Posted on Leave a comment

I Want a Grandma…

So I’m at the super exciting T-ball game the other day…and what a game it was for fans of top notch, two year out of diapers type participants.  Oh yeah.  One kid was obsessed with what appeared to be an impacted bugger; another nearly caught the colorful butterfly she was chased numerous times over the course of the riveting game.  Four ballplayers were defensively killing it on first base, while second and short had tumbleweeds blowing through with regularity.  The coach had the look of a used-up hooker by the end of the first inning, and when she passed out cupcakes at the end of the game I swear she had the smell of vodka that only a T-ball coach gets when she’s spiked her red Powerade with Grey Goose.

Anyways…along the fence over by the roadway is a porta-potty.  It’s one of those blue ones that I reckon gets emptied bi-annually whether it truly needs it or not.  And as the pitcher catches the slow dribbled (off the bat of a kid who’s shorts are wretched so far to the left I assume the dear boy’s gonna have a difficult time fathering in the future) and launches it into short left field a Lowe’s van pulls up near the blue porta-potty.  Now most of us in the stands (lawn chairs on the basketball court) could see the van, and for a moment I wondered what forest creature had ordered an easy chair or sofa?  But it became quite apparent when the short, heavyset man disembarked from the driver’s seat and began that dreaded walk of shame that all of us must take at some point in our lives.  Became apparent that he was in “intestinal distress” as he walked penguin like toward the blue bathroom it appeared the real game was gonna be between the young teenage girl who was walking to the potty, and the man who was headed there with some haste.

“I’m rootin’ for the dude, he looks to have a load going before he gets the back door open,” some granny off to my right expressed, and for just a moment I had to agree with her.  Mainly because I can remember moments in my life when a blue porta-potty in the middle of nowhere was my salvation.  But then I thought of the girl…if she had to go into that small container on an eighty degree day after this fat bastard blew it up?  And the way he was moving I assumed what he needed to expel wasn’t an iceberg…more like a dirty river?

The girl beat him by about ten steps, and she was quick because he was doing a foot to foot two-step outside like the launch code had already been called and couldn’t be stopped.  Then a little boy (pre-T-ball age) approached the door as the delivery guy was doing things inside that porta-potty we don’t talk about.  With a little kinda skip the kid went beside the blue crate and pulled his shorts down to his ankles.  And that was that…he’d solved the issue with simplicity beyond his years.

I love that kid.

He reminded me of simplicity in life.

Have you ever put a bread wrapper inside your boots when it’s slushy outside?  I mean seriously…before we could afford water resistant boots?  I can remember my Mother being just pissed all to hell that I threw a half load of bread away, but my tootsies stayed nice and dry.  Or a large sandwich baggie (non-ziplock mind you) placed inside both your gloves before the epic snowball fight?

Have you ever used a rock as a hammer?  Tell the truth…you did, didn’t you?  It was while you were tryin’ to slam a mostly straight nail that you’d pulled outta a rotten board with your fingers.  The makeshift piece of crap clubhouse you were making required simplicity because who had the money for a hammer, and if you used your Dad’s it’d sure as shit get warped or some foreign shit.  So you picked up a good sized rock and used it, and if the nail bend shortly after connecting the two boards you just beat that sucker into the wood.  Simple.

I bet I own seventeen hammers now, though if I need one it’ll take a half hour to find.  One of my kids misplaced the dern thing for sure, or the wife used it in the attic to kill a spider.  It’ll be warped now anyways, and even if I do find it I’ll surely bend that nail before I get it all the way home into the piece of wood.  Then I’ll be sweatin’ and just a cussin’ while I try and ply that sucker back out.  And I’ll take up early day drinking and hire a contractor for sure.

I wonder if most guys find a women in miss-matched socks as sexy as I do?  Seriously…for years prior to marriage I believed women spent their time picking out combinations to send a man’s imagination soaring on a par with whether her bra matched her panties?  A blue sock along with a red was my favorite combination, though I once saw a purple striped one in conjunction with a solid green one that had me on the verge of premature…well, you know.

I now understand that women don’t do this intentionally…they really don’t give two shits out of a shit shaker about socks and whether they match.  Seeing as how I have twenty pair of white socks and have never had to try and match them…I now get it.

But it’s still just as sexy as all get out.

Have you ever driven a nail into a board, I mean just barely?  I mean where you can pull it back out with your fingers?  Then driven it in just a bit to the side?  Back it back out?  Then repeat tens of times, making a crater?  If you do this long enough and don’t drive it so deep you can’t get it back out you can truly drill a hole through a board.  Not a perfect hole mind ya, but a functional hole.  A sweet hole where a rope can be crammed through to function as a handle, or a space for you to see outside your door when the town’s bully is on the rampage and you’ve got the most punchable face in the place?

Simplicity with a side order of need.

I think I have great calves.  Seriously, God didn’t bless me with a broad chest, six pack abs, or a head of gorgeous hair.  On no…I’m one of those guys that afterwards folks will say, “Oh, was he there…I didn’t see him.”  I’m that guy, in my single days, that the gals would express their libido driven desires too.  Oh yeah, if they found some guy in the room worthy of a little horizontal cha-cha I was gonna hear about it, or if some dude was just so sensitive it made her wittle heart melt.

They just never saw my calves.

Is it completely inappropriate for me to shave my legs?  Come on, I got these dynamite calves from my Mother anyway?  And lots of guys have hairless legs anyways.  And they beam out like beacons?  They’re fuckin’ spectacular and I don’t wanna hide it anymore!  I might even take up wearing ankle socks and begin tanning them like some Dimestore trollop who’s looking to get lucky at the beach.

Did you know you can kinda use a flat head screwdriver to turn a phillips head screw?  It doesn’t work the other way…no fool in their right mind would try and use a phillips head screwdriver to turn a flathead…but if the screw isn’t too tight you don’t have to resort to using your knife…

Nowadays you have flat heads, phillips heads, allen heads, star heads, and any other heads I can misspell for the sake of this rant.  I swear their making blue clover heads now like a miss matched box of Lucky Fuckin’ Charms.  And it doesn’t matter anyways, because whatever head it happens to be…that’ll be the one missing from my toolbox.  If I have a complete set of American and Metric open ended wrenches…I mean a complete set that’s only missing the 9/16th because that’s the son of a bitch I left on the roof of my truck just before I drove off to the Tasty-Freeze…that’s the only size that will be needed.  Grandchild’s tricycle has a blow-out and grandpa needs to fix?  9/16th.  Mama’s washer is making a funny racket and the door just blew upwards and took out the light fixture?  9/16th.  Pipe bomb end for my daughter’s new boyfriend’s convertible with the fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror?  You guessed it.  9/16th.

And no…I’ll never replace that 9/16th.  It’s the principal of the thing…

Does anyone else miss the days before cellphones?  And the fact that I just used an outdated word like “cellphone” says a lot about modernity anyways…when did we stopped being bored?  And I’m dead serious here; when do we take the time to daydream anymore?  Just sit and imagine?  Watch the clouds drift overhead, or a couple of hawks riding majestically on whatever breeze is blowing up there?  And I’m not looking down my nose here, I’m as guilty as anyone of popping the ole Android out at a moments notice and playing a game, or watching videos of people actually doing something.  And how many folks “do something” do it only because they know it’ll make a good video?  I saw a girl actually using a mirror to take a picture of herself taking a selfie in the mirror!  OMG!

