marks the end of any and all free time for the wife and I.

Monday: karate class for Cam

Tuesday: Cam's Tee-ball practice at 6 pm.

Wednesday: Payton's soccer practice at 6 pm.

Thursday: Payton's dance class at 6 pm.

Friday: kid's karate sparring class at 6:30 pm.

Saturday: Cam's Tee-ball game at 8:30 a.m.

8 fucking 30 A-fucking-M.

Jesus H. Christ.

Sunday: Payton's soccer game at noon.

* rinse and repeat

Based on this schedule, I should be able to shower and/or shit sometime around June 1st.

That's gonna be one big poop.


On the bright side, I get to open my pool in the spring.

It's just going to be a bitch dodging the defrosted dog's hairy stink shit-pudding to get to it.

Spring in New England.

Sucks my frozen miniature balls.

A Honky in Ghana

Blinding white...like the snow.

Let me explain.

My 8 year old daughter has been preparing for a school performance.

It was called:

African Dance

Preparing your child to take part in 'African Dance' entails the following:

1) Buying some really really OMG I'M BLIND!! bright fucking cloth

2) Cutting and somehow stitching said retina burning cloth into something resembling an African outfit that actually fits your kid

3) Listening to your child continually practice such timeless classics as:

a) "Ooonga da Boonga"
b) "Nik Nuk Be Eating My Flies"
c) "Mona luckahiki means hockey"

See #3?

The singing thing?

I heard those goddamn songs 24 x 7, my friends.

24. 7.


It was fucking magical.

Magical as in 'God please strike me deaf'...

...and not the 'how the Hell did David Copperfield manage to bang Claudia Schiffer?!?!' magical.


So, my wife went out and spent $20 on cloth that would hurt Ray Charles' eyes.

I have no idea how many gay men's wardrobes died to create colors this bright, but I'm sure it was a fucking slaughter.


Since neither my wife or I can sew...

(the closest thing I have to 'working with needles' is my constant masturbation)

...my daughter's outfit was a conglomeration of spit, Velcro, duct tape and staples.

(just thinking now that I should probably add the doctor's co-pay for removing the staples from her hips into the cost of the outfit)


Practiced and outfitted, we headed off to the school assembly.

Four third and fourth grade classes all sang and played the same songs.

This went on for two glorious head-pounding OH MY GOD IF I EVER GO TO GHANA I MAY SHOOT MYSELF IN THE FUCKING HEAD IF I HAVE TO CONSTANTLY LISTEN TO THIS SHIT hours.

Like I said:

Magical.

About halfway through, my mother in law looked over and said:

"Hey. There's not one black person here."

I look up.

No shit.

At the African Dance Assembly...

...the number of kids who may actually be of some type of African descent equaled zero.

Zilch.

Nada.

See. Of. White.

Welcome to New Hampshire.


In fact, even the two broads who taught all the kids this shit were two white lesbian chicks from Maine.

Teacher: "We should get some authentic African dance instructors to teach the children."

Principal: "I know two white dykes in Maine that should fit the bill nicely!"

What. The fuck.

And not the good type of lesbians.

The wrinkly, hippie, Maine-looking type of lesbians.

"Maine Lesbians: Hand carving our own dildos out of pine since 1962."


Ugh.

Two ugly old white wrinkly lesbians with unshaven pits using hand carved pine Mr. Wigglies and doing tribal screams.

I'd rather listen to that goddamn singing again than picture that.

Actually.

Maybe not.

For the Love of Bob

Pssst.

Hey...hey you.

Yeah...You in the vibrating trench coat holding the blow up doll of Emeril Lagasse.

By the way...

What the fuck?!

Here...come closer...

I have a confession to make.

You see, you may have read before that I have to go to physical therapy for my hand.

And that my therapist slightly resembles an elderly man's foot.

However, if it wasn't for her...

..I wouldn't have met Bob.

You see:

I. Love. Bob.

My therapist introduced me to Bob, and we haven't parted since.


I love Bob because:

1) I can hold and squeeze him whenever I feel like it

2) Bob will go with me anywhere.

This includes meetings at work and, sometimes, when I poo.

