Rub You the Right Way

Mom, you may not want to read this one.

Just throwing it out there.

Around 10 years ago as I was trying to determine what I wanted to do with my life, I decided that I would become a massage therapist. After one year of schooling and getting 3-4 hour-long massages a week, I graduated and became a fully fledged massage therapist. At that point in time, Illinois did not require that therapists take the national or state certification tests so upon graduation I was licensed to practice my art as I pleased. I quickly rented office space in a massage therapy office near my house and I was on my way. After months upon months of failing to make enough money to even cover my rent (which after reading this will surprise you as well), I left the office and went to work for a spa. I hated the spa with all of my might and it really soured me on doing massages to the point that I quit and through the first 4 years of my marriage, I can probably count on one hand the amount of massages that I even gave to my wife.

This fact bums me out because I used to be good. Actually, I used to be really good. Back when I was massaging regularly I would get into a groove where I was in touch with the recipient’s body and knew just where and how to touch them to make it feel better. Now, as a massage therapist, this is a good place to be at. And as long as you are massaging someone who is into it also, the effect on both the therapist and the recipient can be amazing. There is a type of energy transfer that goes on during a massage that, if handled correctly, can leave everyone involved feeling loose and revitalized at the same time. But on occasion, you get someone on your table who may be expecting a little more.

This is my story.

Prior to graduating from massage school, students are required to give a certain number of clinical massages. I want to say that it was between 30-35 hours, but it could have been less. What I do know is that random people would call the school, request an hour long student massage which was offered at the discounted price of $25, and the school would look to see who was available at that time and call you to okay the appointment. Being the go-getter that I am, I was a little behind schedule so the school was nice enough to start bombarding me with appointments. I had no problem with that because as long as the room wasn’t too hot, I could massage for hours on end with no problem. I got through a few weekends giving multiple massages (there’s a funny story in there for a later date) and was really finding my groove. I was getting so good, in fact, that people were starting to refer me to their friends who would then call in and book a massage with me specifically.

One of those referrals happened to book a Saturday morning appointment at the school. Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough to get a therapists office that day as they were already booked, so I had to give my massage in the classroom. It lacked the privacy of an office, but we, the students, would put rolling walls up around the table to ensure as much seclusion as possible. There could be multiple massages going on like that at any given time, but on this day I was alone in the room.

As I waited for my client to arrive, I set up my table, the walls, and the Enya CD and got all of my lotions and oils ready for the hour long massage that she was scheduled for. I didn’t know the person or even recognize the name, but I had been told that she had specifically asked for me based on a referral from her friend. Cool. I liked the fact that my name was being thrown about in a positive way as, hopefully, I could take these clients with me when I opened up my own future office.

When I saw her pull up and get out of her car I got kind of excited as she was really cute. Don’t get me wrong: once a client lies down on the massage table they are nothing but flesh and bone. I have never given a massage - even to my wife – that is anything less than professional. But, as a human being, massage therapists aren’t blind to an attractive person entering the door and, being single at the time, the potential of giving a good massage might earn me points towards asking her out in the future. Besides, after rubbing a person’s naked body for an hour or so, a lot of the initial awkwardness of dating is quickly thrown by the wayside.

As she walked in I introduced myself and took her back to the classroom where she would be getting her massage. I had her fill out the proper forms and asked her what type of massage she was looking for that day. After some brief conversation, we decided that we’d go for a basic Swedish massage (my specialty) and I left the room so that she could get undressed and get on the table. After a few minutes I came back into the room, asked if she was ready, and after hearing her say “yes”, entered the “office” to begin my massage.

The massage started off as they normally do. I was relaxed, she was relaxed, and I was quickly getting into my zone. At this point in time I was not only getting 3-4 hour long massages a week, but I was also giving around7-8. As with anything, the more you practice the better you get. Once you get good you can throw in little tricks that may be unique to your massage that the recipient may not even notice but you know that no one else does. I have forgotten most of those by now, but back then I was Trickster McGee. I wish to God that I could remember half of the stuff that I could do.

I massaged her upper back and arms and, aside from a few sighs and groans, she was fairly quiet on the table. Once I was done there I covered her back up and moved down to massage the backs of her legs.

This is where it gets weird.

I’m pretty sure that I massaged her left leg first as, based on my “flow”, that was my typical starting leg. Back then I would start at the calf and work my way up to eventually finish right where your hamstring meets your butt. I did this with all of my clients and everyone seemed to appreciate it. In fact, my leg massages were where most of my clients ended up falling asleep. Even now, Carol gets mad because every time I massage her legs she falls asleep and she doesn’t get to enjoy her foot massage.

This lady was a little different though. As I massaged her hamstring with my fists in an upwards rolling motion, she began to breathe a little heavier. As is protocol, I asked her if she was okay and if I was using the correct amount of pressure. She responded with a very quick “Yep, that’s great. Keep going.” Thinking that I had upset her by interrupting her relaxation, I quickly got back to what I was doing and finished that leg to more heavy breathing and some leg twitches.

As I finished that leg and covered it up, she exhaled very loudly as if she had been holding her breath. I was going to tell her that holding her breath wasn’t a good idea, but based on the terseness of her last response, I didn’t want to run the risk of upsetting her again. I quickly uncovered her right leg and began working on it.

While working on her calf, I noticed that the heavy breathing had started again. It wasn’t as bad as when I was working on her left thigh, but it was still noticeable. Being the professional that I was, I looked at her body for any other signs of discomfort but didn’t find any and, as a result, continued doing what I was doing.

