More Shit People Send Me

If you're a long time reader you know that I do karate with a guy named "Brian" who, sadly, was defeated by Jesus during our first-ever tournament but I avenged his death/humiliation by rising to the occasion and kicking Jesus' ASS.

Because that's what friends do.

Right before they make fun of their friend's lackluster effort on a blog. Again.

The more you know.

Brian works in those big yellow scoop-type-truck things (Tonkas) when he's not having his ass handed to him by lesser people like myself during sparring class.

FYI..in this video I'm the guy in the tank top because nothing says 'class' like 'tank top.'


How bad is your headache after that?

Please note that this was the second video my daughter took which, honestly, is a lot less funny than the first.

So I'm at work and my phone buzzes and I check it and it's a picture text from Brian with NO SUBJECT and just this:


Um.

Thanks?

So I sent him back this:



To which he replies:


Brian doesn't send me pictures any more.

Probably a good idea.

Proud Ninja Dad

About 6 years ago, my son and I embarked on an adventure of taking Kenpo Karate classes together.

He was about 4 at the time, and I was just around 40-ish and probably still had some hair that didn't want to just give up and leap off my skull.

This is us at a karate tournament in 2009 where we cleaned frigging house and brought home a total of 6 trophies:

All this hard work and dedication culminated when, on June 1, 2013, we participated in a test for our First Degree Black Belt.

The test consisted of:

1) 7-1/2 hours of nearly non-stop activity
2) 70% of said 7-1/2 hours spent outside in 94-degree heat
3) Doing all kinds of crazy things like forms, and combination moves and pushups on the side of a 2-lane highway while being HOSED DOWN with water at full blast resulting in our gis weighing 10 pounds.
4) Carrying logs across a field. Yes. LOGS ACROSS A FIELD.
5) Being stepped on by our teachers who were also carrying said logs
6) 4 billion pushups, jumping jacks and ab crunches and these things where you jump up and then go into a pushup and then jump back up and, you know, OUCH.
7) Getting yelled at A LOT.
8) Sparring with our 6th-degree Shihan who also happens to be an MMA fighter and all-around badass.
9) Several mystery bruises, charlie horses, a few arm-bars and a near-miss with a stick to the eye

In the end, though, me - a 44-year old father-of-two - and my son - a soon-to-be-10 year old with a sense of humor much better than mine, ended up like this:

So awesome.

You can kind of see that our names are embroidered on our Black Belts which blend in with our black gis so if you squint you can imagine the coolness of it.

I don't think I've ever been prouder of him to endure the physical and mental punishment of that day - let alone almost 6 years - and pull this out.

Again. Awesome.

And here he is, front and center with the rest of our group:

Congrats to everyone on the test, and for those currently on their way.

Me? I'm just going to stand here and be a proud father.

Proud NINJA father, that is.

Hiya.

The Forgotten Folder

Before I start today:

My Book Trailer is currently in a book trailer contest. I would GREATLY appreciate your vote and spreading the word!!

Go here and vote for #5: Things Go Wrong for Me

Thank you!!

ONWARD!
****************************

At our karate dojo, my son and I each have a manilla folder that our sensei uses to keep us updated on events and tests and tournaments and stuff.

So, my son and I were in class one evening in late March, when I looked at him:

Me: "Hey. When's the last time you checked your folder?"

He looks at me, shrugs, then walks over to where the folders are kept, opens his...

..and pulls out THIS:



Son: "It's been a while."

Let's Rewind the Tape!!

For my regular readers (YAY, FIBER!) you know that I take karate classes.

You will know this from:

The time I entered a karate tournament with my son.

The time I beat Jesus in one-on-one combat at said karate tournament.

The time I shattered my hand in karate.


The time I broke my hand AGAIN in karate.

Yes. I broke it TWICE.

My regular readers also know that I don't learn from my mistakes.

Hey...my hand still hurts but the Jesus thing makes it all worthwhile.

That's what she said.

What?

On Friday nights my son and I go to class, gear up and fight other people.

Violence = male bonding.


But since I have BOTH my kids on Fridays now, my daughter is reluctant to come along.

So I came up with THIS brilliant idea:

Me: "Payton, why don't you run the VIDEO CAMERA while Cam and I fight."

Payton: "REALLY?!"

Me: "Yes. It's important. That way, we can review the video to see maybe where we went wrong."

She loved the idea. I actually loved the idea. To be able to review your mistakes and missed opportunities (like golfers do) and make corrections for next time.

Until I saw what she taped.

Enjoy.



Thanks, honey.

That should really help hone my skills for my rematch against Jesus.

That's what she said.

Nope. Still doesn't make any sense.

Moog out.

I Kicked Jesus' ASS - Part Two

HIYA!

Scared?

This is 'Part Two' of my karate tournament recap.

For Part One, click here.