I want a Grandma.  I had two, and both passed away many years ago…and I miss them horribly.  Now I don’t know how many folks feel like I do, but wouldn’t it be nice to call someone (not text mind you) and have them keep you on the phone?  Seriously, I can remember complaints about not being able to get off the phone in the 20th Century…nowadays it’s a contest to see who can get back to Facebook or Insta-Gram the fastest.  And it’s those conversations with lots of blank air, like neither has anything important to say but they just want to stay connected.  And then Grandma will say something like, “well I hate to go Bobby, it’s been so nice talkin’ to you, but I’ve got a set of raspberry crumpets in the oven and I think they should be just about done.”  And then she’ll go off on another tangent about how blackberries should be in season soon and if I’ll pick her a couple of quarts she’ll bake us a pie.  And that’ll lead to a few sentences about how the blackberries of 2016 were rather skinny and bitter because it stopped raining that summer, and you just know some raspberry crumpets are getting a little too brown around the edges.

So….I’m looking for Grandmothers.  If I can get five on retainer I’ll start Hire a Granny in early 2020.  Qualifications will include:  Baking abilities, quality memory retention of made up mutual past events, moments notice pick up duties, clothes washing and drying services, and up to four hours a day of good listening.  It’ll pay Granny $7.00 per hour, plus delivery of seasoned firewood, cleaning of rain gutters, snow shoveling duties, and light lawn care.  Clients of Hire a Granny may also be called up in sudden spider kill duty, nuisance dogs in the yard duty, and “take Grandpa fishing” ventures because the old guy finally got his family sized bottle of Viagra and Granny needs a friggin’ break!

Be wonderful out there my fine people, and love yourself because you’re the only you you got!!!



Posted on Leave a comment

Give up yet?

Hello from the crappy side of Winter, that time when he gives you just a gentle hint at what the spring will bring.  Yeah, just before he goes ahead and bitch-slapcha with another arctic blessing that gets your teeth chattering and heater a hummin’.  The wind here howled so hard last night I thought I saw the wicked witch of the west and a couple of those flyin’ monkeys!  They was bundled up mind you, and she was just a cussin’ out her broom and the fire-making apparatus because it don’t work so well in the cold.

So I was watching the Oscars last night…okay, big lie number one.  I was watching the talking heads this mornin’ discussing the Oscars last night ’cause self-promotion on a scale that large makes my eyes hurt.  And I had a chance to see Spike Lee jump into the arms of Samuel L. Jackson, see Mrs. Streep not win an Oscar for the seventh time (travesty number one), see Lady Gaga’s stirring rendition of a song from a movie in saw in 1978 (A Star is Born).  I think Streisand sang so much better.  But I was struck when Ms. Gaga (anybody with a name that is also the first sound a baby makes when it sees my adorable face is not really a name.  Nor is Boo-boo, Gee-gee, Coo-coo, or Maa-maa) stated during her acceptance speech that one should never give up.  The camera did a slow paced scan of the overly dressed audience, and faces were just aglow with understanding of Ms. Gaga’s heart felt words.  Trying to hold back tears myself (I’d just cracked my little toe a good one on the edge of the bed) I pondered how a lovely lady, who was wearing what appeared to be a cumbersome diamond of epic proportions around her slender neck, could express to us the time tested theory of never giving up.

Giving up on what?  Oneself?  The world?  Mankind?  The new jar of mayonnaise with the lid on so tight I’d need a muscle-bound olympic athlete to get it loose?  My hair, that discontinued the art of growing toward the center of my head in the late 1970’s?


Alright, I can already feel it working.  I’m believing in Tom Cruise’s type hair, that crafty part on the side where the bangs just kinda wisp across your brow.  Ahhh hell, I needa get a comb, and a blow dryer, and some gel, and a good barber.  Or maybe a beauty salon?  Yeah, that’s what guys do these days…and I can buy one of those trimmers, and maybe wear a guy bun from time to time?


All of us believe, or at least we did.  We believe that anyone can grow up to be the president, and based on the ranking scale of the last fifty years or so we’re all certainly qualified.  We can all write a great book, scale a great mountain, or be launched into space.  Mama told me I could, so I can (tongue out at this point).

But then reality checks your belief system like a meteor checked the expanse of the dinosaurs.  No amount of believing is gonna make you an NFL quarterback.  Make you prettier.  Make you taller.  Make you more intelligent than your brain will allow.  There are check and balances in the “believe in yourself” cosmos.

It’s a feel good kinda statement that leads to positive reinforcement in the self enrichment vein, but it’s also just pure crap.  Here are examples, mostly ’cause I like lists:


1. Making the Brownie in my 2nd grade class my girlfriend.  Yes boys and girls, I had a megaton crush on a girl who sat two desks over from me in 2nd grade.  She was one of those delicate creatures who had the shiny hair in a kinda beatles style, pouty lips, and dreamy eyes.  Couple times a week she wore a brownie uniform, and I just loved a girl in uniform when I was in 2nd grade.  And this one time, when we were going to get extra crayons out of the crayon bin, and my friend Eddie pushed me super hard, I bumped into her (didn’t wash that shoulder for a whole year!) and she said “excuse me”.  She even looked at me with the words…oh my ghod.  I felt flushed, heart-raced.  She spoken to me (Mama made me was that ear after a couple of weeks ’cause it was getting kinda gross), and then she’d smiled!  Course the smile was meant for Eddie, but it went past my face and had it not been raining on the way home I would never have washed it again either!!!

But then I gave up a couple days later when she farted in the bathroom line and it smelled like a heifer barn.


2. Being an astronaut.

3. House training a chihuahua.

4. Fixing anything.  For those of you who don’t know me, I’m about as mechanically inclined as a chimpanzee with a tongue depressor and a purple pair of thongs.  I once tore apart a carburetor and when I brought it to the mechanic to have his repair the initial malfunction he giggled and had to show his buddies at the shop what some lame-brain had done.  When I fixed the plumbing the basement flooded.

I have a washer, dryer, plumber, car, teeth, body, litigation, wood-working, tax-purposes, flooring, lawnmower, marriage, and roofer on speed dial.  If I get a hangnail I scream loudly for my wife to please come fix it.

5. Having 6 pack abs.  I’ve done more sit-ups than a new marine recruit.  More crunches than most television wrestlers.  I’ve planked so many times pirates call me for advice on procedures.  And yet Mr. Half-kegger still makes an appearance each and every time I take off my shirt.  And the sad part of that is that when I suck him in my butt swells up like a Kardashian’s and I wanna start rapping about to squirrels in the forest.

6. Understanding women.  Oh yes, I’m one of those guys who actually attempts to bring peace and solidarity to my world.  I try and say the right things, at the right time, to the right women I’ve placed in my realm.  And yet…

If a woman asks you if these pants make her butt look big don’t answer.  It’s a trick.  They’re all in on it, I swear, and at the “Women’s Council for Driving Men Nuts” monthly meeting (ever notice how you lady needs to have a night a month where she can just go shopping and be with her thoughts…she ain’t shopping guys.  She’s at the meeting, which is held in a large room toward the back of Walmart, and usually coincides nicely with some sporting event that had us manly-men at home consuming large amount of poison and cussing a lot)  they give advice on how to more acutely drive you man over the edge.

“Do these jeans make my ass look fat?”  It’s a non-answerable question.  If you answer affirmative do so while ducking and reconsidering self-stimulation in the sexual department for the future.  If you answer that those jeans do not make her derriere look like the Red Sea when Moses parted it she’ll have you spend the next fifteen minutes explaining exactly what choices in trousers do make her ass look fat!

Bark your shin off the next available hard object, or merely bite off a finger when she asks….

7. Eggplant.  Seriously, I can’t eat eggplant.  Most will say that smell is the leading cause of eating, or not eating a specific item.  The small of a nice steak on the grill will lead typically to salivation on a par with Pavlov’s dogs.  The smell of mayonnaise gags me.  Gravy is euphoric.  Liver is not.

But to me the terminology is ever so important.  Eggplant….it doesn’t go together.  Is it an egg, or a plant?  Can’t be both.  Won’t eat it.