3) He fits so well in my hand, that it seems we were made for each other.

4) Bob is soft, yet I can be rough with him when I need to.

And he never judges me.

Probably because he can't speak.

5) No matter where I go, Bob is always in my pants.

Ladies and Gentlemen...

I present to you...

BOB:


Bob is my sponge.

Sponge. Bob.

Get it?

Yeah - I've got a million of 'em.

Unfortunately, most of them suck just like that one.

My therapist gave me this sponge so I can try to get feeling and movement back in my hand.

So, most of my time is spent squishing and smooshing ol' Bob here.

And I DO mean MOST of my time.

That picture there?

He's sitting on top of the toilet roll dispenser here in the men's room at work as I sit inches away with my pants around my ankles disposing of last night's Pad Thai in a most noisy fashion.

That's dedication for you.

Good boy, Bob. Good boy.

Now...back in the pants!

UPDATE:

So, at about 8:30 this morning...I left my desk to head into our lab.

This is rare for me, as I usually try to avoid doing work while I'm here.

When I returned to my desk....

...I was greeted by this:


"I can't believe you left me! - Bob"

Wow.

Don't I feel like an asshole, now.

Sorry, Bob.

Won't happen again, buddy.

By the way...

...you write like a girl.

Now you're DEFINITELY going back in the pants.

Motivational Filler - Child Prodigies (and a little Benny Lava)

A few things today:

1) I have a new movie review of 'Star Trek' over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

How was my wife's Mother's Day?

She mowed my lawn while I went to see a movie.

My Father's Day is going to be full of wicked retribution.

2) Benny Lava

Now, I don't usually repost other people's shit...I like to make my own.

HOWEVER...

Kellie over on Beauty is in the Eye of the Beer Holder posted this video on her site last week.

I've watched it no less than 15 times and cried laughing every single one of them.

Enjoy...Benny Lava:



Now...

3) Motivate THIS.

(points at crotch)

Nothing to see here today...

...except a custom "motivational poster" made by yours truly over at Big Huge Labs.

Seriously...

...I have no idea how I made it almost 40 years without finding this thing.

Here's today's poster for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):


Man...

...I remember that.

Good times...good times.

If you want to see all of my custom posters, click here.

If you like them, feel free to post them on your site.

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

The Stinky Trombone is in Ohio

**** WARNING ****

Long post today. You may want to take it in segments.

That's what she said.

What?

*****************

Sometimes I write titles to posts and later and go:

What the fuck?

Yep.

This will be one of those times.

I was sitting in a training class a few weeks ago with my laptop.

Taking a training course for me entails:

1) sitting in the far back of the room

2) completely ignoring the instructor while I browse porn and write ridiculous articles for this blog (like I need to be in fucking training for that)

3) every once in a while randomly shouting out shit like, "I don't get it" or "can you explain that in layman's terms?" or "seriously...what the fuck?!" so it looks like I'm paying attention.

Back off, people.

I'm a professional.


So, I'm sitting there when all of a sudden my Instant Messenger window pops up.

It's Janet.

Suffice it to say, Janet is one of the single most naive people in regards to sexual terms that I've ever met.

I am routinely called upon to give her definitions (she always shoots me down when I offer to show her instead - prude bitch) for all kinds of sex-type things.

Things like:

1) Rim Job

2) The Blumpkin

3) Testicles


She has two kids.

I have no idea how they pulled it off.

I'm guessing her husband, Bill, used Percocets.

I would.

Bill: "No..no...I'm going to put it....ugh...LAY DOWN....now...open your legs and....I SAID LAY DOWN...now let's get off these underwear...YES...we have to take off your underwear. What? WHY?!?...You know what? You know what?Just take these fucking pills and I'll be back up here in about an hour."


So...it was no surprise to me when the IM window pops open and simply says this:

****************

Janet: what's a Cleveland Steamer and a Rusty Trombone?

****************

* blink

Awesome.

Thanks, Janet.

Training just got interesting.

So...being the chivalrous man that I am...

I promptly gave her the definition for a Cleveland Steamer.

Knowledge is power.

And sometimes, this power just grosses you right the fuck out.