When we last left our hero (me - hellooooo? my blog), we were in this situation:

I had just finished my first bout of sparring by defeating a 7'4", 350 lb. gargantuan with all-gold teeth, nicknamed 'The Spine Shredder.'

Some of the above may not be completely accurate.

Regardless, I won my first fight.

With my first win under my belt, it was time for someone else to fight.

Brian.

Brian is another one of the other 'Super Awesome Karate Dads' (oooh...great name for a rock band) from my school.

Fully stoked, Brian immediately went up and wasted absolutely no time in getting his ass completely fucking handed to him 3-to-0 by this really tough looking Latino guy.

The Latino guy's name?

Jesus.

That's right.

We were fighting Jesus.

Jesus was from a school named 'Dragon Fury' (you can't make this shit up) which is basically the Southern New Hampshire version of Cobra Kai.

They take their shit SERIOUSLY.

So Brian goes up against Jesus and Jesus - in true 'I AM YOUR ONE TRUE GOD' fashion - attacks him with flying spinning kicks and roundhouse shit and it's just one fucking giant blur of Jesus parts slamming into Brian's face and random body parts.

Brian.

Goes.

Down.


Me: "Jesus Christ."

Jesus: "What?"

So that leaves two winners (me and Jesus) to go head-to-head for first place.

Tale of the tape:

Rodney:
Height: 5'-2"
Weight: 155 lbs.
Specialty: High, fast kicks. High pitched girly screams can shatter glass.

Jesus:
Height: 5'-8"
Weight: 170 lbs.
Specialty: Makes wine out of water, raises the dead, wicked spinning roundhouse kicks.

I'M FUCKED.


The master calls us up:

Master (pointing to where I'm supposed to go): "Rodney."

As I'm walking up, he calls:

Master: "Jesus."

All I can think of, walking into the ring, is:

"How the fuck am I supposed to beat Jesus?"

Granted, it was pronounced 'Hey, Zeus'...

(Jesus...Zeus...HOLY FUCK...is this guy TWO deities in one?!?)

...but this is how my mind works even in the face of impending death.


Regardless, we somehow managed to get the score tied at 2 points apiece, with one more point deciding the winner for first place.

No pressure.

The Master yells "GO" and I try to fake Jesus out - similar to what, I guess, Judas did but without wearing protective headgear - and he comes at me with a kick and then ANOTHER spinning kick.

If I don't get hit with these Jesus kicks it's gonna be a miracle.

Wow.

There's a bit of irony for ya.

Regardless, as his Jesus feet are flailing towards me, I back out of the way...

...and as he lands...

I kick him in the stomach.

BANG.

* cricket

POINT.

MINE.

I win.

I WON?!

I beat Jesus!

Fuck. YEAH.

Unfortunately, this did not sit well with Jesus who stood across the building from me for the rest of the day staring me down with his entourage (apostles?) and shaking his head in disgust.

Wife: "I think Jesus is totally going to kick your ass later."

Wouldn't be the first time.


What was weird is that, as I write this, I am totally sick with congestion and fevers and chills and shit.

This came on IMMEDIATELY after my fight with Jesus.

I swear to God that's true.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, apparently.

But screw him.

I got the bigger trophy.

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

UPDATE:

I've never - EVER - posted a modern day picture of me.

Until RIGHT NOW.

But I'm so proud of what my son and I were able to do (i.e., 'clean fucking HOUSE'), that I've decided to share that with you.

Please bear in mind that I'm sweaty from sparring and have somehow managed a type of 'superman' jeri-curl thingy on my forehead...because I'm usually way hotter than this.

Oh, yeah...I'm the one on the left.

For more pictures of the tournament, and the hotness that is me, check out my Facebook page - which is accessible via the 'Touch Me' link above, or click here.

Moog out.

I Kicked Jesus' ASS - Part One

Alternate title for this post:

Suck it, Jesus!

But that might be pushing my luck.

Let me explain.

My son and I both entered a karate tournament over the weekend.

***** Sidebar *****

I'm 41 years old and just competed in a karate tournament.

Really fucking cool...or very, very sad?

Discuss.

Don't tell me your decision unless it's 'really cool and sexy' (women only).

***** End Sidebar *****



My son entered three categories: forms, self-defense, and sparring.

He did not place in 'forms' (note to myself here to berate him about this until he cries), but got second place in 'self-defense'...

...and FIRST FUCKING PLACE in 'sparring.' (fighting)


He placed first in his previous tournament in sparring, too.

My 6 year old is a WARRIOR.

A warrior who plays with Legos.

Umm...

LEGOS OF DEATH!

That's better.

Much more fierce.

Got to do something about not placing in that other event, though.

I didn't raise him to be a loser.

But he is a master of fighting.

He fought FOUR TIMES and won every match.

I was so proud.

But...