Cumquat.  Nope.  Unless it buys me a nice dinner and we’ve been on at least two and a half dates…then maybe, but the mood has to be just right.

Dates.  Not happening.

Beets.  Thought it’s spelling different, I won’t eat beets.  I have a deep seated fear of eating adjectives.  Nor do I consume Mashed potatoes, Whipped potatoes, Broiled potatoes, or Molested potatoes.  And don’t try and get the Scalloped ones past me either.  To me it’s akin to eating Raped Grapes, or Slain Brain.  I draw the line here.



And that’s enough of that lists, though I swear I’ve given up on thousands of things in my lifetime.

Can we give up on the border wall yet?  It was a beautifully calculated campaign thought, but its practicality is on a par with using well placed spatulas to hold back a flood.  In fact; while we’re chatting up the Chinese on trade tariffs can we ask them how well their wall worked against the Mongols?  And did the Mongols pay for it?

Stop being a stubborn ass already and say that the wall is symbolic.

And when did sex become bad?  And I mean that quite seriously, when the owner of the New England Patriots is caught having solicited prostitution it becomes a front page story.  If he’d done it in Las Vegas, where prostitution is legal, folks wouldn’t blink an eye.       So let me tell ya, we as human beings have sex drives.  The art of prostitution has thrived for thousands of years with that understanding.

And then the Catholic Church has to stand and account for why their employees keep getting caught up in sex scandals.  Could it be that not everyone can control their libido?

Tiger Woods, who was once the number one role-model for all of America, had sex outside of his marriage.  His life was destroyed.  Yet John Kennedy bedded anything that would lay down for it.  He was not.  Nor was Bobby Kennedy.  Nor was Martin Luther King Jr.

Maybe it’s not that we think sex is bad.  Maybe we just have a poor understanding of sex and the sexual nature of human being.

Out for now, stay warm!



Posted on Leave a comment

My Cat Poops Entirely Too Much!!!

This edition of Bob’s Posts will be a wonderful hodge-podge of things, without the overcooked onion rings and soggy fries.  I demand more chicken tenders in my hodge-podge, and some of those fried mushroom would be quite yummy too!

So the Super Bowl is going to played with a bit of controversy eh?  Shocking, and to the fans of New Orleans I say with a terse smile….tough.  Yes, you got screwed, but then a lot of teams get screwed.  And occasionally you get to the be the beneficiary of a nice screw.  Always glad to be the beneficiary, I think it’s just plum willy-nilly to complain when the officiating/ball doesn’t go your way.  But then again…hey, here’s an idea.  Let’s have 22 officials doing to game, and 22 cameras focused on individual players?  1 official per player with a yellow hanky and the willingness to use it?  That would be so cool, and 1 camera per player to overrule any errant calls by said official.  The NFL is a 13 billion dollar a year industry…they can afford it!  And maybe, just maybe they’d get every call right?  Then every game would be without controversy and we could focus on the really important things…like world hunger, peace, and why the Mexicans won’t pay for the stupid wall!!!

My cat (Manfred Freisner von Richofen) is a small critter.  We got him as a cute little kitten who played nicely when you went to pet him, will lay on his back and let you rub his stomach (which is completely unusual for a cat), and eats dog food like it’s porterhouse steak.  Purrs to beat the band, likes to munch mice, and beats the shit out of the chihuahua.  My kinda cat…

Shortly into his stay in our home we purchased a low budget facility for Manfred (dubbed Manny) to let go his waste.  And he’s been quite reliable in this activity, only pooping once in the bath tub, and that was when we shut him in the restroom so he couldn’t get outside when the door was open.  Okay, now I gotta stop for a clarification moment.  The crap he left steamy in the tub was sizable on a par with a fat guy who ate a double quarter pounder, two large fries, and three twinkies yesterday.  And that was his snack between meals.  I’m dead serious here…we had our grandchildren, children, and those of us who reside in the home on premises.  When the longish turd was sighted an hour or so after poor Manfred’d been shut in, the initial thoughts leaned toward it being a long line of feces extruded by a human.  It had the girth, the length…you get it right?  Once a questioning round (akin to the Spanish Inquisition) had been performed on the grandchildren (despite tales to the contrary, no waterboarding was administered) it was compared to the elongated models on display in the litter pan.  In true Hercules Poirot voice De Anna (the beautiful wife in this story) announced to the gathering that the only logical explanation for the bath tub feces was poor little Manfred.  And then she cleaned it up, for which she get a small verbal prize.

I cleaned out the litter pan four days ago…mask on face, small chest upheavals, hand washing afterwards on a par with the Brain Surgeon just before plying their vocation.  And it was full.  I just walked past it today, and it’s full again!  Oh My Goodness, how does a slender creature who sleeps 23 hours a day produce that much shit?  Seriously…if you weighed the amount of food going in, and the amount of poop going out, you’d find a discrepancy!  There is no way!

To put this in perspective; if the lions of the plains pooped this much you’d see giraffes and zebras head down in a effort to high-step their way around the feline poo!  I’m not kidding…the plains would look like a crap graveyard with little tombstones the dung beetles couldn’t move!  NASA would put up a satellite (the BM-429) to monitor the migration of the poop-piles, and I’m quite damn sure the excess fumes would put a sizable hole in the ozone layer.

I’m learning to dislike the damn cat…

So I have to tell you a story here.  It’s kinda funny, and kinda “you gotta be kidding” sad.

We live in a home that has half the running water plumbing going along the wall of the garage…on the inside of the garage and away from any available heat source.  Which has never been an issue in July I might add.  Nor in June for that matter.  But in January???  And when the award winning De Anna stopped the dripping water in the kitchen sink she didn’t realize how fast those pipes would freeze.  And so we found ourselves with frozen pipes in the garage; pipes that are long and most assuredly will have cracks in them when unfrozen.  Okay then.  Also, we have a wonderful wood stove in our dining room and in a effort to keep the fuel oil burning heater from running non-stop we had it blazing all day.  That makes us great self-sufficent Americans and I want a small flag sent to us when the government re-opens for business.  Anyways…long about 11 o’clock in the evening, at bedtime, dear De Anna turns the heat back up to keep us toasty through the night.  And…nothing.  The furnace has decided it does not feel compelled to do its job.  Now it’s the night its going down to zippo degrees.  Mind you, a non-working fuel oil burning heater is still not an issue in July, or June.  But it’s damn sure an issue in January!  Once I’d trekked out into the night to check the fuel gauge (1/2 tank thank you) I realized the four electric heaters and the wood stove could work in unison to keep my family alive through the night.  And they did.

Who knew fuel oil could gel?  Raise your hands here…1,2,3.  Okay smart-asses, I didn’t.  Nor did I recognize that the couple inches of rain water that’d frozen over the fuel oil line would enhance this freezing…I mean seriously, who had thought a burnable substance that is only used when it’s colder that a witches tit in a brass brassiere could freeze?  It’s like having water that evaporates when it’s hotter’n shit and you need a drink…silly huh?

Do you remember when you were a kid and it snowed on a school day?  Oh the heart-pounding joy at the thought that they may leave those wide doors closed and the teachers would have to stay in their small caves where they spend their time hurting squirrels and growing warts!  And on a Tuesday of all things….there are so many wonderful things to do on a Tuesday.  You could go back to sleep for a couple of hours, read a book, make hot chocolate, pick boogers, annoy your siblings, raid the fridge, get up a snowball fight with the neighbor hooligans, read a book, watch television, take a nap, go ice skating, cure cancer, play cards, daydream of killing a bully, watch dust particles in the sun coming through the bay window, listen to music, or just lay in a warm bed and do nothing all damn day!  And when a snow plow came by I’d give him the finger while hoping he popped a tire or something ’cause Wednesday is also a good snow day from school.  Oh the joy!!!

