The Line for Treatment Starts at the Rear

Just a shorty today.

* shows penis

This can also be considered another 'Conversation Piece' article.

During the 20-hour fun-filled stick-me-in-the-eye-with-a-knife road trip called 'my summer vacation'...

...my wife and I passed by a road sign that stuck out from all the others.

It was a sign for this place:


The Gaylord Rehabilitation Center

* blink

Aaaah....

The Gods of Unintentional Hilarity have shined upon us.

As we pass the sign...

...there is silence in the car.

An eerie silence.

But we know we're both thinking it.

That is...

Until my wife speaks up:

Wife: "You think that's where they go for treatment?"

And...bam!

There it is.


For the rest of the vacation we'd point out people who we thought...you know...

...needed 'treatment.'

Because, really....

No summer vacation is complete without a decent dose of homophobia.

I'm totally making that into a Hallmark Card.


(yep...one of mine)

Not that there's anything wrong with being homosexual.

Some of my best friends are gay *.

* that is a lie

If you want to send hate mail, get in line.

Line forms at the rear.

(I'll give you a minute with that one)

Yeah, I said it.

At the rear.

Come on...

You knew it was coming.

That's what he said.

I mean, she.

That's what SHE said.

Moog out.

The Conversation Piece #2 - The Birthday Wish

This is "Conversation Piece #2" - for the first one, click here.

ONWARD!!

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

Last week was my wife's birthday.

I remembered this for two reasons:

1) I actually FORGOT it two years ago

(that was a bad, bad day in the history of me)

...and...

2) I put it in my Calendar at my work email with a reminder

Fucking ay, that's right.

A REMINDER.

Fool me once..shame on you.

Fool me twice..holy shit, I must be a fucking idiot.


So..the morning of my wife's birthday, this conversation happened:

(scene: wife is barely awake...sitting on couch...drinking first cup of coffee)

Me: "Hey..happy birthday."

Wife: "Oh. You remembered this year."

* inserts shiv into my kidney

She's awesome.

You know...dishing out the digs.


Me: "That was TWO years ago."

Wife: "Was it? Fine."

At this point...I slink over to the couch...

...give her a kiss...

...and say...

...in my best 'how you doin'?' voice:

Me: "Hey...you excited? You get birthday sex tonight."

She looks up blankly at me from her coffee.

* blink

Wife: "Um...it's MY birthday...not yours."

Um.

Oh.

Me: "Well..that was your present."

* blink

Wife: "Great. Another year I get nothing."

* sigh

Awesome.

Happy Belated Birthday, hon.

I'll be upstairs in a minute...there's something I have to take care of first.

Do you remember which channel was Cinemax?

Motivational Filler - Gambling

Before I start today...

I have what may possibly be my last movie review today over on Moog's Movie Reviews.

It's a foursome!

(queue porn music)

For some abridged reviews of "Transformers 2," "The Hangover," "Ice Age 3" and "Doubt," head on over.

Then come back.

It's like a boomerang, but with less aborigines.

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

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)):


In his defense...

...it IS a sweet looking taco.

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.

Can I Pay for this Free Shit with these Stupid Coins?

I'm not sure why anyone would want to just give it away.

Let me explain.

When you're in a fucking car for 20 hours going all over the goddamn Northeast of the United States for 'vacation'...

...you realize something.

You typically run out of shit to talk about with your wife within the first, like, 10 minutes.

Unless you're talking about shit like:

"Do you want to just take off running and leave the kids in the hotel with a return address?"

"Hey..is this a zit?"

"OMG WHAT IS THAT SMELL?! Did you fart? It smells like death!"

(yes)

"Do we even NEED to leave a return address with the kids? I mean, it's not like we're going back there. FLOOR IT!!"

That kind of stuff.


Unless, you're crossing into the Canadian border.

As you're crossing into the Canadian border...

(Canadian Motto: We have great big giant fucking coins instead of nice, thin, paper dollar bills that actually make fucking sense to carry so I hope you are going to be wearing something with seventeen goddamn deep fucking pockets you stupid American! Oh...Hockey is great! Poutine!)


...you come across...

..this:

The Duty Free shop.


This prompted this exchange:

Wife: "What's 'duty free' mean?"

Now, let me preface this next part with the fact that I know almost everything.

Seriously, I'm really fucking smart.

I tell myself this every day.

Someone has to.

On a related note:

I cry sometimes.


But, to be honest, I wasn't sure what 'duty free' actually meant.

All I really know about 'duty free' is what I learned from the song Kramer sings in Seinfeld.

Mmmm...Elaine.

Seriously...shave off the sharp edges of her lower jaw and she is, like, unstoppably hot.

But, Jesus...that fucking jawbone could cut glass.

I think that Julia Louise Dreyfus' husband has cuts on his inner thighs from blowjobs.

I'm going to ask her that question.

As soon as they lift the restraining order.

Helpful stalking tip: Hedges provide almost NO cover for you during the fall months.

You're welcome.


Where was I?

Oh.

Duty Free.

This question prompted this exchange:

Wife: "What's 'duty free' mean?"

Me: "I think it means you don't have to pay taxes or something on it."

* pause

Wife: "Maybe you just can't take a shit in their bathrooms."

Ah.

As in:

This place is DOODIE free.

Nice.


Me: "..or maybe they just give away free samples of poop."

As in:

Come in and get doodie...FREE!

Doodie Free.