Big mistake

As my hands reached her hamstring, the breathing became deeper and more rapid and her body was starting to twitch. I didn’t quite know what to think as every person who gets on a massage table has a different reaction to massage and, unless you sense pain in your client or feel personally uncomfortable, the therapist should continue what they are doing. So, I did just that and as I worked the breathing got louder and the body twitching got stronger. Just as I was about to stop because I was getting a little freaked out, her entire body contorted on the table and she let out a muffled squeak, and a long breath followed by a moan and then silence. I stopped what I was doing immediately and asked her if she was okay.

She was quiet for a few seconds and then said “Um, yeah, uh I’m really embarrassed right now. Can we just finish the massage?”

Being as this was a professional environment, I had to ask her again if she was okay.

“Well,” she said “I just had an orgasm, so of course I’m okay. I’m just really embarrassed. Can we please just continue the massage?”

Hesitantly (but internally gloating), I finished the last 20 minutes massage (intentionally skipping the fronts of her legs) and left the “office” so that she could collect herself and get dressed. Everyone else in the building was either giving massages or busy doing something else so I had no one to talk/brag to about this. Had I intentionally done it (and I don’t even think that I could again if I tried), I would feel bad because I was supposed to be professional but had failed to do so. But since it was purely coincidence, however, I felt that I could brag about this to my buddies and they would think I was awesome.

As she was gathering herself in the other room, my next appointment came in the waiting room doors and sat down. Shortly after that, the lady who just gotten off of my table came in the room to pay me. Somehow, the embarrassment must have left her because as she came into the room, she very confidently gave me her $25 and a $10 tip. Being a student, I was not allowed to accept any tips and told her just that. After much deliberation and coy smiling on her part, she put the money back into her purse and began to leave. Before she exited the door, however, she looked back at my next appointment and said “I’m sure you’re really going to enjoy it. I know I sure did.”

No, I never got her number.

…..


I would like to end my story there, but first I have to clear a few things up. What happened that day was not a result of me, but instead, more of her mindset when she got on my table. I’m not saying that every woman who wants to orgasm can simply book a massage appointment and have it happen to her, but something about her mindset, chemical makeup, and trigger points on her body allowed for this to happen. I tell the story because a) it’s pretty funny, and b) it makes me look AWESOME. I have never had it happen again and despite everyone that I have talked to (with the exception of the women giving massages in the building next to the strip clubs), no one has ever had anyone orgasm on their massage table.

By the way, for anyone interested, I have recently acquired a massage table and do take in-home bookings. The ladies seem to like it a lot.

Thanks for reading

Scotty Hop's Blog Shots

I’m going to be honest here – I have zero inspiration to write today. I want to write, but I have nothing to talk about and no stories that have recently popped up in my mind. I was thinking about doing some more randumb thoughts, but I don’t even have enough of those to waste your time with.

Instead, I’ve decided to invent a drinking game out of my blogs. Here are the rules:

1) For every grammatical or spelling error, you must take one shot. For assistance in this, please contact Mr. Chris Reed who would like to take a red pen to all of my blogs and edit the living hell out of them.

2) For every joke that isn’t funny, you must take one shot

3) For every joke that you don’t get because I’m smarter than you, you must take one shot

4) For every time I insult the intelligence of my readers, you must take one shot

5) For every fact that I make up out of the clear blue sky, you must take one shot

6) For the .7% of my readers that are based out of Antarctica, you must take two shots for every blog you read (just to keep you warm)

7) For every time you feed my fish, you must take one shot.

8) For those who don’t know that #7 means, you must take one shot.

9) For every time I mention my cat-like reflexes, you must take one shot

10) For every pop culture reference I make that is inaccurate and you can prove it, you must do one shot for taking this shit too seriously.

11) For every shot that you take, you must send me $1 as I am a poor man who is saving up to go to the Chicago Cubs fantasy baseball camp in 2016 (40th birthday present to myself). So far, I’m up to $3.86. Baby steps…


I realize that this game will more than likely prevent most of you from being able to read this during your lunch hour or on break (because I’m sure that that’s the only time you would be goofing around on the computer during the workday, right?), but I’m willing to take that risk. Your liver may not thank you, but your local liquor distributors will be delighted.

On, I almost forgot rule #12

12) For every time that you laugh or at least crack smile from one of these stupid blogs and you do NOT pass it on to someone else, you must take one shot. Smiles are contagious. Not as contagious or dangerous as herpes because smiles can’t be in a dormant phase and be passed to someone with no clue that the originator had it in the first place, but they are contagious nonetheless. Please, share them (the smiles and blogs – not the herpes) with anyone that you think would enjoy them.

Additionally, I’m still waiting on any and all of my readers to send me pictures to write stories on. They can be pictures of you, me, or any weird, wild, or random thing that you may find on the internet. The crazier the better. I can’t say that the accompanying story will be anything but inaccurate, but the process amuses me and, let’s face it, I only write these for my own amusement anyway.

Thanks for reading

Now take a shot

I Am Batman

Up until last night, I thought that my only fear in the animal kingdom was snakes. I’m okay seeing them on TV and at the zoo, but if you get one of those little guys slithering on the ground anywhere near me it’s best that you just move out of my way because I will run you down on my way to whatever safe haven is in the vicinity. The good news is that I don’t see a lot of snakes where I live and there’s very little chance of me going into the jungle anytime soon, so it’s a good possibility that I won’t encounter one for quite awhile. Given that, I feel quite comfortable that there aren’t many things that I will run into during a given day that will give me the willies or make me scream.