But...

Rusty Trombone?

That one escaped me.

Escaped ME.

I know.

Scary shit.

I believe I see the four horsemen of the Apocalypse coming.



******************

midgetmanofsteel: you're going to have to ask John about the rusty trombone. he's the master.

******************

John.

If you need a way to describe yourself taking a shit...

John: "I'm off to RELEASE THE KRAKEN!"

or...

John: "Okay...back in a bit...I'm going to drop the Cosby kids off at the pool."


Or if you need to know some obscure sexual definition...

(IM from John the other day):

****************

John: Hey. The screaming seagull. Look it up.

****************

Then John is your man.

Still single, ladies.

Still. Single.

* cricket

By the way, I looked up "screaming seagull."

You ladies might not want to.


So, of course, I asked John if he told Janet what a Rusty Trombone was.

****************
John: have you explained it to Janet yet?

midgetmanofsteel: no thought you would have

John: no I didn't

midgetmanofsteel: she asks me the other day how a woman we used to work with (who works here now) was doing.

so i said: "turns out she loves facials"

John: lol

midgetmanofsteel: she writes back:

"huh?"

how do you NOT know this shit...or are we just sicker than most people?

John: neither - I think its just because we are guys

midgetmanofsteel: probably

****************


With that said, I decide to let Janet know what a Rusty Trombone is in another IM window.

Somewhere, in the background, the teacher is still babbling on about some shit.

Me: "I DON'T GET IT! What the fuck?!"

There.

That should buy me some time.

****************

midgetmanofsteel: Hey...find out what a Rusty trombone is?

Janet: no

midgetmanofsteel: Rusty trombone is a euphemism for a sexual act in which a man stands with his knees and back slightly bent, with feet at least shoulder width apart in order to expose the anus.[1] The other partner typically kneels behind the man and performs anilingus while reaching up beneath the testicles or around the body to masturbate the man, mimicking the motions of a trombone player

Janet: OMG, that is GROSS

midgetmanofsteel: gonna play Bill's trombone tonight?

Janet: OMG

Janet: go away

midgetmanofsteel: you could play a little tune by blowing in his butt

midgetmanofsteel: a little Dizzy Gillespie, maybe

Janet: GO AWAY

midgetmanofsteel: "oh when those saints...come marching in..oh when mffmfffmmffffff..."

Janet: PIG

***********************


Pig.

Like this is news.

But she asked for it. And when people ask me things...I'm happy to oblige.

Unless it's my teacher asking me to answer the question.

Seriously - I don't even know what this course is about.

Angela Lansbury Beats Naked Pooing Lady

You know...

...sometimes I look at my own post titles and just shake my head.

Other times, I just shake my head without looking at the titles.

Stupid lice.

And, no - this isn't another 'Ripped from the Headlines' post.

Although, holy fuckshit...

....wouldn't that be the coolest friggin' headline ever?

***********************

New York Times:

Angela Lansbury Beats Naked Pooing Lady

***********************

(click to enlarge...that's what she said):


YouTube servers would be shitting the bed left and right serving up that video.

Mostly to my computer, but whatever.

I've digressed.

The results of my latest poll are in!

Here was the question:

What's the Weirdest Search my Site Comes Up In?

94 of you voted.

Yes - 94.

This is BY FAR the most popular poll I've ever had.

This includes all the times I've said, "Yo..who wants my number?" to any chick within earshot.

To my wife, the one who actually TOOK my number after that, I say this:

SUCKA!

Don't worry, everyone. She won't think that's harsh.

She knows she made a mistake.


Now, let's look at the results.

Sixth Place (tie): Whack Poo and Whack My Wife

Um...

Someone's whacking poo?

Who the fuck is whacking poo?

Actually, who would WANT to whack poo?

I'm guessing it would splatter all over the fucking place unless you had just eaten bananas and they were the hard marble-type poop balls (click here for the full story of the smiley face poo in my page header at the top right of this page).


Are you trying to learn HOW to whack poo? Like, some kind of poo-whacking instruction booklet or some shit?

Mother of God, man.

Why?!