I just tipped the snowplow guy that comes past my house a twenty dollar bill, and told him there’s more where that came from if he jumps her up a gear and gets that thing a movin’!  And there better be tons of that rock salt/slushy shit coming out the back too…get these roads clear.  Oh yeah, and when I go out and measure with my yardstick you better have at least six inches on the ground before you even think of keeping my kids home!  I have the Superintendent on speed-dial, and every 36 seconds I call to leave an update on the weather condition in my sector of the “kids better be going to school” quadrant.  And my neighbors do too…we all function as a well-oiled machine in the educational virtues department…no missed school!  And I listen to the radio while watching local news on three different screens in my bedroom…and I watch the scrolly thingie because, while rubbing my Rosary and saying my Hail-Marys, I truly want my wonderful children to have the benefit of a great education.

Posted on Leave a comment

I’m So Sorry/I love You

Now there’s a funny kinda title eh?  Two completely functional ideas that seem to go so poorly together…hence I split them.  But…

“I’m sorry”.  Interesting concept ain’t it; I feel sorrow for something.  Whether I did it, it just happened, or you did it, I feel sorrow that it happened.  Or that I felt a way that I felt, said something that snuck through the non-existent filter in my brain, or brought about some kind of genuine sorrow.  Interesting though; feeling sorrow doesn’t make it my fault now does it?

For instance:  Let’s say I step on your foot while reaching for the Tasty Puffs at the grocery store.  Once I’ve retrieved my size 12 from the top of your sneaker I’ll utter “Oh hey, so sorry”.  You’ll naturally look my way with a pleasant kinda smile and say “hey, no problem”.  That’s the ‘I’m sorry’ contract between humans; the acknowledgement that I made a boo-boo, and your acknowledgement that my brief sorrow has made up for said boo-boo.  But what if some other person, while reaching for the family sized jar of Jiffy peanut butter, steps on my daughter’s foot.  Am I obliged to give her a “hey, I’m sorry Two Ton Tessy over there pounded on your big toe”?  And if I do, certainly she feels no obligation to give me the “hey, it’s no biggie”.

And sorry can be big too…”hey, I’ve decided you’re a complete jerk and I’d like to never speak to you again” is a lot different than “hey, sorry to bother you but can you pass the mustard”.  One will get you a “no problem”, while the other might get you punched in the nose, or a half hour of yelling while tears stream.

The point of this exercise though; that being sorry for having done/said something wrong is held in such great taboo in this country.  To feel sorrow because YOU did/said something implies to some extent that you are fallible.  You are at fault.  You made a mistake.  You’re not perfect.  You don’t know everything.

I often think of Galileo.  When he spotted that the moons of Jupiter revolve around Jupiter, and not the Center of the Universe (Earth by Catholic standards), he must have felt like he’d taken humankind forward by a leap.  You can only imagine him running around with his telescope and having folks peer upwards (think of some idiot who’s always saying “look at this” while holding their cellphone up to your face) and chart with their eyes the movements of what we now call the Galileo Moons.  And his racing to the powers of the day, only to find out that the Catholic Church was certainly not interested in finding out that they were wrong.  Wrong.  They’d been teaching for centuries that everything revolved around the Big Blue planet; now some dude with a flimsy telescope was gonna prove ’em wrong!  And if he proved them wrong about this, did it create a situation where all the times they’d been right came under scrutiny?  Oh hell no; they couldn’t be wrong about this one little thing because to acknowledge so would have put the whole of the Catholic teachings under the microscope.  And that could change the balance of power, which was in some ways is mandated by the side that was always right.

And now back to “I’m sorry”.  Or even better, “I was wrong”.  Or the ever unpopular “I’m sorry, I was wrong”.  It works so well in a good ole tear jerking country song, but the reality is that to say “I’m sorry, I was wrong” seems completely painful to most of us.  In truth, it certainly did for me.  Relationships were founded on the principle that I was always right, and any inclination that the basis for the relationship might be in jeopardy put the relationship in peril.  To be wrong was most assuredly out of the question, and any thoughts that I’d be sorry for any decisions/actions/feeling I exhibited was an idea that got banished to the far reaches of Siberia.  Oh yes…like most of us humans with penis’s I intended to be the always right leader who ruled with an iron fist and harsh words.

And then it dawned on me…I was an ogre.  No one else in my house/realm/world was allowed to have opinions unless they concurred completely with mine.  If they differed…they were wrong, because only being always right gave me the power, and the power ladies and gentlemen is where it’s at ain’t it?  I paid the bills.  I fixed the toilet when it leaked.  I mowed the grass, shoveled the snow, fought off large spiders that gained entry into our home.

I was the leader, which I equated with always being right.

But the reality is that I’m quite fallible.  I screw-up dozens of times a day, and finding a way to firmly place blame on someone else doesn’t change the fact that I was the one who’d ultimately put my foot in it.  I (and only in recent years have I begun to truly realize this) sometimes have no earthly idea what I’m doing!  Sometimes…yes…other folks have better ideas?  Sometimes other folks breathing on my beautiful planet have feelings I just can’t seem to conjure up, and don’t have the same feelings I have when the lost puppy gets found.

I read a book called “Lead, For God’s Sake”.  If you haven’t read it yet, find a copy, get a coffee, and settle on in.  It’s not preachy, and you won’t feel like a complete ogre when your done.  What you will realize is that being wrong creates a world you’ll wanna be living in.  Having a gentle and kind disposition allows other to feel compelled, to feel free.  Empowered.  So instead of raising a house of people who zombie around feeling only the feelings you have, and expressing themselves only in ways you find acceptable, you’ll have a house of free-thinkers that’ll drive you crazy, but in that craziness you’ll find a peace.  You’ll be creating free-thinking human beings who can go forward with the knowledge of what it’s like to the right…or at least right with themselves.

Have you ever thought…no…bad sentence.  Let’s start again.  I used to think I was always wrong.  No matter what I did I should have done the opposite, and had I been a human with some sort of a brain I would have chosen easily the better course.  But I hadn’t.  Because quite simply: if someone else is always right, then you are always wrong.  And being always wrong brings about psychological issues that’ll keep a therapist in the newest Cadillac for a lifetime.  It’s the kind of enigma that fills prison cells with inmates, and homeless shelters.  It’s the kid in the back of the class that won’t speak up, or the geek gettin’ bullied out of their lunch money daily.  It’s the family that loves it when the “bossy” parent works a lot, and comes home ready to shower and bed down.  It’s dysfunction predicated completely on the Balance of Power, and the continuation of that power.

Saying “I’m sorry, I was wrong” won’t change the world.  Understanding and compassion may well do that, along with food, clothing, and medications.  But it will change your world.  Allowing others to be right is maybe the greatest gift you can give; and if all it takes is you acknowledging that you were wrong?  That you saw it from the wrong perspective?  That you made a decision based on an emotion?  That you’re fallible.

That moons can revolve around a planet…


I hate the expression “I Love You”!  Yes, I’m putting myself at risk of being drawn and quartered here…I realize that.  We have to holidays (Sweetest Day/Valentines Day) based on love.  The most used word in music titles is Love.  The truest human emotion to most folks is the idea of love, yet I have no idea what the word truly means.

Hear me out.  I love butterscotch on ice cream, the way the sun makes the sky red at twilight, and my wife.  And yet these three things are very different.  I also love strawberries on my ice cream, the greenness of the grass after it rains, and some chick I been foolin’ around with on the slide?  (Not really, just for comparisons sake you’all)

And yet someone eventually says it.  In a relationship that is: someone is gonna launch that red-tipped rocket into the verbal air (usually after a bedtime trist), and the other party is now forced to equate their feeling for this person with their emotions at having chocolate on their ice cream, a good thunderstorm, or the feeling they get when a really good song comes on the radio.  And they have to decide; is it similar to having an onion on their ice cream, mud on their pants after the thunderstorm, or horrible sex in the back of a trash truck.

