It's a LUMbar...not a FUNbar!

I have not a fucking clue what I mean by that title.

Let's just throw that out there first.

K.

On the bright and shiny day of August 29th, 2009...

The VERY day I turned the ripe old age of 41...

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

What do they mean by 'ripe old age?'

Will hot moms squeeze me in the grocery store?

Does this mean I'm finally edible?

If so, can someone try to convince my wife that I'm okay to eat (begging is SO 1992)...

...and/or meet me at Motel 6 around 5:30 pm?

I'll be the guy in the Elmo outfit.

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


Fuck.

Where was I?

Oh...my birthday.

Yeah..so the day I turned 41, I woke up with the worst back pain I've had in years.

It was that LOW back pain...just above my perfectly round, firm ass with just the hint of hair to let you know that it belongs to a guy (or Ellen Degeneres).


I couldn't get up.

I couldn't bend over.

(Well...Fuck. There goes my raise at work.)

I felt like I was dying.

My wife, thankfully...was as supportive as ever.

Wife: "HAHA! That's what you get for turning 41."

We're a happy people.

Kill me.


The only thing I could think of that would have caused this, was my insistence on going fighting at karate the night before.

Yeah...I'm back fighting.

Although, this time I managed to not get my finger broken in 325 different places with plates and pins and hinges and bionic parts and shit.

Instead...

I come home with shit like this:


Hurts so good.

Wait...

Hurts so good?

Did John Cougar Mellancamp pay dominatrixes to attach clothespins to his nipples weekly?

Discuss.


What really sucks about this is the fact that I'm a giant pussy and like to complain when I don't feel good.

But I can't complain about this.

Wife: "You're going sparring? You said you weren't fighting anymore."

Me: "I'll be fine. It's fun. That was a freak accident."

Then I go.

(insert scene of unimaginable violence)

I go and I get the shit kicked out of me and come home with cuts and a bloody lip and bruises and have to hide it like I used to when I worked in South Boston and visited transexual hookers who I paid extra to put me in diapers and beat me with wooden paddles printed with the words "I Voted in a Democratic Congress."

Perhaps I've said too much.


So...my back is fucking killing me and has now for five days.

But I can't say:

Me: "Oh...man...I think I either twisted it during sparring...or it may have been one of the 43 kicks to my kidneys that did it."

Because I'll get...

This:

Wife: "I TOLD YOU SO. You have no right to complain. You're too old for that."

Wow.

Maybe that actually made it better.

I feel bent over already.

Motivational Filler - Last Call

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

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)):


Um...

Just to clarify...

I would do either one of them at 6 pm on a clear day.

But this isn't about me.

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

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

Just give me some credit.

God knows my bank won't.

Moog out.

Shaved for Her Displeasure - Part Two (The Unveiling of Fabio)

Today...'Shaved for Her Displeasure...PART TWO'

For Part One..click here.

(insert Underdog theme song here)

When we last left our hero...

(my hero name would be 'SuperFast Sex Man'...I'm not proud of this)

..he had just left his stress test with a partially shaven chest.

Although, really, I don't remember any of that happening.

All I know is they gave me a soda to drink and then I felt woozy and I don't remember much but now my chest is partially shaved and my ass is seriously killing me and what the fuck is this on my shorts...lube!?!?

Word to the wise:

NEVER schedule your stress test at the downtown YMCA.

You're welcome.

Regardless, with my chest now looking similar to this:

LOOK OUT, LADIES!!

...I decided to just shave the rest of it off.

So, shirt off..

(Hey...even with chest mange I look GOOOOOOOOD)

..I squatted myself over the toilet like I had just spent the night trying to keep up doing shots with Lindsey Lohan.

And fired up my trimmer.

As I moved the trimmer up and down and sideways...

...glob after glob of...

OHMYGOD OHMYSHIT I JUST RAN STRAIGHT OVER MY NIPPLE!!

Sorry.

Holy crapshit.

That fucking hurt.

So good.

I'm doing that again!


Where was I?

Oh..yeah...shaving my chest.

..glob after glob of chest hair cascaded into the shitter.

So, with 14 pounds of freshly shaven hair floating around in my toilet...

LOOK! I MADE A JESUS FACE!

(totally posting that on Ebay)

..I came out and looked into the mirror to behold my fresh new look.


* blink

Um.

Oh.

You see...I'm in good shape.

I work out 5 days a week...two of those days are ab workouts.

(sitting down eating Oreos constitutes an ab workout, right?)

But, you know...all this hair on my chest and stomach covers all that shit up.

Woman with flashlight: "Hey...thought you did abs a lot...where's your six-pack?"

Well...my friend with the pulsating sphincter, it's right here behind all this hair on my magical tummy forest.*

* machete not included

So..what did I see?

Well...here's what I EXPECTED to see:


Nice.

But here's what I got:


Well that's just fucking awesome.

Realizing that it was now too late to put the hair back on...

(Is it a sin to desecrate the face of a "toilet hair Jesus?" Discuss.)

..I headed downstairs.

My wife was on the phone.

I came down, and stood shirtless in the kitchen...waiting for her to notice me.

This is actually tougher than it sounds, because she typically tries to avoid looking anywhere in my general direction.

Here's how that went:

Wife (on the phone): "...and that's when she said that OHMYGOD DID YOU SHAVE YOUR CHEST?!?! YOU SHAVED YOUR CHEST?!? OH...OH IT'S HORRIBLE!! WHY?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!?"

Thanks, hon.

Thanks for doing that while you're still on the phone.

