Wife Swap - XXX Edition

I just hope Vanna White can turn the balls.

(I'll give you a moment to marvel at this picture):


Let me explain.

In light of my near-death-gangsta-bullet-finding-hillbilly-violation trip to Jackson, Mississippi...

...I've come to the following EARTH-SHATTERING conclusion:

I HATE my job.

I hate it more than Lindsay Lohan hates sobriety.

That's a lot.


Actually, I came to this conclusion a while ago.

So much so, that I wrote a whole post about what it would be like to work in the porn industry.

"Shoot for the stars," I always say.

In this case, I mean it literally.

Mooge shooting EVERYWHERE.


But I digress...

...I was mentioning this fact to my friend, Kristin, over Instant Messenger the other day.

Here's how it went:

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

midgetmanofsteel: I hate my job

Kristin: me too

Kristin: can we think of some movie to write or like reality tv show idea or something?

Kristin: there aren't any reality porn shows...that would be original

midgetmanofsteel: NICE!

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

This begins the brainstorming session of what titles to have for our...

(drumroll please)

Pornographic Reality Series!

(fine...so maybe that was a little dramatic)

**************************************
WARNING:

Some of these may offend you.

(I know of at least one that offends me...and sh*t, I helped come up with them)

But...as the song says:

"If you don't know me by now....you will never something something something..."

(I don't listen to that crap)

You've been warned.
**************************************

Here are some titles for our Porno Reality Series that Kristin and I came up with:

1) "So You Wanna Be a Porn Star"

2) "So You Think You Can Get in My Pants?"

3): for the athletic: "F*cking with the Stars"


4) for the adventurous: "Survivor - AIDS Edition"

5) a game show for Cubans: "Miami Dink"

6) "What to NOT Wear"

7) "Deadliest Catch" - yep...it's still about crabs

8) "Dirty ____jobs" (hand, blow, foot, etc., etc.)

I'm guessing that Mike Rowe would have more fun on my version.


Then...reality actually set in.

There's already been a porn reality show.

I know this...because I Googled it.

Damn you, GOOGLE!!

DAMN YOU TO HELL!!


I'm PISSED that someone came up with this idea already.

I'm also pissed because I never watched it...

(apparently, Entertainment Weekly doesn't cover pornographic shows...which is now reminding me to cancel my subscription)

...and I had also thought of these gems for alternate show titles:

1) The A-Glazing Face

2) Fear F*cker

3) Squeal or No Squeal

4) The Simple Life (yeah..I know..but it still stars Paris Hilton)

5) Project Runaway

6) Extreme Bendover - Homo Edition


So, I've got some titles.

Kristin and I just need some money and some whores to get the ball rolling.

Interestingly enough, that's also all I needed to get a bad case of genital warts.

Crazy ironical.

Anyway...

Help wanted.

Inquire within.

Uncle Jim's Dirty Limericks (Sexual Harrassment 101)

Behold:

The patented "Butt Clutch."

Let me explain...

Things never cease to amaze me.

Like: How I’ve managed to stay out of sexual harassment lawsuits.

Really.

AMAZING.

You see…there are two Rodney’s.

The first Rodney is “Home Rodney.”

Home Rodney:

1) Cooks

2) Cleans

3) Swears only when it's absolutely necessary

(i.e., like if I drop a Cheeto on the floor or something: “DAMN YOU, YOU F*CKING SH*TEATING CHEETOS..I HATE YOU!!!...I HATE YOU ALL!!!”)

4) Only watches porno when the wife is gone (this is newly revealed information to wife…when masturbation became a requirement for my vasectomy)

5) Only whacks his pee-pee when the wife is gone or is sleeping (also, see #4) or is in the shower (or garage, shed, porta-potty at a concert, etc., etc…you know…”private time”)

6) Tries not to offend the wife



Sounds nice, eh, ladies?

This takes nothing away from my beautiful wife, who is by all accounts an excellent mother, baker, hottie and virtual domestic goddess.