That is until last night when I was viciously attacked by bats.

I’ve seen bats before and they haven’t scared me. Of course those bats were on my television screen and there was a layer of glass preventing them from flying through and gnawing my face off. I’ve also seen a bat at my buddy Jarrod’s house as he had a swimming pool and there always seemed to be one flying overhead. That bat creeped me out a little, but for some reason, I was okay with it. I don’t know why things are different now, but they just are.

We first noticed the bats a few weeks ago as Carol and I were sitting out on the deck enjoying the night air with a few cold beers. We had just put Ben to bed and the sun was beginning to settle into the night sky. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sun wasn’t near as bright as it could have been either. As we were talking, Carol calmly mentioned that there was a bat flying overhead. At first I didn’t believe her because a: we don’t live in a cave, and b: we don’t have a swimming pool (everything I know is learned from TV or past experience therefore those are the only two areas in the world that bats can reside). As I looked up, however, I saw the little guy fluttering around in its nimbly-pimbly way dipping and diving this way and that. I wasn’t scared at that moment, but I did become a little uncomfortable. As I shifted in my seat, Carol pointed out that there was another one, and soon after that, another. That made a total of three bats and they were flying directly above my house.

No sir, I didn’t like it.

I’m not sure why, but those things really creeped me out. Maybe it was their haphazard way of flying. Maybe it was the fact that they seemed to be flying over my house which convinced me that we were their next target. Or maybe it was the fact that all I could picture in my mind was this bat with HUGE fangs flying up to my face with it’s wings spread wide and delving it’s little claws into my eyes thereby ripping them out and wasting all of that money we spent on my Lasik. I quickly began urging Carol to finish her beer so that we could go inside, but she took her time becuase they didn’t phase her at all.

She could tell that I was a little uneasy, which made her very happy, and she continued to sip at her beer and relax in the comfortable summer air. She then began telling me how her father and her used to sit out on their back deck and remain as quiet and still as possible as swarms of bats flew overhead. She knew this gave me the heebie-jeebies, but didn’t stop because my discomfort is her pleasure. Eventually I convinced her to come inside and that was it for the bats. As far as I was concerned they were just visiting that one night and I wouldn’t ever see them again.

Nope.

After I put Ben to bed last night I went out on the deck to enjoy some fresh air. As usual, the dog followed me out and began her laps around the back yard. As I lit my stick of fresh air, I looked up at what I assumed was a drunk bird flying haphazardly in the sky (which are fairly common in my neighborhhod), but after a closer look I realized what it really was. There, flying up and around my house, was another bat. Now, I had read in the paper recently that bats are out in full force this year and to make sure that your pets were up to date on all of their shots. I wasn’t sure if Tina was up to date as the veterinarian’s constant stream of postcards usually go unread, but I didn’t want to take any chances so I called her up to me.

As she ran to my side, I noticed a second bat chasing the first bat around. Now, I’m no Steve Irwin, but I’m of the impression that if something is chasing something else, it’s more than likely because it wants to eat it. Given that train of thought, if these little bastards are chasing their own kind trying to eat it, what is going to stop it from diving down and ripping my ears off as an appetizer?

Here comes the problem.

I was getting really creeped out and wanted to go back inside, but I only had one cigarette to last me the entire night and I had just lit it. I could have put it out and smoked it later, but there was no chance in hell that I was going to go out there once it got dark and I couldn’t even see the flying rats as they dove down in an attempt to eat my face. I decided that no matter how uncomfortable I was, I would stick it out and just keep a close eye on them to ensure the safety of both Tina and myself.

While I sucked at that cigarette as if I were going to find gold at the end of it, I noticed that there were now three bats in the quickly darkening evening sky. For the most part they stayed in the same vicinity continuously diving after each other in an attempt to devour the other’s brains, but occasionally one would separate and it would be a few seconds before I could locate it again. I would get a little freaked out until I had them all in my sights, but once I did I could breathe a little easier.

I was now about halfway done with my cigarette and I figured that within two minutes I’d be back inside the house in the safety of my living room watching Monday Night Raw (Monday is wrestling night at my house. Has been for years and probably always will be). As I looked down to make sure that I wasn’t ashing my cigarette on the dog, I took my eyes off of the bats. Apparently, they had been waiting for this exact moment to occur as when I looked up they had all disappeared. I began to panic a little before I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye, looked up, and quickly caught sight of two of the bats again.

But there were only two.

I looked over the entire sky trying to find that third bat, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. The two remaining bats hovered in one area seemingly taunting me because they knew that I was getting freaked out by the absence of the third bat. I looked up and down and left and right, but that third one was nowhere to be found. Then, before I even knew what was happening, I looked to the right again just in time to see the third bat dive-bombing me in an attempt to bite my neck, suck my blood, and turn me into an odd looking British vampire with a not so attractive and very annoying girlfriend.

I didn’t scream, but did duck just in time for it to miss me by about 20 feet (much closer than you’d think). I threw my cigarette down, ran to the door, opened it, got the dog inside, and slammed the door all in about 0.3 seconds. Once inside, I saw all three of the little bastards fluttering up there in what appeared to be a type of victory dance. Oh yes, they were taunting me.