And if that's the case, I'm totally outta here before they do the 'but wait, there's more' part.

I'm just pissed that it's free poop.

I was looking forward to getting rid of these stupid fucking two dollar coins.

Fucking Canadians.

Now That Hits the Spot

K.

I'm back after the sobfest from the other day.

Thanks to all of you who sent your awesome thoughts.

But now I'm back and ready to roll.

You're welcome.

Now...onward and with full humorous force!!

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

Chicks will totally dig me now.

Let me explain.

I finally had my very last orthopedist appointment regarding my mangled, broken, surgically enhanced finger.

Here's how that went:

Dr.: "So..do you have any questions?"

Me: "Yeah...um...it still feels really tight and hurts a bit."

Hot nurse: "I'll show you something really tight..."

Then I woke up.

I watch a lot of porn.

I've digressed.

Dr.: "It will feel that way for a while. You're at 3 months. After 6 months, though, it is what it is...that's how it will be for the rest of your life."

Thanks, doc.

How fucking uplifting you are.

Here...here's a shiv made from a spork...

Why don't you stick me with it...right here...side of the neck.

Thanks in advance.


I had one last question:

Me: "Now...I still can't straighten it."

On a related note, that exact same sentence got me a prescription of Levitra from my normal physician.

Apparently, this is probably about as straight as it's going to get.

Here's my hand, with my fingers straightened out:


Fucking ay.

It's going to STAY like this?!

Then...

...it dawned on me.

With a little ingenuity, and some savvy marketing...

I'm going to be in high demand.

Because I know what this reminds me of now.


LOOK OUT, LADIES!!

That's right.

I'm now in possession of a lethal weapon of the G-Spot kind.

Broken, crippled hand?!

FUCK NO!

SEXYTIME FINGER OF FUN is more like it!

Now available for party rentals.

Inquire within.

That's what she said.

Remembering Lexi

Before I start today, my heartfelt apologies to those coming over from FunnyRunner's blog, LLOL.

She gave me an award stating that I'm a hilarious must-read.

Man...those folks are going to be sorely disappointed today.

May I suggest going back to last week...or previous posts this week...or wait til tomorrow.

Nice timing, FunnyRunner. Nice timing.

Here goes.

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

Lexi: Unknown birth date - July 21, 2009.

I'm sorry, folks.

But if you came here today looking for a laugh, or to get angry, or to get some weird pictures or such...

...you're in the wrong place.

At least for today.

And I'm not joking.

Feel free to move along to the next blog if this ain't your style...

Because I'm not feeling funny today.

At all.

You see:

I had to put my dog down this morning (by the time you read this, it will be yesterday morning)...

...so what you get today, if you continue to read, is my one, cathartic moment.

If you don't feel like reading it, I don't blame you. I had a hard time writing it.

But I need to write right now.

So, I'm writing.

After almost 500 posts, I'm giving myself this one.

I will return to my regularly scheduled hilarity as soon as I man up and get over this.

My apologies.

And now...my farewell letter to my dog, Lexi.

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

Dear Lexi,

This morning was hard.

It was much harder than I imagined it to be.

Because for the last 12 years you have driven me insane, cost me untold amounts of money in vet bills and boarding and food and pooper scoopers and dog cookies.

You've ruined my lawn and many spots on my carpet and hardwood floors.

But I wouldn't change a moment of it.

From the moment that mommy and I saw you in the shelter, we knew you were the one.

Even though they said you were 'mean' and would bite...

(which you did...and for some reason continued to do right up until the other night...seriously...it's a cookie...we're not going to take it away from you...you should know that shit by now)

...you came to us anyway and wagged your stupid little tail and pulled back your giant ears and was happy.

You were ours from then on.

I didn't think I would cry as much as I did when you sat last night and coughed and coughed and hacked and wheezed and your failing heart raced so fast that you tipped over and became helpless...to the point where you couldn't walk.

And there's nothing that would have stopped us last night from picking you up and bringing you to our room so you wouldn't feel alone...or sitting with you and patting you when you couldn't stand.

I miss you already.

I wanted to stretch out the time with you for one more day.

But I couldn't.

And I'm sorry.

I've often said that I was waiting for you to die. That you weren't worth the trouble. That you were a pain in the ass.

I'm glad I was able to tell you that I was sorry for that.

I didn't mean it. None of it.

People can be stupid. But you know that...you've been around me for 12 years. Imagine how mommy feels...she's been with me for 21.

But I didn't mean what I said.

I'm sorry, Lexi.

I'm sorry.

Picking you up and watching you in the car without the strength to stand and put your head out the window...heading to the vet knowing that you weren't coming home...was hard to push through.

And handing you over to the tech and kissing you for the last time and saying 'goodbye' was damn near impossible.

And I will forever regret not having the guts to go in and pat you and hold your paw while they put you to sleep.

I'm regretting it now and it's only been 5 hours since you left.

I'm so sorry.

I should have been with you.

I just couldn't watch you die.

Big man, eh?

Yeah. Big man.

So, I know you can't read and they probably don't have Internet access in dog heaven, but I needed to let you know all of this.

Daddy loves you.

Daddy misses you.

Daddy will never forget you.

Bye, Lexi.

And, thank you for being part of my life.

Love,

Your Daddy.

I'm Here, I'm Que...wait..wait...nevermind. I'm just here.

Like a terminal case of Herpes, I'm back.

But with less open sores and more minty freshness.

Great.

Now I want herpes.