Jesus H. Christ.

So, she gets off the phone finally...head in her hands McCauley Culkin style...and stares at me.


Wife: "Oh my God. Oh my God. Why would you do that?"

Me: "Well..I don't know. Why? You don't like it?"

* pause

..and then..

Wife: "I can't believe you did that."

* pause

Wife: "It was the ONE thing I actually liked."

Aaaaand...

Scene.


Awesome.

I know that's not what she meant (at least I tell myself this to keep from crying)...

...but nonetheless...

I've decided to try to fish out this hair and reattach it.

Sorry, Toilet Jesus (TJ).

I know not what I've done.

Shaved...for Her Displeasure - Part One

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Crisco Kid

Third degree burns are funny when you're drunk.

..and then they stop being funny.

Moral of story: when burned, stay drunk

The more you know.

Here's how I know this....

My wife and I were watching Scrubs the other night, when a scene came on where JD (our hero) rubbed Crisco (cooking lard) on the back of his nemesis...

...instead of using suntan lotion.

What better way to get even at someone other than to induce severe nerve damage?

Hell...I can't think of one.

IT'S FUCKING BRILLIANT.


This immediately reminded me of my drunken, week-long adventure at the beach when I was 21.

..and now...I share it with you.

You're welcome.

About a week or so after I had met my wife, I informed her that I would be spending a week at the beach with one of my friends, Kevin.

We had rented what, apparently, turned out to be the biggest shithole that was available for rent on the entire beach.


We didn't really care that people would mistake us for heroin-addicted squatters for five reasons:

1) We were drunk the entire time

B) We were really, really drunk the entire time

Okay, so it's really only one reason...

...but I was thinking double because I was drunk.


Our daily routine consisted of this:

1) Wake up

2) Confirm that you were not on fire or, if you were, that you were not in the house you rented (security deposit reason)

3) Start drinking

4) Go to the beach

5) Keep drinking

6) Get off beach

7) Eat something so you could keep drinking

8) Pass out at some point

We would then repeat steps 1 through 8 for the remainder of the vacation.

The "eating" part consisted of opening a can of Spaghetti-O's, and eating them straight from the can, cold.

Sometimes we even used utensils.

Sometimes.

It was cheap, had some sort of protein...

(I THINK that's a hot-dog...did we buy hot dog Spaghetti-O's?...I don't think we did...)

...and required no heat (important for step #2 regarding "Fire," above).

Out-of-the-can cold Spaghetti-Os covered us for breakfast, lunch, and dinner meals.

Me: "Hey Kevin! What's the neat round spaghetti kids can eat with a spoon?"

Kevin: (vomits)

Great. Now we need more Spaghetti-O's.

Whatever.

We always had people in the house who were also completely shitfaced drunk.

One night, one of these kids commented on the cleanliness of our rental:

Strange Drunk Kid (SDK): "Dude..awesome party."

(speak SDK's lines in any manner you choose, as long as you choose to do it sounding completely stoned, like a surfer or Nick Nolte)

Me: "Thanks."

* pause

Me: "Who are you?"

SDK: "Hey man...you have a mouse in your house."

Me: "Oh yeah? Huh."

I was not shocked we had a mouse in the house.

I was MORE shocked that we did not have homeless people there.

SDK: "I saw a mouse in your house, dude."

* pause

SDK: "I tried to catch him....but he bailed."

Yes.

He tried to catch him.

But. He. Bailed.

Me: "Ok. Thanks."

* pause

Me (holding out can): "Spaghetti-O's?"


Also...

It turns out that being consistently in a drunken stupor leads to some bad decisions.

Most of these were made by my roommate for the week, Kevin.

Bad Decision #1: The Motorcycle Incident

Kevin decided that, at about midnight, he'd take a girl out on his motorcycle.

This was not a good idea for two reasons:

1) He was hammered.

2) He liked to do wheelies.

Kevin discovered the hard way that the police at the beach - strangely enough - FROWN on drunken wheelie people.


("Drunken Wheelie People" would be a great name for a rock band)

As such, he was summarily arrested after a short chase on the strip, where we had to bail him out...

...while WE were also drunk.

On a related note, the police at the beach also frown on drunken friends trying to bail out drunken wheelie people.

Just a friendly "FYI."


I'm here to help.

Bad Decision #2: Lard-ass

For some reason ONLY known to drunken Kevin, he decided one morning that the fastest way to a tan is to put cooking lard on yourself.

Since I was also drunk, I let him do it.

(see "coma," above)

When I say, "I let him do it," I mean:

Kevin: "Dude, screw suntan lotion...I'm using this."

(holds up Crisco)

Me: (vomits up Spaghetti-O's and something strangely resembling a rodent)


Kevin and I stumbled down to the beach, cooler full of beer in our hands, and sat down.

Kevin then covered himself head-to-toe in Crisco lard and...

...immediately passed out while lying on his stomach.

I don't remember if I left him to die there or not...

...but I DO remember seeing him come back from the beach...

...looking as though someone could purchase him from a butcher shop.


I also remember having to take him to the Emergency Room, as his burns eventually blistered...

...and required him to be covered in gauze from his head to his feet.

It was like my roommate was The Mummy.

You know, if every so often the Mummy would cry out in Crisco-induced sunburn agony.

(when you're drunk, this is also comical)


...luckily, we still had booze and Spaghetti-O's...

...so all was not lost...

..except for that DAMN MOUSE...

..who bailed.

Asshole.

If you see a mouse at the beach with a can of pasta, tell him he owes me money for our security deposit.