A very, very, very small part of me wanted to go back out there and fight the little guys, but I was very ill prepared. I can not fly and even if I could, my size would prevent me from being as nimble and agile as the much smaller flying mammals. Additionally, I am assuming that these are vampire bats so I wasn’t sure when they might be turning into their human form with their superhuman strength and speed leaving me defenseless against their uber powers.

That’s why today, I have been on a desperate search to locate Edgar and Alan Frog whose business was documented in the biographical “The Lost Boys.” These guys know their vampires and they know their bats. I fully expect to spend the next few evenings out on my back deck armed with garlic, holy water, and wooden stakes. I will not let these airborne rodents win this battle. I can not. This is my back yard and I am going to take it back. It may be messy and it will be painful – but only for them. With the Frog brothers at my side we will defeat the winged warriors and take back what is rightfully mine. They have messed with the wrong guy.

Thanks for reading

Scott's Theme Song

I am officially a fan of country music. Well, maybe not all of it, but I’m getting there. I borrowed my Dad’s truck this past weekend in order to pick up a new countertop for our kitchen (installers needed) and as I turned the key, the melodious twang of WIL 92.3 filled the cab. Now, I’ve never been a fan of country music but I can appreciate it and do have some of it in my music library. As a result, I left the station on for the drive home and tried to get into the “new” stuff.

I’ve always been a fan of guys like Willie Nelson, Hank Williams, and Merle Haggard. To me that’s what country music should be about. The “new” country, however, has a little bit too much of a “pop” sound to it and I just can’t get into it. But as I was sitting in Dad’s truck I figured that a good pickup truck needs some twang blaring out the windows so I rolled them down, turned the volume up, and started rocking(?) along with that good country beat. I began to laugh at myself as I think I was doing more mocking than enjoying, but then I heard this song and it changed my life.

The song I heard spoke to me like no other country, if any, song has spoken to me before. It summed up me. It summed up my life. And, if you’ve been following along with these blogs this far, you’ll see it pretty much sums up all of my stories. I’ve never really had a theme song before, but I am now requesting that this be played at my funeral as it fits me to a “t”.

This is a short blog today as I’m going to link you to the song in question. Please sit back, listen to this, and think of me. Actually, after you hear it, I doubt that there’s any other person that would come to mind.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2k6EbLm4Q1s

The only thing that I would change would be changing “Bud Lite” to “Stag”

Gonna go out and buy me some boots and a cowboy hat now.

And some beer.

Thanks for reading.

Hookers and Coke

There are certain “man rules” in place when it comes to discussing the events that happen at a bachelor party. There is a little lee way, but the main focus of the rules is that you just don’t discuss the events that happen at a bachelor party. It’s kind of like Fight Club in the way that when you get home you may be bruised, you may be battered, and you may smell like a combination of daylilies and stripper sweat, but the rule is that you don’t talk about what happened. Sure, there are the knowing glances and accompanying smirks from those that were there and had experienced the evening, but unless you’re in the company of people “in the know,” it’s just not talked about.

I’m going to break those rules and talk about mine.

For anyone (and that’s a LOT of you) who I’ve been on bachelor parties with and who are worried that I’m going to throw you under the bus here, don’t worry: I’m going to use fake names. For instance, if I wanted to talk about Chris I would use the name “Jackass” so that no one would know it was him. It’s a foolproof plan that no one will see through. Everyone’s anonymity is secure – I promise.

Seeing as Jackass (See? No one knows I’m talking about Chris here) was my best man, it was his duty to plan the bachelor party. He did a good job too as he had a nice evening lined up of dinner at Harry’s East, a trip down to Soulard for some drinks, a room at the Casino Queen for sleeping it off, and maybe a stop in a gentlemen’s club or two prior to calling it a night. Additionally, we were all being transported around in a nice limo bus stocked with enough alcohol to kill a team of horses. It was going to be a good night.

I won’t bore you with the details of the nice dinner that my father and uncles showed up for along with my friends and partners in crime for the evening. I will tell you, however, that it was the kickoff to one of the most emotional stretches of my life as it’s an indescribable feeling to be surrounded by the ones you love and knowing that they’re all there because they care about you. They care about you so much, in fact, that they know what you like and make it clear to others that you want it no other way.

More on that later.

After dinner, Dad and the uncles bowed out and left the evening of debauchery to us young punks. It’s probably a good thing as I’m not sure Dad would ever be able to erase the mental images that he would have gotten later on that night. Either way, the elders left us as we boarded the bus, broke out more alcohol (it had already started getting ugly in the restaurant), and started our inebriation inducing trek to Soulard. Everything was going great as the beer and shots were flowing, we were all laughing, and we had managed to get the driver a little on edge as our chants of “hookers and coke” rang through the bus. There was only one problem: we had been on the bus for an hour but still hadn’t gotten very far out of Fairview Heights.

Apparently, the Illinois Dept of Transportation had not checked it’s calendar otherwise they would have been aware that it was the weekend of my bachelor party and they, in turn, would have decided against doing roadwork on the highway which essentially put traffic at a standstill. At first we didn’t really notice that we weren’t moving because we were too busy tackling our mountains of cold frosty beverages, but after a while we realized that we weren’t in Soulard yet (Soulard had bathrooms and our bus didn’t) and really needed to get there soon.

After going over our options in our quickly slowing minds, we decided that by the time we got to Soulard we’d only be able to have a drink or two and even that would cut out some of our time at the gentlemen’s clubs. We only had the bus for a set time and everything was based around us getting back to the Casino Queen Hotel at a given time. As a result, we decided to skip Soulard and just go straight to the East Side.