I'm just saying that:

I'm better than most men.

...or completely domesticated.

...or gay and haven't fully realized it yet (I DO like musicals!)

It's one of those three.

Anyway...that's "Home Rodney."


But then…

...there’s “Work Rodney.”


Work Rodney:

1) Specializes in “Sexual Innuendo” (Ha! It sounds like “In You End-oh”)

2) Swears a LOT

3) Knows all the good sites for Lindsay Lohan/Britney Spears and the High School Musical chick photos (shout out here to my friend “Bill” for sharing)

4) Gives friends the finger for absolutely no reason (i.e., “Hey Bill…good morning!” - gives Bill the bird - “By the way…F*CK YOU.”)

5) Has ongoing humorous “wife” attacks with his friends.

For example:

My buddy Rob talks with his mouth full.

Mimicking him, I say: "Mmmmffmmmffff"

Rob: “Yeah…that’s what your wife said to me last night.”

The retort in kind:

Me: “Your wife couldn’t say anything to me last night, as her head was buried in my ass.”

This would be really bad if we weren't all really good friends.

But we are good friends and it's all in fun, so it's okay.

Right...honey?

6) Is grossly inappropriate in the workplace (also see #1 through #5)


My wife knows both Rodneys…but is more in tune with “Home Rodney.”

She doesn’t like Work Rodney.

She gets glimpses of him at Christmas Parties and sh*t.

She also sees him sometimes when I walk into the bathroom in the morning...

...where she’s getting ready…

…and I have a handful of Kleenex...

...and am wiping my hands.

Wife (disgusted): "Did you...just...IN THE BED LYING DOWN?!"

Yeah. I did.

Kinda gross...she's right.

...maybe next time I'll stand up.

Anyway...

Work Rodney.

She’s not crazy about him.

In her defense, he IS a prick with very little tact.

…anyway…

I’m not sure where “Work Rodney” came from.

But I’m reminded of my Jekyll/Hyde thing every time I try to retell a crazy “sex” story to my wife…

…or manage to finagle the word “blowjob” into a conversation at home.

It usually doesn’t fly.

*cricket*

I'll either get the eyeroll...

...or no laughter.

It’s like watching that kid who played “Skippy” from “Family Ties” do stand-up comedy.

*cricket*

Man...he really, really sucks at it.


Anyway…

I’m not sure where this behavior came from.

The only real clue I have is that it was learned behavior from my first job at a restaurant.

My boss, Jim, was a true pioneer of sexual harassment.

I actually think he may have invented it.

I got this job at the age of 15...

...where my mind was a conglomeration of pot, booze, Quaaludes, and pornography.

(this state lasted into my early twenties)


I was also very prone to suggestion.

...and Jim suggested a LOT.

Every day at work, I as an impressionable 15-year old, was able to watch the following things transpire:

#1: Jim’s waitress “Butt Clutch”

I have no idea how he got away with this.

But he was a GENIUS at it.

Married waitresses.

Single waitresses.

You name it – they got the “Butt Clutch.”

Yeah…he grabbed their bum.


As a side note to this, Jim’s wife also worked in the restaurant.

…which makes this guy even MORE of a hero to a 15-year old kid on Quaaludes.

Waitress comes into the kitchen:

Bum gets squished.

Waitress is leaving the kitchen:

Bum gets squished.

Waitress twenty feet away:

Bum gets squished.

It was like the guy was Mr. Fantastic.

Workplace bum squishing.

That’s right…to my young self...

Hero.

#2: Referring to food as genitalia

Jim would often tell me to “go get a donkey.”

“Getting a donkey” referred to getting a beef tenderloin from the freezer.

Now, if you’ve ever seen a beef tenderloin in its entirety, it resembles a giant elephant dick.

(you may also realize this if you’re a female elephant)

Also known as a “donkey.”


Subsequently, Jim would grab this two foot long tube and – deftly placing one end on his sack – start swinging it around in a circular fashion, while yelling “It’s DONKEY TIME, ladies!”