I'm guessing that after 'Whack Poo' and 'Whack My Wife' came this inevitable search:

Whack my wife with poo.

And, really...

...who hasn't thought about that at least once.


Fourth Place: Giant Vaginas

Dude.

If you're searching for giant vaginas, I can promise you that you've come to the wrong fucking place.

Small penises?

Absolutely.

Giant vaginas, though?

I don't see any.

Trust me, I've been looking.

Although any vagina feels gigantic to me.

Stupid small junk.


Third Place: Granny Boobs

Mental Poo: You're source for old ladies' titty bags since 2009.

I'm totally making that into a shirt.

Second Place: I want pics of a lady who is doing her poo poo and isnt wearing any bra or panty

Um...

This came in SECOND place?!

Second?

Really?

You people are fucked.

But not nearly as fucked as the guy looking for pictures of a naked chick taking a shit.

Which he'll never, ever find.

Because women don't poo.

Don't take that away from me.

Please.


And the winner....

By a single vote...

First Place: Angela Lansbury

Forgive him, Lord, he knows now what he do.

Does.

Whatever.

The poor, poor bastard.

I don't have the slightest fucking clue how someone searched for 'Angela Lansbury' and this site came up.

But I can tell you this:

That person. Will never. Be the same.


Grandpa: "What was that nice lady's name who did all the plays...and was on 'Murder She Wrote?'"

Grandma: "Angela...Lansbury. Angela Lansbury, I think."

Grandpa: "Let me Google it."

* click

It's at this point that Mental Poo appears in all it's hideous glory.

Grandpa is greeted with shit like:

Ugly Penis Chickens.

Pinky Tuscadero vulva references.

Grabby Bungholes.

Fucking ay, that's right.

Instant. Coronary.

Grandpa: "MA! You gotta see this! I Googled 'Angela Lansbury' and you know what came up?"

Grandma: "What? What came up?"

Grandpa: "That same site that came up before when I Googled 'Whack my Wife's Granny Boobs with Poo.'"

Well, I guess we've answered at least one of the above questions.

Yep.

Grandpa is one sick fuck.

Even sicker than you guys.

If you can believe that shit.

Moog out.

Thera-y. Where's the P? It's Running Down My Leg!! What?

Twice a week, I pay a woman $15 for a 45-minute session.

Bang, meet Buck.

Let me explain.

Back in March, I broke my goddamn hand in sparring class while basically playing Karate Kid.

Well...less 'Karate Kid,' and more 'Stupid Fucking Broken Hand Guy.'

I hate that guy.

Actually...either one of them.

I hate both of them equally.

Although the hate of the Karate Kid is more for making me wait until years later to see Elisabeth Shue naked.

It was 1984.

I was 16 and really could have done a lot with that back then.

I believe I've digressed.


After having surgery to put my hand back together...

...and spending four long weeks in a cast without getting air or water on it...

...my hand looked like this:


AAAARRRGGHHH!! MY EYES!!

Holy shit.

Sorry.

It didn't look THAT bad.

My hand looked like this:


Mmmm.

Makes you want to suck on my fingers, doesn't it.

DOESN'T IT?!?!?

Like you don't want to.

Now, though, my hand looks like this:


Aaah. That's better.

However, life has not been all lesbian porn scenes and free quaaludes since the removal of my cast.

Woops...hold on.

(Happy place)

Okay. I'm back.

You see...

...I have to go to therapy.

Physical therapy.

Not the therapy that I probably really need.

(Choose one of several valid therapy options here)


So, I go to physical therapy twice a week.

The most often-asked question I get is this one:

"Is your therapist hot?"

No.

No, my therapist is not hot.

My therapist is the opposite of hot.

My therapist would be the result of an accidental comingling of Susan Sarandon and Sarah Jessica Parker's DNA as it landed on top of Renee Zellwegger's egg which then fell into a vat of Bryan Adam's sperm.

Oh, look.

I made myself throw up a little.


If my therapist was featured on Hotornot.com, her picture would probably get pulled because someone thought it was supposed to go on ratemypoo.com and was put there accidentally.

So..no...

Not fucking hot, thankyouverymuch.