This is where I determined that Chris’s codename should be Jackass.

There used to be a quaint little gentlemen’s club called the Jewel Box that, on the off chance we would go to one, would have to be our club of choice. These days it’s called Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club and they now have all sorts of rules about getting in for free, but back then there were no such regulations. We were lucky enough to know the DJ both from playing softball with him and from the fact that he was the cousin of one of the guys on the bachelor party. As a result, once we arrived at the door we simply asked for Shawn who said that we were with him and we got in for free. Not only did we escape the horrible cover charge, but we were also given the VIP treatment. The VIP package included our own party area, champagne, and our very own personal dancers.

Once it was determined that I was the groom to be and should be the center of their attention, they immediately started taking care of me. At first the attention was nice and I was having a really good time. We were all still drinking, some guys were disappearing into the “private dance” area, and we were surrounded by naked women. The night was going very, very well.

That’s when they first slapped my nipple.

Initially I was a little shocked as it stung but didn’t really hurt. I wasn’t expecting that at all but I figured that since the girls were drinking with us that they were just getting a little loopy and having some fun. They continued to talk to other guys in my party but every time they came by me they’d either slap at my chest or pinch my nipples or something. After a while, it began to hurt. A lot.

After a while longer of putting up with this (which was offset by how nice they were being to me by being topless) I laughingly asked why they kept beating up on me. At this point one of the girls pointed at Jackass and said “he told us you liked it rough.”

“Oh he did, did he?” I asked, glaring in Jackass’ general direction.

She responded with “yep” and proceeded to unbutton my shirt, grab a nipple in each hand and just twist the living hell out of them.

Now, I consider myself to be a fun guy. I have a decent sense of humor and will go along with the party as long as everyone is having fun. It’s at this point that I’d like to add a “but” statement, but unfortunately I can’t. Due to my willingness to go along with the fun I took that double tittie twister, let out a little yelp, and kept going. Of course once the cat was out of the bag regarding me supposedly “liking it rough”, our dancers got ruthless. After awhile my shirt was pretty much entirely off and my entire upper body (but mostly the nipples) were being slapped, smacked, twisted, turned, yanked, and generally assaulted at every turn. From out of nowhere a Sharpie had appeared and not only were they beating me, but they began drawing pictures on me and writing very, VERY, inappropriate things all over me and in places that I couldn’t even see to read. All through it though, I was having a blast (thank God for the numbing effects of beer/tequila/jagermeister). They were beating the hell out of me, but also being very nice in the process. I figured that there wasn’t much more they could legally do to me so, despite the pain I was in, I didn’t hold it against them and continued my good time.

I was wrong

Prior to leaving the house that evening, Carol told me that I should wear boxers that I wouldn’t mind losing. At first I was appalled at what she thought I might be doing that evening. I mean, yes I planned on getting crazy and having a good time, but under normal circumstances with my buddies that rarely involved taking my underwear off. And, despite our chants of “hookers and coke”, I really had no intention of being put in a situation where a woman of the night would be taking my drawers off either. Thinking that those were the only ways in which my underwear would possibly come off, I didn’t think losing them was an option so I put on the most comfortable pair of Nautica boxers that I had.

Big Mistake

At this point in the evening we were all having a great time and had each had beyond our fair share to drink. The dancers/torturers were great and had moved in behind me. I immediately thought that they felt bad for what they had done to me and were just snuggling up to give me a hug. Much to my surprise, that was the last thing they had on their minds. Before I knew it, they had pulled out the remaining part of my shirt that was still tucked in, each grabbed a handful of my underwear, proceeded to yank up as hard as they could in an attempt to be sexy and pull my underwear off without removing my pants. Let’s just say that it didn’t work.

Apparently, Nautica boxer shorts are very well manufactured and even the hardest tug will not tear the material. In fact, all that a good strong tug will do is pull the underwear in whatever direction that the tug is occurring from. In my case, that tug was straight up and out. Now, I had had wedgies before, but never like this. That fabric got yanked so far up my ass that I thought it would need to be surgically removed. I kind of hoped that the dancers would see that the first attempt hadn’t worked, have a good laugh, and move about their business. Unfortunately, they now saw it as a challenge.

As the girls tugged and pulled and as I held back the quickly developing sobs of agony, the elastic slowly but surely began to pull away and my boxers were being ripped. The bad news for me is that they weren’t satisfied with just tearing up my underwear, they wanted them entirely off. As a result the yanking, tugging, pulling, screaming, and general overall pain continued for a few more minutes before they finally got them entirely off. As I wiped the tears from my eyes I thanked them for all of the fun and laughed with them as a way to mask the pain. They responded with another pinch to my increasingly sensitive nipples which made me hate them – and Jackass.

Late that night/early the next morning as I was passing out onto my bed at the Casino Queen hotel, I laughed to myself because I had had such a good time. Most of the people I was with were still partying, but I was done and needed sleep. I normally sleep in my boxers, but since that wasn’t an option anymore I just slept/passed out fully clothed.

As I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone heaving in the hotel toilet, I realized a couple of things. The first thing I realized was that I felt like absolute crap and that the pounding I heard was not someone knocking at the door but instead was the throbbing in my head. The second thing I realized was that I was really thirsty but had no water to drink and wasn’t about to go into the bathroom with Mr. Icantholdmyliquor yakking away in there. The next thing I realized was that my chest was sore. If it was an internal soreness I could understand because I’m sure that I’d polished off an entire pack of cigarettes that night and some coughing and wheezing was to be expected. But this was an external soreness. This was different.