...after winning the fourth match, he turned to the crowd...

...raised his hands up in victory...

...and yelled:

'UNDEFEATED!'

* cricket

Um.

Yes...undefeated.

And modest, too.

That wasn't too embarrassing.

Thanks, Cam.


I enrolled in the same three categories, but for the 'over 35' age group which is all BYOW.*

* Bring Your Own Walker

I placed first in self-defense and second in forms.

That's, right.

I'm awesome and then second-to-awesome.

Those average out to 'pretty fucking awesome.'

Oh.

I see where Cam gets his modesty.

I've digressed.


But then came sparring.

I was going against a guy that I go to class with, and two other guys - both higher belts - from different schools.

With my protective gear on and my mouthpiece in (shout out here to 'Madame Punishment'), I stepped into the ring..

..and beat the first guy 3-to-2.

That's right.

Man went DOWN.

DOWN TOWN.

DOWN TOWN TO GET HIS PARKING VALIDATED AND THEN MAYBE SWING OVER AND GET HIMSELF A TACO.

I think I've gone a little too far with that phrase.

But I won my first fight.

I told you folks and you didn't believe me:

Five feet of fury, baby.

Five feet of fury.

After I won my first match, it was my friend, Brian's turn.

And he fought Jesus.

True story.

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

Stay tuned for Part Two where I have to fight God's only son.

That he knows of.

Totally going to Hell.

Totally.

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.

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.

Getting Fixed...NOT

Before I start, just a reminder of my poll on the left.

If you neglect it too long, it stops working.

I think I'm thinking of a different poll.

Right now, it's a neck-in-neck tie with "i want pics of a lady who is doing her poo poo and isnt wearing any bra or panty" and "Angela Lansbury."

I know. Creepy.

Back to the POST!!

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

It bends way to the right now.

Sometimes I can't even blow it myself.

It got this way when I was roughhousing with some Canadian guy.

Well..he did all the roughhousing.

Luckily, the booze numbed the pain...

When the prick broke my nose.

Sorry...

LE Prick.

(that's French for 'fucking asshole')


The story of how my nose got this way in Canada can be found in one of my earliest posts, "Ow, Canada."

Long story short, about 22 years ago the inside of my nose was involuntarily relocated 1/4 inch to the right.

Plastic surgeons charge you thousands and thousands of dollars for this type of surgery...

...when all you need is a shitload of Molson and a fucking big mouth.

On the bright side:

No Insurance Copays!


Regardless:

Beer+ rampant stupidity = involuntary rhinoplasty.

I haven't been able to breathe right since.

This is evidenced by the bruises on my back and sides that remarkably resemble the soles of my wife's feet.

I snore.

She beats me.

Since this is pretty much all the action I get, I let her do it.

Like my son's teacher says:

You get what you get, and you don't get upset.

On a related note:

I bury mental pain fairly well.


So, today - on April 23rd, 2009 I was supposed to go under the knife again.

Not for my shoulder.

Not for my balls.

There would be no need to shave my nuts unless they really really needed it.

Ball stubble is uncomfortable on my tender yet muscular thighs.

Ssshhh....

If I did it right, and if you listen closely, you can hear all the straight guys out there throwing up a little.

Good times. Good times.

So the doctor was supposed to be moving my mangled septum back to where it's supposed to be...

...which, I assume, is somewhere in the middle.

I hear that this is really painful and will be for a while.

Great.

Now I just threw up a little.

Ugh. Pain.

That will pretty much suck ass.


However, I said 'supposed' to be today.

You see, a tiny little surgery I had a few weeks back - complete with fucking seizure - changed my mind on it.

That...plus...you know...all the pain and shit.

I've pushed it back until the summer sometime.

So, tonight, honey...I'm gonna be in full-bore-snore mode.

Until after the surgery.

Maybe after this I'll be able to wake up in the morning without size 6 welts on my back.

Man.

I'm gonna miss the physical contact.

Moog out.

I Think I'm Growing Mushrooms

"Can you straighten it?" asked the doctor?

* blink

Me: "Doc, I haven't been able to straighten it without pills for, like, two years."

Stupid penis.

Doc: "Um...I mean your finger. Can you straighten your finger."

Oh.

I was wondering why an orthopedic surgeon was asking about Mr. Wiggly.

I was hoping maybe he could shim it straight up or some shit. Maybe tape a popsicle stick to it.

Shit, now that I think of it...

...I can do THAT without having to put out a copay.

The hunt for an answer continues!!

I believe I've digressed.


So I went back to the orthopedist after having surgery three weeks ago and having a cast on my arm up to my elbow.

Here's what my arm has looked like for the past three weeks:


Yep.

So, for three weeks I've basically had no opposable thumbs (just like Rosie O'Donnell) and got out of doing things like:

1) Dishes
2) Yard work
3) Anything requiring lifting

Sshhhhh...if you listen closely...