I've digressed.

I'm still pulling my shit together after sitting more than 20 fucking hours in a car between the three locations we traveled to while my kids sat in the back singing and fighting and then making up knock-knock jokes like this:

Son: Knock knock.

Daughter: Who's there?

Son: Ketchup.

Daughter: Ketchup who?

Son: The hot dog was trying to, like, ketchup with the others. You know...it's like, 'catch up' but instead I said 'ketchup!' Get it?

Both kids die laughing.

This went on for 20 fucking hours.

On a related note:

I'm not sure I fully wiped off my fingerprints or hid the kids' bodies well enough.

KIDDING!! KIDDING!!

I hid them really well.

It's not like I'm a novice or anything.

Um...

Perhaps I've said too much.


So, yes...I'm still in recovery from the trip.

But I'm working on a few things that include such topics as:

1) The Gaylord Rehabilitation Center

2) The true meaning of 'Duty Free'

3) Having wine and lube and feathers delivered to my hotel room in Toronto and watching the bellman's face when he realizes my kids are sharing the same room.

Good times, good times.

Leave me be, now.

I hear sirens.

I mean, um...

...I have to write these posts.

Moog out.

Catscratch Fever

What.

I hate driving.

In fact, if I didn't hate freaky liberal fucking environmentalists SO much to want to piss them off on purpose, I'd probably leave my 1972 Cadillac at home and ride a bike.

Wait...

I get ass-sweat pretty easily.

Plus I really like pissing off hippies.

Scratch the whole 'bike' thing.

Sometimes I don't think before I type.

Meatballs in gravy are the antichrist!

Case in point.


The other day, I was driving to work...

(yes, male prostitutes sometimes drive to their "Janes")

...and noticed that the car in front of me had a vanity plate.

For the record:

I H8 Vanity Pl8s.

This plate said:

"5CATS"

5 Cats.

You sad, sad piece of shit.

I didn't realize that the freaky old lady in the neighborhood actually owned a car.

I thought she just stayed in, got "Meals on Wheels," watched Judge Judy, and every so often showed us her big dangly boobs out her front picture window.

3 p.m sharp on the second Tuesday of every month.

Don't ask me how I know that.

On a related note, that chair is reserving my spot. Touch it and die!


I began thinking of alternate plates this person could have gotten.

You know, instead of displaying to the world that this person has "5CATS".

Some valid alternatives might be like:

"SINGLE"

"ALONE"

"CREEPY"

"SAD"

"NEEDHLP"

"MENTAL"

"FELINOPHILE"

This means "Aroused by Cats"

I realize that there are too many characters in this one, but this may be applicable if said user has two cars and can break it up (doubtful - see "ALONE" plate above) or lives in Sweden.


"ILKPUSSY"

I believe this is what Lindsay Lohan got as a vanity plate after switching teams.

She originally had:

"MMM-DICK"

Actually, I could probably get that one.

The former one...the 'PSSY' one...not the latter 'MMM-DICK' one.

Why? What have you heard?

IT'S ALL VICIOUS RUMOR! PICTURES CAN BE FAKED!

Ahem.

* whistling


I was thinking, though, that this last one would be for the sad, alone, male felinophile who needs some serious, serious help.

I know you're out there, dude.

Maybe I can hook you up with the freaky lady in my neighborhood.

You can share a Meal on Wheels and watch Judge Judy together.

Let me know if you need me to pick you up.

I'm looking for another excuse to take the Caddy out for a drive.

Fucking hippies.

Vacation Post Redux #4 - The Worst Seat in the Otaku

Since I'm gone on vacation this week, I thought I'd bring you:

Mental Poo Vacation Stories Week

Thanks go out to the one person who's clapping.

Sit down, asshole...you're embarrassing yourself.

Today, in the first installment, I bring you "The Worst Seat in the Otaku"

This post was first presented in July, 2008.

This post is a recollection of a week the wife and I spent in Seattle...

...as the Boston Red Sox were out there for a West Coast road trip.

We have to follow them. It's the law here in New England.

Yankees Suck!!

There. Glad that's out of the way.

Enjoy.

And see you back on Monday.

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


Take a picture, why don't ya?

Actually...

...that's ALL they did.

Let me explain.

My wife and I attended three Red Sox games during our 6-day stint in Seattle. During our down time, we would stroll the city and see the sights.

Unfortunately, the sights primarily consist of homeless people and large groups of Japanese.

Personally, I think it would be good to do a "Celebrity Family Feud" ...

...but with one side being Seattle's homeless and the other being Japanese tourists.

"Let's Play - FAMILY FEUD!!..."

Al Roker: "OH MY GOD...I'M SO HUNGRY."

Sorry..sorry...


...let's start over:

Al Roker: "..the top three answers are on the board. Name something that everyone does at least once a day."

*BUZZ!!*

Al Roker: "Homeless guy you're the first one to buzz in - give me your answer."

Homeless guy: "These flies!! These flies are in my skull!! Why are they laughing at me?!? I LIKE BEETS!!"

Al Roker: "Ooohkay...Japanese tourist. What's your answer?"

Japanese tourist: "PingWAAAAAA...Dong WOOONG Picachu FeelOOOONg...ICHIRO SUZUKI!!!"

(cameras start going off at the Japanese tourist podium)

Ichiro Suzuki.

Ugh.

Ichiro Suzuki is a Japanese player for the Seattle Mariners. Apparently, he's so popular in Japan that people travel from Japan to Seattle JUST to see him.