As time has gone on I’ve been clued into what all occurred that night which allows me to relate this story now. On that morning though, my memory was cloudy at best so when I took off my shirt to see why my chest was sore I was astounded at what I saw. Along with more Sharpie drawings and sayings than should ever be allowed by law, I saw something that almost made me join the upchucker currently lying on the bathroom floor.

Have you ever seen a bloody nipple? How about two? Now, have you ever seen two bloody nipples surrounded by bruising and welts and handprints and god-knows-what else? Well, I have - and they were mine. Puker be damned, I ran into the bathroom to get a better look in the mirror at the damage that had been done. The dancers had done a serious number on me and I was in pain. It was a thorough beating and one that I will never forget. It wasn’t the dancers’ fault though. Yes, they beat the shit out of me. Yes, they should have seen me wincing and maybe lightened up. Yes, they should have not chased me down when I ran away from them and cowered in the corner whimpering “no more, please. No more.” But, they didn’t and that’s okay because they were just doing their job. They were doing the job that someone asked them to do. The one I do blame is Jackass.

I blamed him when it was happening. I blamed him when I woke up that next day and I discovered what had happened. I blamed him when I spent the better part of the next day washing Sharpie off of me using rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. I also blamed him when Carol got home from work the next day and I had to ask her to be ever so kind and wash the Sharpie off of the areas that I couldn’t see or reach (she’s so cool). I even blamed him two weeks later when I was on my honeymoon walking down the sandy beaches of Cancun with nipples that were still bruised and sensitive to any contact with anything.

But I will have my payback.

Jackass will one day have a bachelor party of his own. And while we may not still get the same VIP treatment as we did for mine, I know that we will eventually end up at a gentlemen’s club at which time I will have my revenge. I don’t care if I have to sell my car, take out a second mortgage on the house, or sell my soul to the devil himself, I will pay whatever money I have to ensure that Jackass “enjoys” his bachelor party as much as I “enjoyed” mine. I might even look for the same girls and see if they’ll come back for a night.

A piece of advice Chris – wear cheap underwear.

Thanks for reading

Waiting to Exhale

Today’s story consists of much toilet humor. I’m not talking about poopie and pee-pee jokes, but actual toilet humor (at least that’s my intent).So, if you don’t want to read about that or get to know WAY too much about me, please discontinue reading at this point. I promise more good and wholesome Ben stories are on the way, but today is not that day.

For anyone still reading I want to let you know that I pride myself on being able to out wait anybody in a bathroom stall. It is a personal preference of mine that when I have to do that thing in the bathroom that everyone does and most everyone is ashamed of (pooping – not the other thing) I want it to be quiet. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. As a result I often spend a good amount of time in a public bathroom stall just sitting there with my pants around my knees while I wait for everyone else in there to clear out leaving me with my required silence. To pass the time I will usually go through my phone and delete all of my texts and voice messages, play Tetris, and delete the 10 or so pictures that I always seem to take of the inside of my pants pocket. That usually gives me ample time for the bathroom to clear out so that I do my business.

Usually

Now, I’ve been known to spend upwards of 20 minutes in a stall before while waiting for my silence. At my current job I really have no defined break time and, quite honestly, if I was gone from my desk for 3-4 hours at a time, very few people (if anyone) would question my absence. As a result, I am free to take as much time as necessary to ensure my restroom solitude before returning to my daily routine of Facebook updates and taste tests.

At the job prior to this, I was once interrupted in the middle of my fecal act because I had been away from my desk for more than 10 minutes without letting anyone know where I was. Once my location had been determined, I was asked to “hurry up” because I had a customer waiting on the phone. Yes, I’m serious. Obviously, due to my time constraints there it took a little more planning to locate an empty bathroom at a given time. But I was smart enough to know that the guys on the floor all went on break at the same time. If I waited until their break was over, I could go down to the first floor, use their bathroom, and not be bothered for the entire 10 minutes that I was allotted by Big Brother. Or, sometimes I would use the executive bathroom on my floor because the TP was softer and there was mouthwash on the counter. It made me feel fancy.

Here is where it gets interesting.

My first grown-up job was for a payroll company out of West County in St. Louis. I didn’t like it there and did a horrible job as a result. Oddly enough, I was able to stay on for four and a half years (they tried firing me after three but I convinced them otherwise) and actually learned a lot. Now, this company was located in an office complex in which there was one bathroom per sex per floor. As a result, the bathroom belonged to multiple companies and it was impossible to determine who would be in there and when. Since I worked around the front desk of my department, I was able to see what guys were leaving the office and when so I was often able to get their schedule down and plan mine around it. The problem was that there was also another door in which guys could sneak out and really throw off my timing. Additionally, I had the guys from the other offices on our floor to contend with, so it was really a crapshoot every day.

On this particular day I hadn’t seen any men leaving the office for quite some time and, as my stomach decided, it was getting to be time to go. When I got into the bathroom I was lucky enough to find no one else in there so I went into the stall, shut the door, and prepared myself for my appointment. As I sat down though, I heard the door open and someone else come in. No big deal as I said before, I pride myself in being able to out wait anyone in a bathroom stall. At that point in the technological age all my cell phone did was make phone calls, so I was stuck just sitting there with nothing to do. Eventually, the man finished his urinary donation and went to the sink to wash his hands. As he was turning off the water, I prepared myself mentally for a quick release in case someone came in soon after him. Well, I didn’t even need to wait that long because as the first gentleman was drying his hands, the bathroom door opened and not one, but two guys walked in. One of them went to the urinal and the other went into a stall. The guy at the urinal finished up quickly, washed his hands, and left but the gentleman that had gone into the stall was being eerily quiet.