Which emotion is it Sparky?

Is it the “love” that:

1) Go to work daily.

2) Clean the house.

3. Scoop up doggie-pooh when it’s been a while since anybody let ’em out.

4) Cook you lasagna.

5) Record your favorite television show.

6) Wipe your butt after the “incident” that broke both your arms.

7) Text you every two hours to let you know they “love u”.

8) Calls your mom “mom” and your papa “papa”.

9) Helps the kids with homework, and pre-soaks the stains on your jeans.

10. Still sleeps with you when you eat cabbage and have been a little constipated.


Or the “love” that makes a partner:

1) Stop working because you love them and therefore will take care of them?

2) Discontinue the art of cleaning because its not really all that dirty.

3) Let the doogie-pooh sit until it’s that grey dusty stuff because it stops smelling after a day or so.

4) Warms up left-over ramen noodles when you get home.

5) Thinks you really outta watch “Daisy and the Glorious Weekend” because football causes concussions.

6) Giggles when you ask who’s gonna wipe your butt after the broken arm incident.

7) Texts you to remind that the electric bills due, her Mama’s coming over tonight, and lets you know to pick up pizza because they really don’t feel like cooking.

8) Thinks your Mama’s a real bitch, and hasn’t talked to your Pa in ten years.

9) Tells ya to pick up a new pair of jeans, and shows the kids a site on U-Tube to help with their homework.

10) Hits the couch for the night when you mentioned having a little coleslaw on your hot dog at lunch.


“And if you love me you’ll understand.”

The “and if” part of love is the part that gets my blood boiling every time.  The ‘and if” makes you buys cars out of your price range, own chihuahua’s, enroll your daughter in ballet, enroll your son in ballet, give up baseball/football/drinking/darts/farting in public/really cool handshakes/onions/that trip to Branson/nose hair/a rusty truck/ole underwear/comfortable jeans/James Bond movies/that really groovy trick where you can make you nipples dance opposite each other/scotch/your best friend Earl.

So, I have an idea.  Henceforth and from now on:



These words can be before love, after it, or it can place love in a “meaning” sandwich.  Yes, let’s play with this…

  1. Great Sex Love (If you can’t figure this one out please see “I’m Stupido Lovo”).
  2. Cuddle Bunny Love (You’re kinda like the gay partner, only you get to pay for everything).
  3. Love Seeing You (Because my life is so meaningless I can’t breathe, fart, or digest food without you).
  4. Love Potion 9 (Strap it on Gertrude, you ’bouta go for a ride).
  5. Broken Sink Love (I just wanna see you butt crack whilst you fix it).
  6. I’m Stupido Lovo (The shocking surprise to everyone is that I found some else who can at least fake loving me as well as you.  I’m destined to have forty-seven cats and be on ‘Hoarders’ eventually).
  7. Dysfunctional Love Kinda (I can vary between loving and hating you so fast…and many times it has no bearing on your level of love for me.  I blame it on hormones mostly, but you’re gonna either need a large box of condoms or a set of eight ounce boxing gloves for tonight.  Your guess is good as mine Snuckums…).
  8. Rub My Love (I’m feeling like a cat that done found the catnip salt shaker.  Feet, calves, thighs, back, shoulders…then repeat).
  9. Love Me Back (I’m completely dependent on this relationship, and just because I met you ten minutes ago in the self checkout lane at Walmart doesn’t change that.  I’ve been waiting my whole life for you…).
  10. Meet My Love (Yes, meet my twelve ex-boyfriends, and my Mama, and Papa, and sister Charleen, and cousin Jeffrey (who’s in a wheelchair since the Black Friday at J. C. Penney accostation), and Reverend Talbert Hurter, and my dogs Rex, Charles, Spot, Bartholomew, and Snoopy.  And kitty Maltese, Dominic, and Yvonne.  And my curling iron, and ashtray, and turd I forgot to flush down the toilet, and hair ball in the shower drain, and leftovers in the fridge ’cause I love to cook).

I believe the initial party in the “I love You” conversation has an obligation to begin living, at that moment, with the object of their fondest affections.  Yupper, just move some of your shit on in and begin the process of finding fault until the friggin’ “love” bug passes.  First time he Crop Dusts you after a heavy meal complete with refried beans outta just about do it…or when you see the inexpensive toupee his toilet purchased just behind the rim.  When you realize his shower has no soap, his milk is considered a solid, and he eats Count Chocula because that’s what Mama used to get ’em.  Man oh man but won’t the vaginal fluids dry up like a small oasis in the Sahara after the dry season.


Hows about we go to “I miss you”?  I like that one a whole lot better, and it’s not quite so free to take on its very own meaning.  I guess you could miss them to various degrees, but at least when you don’t miss them anymore there’s none of that “falling outta missing” bullshit.




Posted on Leave a comment

The Underdog

I don’t know about you but when I’m watching any sporting event where I don’t have a vested interest I tend to root for the underdog.  Seriously, and as I search my heart for a reason I come up quite empty.  Truly I don’t know…the favorite may be more dedicated; may have done more push-ups and laps, and yet?  Yeah, maybe it’s the Rocky Complex at work.  Little guy does good at the dedication part, gives his full body to the exercise, and overcomes a tremendous mountain.  Yet…Rocky still lost?  He did.  And so they made another one where he won and Apollo Creed lost.  Then they made one where he lost again halfway through, but with hard work and rededication he beat Clubber Lang.  And eventually he trains the kid of the guy who once beat him, lost to him, lost to Clubber Lang (I think, it’s getting a little fuzzy here), and died at the hands of a nasty Russian dude.

But let’s get back to the part where his future wife was butt-ugly and he lost.

My son Grant was watching Venom the other day.  Now in all honesty I have no need to watch Venom.  I’m sure the cinematography is outstanding, the girlfriend is super hot, and the character is one I’ll sympathize with as I brush my teeth later.  But I did kinda watch it while rolling change, cleaning out the lint filter in the dryer, ungunking my water faucet, and trimming those pesky toe hairs that intertwine in my sock ends.  And guess what?  The bad guy is like super bad (wants to destroy the human race or some bullcrap), and he is enormous.  And Venom, although not an altogether nice fella himself (the anti-villain I suppose) has no shot at saving the human race.  And the mortal of the story (protagonist) loses his girlfriend because he’s a schmucko.  Now the bad guy (antagonist) realizes he can’t possibly lose to the good guy (Venom), which kinda proves to be his undoing.  Venom wins, the human race survives…roll credits.

It was like the same thing when the rabbit raced the turtle.

We collectively tend to root for the underdog.  Some psychologist somewhere is spouting off some crap about the Underdog Complex…the idea that the Underdog lives in all of us, and when the underdog wins we feel a sense that we too could actually win.  We could marry up, career up, looks up, and eventually be deserving of the up place we’ve climbed too.  Then of course, we’ll wanna up again.

So what’s up with all the Superhero movies in the last twenty years or so?  Is Hollywood truly out of ideas?  Right now Venom is all the rage, with every woman in America waiting with fantasies intact for the arrival of Aquaman.  And the idea that two rival comic book producers are behind all this…with the cash register as the big winner.  Here’s five movies I wanna see Hollywood produce:

Madam Termite-Woman (eating wood with a vengeance)

Captain Pine Cone Returns (from hard to soft in time)

Sir Platypus of Pompay (evolution smevolution…he’ll kick your ass!)