I was told that sometimes, they come from Japan just to see the BALLPARK he plays in...then...

...they go home.

Seriously.

The only person I'd ever consider doing that for would be Rachael Ray.

It would have to be a public hanging...but I'd still travel for it.

So, at the ballgame, here's what it would look like with Ichiro on the bench:


..and with Ichiro at the plate:


What. The. F*ck.

EVERY at-bat this happened. EVERY ONE.

Seriously...how many f*cking pictures of this guy do you need?

Not that it mattered to me.

Why you ask?

Well...because here was MY view of the field (actual photo from my seat):


Being short SUCKS.

Also, a nice "Thank you, Safeco field" here for putting a .001% grade on the f*cking seats.

Yeah - it gets better.

Here was my view from Game 3:



On the bright side, though, this guy's size shielded me from the blinding camera flashes from the Japanese tourists.

Until he moved...

...and then Neal and Bob came and sat down in front of us instead:


Awesome.

No longer blinded by camera flashes, I'm instead rendered horrified as one guy rubs another guy's neck lovingly in front of me...

...then up the back of his shirt...

Mother. F*cker.

BRING BACK THE FAT GUY!!

Or a Japanese tourist...at least they're skinny.

Apparently, they've been listening to Al Roker's tips.

Vacation Post Redux #3 - 15 Bullets

Since I'm gone on vacation this week, I thought I'd bring you:

Mental Poo Vacation Stories Week

Thanks go out to the one person who's clapping.

Sit down, asshole...you're embarrassing yourself.

Today, in the first installment, I bring you "15 Bullets"

This post was also first presented in May, 2008.

This post is DAY 2 of a business trip I took to the giant fucking shithole known as Mississippi.

You can find Day 1 here.

How I managed to stay alive during this ordeal is still a miracle...

...on par with how Jon & Kate Plus 8 is still on the fucking air.

Unbelievable.

Enjoy.

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


Mississippi.

How's it going?

HOW'S IT GOING?!?

Read this, then YOU tell me.

This is an IM conversation I had with my buddy Rob the other night...

...as I waited in the office for Hillbilly Bob to get his hick-ass-grit-eating-duck-shooting shit together.

(Note how Rob immediately goes for the "anal violation by Southern guy" angle):

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

Rob: hey...hows your ass?

midgetmanofsteel: Nice. This place is a fuckhole

midgetmanofsteel: I'm IN A MOTEL

midgetmanofsteel: A FUCKING MOTEL

Rob: lol

midgetmanofsteel: ..I was typing my blog for tomorrow...and a fucking bug landed on my hand. What the Hell is up with that shit?

Rob: LOL


midgetmanofsteel: the guy that works here - get this

midgetmanofsteel: has FIFTEEN bullets in his cube that...wait for it...

Rob: bullets?

midgetmanofsteel: ...he FOUND IN THE PARKING LOT

midgetmanofsteel: THE PARKING LOT

Rob: real bullets?

midgetmanofsteel: THE FUCKING PARKING LOT

midgetmanofsteel: BULLETS

Rob: lol

midgetmanofsteel: YES...REAL FUCKING BULLETS

midgetmanofsteel: I want to go home.


Rob: maybe you can get a cheap hooker

midgetmanofsteel: yeah...and some syphilis

midgetmanofsteel: awesome.

Rob: LOL

midgetmanofsteel: I pull into the parking lot of MY FUCKING MOTEL (remind me to sue Garber Fucking Travel), and there are security guards.

midgetmanofsteel: I have bars on my fucking room window

Rob: no way

midgetmanofsteel: it's like I'm in the TV show "Good Times"

midgetmanofsteel: I'm expecting Thelma and JJ to come through my door

Rob: LOL


Rob: dyn-o-mite!

midgetmanofsteel: yeah..dynamite

midgetmanofsteel: my rental car is going to get stolen

Rob: you poor bastard

midgetmanofsteel: you watch

Rob: LOL

Rob: stop it. I am crying

midgetmanofsteel: yeah...me too...but I'm not laughing as I'm doing it.

Rob: I am sure

midgetmanofsteel: I'm going to curled up in fucking fetal position all night in the bathtub holding the toilet brush as my weapon.

Rob: lmao


midgetmanofsteel: I'm SO outta here tomorrow

midgetmanofsteel: it's like I'm living inside Shawshank

midgetmanofsteel: the guy that works here just took the other vendor chick outside because she smokes

midgetmanofsteel: he's like..."you don't really want to go outside."

midgetmanofsteel: WTF

Rob: no way

Rob: wow

midgetmanofsteel: ah...they made it back.

Rob: Jackson, Mississippi is not a vacation spot?

midgetmanofsteel: yeah...for violent fucking repeat criminals it's an apparent hotspot

Rob: lol


Rob: is the chick hot?

midgetmanofsteel: no..she looks like my foot.

Rob: short and stubby

midgetmanofsteel: she looks like my foot, if my dog chewed on it for three weeks.

Rob: nice

midgetmanofsteel: yeah...she's a beaut.


midgetmanofsteel: ..and when this is over...I'm going to be driving back to my shiteating motel at 3 in the fucking morning.

midgetmanofsteel: awesome.

midgetmanofsteel: I can only imagine the wonderful crowd that will be there to greet me in the dimly lit parking lot.

midgetmanofsteel: I'm gonna get stuck with a shiv...I just know it.