That’s right, ladies…

It’s Donkey time.

Giant swinging beef penis.

Awesome, Jim.

Awesome.

Then he’d carve it up…and this was no longer funny.

Quite painful to watch, actually.

Poor elephant.


#3: The songs

Jim was not only a World Class Champion of Sexual Harrassment...

Jim was also a man of rhyme.

That’s right.

He was a virtual poet.


His favorite pastime was creating majestic rhymes…

…using the waitress’ names…

…and how he wanted to bang them.

Look out Ernest Hemingway!!

Anyway…

Jim would break into these rhymes when the waitresses walked into the kitchen…

…or were getting desserts…

…or…you know…

…in the general vicinity.


Anyway…

Here is a sampling of the gems that I can remember, accompanied by my reviews:

Let's begin...

To Sonya: “Sonya, Sonya…I want to get on ya.”

Simple, yet concise and straight to the point.

...yet more...

To Cindy: “Cindy, Cindy…I want to be in thee.”

Here we see the complexity in deftly referencing penetration, while still maintaining a quality rhyme.

A true word magician.

...more...

To Angela: “Angela, Angela…just blow me already.”

Hey….Sometimes poetry doesn’t have to rhyme.

Yet something else Jim taught me.

Ruth:
We also had a waitress named Ruth who wasn’t very attractive.

For her, he’d just look at her and go:

“Rooooooooooooo!”

I’m not sure if she was relieved or saddened in not being included in the “I want to bang you” rhymes…

Rooooooooooo.


I’m guessing she was sad.

Sorry, Ruth…I could have come up with stuff like “love booth” or “snaggle tooth”….

…but back then, it was Jim’s call.

Damn it, he was a funny sh*t.

Sadly, Jim ended up getting in cocaine and sh*t, and eventually lost the restaurant.

The last time I saw him, he was managing a Wendy’s fast-food place one town over from me.

I wonder what rhyme he came up with for Wendy.

I bet it was f*cking hilarious…

...and involved something about his “Big Bacon Classic” or wanting her to be in a “triple with everything.”


Ah, Jim...

Work Rodney salutes you.

Home Rodney has some dishes to do.

Yeah..Home Rodney may be gay.

Forecast today: Partly Cloudy with a Chance of ONE GIANT WIGGLY

According to my weatherman, I’m the equivalent of John Holmes.

…I’ll be updating my resume and sending it to Jenna Jameson shortly.

I live in southern New Hampshire.

Over the past four days, we’ve received, like, two feet of snow.

For a guy who is 5’2” tall, this is similar to being stuck up to your neck in quicksand.

Short = sucks.


...but I digress...

Let me first tell you that we weren’t EXPECTING two feet of snow.

Oooh nooooo…..

...we were supposed to get 4 to 8 inches of snow.

Because that’s what our weathermen said.

Imagine my surprise when, lo and behold, we had a foot of snow on Sunday.

A foot of it.

I F*CKING HATE weather people.

I’m still not sure of their usefulness in the world.


I want a job where I can make mistakes more than 75% of the time, and still feel confident that I can come into work every day, without repurcussions, and talk it up with the hot desk anchor.

F*cking Architecture.

What was I THINKING?!?!?

Anyway...

...In New England, it’s not rare to see the following forecast (by the way, if you only do metric crap and Celcius, do your own goddamn calculations - this isn't the Weather Channel):

Monday:
Low Temp: 12 degrees
High Temp: 92 degrees
Forecast: Chance of Snow or severe drought.

Tuesday:
Low Temp: -2 (windchill of -200 (a.k.a., "I can't find my balls")
High Temp: 62 degrees
Forecast: Sunny with a chance of Thunderstorms and golf-ball size hail

Wednesday:
Low Temp: F*ck it..take a guess
High Temp: Imagine the highest temp you can and add 2 degrees
Forecast: High winds from remants of Hurricane “Guapo”. Partly sunny.