Shrew and the half-eaten worm (he knows it keep growing anyway)

Licking Puppy Hordes (the bad guy’ll be giggling too much to kill off mankind)

There was Superman…then another Superman.  Then…like Batman, Cat Woman, Spiderman, Captain America, another Spiderman, another Batman, Deadpool, Fifty Shades of Grey, Ant Woman, Wonder Woman, Batman versus Superman, The Fantastic Four, Obamacare, Legion of Doom, another Deadpool, Justice League, another Spiderman, Venom, another Spiderman, and then Aquaman.  If the world was in this type of dire need…I mean really needed saving this f’ing much…wouldn’t it have made CNN?  Fox News?  The View?

Ah shit…I forgot the Green Hornet…

What if the underdog is the underdog because they can’t pass by a McDonald’s drive-thru without at least a cheeseburger and fries?  Seriously…what if they spend their time watching U-Tube videos about cats that dance, dogs that prance, Granny’s who fence, and weddings where they never commence?  What if they skip the work-out part because Hulu is having a binge weekend, and this weekend it’s re-runs of Friends?  What if they’re just not good enough to beat out the favorite?  Seriously…there was no way Rocky Balboa was gonna beat Apollo Creed.  No way that kid on the raft was gonna beat out the shark in Jaws.  No way Spiderman was gonna beat out the dude on the hovercraft with that green shit that was awesome sauce!!!

Crap…The Incredible Hulk…

Someone asked me the other day who my favorite superhero was, and I think they actually thought we were going to have a compare and contrast discussion on the strengths and weaknesses of said superheroes.  They really did.  When I said my dog because he learned to stop shitting on the floor and humping the baby they wandered off to more intelligent conversations.

Here’s my five favorite movies of all time:

  1. Shawshank Redemption
  2. All Quiet on the Western Front.
  3. Silence of the Lambs.
  4. Much Ado About Nothing
  5. Jaws.

Sleepless in Seattle, The Birdcage, The Lincoln Lawyer, and All the President’s Men get honorable mention.

Here’s five movies I regret having suffered through:

  1. Fifty First Dates
  2. The Notebook
  3. Water For Elephants
  4. Waterworld
  5. French Kiss

Have a great end of December and enjoy the end of 2018!!!


Posted on

Christmas, Merry

I love Christmas.  In truth I suspect a lot of folks love Christmas, though I am quite aware the poor souls who find this season depressing, overwhelming, commercialized, and just downright crappy.  But I love it!

Do you remember when you were a kid?  Oh the joy of decorations in and out of the house; the gentle nature of all the Ebenezer Scrooges’s of the world?  When the strand of light bulbs that’d worked so majestically last year turn to electronic ‘poop’ this year and no one’s overly upset about it?  The beauty of the snow, the joy of the unending feast?  Oh yes, the candies, and rum cake, and peppermint chewies, and chocolate snowmen, and carameled popcorn, and turkey…

And the presents under the tree!  Little sticker that’d announce your name on top of Santa Claus wrapping that was so colorful it almost hurt your eyes?  And another sticker announcing that the gift wasn’t to be opened until “December 25th”?  And you’d count them along with your sibling to ensure we all get about the same number…and Mama doing economic cartwheels to fulfill the evenness necessity?  Then the jolly fat man coming behind his smelly reindeer and sneaking into you house like a very tactful burglar to leave you more presents!  It was an absolute mountain of an event…one that was looked forward too with unbelievable anticipation!  Tears streaming down my youthful face as I realize I’ve already got what I wanted this year…and there were more!  More!  MORE!

And then you grew up didn’t cha Sparky?  Oh yeah, and when the object of your affections was as infatuated (or drunk, high, fulfill a bet, deranged, hard-up, or bankrupt) with you as you were with them you tied the matrimonial knot.  Good for you…set ya back a few thousand didn’t it now?  But that’s okay ’cause American Express has a special package for weddings, and Visa will allow you to borrow cash right off the card!  Feel good about it Beatrice…you’re building your credit as you pay off that $300.00 cake that he smashed in your face so hard it pushed a booger into your eye socket…

And a few years later you sit with the object of your affections (whom you only want to kill 32% of the time, which means you have a 68% happy marriage) and realize that Christmas is now your responsibility?  How the hell did this happen?  Doesn’t the Jolly Fat Elf realize that you’re already financially tapped out (tapped out being a kind word for it.  More like strained, mortgages to the hilt, broke as a Mo—- Fu—-)?  Strain lines quite evident is your lover’s face you head to the store with the newest ‘not maxed out’ card in hand, and visions of the Christmas you’ll be creating dancing like Sugar Plum Fairies in your head.

But the realization comes harshly doesn’t it?  It’s not just presents?  When the neighbor’s down the lane do their house up in outside lights like they got a few shares of stock in the electric company you gotta get lights.  And ribbon for the railing, and a spotlight that depicts Santa coming across the front of your homestead eh?  And you just gotta have the welcome mat with the three wise men on it, and a wreath for the door, and a chime for the inside of the door, and two Christmas trees (one for the cat to destroy).  And you need knick-knacks for your end tables, and candy, and little Santa Claus shaped chocolates that have marshmallow inside.

How did this terrible thing fall up you.  Well, Pater Pan was right Gertrude…never grow up!

Estimated costs of phrased uttered at Christmas:

  1. $15.00  “I think one of —— would look so nice here.”
  2. $17.50  “That damn cat…he tore up the —–.”
  3. $20.00  “Your Mother called, Dad says since he doesn’t really need anything this year you can just get him a —–.”
  4. $22.50  “They didn’t have —–at Walmart, so I hadda go to the mall.”
  5. $25.00  “The wind blew over my starfish angel outside, so I had to replace it.”
  6. $30.00  “Nancy down the street, you know, the one with the fat butt and the little girl who’ always picking her snoz at Church…her hubby got her a —– for her table.”
  7. $50.00  “My Mama always used to —– for Christmas.”
  8. $100.00 “When I was a little boy/girl I always wanted to do —– for Christmas.”
  9. $200.00  “We should go shopping as a family.”
  10. $500.00  “If you really love me you’ll get me/do this—– for Christmas.

(if number 10 seems on the verge of being spoken I suggest you place your heel squarely on the small toe of the voice about to utter it.  Prior to the actual asking; place 86% of your weight on said heel while reaching to hug the uttering voice.  In this way you can end the uttering of said request while having the fall back position of stating this occurred only because you are so in love that you required a hug.)

When going into Saint Patrick’s Day do 42% of the stations on you FM dial go to Irish Music?  Around the middle of June does your #3 pick on the little do-hickie that you push to change stations begin belting out Lee Greenwood’s “God bless the U. S. A.” every fifteen minutes?  And, as Arbor Day approaches I’ve never heard “Trees” by Rush.

I swear to Goodness, if I hear Brenda Lee singing about “Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree” one more time someone’s gonna get throat punched!  “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby might be the best selling song of all time, but after the thousandth time of hearing it this year?  Now to be honest, when I hear “Blue Christmas” by Elvis my blood pressure only goes up 12%, and any song by the Carpenters is always welcome.  But that stupid SONG ABOUT GRANDMA GETTING SQUASHED BY A REINDEER!!!  Oh my Ghod, and they made a television version?!?!  What kind of hill-jacked, toothless, inbreed, carp-fishin’, rusty-truck, McNugget eatin’, uneducated, three legged antelope, spineless jellyfish, goat humpin’, Crimson Tide rootin’, gettin’ beat up by your wife/sister, cross-eyed, can’t masturbate ’cause you got 90% of your fingers chopped off in a mud-wrestling incident, unicycle ridin’, Busch drinkin’, tree huggin’ (only way to ummm, well, without 90% of your fingers), trampoline jumpin’, tobacco spittin’, brain-dead guppy gathers the fam around the old black and white and watches this crap.