Rob: find a big stick with a nail in it

midgetmanofsteel: if I find it...it will probably already be embedded in my skull.

Rob: now now..it cant be that bad

midgetmanofsteel: no..it's bad.

midgetmanofsteel: I'm little, Rob. LITTLE.

midgetmanofsteel: it's like waving a four year old boy in front of a priest...I'm MARKED.


Rob: ok..maybe you can borrow billy bobs gun

midgetmanofsteel: I'm just going to collect those bullets and make "POW! POW!" noises and throw them.

Rob: just park real close to the door and run your LITTLE ass off

midgetmanofsteel: yeah...extra bonus...all the "CLOSE" spots are cordoned off for some fucking reason

midgetmanofsteel: I'm guessing there was a murder.

Rob: LOL

Rob: be good and hit em low

Rob: like you have a choice

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

There you have it.

Maybe the last words I'll ever write.

Honey...the Will is in the filing cabinet.

..and no...you cannot remarry.

Let's just get that out there in front.

Moog out.

Vacation Post Redux #2 - How Jaws Got 20/20 Vision

Since I'm gone on vacation this week, I thought I'd bring you:

Mental Poo Vacation Stories Week

Thanks go out to the one person who's clapping.

Sit down, asshole...you're embarrassing yourself.

Today, in the first installment, I bring you "How Jaws Got 20/20 Vision."

This post was also first presented in March, 2008 - right after we came back from our Disney vacation.

And pretty much sums up in a nutshell how shit goes for me on a daily basis.

Even at fucking Sea World.

Enjoy.

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


Two eye visits, twice a year, and a pair of frames.

Apparently, sharks are also covered under this Health Policy.

Let me explain...

On our last full day in Florida, we took the kids to SeaWorld.

(SeaWorld motto: "Hey loser, you just paid $60 TO LOOK AT GODDAMN FISH")

Anyway...

At about midday, we walked to "Shark Encounter."

"Shark Encounter" lets you walk through a series of rooms, where a bunch of large predatory animals circle around you...

...much like being on MySpace.


Anyway...

At the end of the exhibit, you get to feed the sharks.

Yes.

Feed the sharks.

After being accosted by security to "PUT THE CHILDREN DOWN!", I realized that they actually SELL FOOD that you feed the sharks with.

Ah.

That makes more sense.

Because I was wondering what I was going to do with my kids' leftover Disney passes.


But I digress...

So, you feed the sharks with squid.

Squid is slimy and wet and smelly.

At one point I had to look twice to make sure I wasn't feeding the sharks little bits of Paris Hilton.


Anyway...

I was bent over holding the tray of squid out for my son.

As he grabbed a piece of squid, I said:

Me: "Okay, Cam...you have to throw it into the tank pretty hard."

Unfortunately for me, he understood completely.

You know...

Sometimes, I should just keep my fucking mouth shut.

With squid in hand, he wound up...

...and hurled his arm forward.

Mind you, I was bent over to the side of him.

His little hand, rushing forward hit the side of my face...

...snagged my glasses with his fingers...

...and chucked them right into the shark tank along with his squid.

*PLOOP!*


Um...

*blink*

*blink*

Me (standing up): "Um...Cam just threw my glasses in the shark tank."

My wife looked at me.

Wife: "What?!"

Me: "He just threw my glasses in the tank."

We look over and there, on the bottom of the tank amongst dozens of swirling sharks and stingrays...

...sat my glasses.


My wife starts laughing.

She loves when shit like this happens.

Then...

...we see the stingray coming.

How awesome.

You see...

Earlier in the day, we fed stingrays.

So we knew that stingrays had mouths on their undersides...

...and that they suck things up into their mouths with great force...

...much like Pam Anderson does.


Wife: "I think that stingray is going to eat your glasses."

Sure as shit, here comes Mr. Stingray...gliding along...

...and he stops RIGHT THE FUCK OVER my glasses.

Really?

Can this vacation be any more goddamn magical?


He didn't eat them.

This made me happy.

My wife, immediately sensing my sense of urgency and duress in my optical situation, rushes to my aid...

...and grabs the video camera.

Wife: "I HAVE to tape this!"

I love Florida SO MUCH.

An attendant managed to fish my glasses back from the tank which - I might add - were EXCEPTIONALLY clean.

I'm assuming they were cleaned by the stingray...

...who forcefully sucked the grit and grime off of them...

...like Britney Spears trying to make friends in rehab.

Sweet.

I wonder if she smells like squid.

Vacation Post Redux #1 - No Go with the Low Flow

Since I'm gone on vacation this week, I thought I'd bring you:

Mental Poo Vacation Stories Week

Thanks go out to the one person who's clapping.

Sit down, asshole...you're embarrassing yourself.

Today, in the first installment, I bring you "No Go with the Low Flow."

This post was first presented in March, 2008 - right after we came back from our Disney vacation...

...in the house with the low-flow environmentally friendly toilets.

I think you know where this is going.

Enjoy.

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


WARNING: This post talks about Poo.

A LOT.

You've been warned.

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

Low Flow = Big Stink

Let me explain...

As mentioned previously, we rented a house on our Florida vacation.

Unfortunately, all of the toilets in our rental house were all "environmentally friendly" LOW-FLOW toilets.

A sample "Low-Flow Toilet" marketing advertisement:

"Low-Flow Toilets:

When flushing seventeen times just isn't enough*.

*Use only for pee."