I had another waiter.

At this point I had been waiting in the stall for about 5 minutes. While some may say that it’s ridiculous and that I should just go ahead and go, you must understand that this isn’t something that I choose to do, it is (or was) a necessity. If I’ve ever had OCD about something, it was that. Back in those days I was hesitant to even gamble on a fart in case I lost and it came out loud and strong. As a result, public bathroom trips were sometimes a painstaking process. They became even more painstaking when you had another waiter that you were competing against.

For the next couple of minutes, there was a lot of posturing going on. We both realized that the other was waiting for them to finish and leave so that we could go about our own business, but we also (as all waiters are smart enough to do) realized that the other guy was a waiter and this was going to be a standoff. It was all going to come down to who wanted it more. To taunt one another, we would trade the occasional forced cough for two reasons: 1) to let the other guy know you were still there, and 2) to possibly make him think that you were coughing to cover some other noise. If you were coughing to cover another noise, then maybe you were on the verge of giving in and the other guy would soon be able doubly enjoy his pooh both for the victory and for the release.

This game of fake coughing and silence went on for about another 10 minutes making my total bathroom time 15 minutes or so. I began to think that maybe I’d be missed at my desk after awhile, but then realized that I hated it there and didn’t give a crap no matter what they thought. I wasn’t worried about my health either as it wasn’t as if it was painful to not go. The thing with waiters is that we know roundabout when we’re going to have to go so we pick our moment not because we HAVE to go, but because we could go at any time. Soon, 15 minutes turned to 16, then 17, and then 18 and I realized I was dealing with a pro.

I’ve waited out the best of them. I’ve waited out janitors and I’ve waited out Executives (you can always tell the Executives because of their willingness to fart out loud in the bathroom and their nice shoes). I’ve waited through sounds and smells that you can’t even imagine and I choose not to remember. The trick to waiting is knowing that you’re in for a battle and knowing your limitations. Apparently, the other guy had limitations that he had to adhere to because all of a sudden I heard him cough - but the cough wasn’t alone. Along with the cough came the sound of defeat. It was the sound of being only second best on that given day. It was the sound of that gaseous emission that there is no turning back from.

He was gonna poop

I’ll spare you the details of the rest of his time in the stall, but I will let you know that he sounded both very relieved and very pissed. No waiter likes to lose (I’m guessing – I’ve never lost) and to do so in front of another waiter must be humiliating. As he tore open the stall door and reached the sink, he turned the water on with the same great force and anger as he next pulled the paper towels out to dry his hands. He was angry, but I didn’t care. I had won and my time had now arrived to do my business.

Or so I thought.\

As he opened the bathroom door to leave, I heard him greet two more gentlemen at the door with a “Hi” and the tone of “we’ve got a waiter in there and he’s good – maybe the best I’ve ever seen.” As the two new guys walked in, they luckily both approached the urinals and did their business there. When they were done, however, they didn’t leave the bathroom. They stood at the sink, washed their hands, and then began talking about work. For a long time.

Now, sitting on a toilet for 20 plus minutes isn’t hard to do. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. The problem is that once your body is in a certain position for a certain amount of time, it begins to expect the results that the position usually delivers. As a result, my body now told me that it was time to go.

For the next five minutes or so, while the two guys outside of my stall were bitching about raises and bonuses and PTO and 401k, I was inside of my stall holding my breath and clenching my butt cheeks together in an attempt to not do what so needed to be done. At one point I gambled on a fart or two and thankfully won, but that only made the situation worse. Finally, FINALLY, the two guys left the bathroom (I think they heard my hushed chanting of “leave, f*ckers, leave”) and I was free to do my stuff. At this point I figure that I had probably been in that bathroom stall on that toilet for close to 30 minutes (a new personal record). I had won the battle AND the war and it was now time to get back to work.


This is where it gets funny

If you’ve ever sat on a toilet for 30 minutes or so, you realize that it’s not very comfortable. You also realize that the padding that is available on couches, love seats, recliners, etc. is there for more than one purpose. The first purpose is to provide comfort as you relax in said piece of furniture. The second purpose is to prevent your body from resting on any type of hard surface that may cut off circulation say, oh, from your ass all the way down to your feet.

As I stood up to pull up my pants, the realization of that second purpose became all too clear. The second I stood up my legs realized that they had no blood flow in them and hadn’t for the past 30 minutes, so they decided to rebel against me and just collapse. Luckily, I have cat-like reflexes and was able to grab the toilet paper dispenser on the way down so that I didn’t hit my head on anything. Instead of just resting there until I got feeling back in my legs, however, I decided that I had been gone from my desk long enough and that I really needed to get back (must have been the blood rushing from my brain to fill my legs). Anyway, with the circulation slowly returning, I was able to stand up and walk to the sink, but not very well. The best way I can describe this style of walk is that it looked like a marionette with the wobbly legs bending anytime the puppeteer touches them to the ground. It wasn’t natural and it wasn’t coordinated, but I was walking.

As I realized how ridiculous I looked and the even more ridiculous reason that I did look like that, I began laughing. Not just normal laughing, but hysterical laughing. So, if you can picture walking into a bathroom and seeing some maniac laughing hysterically while “walking” around on legs that look like they’ve been borrowed from someone else for the day, you can pretty much picture what our regional manager, who was in town for a visit, saw when he stepped through the door.