“Hey Sissy, you’uns best be fur gettin’ har quick like…it’s dog-gone ’bout to start.”

(Brief interlude here my fine reader.  In the story of Grandma’s demise at the hands of a Caribou from the Arctic Circle, she’d going to find herself trampled on Christmas Eve.  The title of this incredibly artistic work is also the plot structure.)

And now back to our regularly scheduled program…

And the little beings you’ve created during occasional occasions when you and the “object of your affections” could garner five minutes (and 13 seconds) alone!   Those little shits…


  1. “Last year I got —–, so this year I should get—-.”
  2. “My friend Marcy, you know, from Algebra Class (refer at this point to section number 4 of the pamphlet you received at the beginning of the school year.  Turn to the section titled: People I consider my friends this week.)  Well, anyway, can you pass the mashed potatoes please?  Her Dad and Mom split up last year, and her Dad, who’s like the hottest Father I’ve ever seen (appropriate lowering of eyebrow from Mother)…I mean he’s a real DILF (DILF is a branch-off of the commonly used MILF.  Though not used with much regularity in the female word, it is sure to get a startled reaction from any parent)!  Well, anyway, he’s getting Marcy a whole package done at Mary’s Overpriced Face Emporium at the mall, and then he’s…can I see the gravy please…sending her and her sister on a trip to the Bahamas!  (The exclamation at this point is akin to the spokesperson on The Price is Right when the announce “NEW CAR”).  Can you believe it, and all I want this year is a new phone, X-Box (with year long gaming package), two pair of shoes, three pair of yoga pants (so tight the camels of the Sahara are giving condescending looks), and a new toothbrush.
  3. I’ll take a used car instead…
  4. How much does it cost to room and board a horse?
  5. I’ll just take money…

And now for my political rant…

‘Baby it’s cold outside’?  Ummmm, I see the Me Too movements point.  Young man trying to get the girl to stay because of the cold out there.  Getting her more cocktails (pun intended) in an attempt to have her guard relax a bit?  You can just imagine him leaning on the door as he speaks, wolf-like.  Okay, maybe it doesn’t belong in the same place as “White Christmas”.

And shush up you old foggies, they ain’t playin’ no rap trash on the Christmas station either.  But, be very cautious here.  Censorship is a double-edged blade.

Anyway, that’s certainly enough of my thoughts on this wonderful season.  May yours be blessed…

Posted on Leave a comment


I like words.  Truly I do, they convey meaning amongst intelligent souls on the green Earth.  Okay, blue Earth with a little green then, and the occasional white, brown, and…well you get the picture.

Dolphins communicate with clicks and whistles.  “Hey, there’s a shitload of tuna up here and their fat as seals”, or “wanna make a baby dolphin you flat tailed beauty?”  Yea, that’s it, and I’m sure dolphins spend a certain amount of time trying the teach porpoises how to be civilized in their language.  I wonder sometimes if porpoises aren’t the derelicts of the sea…you know…the ones who go around cursing and bullying the small dolphins?  Bastards.

We humans live on many different societal levels; that’s what makes us so damn interesting.  One woman’s rap music is another woman’s crap music.  Rock and roll to many is Elvis Presley, while to many others it’s Led Zeppelin.  And a few think Motley Crue, Ratt, and Metallica fall into that category.  So we create genres to disassociate unlike music; 80’s rock, heavy metal, rap, blues, pop, contemporary…

Yes, different terminology helps us understand the meaning of words.  And we teach the young humans how to get across the meaning of words without sounding like derelict porpoises in the upright world.  When a child says “supposebly” we kindly tell little Jane that supposedly doesn’t have a B in it.  Library is another word that needs attention on occasion…I like to tell little ones that no one ever made a “liberry pie”.  “Pasgetti” for some reason rolls off a young tongue with less effort than spaghetti.  Yes, and if you’re an adult who still supposebly looks up pasgetti on the liberry’s computer you’re a porpoise destine to get caught up in a tuna net…

I love made up words too.  Oh certainly I do, and when it’s the seller of a product informing you of a condition you didn’t know existed, and without their product you can’t possibly eradicate the condition you never knew existed…now that’s true marketing!  I mean really, who ever heard of gingivitus before Listerine helped prevent it.  Think of it…for centuries people walked around with that plague build-up;  that bacterial entity eating (munching, biting, scraping, eroding, gaining nutrition) from their very gums!  Oh the humanity…

Erectile Dysfunction.  What a beautiful combination of words, let it roll off your tongue people.  Slowly at first…Errrreeeccctillle Dyyysssfuntttion.  Then speed it up, like a rhyme…say it back to back quickly Erectile Dysfunction, Erectile Dysfunction, Erectile Dysfunction.  Now make it like a child’s game: Eric Dillon has Erectile Dysfunction, Eric Dillon has Erectile Dysfunction, Eric Dillon has Erectile Dysfunction.  See if you and the other members of your family can say it five times without messing it up!  Do it at the dinner table while you wait for the stew to cool.  Bonding folks…weed out the porpoises!

If my Santa Claus hat (red with a while ball on the top and black trim) continuously flops down into my eyes is that “Stocking Cap Dysfunction”?  A tire going flat beside the highway, is that “White Wall Dysfunction”?  And if the woman I’ve been hitting on at the bar turns me down is that “Ego Dysfunction”?

And yet, in the last few years we’ve begun to hear about this horrible abnormality known as ED (the abbreviation ruining a perfectly good set of words).  Fortunately for those wishing to procreate, there’s a cure!  A wonderful cure for a gentleman’s inability to get a hard P—-.  Ahhh crap.

This is that age of political correctness, and this is a family blog.  I don’t feel entirely comfortable saying the word P—-.  I could use C—, D—, Wein–, Do–, or Wil–?  No, they hit to near the actual entity swinging between a man’s legs; that little fella who’s destine to get at least one line shot that takes a funny bounce every baseball season.

Noodle.  There it is, a happy little synonym for P—-.  I don’t think “hard” is a bad word, so we’ll got with hard noodle or soft noddle.  Okay then (while wiping the cold sweat from my brow), we may continue…

So, let’s say you and your lady…ahhh crap again!  Dammit, this was going along so swimmingly, and now it gone completely to shi-!

You and your partner, that’s the ticket.  You and whoever are in the bedroom, on the living room couch, backseat, forested area, gravel driveway, hotel room, Granny’s house, Harley Davidson, baby’s crib (only acceptable if your both midgets), darkened basketball court, basement ( best in a tornado warning alert), Mayor’s back yard, Mama’s bed (you sick bastard!), garage, 3rd story of a Convent, McDonald’s bathroom.  And you and your “partner” are boiling up some water, but the water never gets quite hot enough to…ahhh crap again!   I don’t wanna soften up the noodle, I wanna make it rock hard!  Yes, hard as a brick, concrete, Oak board, algebra, diamond!

I can’t use the noodle synonym then…it died right there as the steam rose.

So you have the Soft Noodle Syndrome eh?  There we go, the Soft Noodle Syndrome, and with this pill your noodle can get hard again?

Relax Bob, we can do this…

Erectile Dysfunction.  What if you’re in the shower with your “partner”, yes, and let’s say while you’re trying to copulate a piece of the shower wall falls into the stall while you noodle rises not at all?  Is that Tile Dysfunction in conjunction with Erectile Dysfunction?  And if you begin to cry, is that Smile Dysfunction in conjunction with Tile Dysfunction whilst suffering Erectile Dysfunction?

(Said to the tune of Dr. Suess)

“Do you copulate, masturbate, procreate, or swing like a ape?”