I don't understand these toilets even a little.

I mean, I'm all for the water conservation thing...but, really:

"Low flow" means that even a tiny little turd breaks the surface of the water.


When there's basically a cupful of water sitting in the toilet, two things happen:

1) My poo immediately breaches the surface of the water.

Me: "Uunnnnnngggghhh!"

(I always make this noise...even in public bathrooms...freaks people out...TRY IT AT HOME, KIDS!)

*PLOP*

...immediately followed by:

*GADOOOOSH!*

(sound of giant splash...which has now sprinkled my bottom with toilet water)

mmmm...cool.


But I digress...

I look down.

Oh...that's just fucking great.

A little brown lighthouse is now greeting me from the loo.

Fucking low-flow bullsh*t.


Me (waving): "Well, hello there big guy!"

(he waves back...we discuss politics...turns out he's voting for Hillary)

Then, I realize...

...in one singular squish...

...I have exceeded the total poo volume that the low-flow toilet can actually handle.

Um.

Ew.

This is not going to end well.

Now, poo in a NORMAL toilet, once in "submarine mode," doesn't really smell.

The water kind of absorbs it.

(The smell comes from the resulting poo-stew...which can be hideous in itself...

...but is in NO WAY equal to the smell of a non-submerged BM)


In a low-flow toilet, submergence does not happen.

As such, the air is immediately swirling with a stench...

...that I can only surmise is equal to what Rosie O'Donnell's back fat smells like in between folds #6 and #7.

Me: "Oh...oh GOD...."

(I black out)


2) Multiple flushes are required

This is where I really don't understand low-flow toilets.

Women can go into a bathroom and - within the span of 20 seconds - completely drop their Cosby kids off at the pool.

Men, on the other hand, have to bring in several time-consuming materials...

(crossword puzzles, video games, and - in some cases - prostitutes)

...in order to kill the time whilst the evacuation occurs.


We men try to go for record-breaking movements every single time we go.

It's in our nature.

As such, in order to get the surface breaker to completely go down, we require several flushes with the low-flow johns:

Flush #1:

The first flush almost kills the toilet.

*FLOOOOOOSH*

Uh-oh.

It's mad now....

...and it's coming for me.

The toilet looks like it's actually going to clog and overflow.

This causes momentary panic as you frantically look around for a plunger, stick, household cat, etc., in which to push the rest of the clog down.

"Please God...make it go down..."


Eventually, SOME of it actually goes down.

But not all...

...thus requiring:

Flush #2:

The second flush takes care of the rest of the payload you've left behind.

This is good, as you can now put the cat down and not worry about having to clean up a river of little brown canoes floating about the bathroom floor.

Phew.

However, you now are left to do....

Flush #3:

The final flush before you give up is done in an attempt to clean off the skid marks left all over the side of the "low flow" toilet...

...yet another problem when the water doesn't go high enough when the toilet is full.

Mmm...

...it looks like a crowd of frantic Jell-O Pudding Pops has tried feverishly to escape.

Also, this final flush takes care of any "floaters" that refuse to go down.


This third flush is often preceded by a layering of "blanket paper" that you lay on TOP of the floaters...

...praying that the floaters "go down with the ship" when the paper is also sucked down.

This step is also required so your wife doesn't go in after you and yell:

Wife: "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN HERE?!? MOTHER OF GOD?!?! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EAT?!?! What the...IS THAT THE CAT?!?"

As such, this third flush is optional for men...

...as most times, this is pretty funny when you choose not to do it and the wife walks in on it.


Conclusion:

Since low-flow toilets require AT LEAST three flushes to get your vacation food out of the house, I can't see how they save water or the environment.

In some border cases, you may actually lose a beloved family pet.

I'm also concerned about the air quality of the environment here...

...as I've had to empty half of the contents of my aerosol Glade Air Freshener to try to get the friggin' stench out of the room...

..subsequently destroying the ozone.

On the bright side, if the ozone is destroyed, we get the benefit of global warming...

...saving me money because I won't have to go to Florida for my vacation in the middle of winter.

Hmmm....

Maybe Low-Flow is a good thing, after all.

The Mental Poo Whirlwind Family Tour

I'm outta here.

Actually...I left yesterday.

To my darling prostitute, Glenda:

I'll have to pay you when I get back. You will find your ball gag and anal beads in the top right drawer. You may want to wash the ball gag, as I think I may have mixed the two up.

They hate when you pull that shit.

The family and I have headed out on our yearly vacation together.

This year, we're off to the following destinations:

1) Three nights in New York City

New York City's Motto:

HEY, Asshole. Go fuck yourself! Badabing Badaboom!

They have long bumper stickers.

New York ain't that bad.

It's like watching 'Emeril' but with guns and hookers and musicals and shit.

And a little less garlic.


2) Two nights at Niagara Falls

I haven't been to Niagara Falls since I was a little kid.

When I say 'little' I mean 'giant fat piece of shit.'

How I didn't wash down my three Big Mac's for lunch every day with the cubic volume of the fucking Horseshoe Falls is still a mystery.

3) Two nights in Toronto

This is the cool part.

There are a ton of awesome strip joints in Toronto.

But, unfortunately, that's not why we're going. Actually, that's not why my wife and kids are going.

I still plan on sneaking out when everyone's sleeping.

Maybe I shouldn't have written that part down.

No...

We're going to see the Red Sox play the Blue Jays.

My kids are psyched.