...you can hear the sound of every guy reading this is smashing his hand with a hammer.


However...it wasn't all XBox and Roses.

I also:

1) Couldn't get the stupid cast wet in the shower

This required the use of some weird elephant-latex-condom-thingy that I had to pull over my cast so the stupid fucking thing wouldn't get wet.

I can see why elephants get all the ladies.


2) Had to shave my balls with one hand

Good. God.

For all you guys manscaping out there:

Don't try this at home.

Since guys have it a little rougher when it comes to the nether-region grooming department...

...I expect at least SOME sympathy from the chicks out there.

Seriously - what do YOU ladies have to dodge when your shaving down there?

And, sister, if you DO have to dodge something, let me say this:

Whore.

That shit ain't supposed to be hanging out, woman.

It just ain't.

It should more resemble the Bonneville Salt Flats but without all the cracks and racing cars.

And...um...salt.


But guys have to move shit around...

...lift things up...pull it to the left...yank it to the right.

It's like doing cardio but with stubble.

So, not ONLY do I not have the luxury of being able to move my junk out of the way...

...but I also can't do it in the shower because of my stupid elephant penis cast cover.

Yep.

Dry Ball Shaving.

(coming to the 2010 Summer Olympics)

Put the hammers down, guys.

Put the hammers down.


With all that said, I went to the doctor's to have my cast and stitches removed.

As the nurse cut the cast off, you could actually see green gases coming out from it...

...as 3 weeks of un-showered dead-skin Moooooog arm lay underneath.

I could have shit my pants right then and there and no one would have noticed.

Except me. I probably would have.

Shit being in my pants, and all.

Here's what greeted me:


Hot.

Not sure when my dead grandfather came and replaced his forearm and hand with mine, but I wish he would have at least left a note and maybe some money.

Hey...grandpa...

Those $2 bills you gave me for Christmas all those years really didn't go up in value like you thought.

So, realistically, you gave me, like, maybe $14 for Christmas in total.

Un-fucking-believable.


So I'm sitting here now, with a semi-mobile pinky finger trying painfully to bend it.

Right now, I can make it bend maybe 1/2 way to my palm before it stops and I give up while whimpering like the producer of a Richard Simmons exercise video.

On the bright side, I'll be shaving my balls tonight with two hands.

Oh.

And doing dishes and maybe some yard work.

Hey. Buddy.

Pass me that hammer.

The Shit I Learn: Karate Edition

Your kneecaps will never be the same.

That's right, bitches.

I've joined karate.

With both my 5 year old son and 8 year old daughter enrolled in karate...

...I've come to this realization:

I'm tired of having my ass kicked by vengeful small children.

It's like my Federal criminal trial all over again.

This "age of consent" thing is a scam.

What?

So, at the age of 40, this 5'2" tall lover of all things vagina and boob-like enrolled in karate class.

Here's some of the shit I've learned:

1) I'm not bendy

The first 20 minutes of each class is comprised of stretching.

Here's how that goes:

Sensei: "Okay..now put your left leg behind you...your right leg in front of you...and reach down to your toes."

Me: "Yeah. Okay. Fuck that shit."

Sensei: "Excuse me?"

Me: "Sorry. Sorry. Fuck that shit, SENSEI."

Supposedly there's some mantra about respect and obedience I'm supposed to learn in here...

...but I'm drawing the line when you start treating me like a fucking Bendaroo.

Kid: "Look! I made an airplane! ZOOM!"

Me: "LET GO OF MY LEG!!"


Also, I've discovered that I apparently have all the elasticity of piece of steel.

Good looking steel, sure.

But ain't no goddamn way in Hell that my dashing good looks are getting this foot way the fuck over there, sensei.

So solly.

Racism is fun.


2) I look like I'm wearing a big kid's fucking hand-me-downs

I have to wear something called a "Gi."

Gi is pronounced "G-ee" with a hard 'G' (that's what she said)...

..and not "Gee" like:

"Gee..I look really fucking stupid in this thing."

My problem is that I can't find one that fits.

We've tried three different ones.

Here's what the Gi is supposed to look like on me:


Here's what my Gi ACTUALLY looks like on me:


Smashing.

I think the fact that no one can see my fucking hands because they're 6 inches deep in my goddamn sleeves is actually conducive to my stealthiness as a tiny sexy death machine.

("Tiny Sexy Death Machine" would be an awesome name for a Rock Band)

Where are my hands?

Are they gone?

Am I a pirate...

...or some type of karate cripple prodigy?


Oh..you don't see my hands?

Hmmm...well they must be in...BAMBAMBAM I just broke your nose!!

That's right.

Five feet of fury, baby.

Five feet of fury.

Now...

...can someone help me get my foot out of my ear?

Not you, sensei.

I'm still pissed at you.