“I would not copulate in a bog.  I will not masturbate on a log.  I cannot procreate with Shelly Bellog,  My noodle is as limp as the fog…


Okay, let’s get serious now.  Please realize, there’s a difference between Erectile Dysfunction (the inability to get an erect noodle), and Testosterone Deficiency (loss of the male hormone).  With Testosterone Deficiency your noddle may be stiff as Donald Trump’s bangs, but you just don’t care.  You’re no longer the Manly Man you used to be (able to not satisfy in a single bound (pump)).  You need a totally different pill for Testosterone Deficiency.


Okay, the point of all this was simple, and her it is:


(for men over 50)

  1.  Take your Testosterone Deficiency pill around the noon hour.
  2. Call the intended recipient of you affections (henceforth called victim) around 2 o’clock to tell them you’re thinking of how wonderful they are.
  3. Shower, crap, re-shower, brush teeth (flossing too Mister!), use Listerine to fight Gingervitus.  Shave face, nose hairs, eye brows.  Trim hair coming out of ears, trim hair on top of ears, trim two long hairs coming from under individual earlobes.
  4. Put on matching socks, non-holey underwear, recently washed pants, and a shirt with an actual collar.
  5. Make sure you have checked balance on your Credit Card prior to embarrassing scene at restaurant.
  6. Print out copy of “Pre-Sexual Agreement” (form 69-AH) to be signed by the object of your affections prior to introduction of “noodle”.
  7. Text victim at 5 o’clock to insure they know you’re still thinking about them.  Use smile emoji often.
  8. Clean up doggie crap because you’ve been so busy you forgot to let Fido out.
  9. Place hypoallergenic gloves on hands prior to filling trash bag with refuse from you vehicle.  Fumigate said vehicle with Lysol Family Sized bottle of disinfectant.  Hang Pine Tree from rearview mirror.
  10. Text victim to let them know you are on your way.  Also; reiterate how much you’re looking forward to seeing them.  Find “Sunshine Emoji”.  Use liberally.
  11. Take Erectile Dysfunction pill on ride.  Try to remove Mountain Dew stain from  front of your collared shirt where you hit crater sized pothole whilst taking your noodle inflator.
  12. Once back at scene of noodle insertion insure you have placed “mix-CD of 80’s rock love songs” in player.  Using the “clap on/clap off” technique to douse the lights will add to the ambiance of the moment.
  13. Get form 69-AH signed in blue ink, insuring that the victims signature was forceful enough to go through all three copies.
  14. Apologize to victim for the short duration of noodle insertion, but while cuddling inform said victim that another “stiff noodle” will be along quite shortly thanks to modern medicine.
  15. Have secondary 69-AH signed prior to every noodle insertion.
  16. Always remember that if you have a hard noodle for longer than four hours you are to alert you doctor after attempting numerous insertions to see if it’ll soften over time.



Or you could just watch Sportscenter and go to sleep early…


Posted on Leave a comment


I like food. Hell, been eatin’ since before I can remember, thanks Ma. Fried, and baked, and flaked, and baked…all food is good food. Unless it’s squash…I never eat food that is also an adjective.
I hate being invited to dinner. Hate it. There’s a built-in assumption when one goes to someone else’s house for dinner; namely that you’re forced to like it. It’s like opening a really lousy Christmas gift and putting on the ‘lousy Christmas present’ smile with hugs included. I once got a waffle iron…I don’t eat waffles. But I smiled and marveled that some engineer in some far off land was able to create all those groovy grooves with precision. This took the discussion into the realm of pancakes versus waffles (waffles eventually won), and ended up with most expressing their preferences for crepe fillings.
I love crepes and if I can get my power sander to work properly I’ll be grinding down those waffle ridge things and have a new crepe maker…
What if I hate the chow their serving? Seriously…what if they live in that world where the add sugar to their spaghetti sauce (cardinal sin number 563), believe all meat should be cooked to the consistency of beef jerky, or have a place setting for Fido (the super f’ing dog) next to the table? Am I to truly put on the fake smile and bare it? What if they use jarred gravy…am I forced to put it upon the lumpy mashed spuds?
And my favorite pastime is trying to figure out what time we’re going to eat? See, in my world when the host says 5 is dinner time I assume I’ll be dipping my fork into some cuisine and sipping a mediocre wine at 5? But I’d be wrong in so many instances…5 is the start time of the meal. As my stomach does culinary cartwheels along with a sugar plunge I am forced to watch as “Egbert the Chef Wanna-Be” peels the spuds, shells the peas, and wrings the neck of a layer that just stopped being productive. Oh hell yeah, and to the chef it’s like a cooking show on the tube where he has like twelve minutes to put together a four course meal complete with barf bag and Alka-seltzer.
“The best part of the meal is watching it being created,” he’ll say as his brow drips sweat into the lemon paste and he scorches the butter/cream sauce.
I hate going to dinner…
I love going to Subway. Seriously, not only are the subs delicious, but the aura of anticipation is like wondering if my new deodorant is turning on my super hot date when I put my arm around her at the dollar movies. I just never know, and it’s the kind of deodorant where the ad says she’ll be shedding her clothes in my 1997 Buick on the ride home. Good times…
The kid behind the Subway counter (and you just know they were hoping you’d walk up…they get paid by the sub right?) will ask the appropriate questions (what type of bread, what type of cheese, etc…?) as I stare at the menu board while wiping the drool off my chin.
But that’s not the best part…
“Would you like double meat”, pimple face will ask as my eyes come back down. I’ll delicately decline. About this time the skinny grandmother with the fatso grandkid will come up behind me and the other ‘Sub-Specialists’ will don the clear gloves and pretend they hadn’t hoped the kid with the balloons on a long string hadn’t asked Grandma to go to McDonalds.
Getting to the best part…
“Would you like your sub toasted?”
I try to act like I missed it… like English isn’t my first language. I pretend fatso the grandkid just touched my derriere with his blue balloon. I’ve been known to fake deafness at this point…
“Sir, would you like it toasted?”
“Ummmm, sure,” I’ll give out quite noncommittal, though at a place deep within my soul the hormone sensor is belting out ounces at an unprecedented rate. Because ladies and gentlemen…this is the kill shot! This is the best fifteen seconds of my whole week…
This is the best part!!!
The metal ladle/paddle thingie is placed under the plastic thingie with my sub above and then launched into the oven-thingie. With a hand well versed in the art of sub making the teenager will push a button and 15 magical seconds will appear on the LED above. 15, but then before you know it it’s 14, and you realize some incredible heat is being forced into the air around your sub. My sub…my precious.
20 seconds is too long, I just don’t have that kind of attention span folks. The kid behind me will surely sneeze one of those wet ones, or grandma will fart and act like it was the little hoodlum with the blue balloons. The loudspeaker will go off, or the other sub gourmet will drop the other sub on the floor. It’ll be burnt at 20 and I just know it…curling little edges of my garlic bread scorched like paper in a fire.
10 seconds is too short…hell the bread won’t even get warmed up. Few things in life worthwhile happen in 10 seconds or less.
“Would you like yours toasted,” the sweet voice will ask Granny behind me, which only adds to the allure of the whole thing. My sub is being toasted to 15 second perfection in front of an audience!
My sub-artist will now reach up and place her non-gloved hand on the railing of the door panel…she’d anticipating too! In 5 seconds the dingie is going to chime the joy of my whole world and as she spins the paddle in her hand I see it as being the same pose the guy with the heavy gas can at the Daytona 500 holds in anticipation.
Now it’s the anticipation of the bell thingie that draws my eyes over her beefy shoulder to the LED…it’s nearly time! 15 beautiful seconds to perfection, and in 1 second she’s going to swing that paddle up expertly, slide it under the plastic tray with my sub on top, and with the precision of a well-rested brain surgeon fling it onto the white plastic in front of the veggies and look up to me for direction.
I’ve been asked to leave Subway on more than one occasion…