On the bright side, though, thanks to physical therapy:

1) I'm out about $150 in insurance copays at $15 for every goddamn session.

2) I can now bend my pinky finger about 90 degrees and it only hurts like the gates of Hell have opened up and Satan himself is stabbing at my knuckles with his pitchfork. AAAHHH...AAAH IT KILLS!!!

Ahem.

Yeah, this is worth it.

Motivational Filler - Dignity, Bargains and Verizon

Before I start today...

I had a movie review of Quantum of Solace over on Moog's Movie Reviews yesterday.

However, I pulled because (wait for it)..

I instead wrote a review of Wolverine.

Yes. Wolverine.

Further evidence that Hugh Jackman is the greatest actor of our generation.

* cricket

The Quantum of Solace review will be back up at a later date.

Stop crying, bitches.

Onward!

*******************

Motivate THIS.

(points at crotch)

Nothing to see here today...

...except a custom "motivational poster" made by yours truly over at Big Huge Labs.

Seriously...

...I have no idea how I made it almost 40 years without finding this thing.

Here's today's poster for you (click to enlarge (that's what she said)):






That's right:

A MENTAL POO THREE-FER!!

Phew.

I have to sit down now.

This shit winds me.

If you want to see all of my custom posters, click here.

If you like them, feel free to post them on your site.

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

My $145...Going...Going...GONE!!

The thrill of no victory! The agony of no defeat!

If Jim McKay was alive to see this shit, he'd be freaking right the fuck out.

Going all "plaid leisure suit" on your ass.

And you don't want any part of that shit, trust me.

Tee-ball.

I signed my 5 year old son, Cam, for tee-ball.

We told Cam last year that we'd sign him up as soon as he made the age limit.

Last year, alas, he was too young.

****** SIDEBAR *******

Is the word 'alas' too highbrow for this blog?

Can you think of any other alternatives?

Maybe, like, "...but, son of brick shithouse, he was too young."

Discuss.

****** END SIDEBAR ******


So, one $145 registration fee later, Cam was signed up for tee-ball.

$145.

That's, like, 6 weeks of offerings at my church.

On a related note:

Sometimes I make myself laugh.

Regardless, the team he landed on?

Red Sox.

Fucking ay, that's right!

Since we're from New England (suck it, Yankees!), landing on the Red Sox was like the cherry on the proverbial stripper popping out of the giant cake with big, electronic vibrating toys and OH MY GOD SHE BROUGHT HER LESBIAN FRIEND!

I think that was supposed to be an ice cream reference, but...

...you know...

Welcome to my brain.

Regardless, he's on the Red Sox and super pumped.


Knowing jack shit about tee-ball, I decide to go to the town's website to see what it's all about.

Let's see here....

Little League....Babe Ruth....AH! Tee-ball!

Here's what it says:

****************************
T-BALL (AGES 5-6) RULES

All players will bat (off a tee) each inning, and will reach base regardless of whether they are put out.

There are no strikeouts or walks.

The last player to hit in each inning will circle the bases, along with the runners on base.

No score is kept, and no playoffs are held.

Every participating child will receive a trophy at the end of the season.

****************************

* blink

* blink blink

No strikeouts?

No walks?

No fucking score?

No winners or losers?

Everyone gets a goddamn trophy?

Jesus H. Christ.

What the fuck did I just pay $145 for?


I'll tell you what I paid $145 for.

I paid $145 for:

1) a $10 shirt and a $5 cap

2) the privilege of taking him to a practice once a week where, apparently, they won't practice anything because it doesn't matter what the fuck happens anyway because - ooh...ooh - everyone gets a trophy including that stupid shit who never brings a fucking glove and always runs the bases fucking backwards every time

3) the ability to get my ass up and out of bed on every Saturday fucking morning and drive him to the ballfield at 8 fucking 30 so I can watch him give no effort in order to not win or lose

Mother of God.

I could have put down four fucking magazines in my front yard and have him run around them a few times and then pat him on the head and give him a fucking lollipop and get the same goddamn effect.

$145.

Of course, he DID get a Red Sox cap.

So I guess there's always that.

Oh yeah:
Yankees suck.

Like that's news.