I am too.

I hear there's a strip joint right next door.

I mean...a..um...a great bratwurst place. There's a place there that sells great bratwurst.

Stupid stream of consciousness.

While I'm gone, I'll be reposting some of my older posts that are either vacation or business-travel related.

Some of these posts never got the exposure that they should.

Like my prostitute, Glenda.

I really got to remember to pay that bitch when I get back.

Enjoy your week, folks.

And remember...the anal beads are the SMALL ones.

Moog out.

The Conversation Piece

Mrs. Moooooog35 has it rough.

Because that's the way she likes it.

I know because the UPS guy told me so.

But, hey...on the bright side:

FREE DELIVERY!

I've digressed.


Today, just three simple little conversation pieces between the wife and I.

Yes...a peek into the Moooooog household.

Don't worry.

We're probably not having sex.

Even if we were, I'm probably done already anyway.

***********************
Snippet #1:

Scene: We're sitting on the couch watching television. I'm in shorts.

Wife (looking over): "Wow. Your legs are hairy."

Me: "What?"

Wife: "Your legs are hairy. Like, really hairy."

* blink

We met in 1989.

20 years and she finds this out now.

I wonder if she's noticed that I'm short.


***********************
Snippet #2:

Scene: I can't find the milk.

Me (staring into fridge): "Where's the milk?

Wife: "Don't just stare into the fridge! Move things!"

Me: "I did."

Wife: "Did you move the ketchup?"

Because, you know...

Shit's always behind the fucking ketchup.

****** CUT HERE ******

Special Mental Poo Clip 'N' Save Section!!

Looking for your car keys and you're late for work?

Check behind the ketchup.

At the park and your kid has gone missing?

Go home, open the fridge, and check behind the fucking ketchup.

****** CUT HERE ******

You're welcome.


So...

The milk is apparently behind the ketchup.

Me (still staring into fridge): "Where's the ketchup?"

(insert scene of unimaginable violence here)

Jeez.

***********************
Snippet #3:

Scene: Wife gets into her car to leave for work as I'm just getting out of the bathroom from doing poo.

The night before, I had Cap'n Crunch cereal for supper.

(we were out of ketchup)

I'm spoiled.

Me (running into the garage): "Whoa! One more kiss for the road!"

I lean into her window, give her a smooch, then say:

Me: "Hey...useful tidbit for the day..."

Wife: "What?"

Me: "Crunch Berries make your poo dark green."


That was my imparting wisdom to her that fine morning.

Crunch Berries make your poo dark green.

Wife: *blink

Wordless...she starts backing out of the garage, as I stand there yelling after her:

Me: "Be careful what you do with that powerful knowledge!!"

* wife drives away without another word

Sometimes she doesn't take me or my new found hairy legs seriously.

Hm.

"Serious" kinda sounds like "Cereal."

Great...now I want Crunch Berries.

Where the fuck is that milk?!?

Elmo Really Sucks at Work

Just a quickie today.

Like I'm capable of anything else.

25 seconds is a long time, right?

RIGHT?!!

Ahem.

* cricket

I believe I've digressed.

Some of my loyal readers may know that I sit in the same cube here at work with my friend, Kristin.

I call her my 'friend' because she has yet to show me her boobies which may or may not jeopardize that relationship.

On a related note:

Nothing in history was ever accomplished without taking risks.

Just sayin'.


Regardless...

We work with another woman in this group.

For the sake of argument, I'll change her name her to protect her identity.

Hereafter she shall be called:

Breastus Giganticus Titterrific Enormicus Boobie Rex (BGTEBR).

(Trademark pending)

Wow.

Kinda rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?

That's what she said.

Seriously...those things could fucking crush cars.


I would post pictures of her, but I won't in the interest of protecting her anonymity.

Plus, the ones I took while hiding in the girls' locker room came out all fuzzy.

Perhaps I've said too much.

BGTEBR actually has a cube right next to the one Kristin and I share.

She's never in it.

But these two are:


Awww.

Elmo and a Teddy Bear.

How fucking precious.

But not for long.

Because...

...remember...

I sit in the next cube.

Here's what they ended up looking like after the first five minutes of moving next door:


Wow.

You know...

I always thought Elmo seemed a little light in the loafers.

These things stayed that way for about a week.

Until I noticed that she had moved them back.

Big Breasted Party Pooper.

(B-squared, P-squared)

I'm sure she knows it's me who did it.

But I'm not afraid.

As long as she keeps those giant cans away from my car, I should be okay.

Motivational Filler - Yearning

Before I start today, I have a guest doing two movie review's over on "Moog's Movie Reviews" of Pan's Labyrinth and The Orphanage.

Now...this weekend I saw BOTH "Ice Age - Dawn of the Dinosaurs" and "Transformers 2."

However, I'm on mandated job furlough this week...unpaid...and writing two reviews while there's sleeping to be done just seems like a fucking waste of good couch space.

Maybe later.

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)):


Keep lookin', dude.

Someday you'll find it.

On a related note:

I like to lie.

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.

Joe and the Automatic Toilets

Joe and the Automatic Toilets.

(just realizing now that the title of this post would be a great name for a rock band)

In my new job, sadly, Joe isn't here.

(for a brush-up on Joe, check here and here)

I have Kristin, but all she does is email me about her poo.

Thanks, Kristin.

Nothing brightens my day more than hearing about how a woman has violently evacuated her bowels.

Awesome.