Weather here is a crapshoot in New England.

It’s kind of like Mother Nature is bipolar.

You never know what you’re going to get.

I wish that bitch would JUST STAY ON HER MEDS.

Anyway...

I’ve done a bit of travel across the country in my time, and have found some things to be weird:

San Diego Weather:

Visting San Diego, you get THREE separate weather reports:

1. The actual San Diego weather (which is one of two things):
a) Sunny, 70 degrees.
b) On fire.

2. The Mountain forecast (about a half-hour east of San Diego):
a) Add 20 degrees to the San Diego temperature

3. The desert forecast (about an hour or two east of San Diego)
a) Add 400 degrees to the San Diego temperature

Really – you’ll see three separate temperatures in one day’s weather report (70, 90, and 195 degrees).

I have no idea how you pack if you’re traveling from San Diego, through the mountains, to the desert in one day:

“Let’s see…I’ll pack my jeans and t-shirt…my shorts and tank-top...and my camel and burka.”

WTF.


...the other thing...

Arizona Weather:

I once landed in Arizona on a business trip at 9:30 p.m.

It was 103 degrees.

At 9 p.m.

Upon deplaning, I immediately disappeared into a little poof of vapor, and ended up a mere little pile of salt.


WTF – over a hundred degrees AT NIGHT?!?

WHO LIKES THIS SH*T?!?!

(I know someone is going to comment on how it's "a dry heat" - at which point we should all just pile into my minivan, drive to the person's house, and beat the piss out of that jackass)

Anyway, after sidestepping ginormous mutant lizards, plate-sized spiders and trailer trash to get to my hotel, I turned on the news.

Here was the forecast:

Monday: 108 degrees
Tuesday: 109 degrees
Wednesday: 110 degrees
Thursday: 108 degrees

Now..what was funny about this, was that in the midst of the 108/109 degree forecast, was this 110 degree day.

…on the graphic, pasted across the 110 degree Wednesday, was pasted this graphic:

"HOT!"


Hot.

No shit it’s hot, asshole.

It’s going to be ONE HUNDRED AND F*CKING TEN DEGREES.

Hot.

Listen...I KNOW 110-degrees is hot…

...I didn't really need the extra graphic there...

..but what the f*ck is 109?!?

Warm?!

Tepid?!?

Why waste the “HOT” graphic for 110 and NOT 109?!

..was it for shits and giggles? ..something to “mix it up?”…

If it wasn’t actually so f*cking hot outside, I would have driven my rental to the television studio and punched the guy in the throat for stating the obvious.


Hot.

Give me the snow.

..it takes me more time to find my genitalia on cold days, but CHRIST - at least I can put a sweater on.


…but I digress…

...again...

Let’s get back to my wiggly:


Now, based on the snowfall prediction vs. what ACTUALLY fell, I am revising my estimates of penile length and girth:

Based on the Pythagorean theorem and some small quantum physics, we find that:

4 inches (weatherman’s prediction) is to 12 inches (actual snowfall) as 4 inches (length of my d*ck) is to X (variable).

...so...

4 is to 12, as 4 is to 'X'

or...

4:12 as 4:X

F*ck...I hate math.

By using my Windows calculator in “scientific” mode and converting some binary to hexadecimal and then back to decimal numbers, we find that, according to my weatherman:

The answer is 12.

12 inches.

My penis, then, is 1 foot long.


YES LADIES.

I’m HUUUUUGE.

FINALLY….

…something I can thank my weatherman for.

I’m also fifteen feet tall according to this analogy, but I’m twisting the data for the sole purpose of enhancing my manhood.

It's my post. I can do what I want.

Anyway - thank you Channel 5!!

...for my newfound 12 inches.

That’s HOT.

A Stinky and Brown, Dick

The title will play itself out.

Bear with me.

Story #1: The Unfortunate Email

I feel bad for these guys…

...but I’m not sure why they haven’t changed their names yet.