Apparently, though, this "let's tell Rodney about my shit" trend has caught on with my other friends.

I'm so happy.

Here is an instant message I got the other day from Joe.

Out of the blue...I get...

This:

(no 'hi'...no 'hey'...no 'you there?'...just...this...)

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

Joe: so they put in these automatically flushing toilets at work, which is great because it's one less thing I have to think about

Joe: but I find myself missing the experience of being able to take a step back and admiring my handiwork

Joe: I used to be able to check it out and have a real feeling of accomplishment, like I just built a birdhouse or something

Joe: now I have to quickly sneak a peak while it all spins away

Joe: there's something that modern society misses out on when we install all these new-fangled technologies

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

* blink

* blink blink

My response:

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

midgetmanofsteel: you're a freak, Joe

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

Luckily for me, we don't have these automatically flushing toilets at my new job.

So I get to admire my handiwork as long as I want.

Sometimes, this admiration period could take upwards of a half-hour.

Longer if there's colors.

I like colors.

Let me know if you're interested, and I'll send you pictures.

Now excuse me...

...I gotta go build me a birdhouse.

My Great Big D*ck

At long last...

..my wife is happy.

Since I believe that my wife's happiness is actually one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse...

(move over, Famine!)

...you should probably take cover.

Cuz, yeah....

She's happy.


You see:

I finally pulled the trigger.

At the ripe old age of 40...

I finally decided to have my d*ck enlarged.

You read that right.

I had my d*ck enlarged.

Why, Moooooog?

Why would you have your d*ck enlarged?

Sit right down there on that toadstool, my friend with the compacted anal glands, and let me tell you why.

You see...

For as long as I can remember...

...my wife would complain about the size of my d*ck.

In her defense...

...it was a pretty small d*ck.

But, no, she wasn't happy with it at all.

Nope...my d*ck just wasn't big enough for her.

If I had a nickel for all the times she complained about the size of my d*ck, I'd be a millionaire.

A millionaire with a tiny d*ck.



My d*ck didn't "reach all the right places."

My d*ck "wasn't comfortable."

My d*ck was "starting to look awful after years of neglect."

Like that's my fault.

You know...come to think of it...

I can't even remember the last time she sat on my d*ck.

So, for her...for the love of my life...

I had my d*ck enlarged.

The whole d*ck enlargement procedure cost me about $2500.

I don't know what the average rate is for a d*ck enlargement, but the guy who did it was about $1000 cheaper than the next guy because he was married to my wife's friend.

In fact, at one point in the procedure, my wife's friend came in to assist.

I was a little nervous having a chick work on my d*ck...

(times, they are a-changin')

...but, I have to say, they did a phenomenal job.


Total d*ck rejuvenation.

My new d*ck is large.

My new d*ck is hard.

Honestly, it's some of the most impressive wood that I've ever seen.

And most of all:

My wife loves sitting on my new d*ck.

Nowadays, it's not absurd to actually find her sitting on my d*ck on a weekday.

A WEEKDAY.

Awesome.

I even let my dog sit on my d*ck now.

Sometimes, I put her dog food on it.

This makes her happy.


However we have a new rule about my new d*ck and the dog:

If she poos on my new d*ck even ONCE, she's not allowed on it anymore.

I hate that stupid fucking dog.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

So my wife loves sitting on my new d*ck.

And so do I.

That's right, my new d*ck is THAT big.

It's SO big...

Even my kids play on it.

To hear them laugh and giggle while they're jumping up and down on my big new d*ck is priceless.

Sometimes, they even color on it with markers.

So, without further ado...

Check out my big, new d*ck:




So, there's my big, new deck.

DECK.

You fucking perverts.

Now...

Anybody seen my dog?

This food isn't going to last too long just sitting here on my penis.

Moog out.

Ronald McDonald was an Assman

How my wife deals with teaching kindergarten at an inner-city school is beyond me.

She puts up with a lot, like:

1) Tantrums
2) Unintelligible conversations
3) Whining
4) Unrelenting verbal Abuse

And that's just when I call her cell phone.

Imagine what the kids who can't speak English do.

Crazy fucking shit, my friends.

Fo shizzle.


But, she also gives me a lot of fodder for this blog.

Like today.

One of the parents had to fill out some form that the school required.

I believe that conversation went like this:

Wife: "You have to fill out this form."

Parent: "Que?"

Wife: "YOU. HAVE. TO. FILL. OUT. THIS. FORM."

(it works better if you speak loud and slow to immigrants)

Parent: "Que?...Eh...er...potato potato potato potato."

(I believe all Spanish I've ever heard sounds just like the word 'potato' over and over again...TRY IT AT HOME, KIDS!)


Somehow, my wife got them to sign the form.

Or, as they say in Spanish, "Goya de Cerveza."

Regardless...here's the form.

Nothing worthy to note here, really.

Except the "Occupation" section.

Look closely.

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


Um.

Occupation...

McDonald's ASSMAN?

Awesome.

Is this actually a position?!

And, if so...

Why the fuck am I working here?!

Oh. Yeah.

No zits and I can afford to buy gas.

But really...

Can I be a McDonald's AssMan?!

I'm really more of a boob guy, but if this is all that's open...

Wife: "I think he meant 'Assistant Manager.'"

Um.

Oh.

Dammit.

I'm still calling Kentucky Fried Chicken, anyway.

They HAVE to have someone in charge of breasts.

Clear skin is overrated anyway.