Our email system, here at work, assigns addresses in emails as:

Last_Name, First_Name

As such, my email address always appears like this in emails at work:

“ShortGuy, SuperHot”

..which isn’t bad…because it works on a number of levels and is still pretty descriptive.


The issue here, though, is that we have two guys that work in this building named:

Dick Brown

..and…

Peter Brown

As such, any email that is sent to them, looks like this:

"To: Brown, Dick"

..or…

"To: Brown, Peter"


…I’m sure they know what it looks like.

Poor, stupid, stupid bastards.

Although, personally, I would have my email changed to Richard and Pete, respectively.

..I'm waiting for them to hire Johnson Brown.

"To: Brown, Johnson"

Anyway...

I’ve never met either one of these guys, but I’m sure I’d know it if I passed them in the halls…

…with the smell of sh*t eminating from their crotchal regions…

..I'm assuming that's why it's brown.



Story #2: How You Know When You Stink

My friend who sits in the cube next to me, got up to go to the bathroom/kitchen/whatever...

...point is..he left his cube.

He’s gone for maybe three, four minutes.

I watch him as he comes back, walks down the aisle and into his cube…

…he’s about to sit down…

When, suddenly, he starts FRANTICALLY waving his arms back and forth…

“UGH!...What the…?!”

…he’s encountered some hideous, horrible, gut-wrenching smell…



“GOD!..Mother of God!!”

…and he’s desperately trying to waft it away…

...epileptic arm-waving style.

"UGH...UGH!!! WHO DID THAT?! YOU?!?!"

I start laughing.

As you see, the thing is…

NO ONE ELSE went into his cube.

Not ONE person.

I think he just got some fresh air while he was out…

…and upon returning...

...walked right into his very own stink.

So much of a stink, in fact, that he was convinced that I went into his cube and farted.

I did not.

I should have, now that I think of it.

But, alas, I did not.

He just smelled.


Apparently, he just smells.

And now, he knows this.

And no, it was not Barry.




I'm thinking he should maybe check to see if he has a Brown, Dick.

Anyway...

Sometimes funny sh*t just happens…

I’m usually lucky enough to be there when it does.

Is there a 401(k)?

Blah, Blah, Blah.

This is what I doodled in my notebook at a work meeting the other day...as I was listening to the ramblings of people I don't care about talk about things I don't like to do.

...and it got me thinking about Dream Jobs.

Now, granted, I don’t have the most awful job in the world.

I work in the tech industry, I get to wear jeans and – occasionally – my Underdog t-shirt to work, and I’m paid reasonably well.


This is in stark contrast to the janitor in my building, who gets paid sh*t, has to wear an outfit, and – on the rear occasion – must wipe up the remnants of an episode of explosive diarrhea in the men’s room.

As a side note, please notice that I said "Men’s Room” – not “Ladies Room” - as ladies don’t have diarrhea…as I’m convinced that they don’t poo.

..little poo fairies come and take it away in their sleep.

This is what happens.

I firmly believe this.


I need to maintain this fantasy, so I can continue to look women in the face without picturing them sitting on the john with their wrists under their knees, hiking their legs up to their chin, trying to get leverage to push out the anaconda that’s been building up since the Mexican dinner the night before.

Again, ladies don’t poo.

They just don’t.

I don’t want to discuss the matter any further.

Anyway – so we know that this guy gets paid dogsh*t to essentially clean up our pee stains.


I feel for this guy…I really do.

And I know, deep down inside, he hates my guts.

I know he resents the fact that he has to go through his day looking at me in my Underdog shirt, making 5 times the money he is, and say:

“How the f*ck did that a-hole get here…and why am I picking up his dingleberries?”

(..for maximum effect, say the above line with a Mexican accent..maybe add the word "Homes" to the end of it..)


I also know he resents me because, when I see him in the bathroom cleaning the floor (with that mop bucket full of rinse water that looks like it’s been dredged through Loch Ness, and then filled with crap…seriously, how f*cking clean is he REALLY getting our floor?), I do the following:

1) Say "hi," as to catch his eye

2) I flick a booger on the wall over the urinal

3) I pee on the edge of the urinal (extra points if you’re at the short urinal, and actually pee on TOP of it near the handle)

4) I put the water on full blast so as it sprinkles the entire countertop as I’m washing my hands (after letting the soap drizzle from the dispenser all over the counter, of course)

5) I wipe my hands and then drop the paper towel directly on the floor…only an inch wide of the basket

6) I call him a “f*cking peasant” as I walk out the door

So I have this weird feeling that he hates me.


Anyway, so I started thinking of dream jobs…I mean…if I could have ANY job in the world, what would it be?

Now, for the ladies out there, I believe this is the common answer (as I hear this ALL the time):

A Woman on her dream job:


“I want a job where I can work part time hours, but still get paid well. The part time hours would give me the time to take care of my kids in the morning, and be home for them in the afternoon. But I’d still want a job that was challenging and fun, and that my kids would respect me for.”

Nice answer.

Very nice and respectable.

We applaud you.

A Man on his dream job:

“Adult film star or professional masturbator.”

That’s right.

Dream jobs for guys include face contortioning.


Now THAT’S what job satisfaction is all about.

(…as a side note, if there’s a woman out there reading this who thinks, “that WOULD be a great job”, call me)

To my wife: I'm kidding, hon.

Now, you can make a MODEST living by doing this via sperm bank…

...but you’re only allowed to go back every so often…

...and there’s no live action other than the prospect of “you being the director” – with director I mean "deciding whether or not you’re going to direct it to the left, or direct it to the right".


I know that some guys out there are saying, “sportscaster…or maybe video game tester…”.

You’re all full of sh*t...you’re kidding yourself.

Think DREAM job – if you could do anything, anything in the world and get paid for it, wouldn’t it be porno?

Of COURSE it would.

Really – would you rather be on the sidelines of the Superbowl with two teams you could give a rat’s ass about...

...or get stuck in Take 15 of an orgy scene with 6 other women?

I thought so.

(..as a side note, let me say that another guy in the scene is okay, as long as I don't have to touch it...)


I’m sure every single man out there – including you gay men – have thought about being in the adult film industry.

You know, you’re there with your tissue(s), watching “Rambone 2” and saying, “Hey…I could be that guy...his dick’s not THAT big…”

You picture the moment…heading to L.A and getting into the industry.

Seriously – how hard can it be? I mean, runaways get sucked into it without trying – if you ARE trying, it HAS to be easy.

In fact, with the advent of the amateur and fetish industry, ANYONE can get into it.


There’s movies with:

fat chicks / fat guys / midgets / fat midgets / Asians / Blacks / Blacks and Asians / lesbians / gays / bi’s / fat-chicks and skinny guys…

...you name it, there’s a category for it.

Christ, there’s even a category for people who like to get pooped on!

Speaking of that fetish…who was the first person to market that as a fetish..and how did it come about?

I mean, was the guy and his girl messing around one night and she accidentally sharted on him?


I would have to guess that the first instance of this in the history of this poo-fetish HAD to be an accident.

There’s NO WAY someone purposefully looked at the other person in their life, and said:

“Honey. You know I love you, don’t you? Having a steaming pile of sh*t on my chest can only make our love stronger. Would you please drop a loaf in my eye?”

..blech..

Anyway – the adult film industry. We’ve all thought about it.

I mean, if Ron Jeremy can get paid for sticking his giant fat ass out there, isn’t there hope for the rest of us?


My problem is that I don’t think there’s a fetish out there yet that exists for me, as I have yet to see a movie titled:

SNSPE4: Short, Near-sighted, Small-penis Premature Ejaculators…Part 4

Once I see that first one, though, I’m off.

I’m short..but I don’t think I qualify as midget status.

I think I have my own category: Runt.


So, that’s what I came up with as a guy's dream job.

But, you know, the part-time stuff to help take care of the family would be nice too.