He asked me if I was okay but I couldn’t stop laughing. I got out enough of a “yes” to prevent him from calling the paramedics, but let’s just say that the company rolled out a health plan that focused on drug addiction soon afterwards. Eventually, after standing at the sink long enough to get most of the feeling back in my legs and finally stop laughing, I washed my hands and went back to my desk. It had been 35 minutes since I left my desk and not one person asked me where I had been or if I was okay. The regional manager gave me the kind of smile that you would give a mentally deranged homeless person every time they asked you for some spare change whenever he walked by, but other than that, no one cared.

I wanted to and should have shared my story with them at that time because, honestly, without my reenactment of “the walk”, I can’t do this story justice. Maybe I knew at that time that 10 years later I’d have a blog and could write about it then. Maybe I knew that if there are still waiters out there today, they could pull this story up on their iPhone or Blackberry to kill the time while waiting. Either way, I need to stop writing because nature is calling and there is no telling how long I’m gonna be in there.

Thanks for reading.

More Randumb Thoughts

It’s a randumb thoughts day.

Lilo is on her way to jail where, due to overcrowding, she’ll only end up serving about 23 days of her 90 day sentence. 23 days is still too long for me to be without her.

In a related story, the LAPD, E! Entertainment, and TMZ will be forced to lay off half of their staff due to a major lack of car chases, drug busts, domestic disputes, and general hot drunken girl debauchery. They will be called back to action in around 23 days.

I really need to start proof reading my blogs better.

I was a little nervous about posting yesterday’s blog about not being gay as I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about my feelings towards the gay community. Just to make it perfectly clear I don’t care what you are, who you love, who you go to bed with, who you wake up with, or what you did with the hours in-between. As long as a person doesn’t hurt me, my family, or my friends, then I consider them a friend to me. Except for the gays. I can’t stand them.

That was a joke.

I really enjoy taking my friends money while playing poker. I enjoy it even more when I realize that I drank way too much and should not have been winning at all. And, I enjoy it even more than that when I look in my wallet 4 days later, find another $10, and remember that I had won that and put it away so that I wouldn’t gamble it that night. Unfortunately, I rarely win and this smack talk will be thrown in my face at the next poker night as I leave the table with empty pockets and a mouth full of crow.

I have decided that I am no longer going to post comments to other people’s Facebook posts. I will still publish my own posts which people are free to comment on, but I am out of the commenting on other’s posts business. Frankly, my comments are usually funnier, wittier, and more well thought out than the original poster and it’s getting to be a little embarrassing how I continually upstage the author. If this upsets you, blame yourself for not being funnier.

James Van Der Beek and I are now Facebook friends. I think that after a few months of messaging back and forth (I’m still awaiting his reply to the 17 messages that I’ve sent him) I’m going to suggest that he get together all of the cast from “Varsity Blues” and we recreate the house party where Billy Bob pukes in the washing machine. Or we could recreate the one where Tweeter stole the cop car (was that the same party?). Oh, and then I’ll ask Ali Larter to don the whipped cream bikini for me. It will be a smashing good time.

Hopefully if that works out, we could then get the Dawson’s Creek gang back together too and have a party where we talk about our feelings and discuss things that are way too mature for a high schooler to be thinking about and other boring things that would make me want to drown myself in that creek. Maybe I’ll just grab Katie Holmes, tell her that her husband is a moron, use the same head games he used on her to make her fall in love with me, and head back to the Varsity Blues party. Maybe Miss Davis will stop by and do a little dance for us.

My co-workers suck. Not one of them reads my blog. I feel safe in writing this because not one of them will actually see this to be able to be offended by it. You all suck! I would love for one of them to call me out on it : ) I’ll start the clock….now!

Saw Toy Story 3 again with Ben this weekend. I didn’t cry this time but it was a really close call.

Speaking of going to the movies, I wanted to make you all aware of the AWESOME deal that Wehrenberg Theatres has on Sunday afternoons. Adult tickets are $7.25 while kids get in for only $7.00. Yep, they’re a whole .25 cheaper. Why bother? After tickets and snacks from the concession stand, Ben and I got to spend a nice afternoon together for the low low price of $30.00.

From now on, if it isn’t playing at the Lincoln, we’re waiting for the DVD.

I just got an email from my sister chastising me for my love of Lindsay Lohan. She mentioned that Robert Shapiro, the same morally upstanding guy who defended OJ Simpson, had quit as Lindsay’s attorney. My only defense to that is that he must not have trusted himself around her bewitching good looks and, therefore, had to resign as counsel to protect both his business and his heart. I can’t see any other reasons.

Eh, I’m done. I really think I wrote this entire thing because I wanted to make the joke about not liking gay people. And truthfully, it wasn’t that funny. I guess that’s why no one pays me to write this shit.

Just got a call from Carol informing me that Ben just said “I don’t have a tail, I have a wiener.”

That’s my boy

Thanks for reading

Not Gay

Every time I scan through the pictures on my cell phone I am reminded of one clear cut medically proven fact – I am not gay. I’m not claiming joy or depression at that fact nor am I passing judgment on those who are, those who aren’t, or those who aren’t quite sure. I am just stating the fact that, due to my doctor’s due diligence, it has been medically determined that I am not gay.

Around ten years or so ago I moved with my buddy Chris into his newly bought condo in Bellevegas, IL. In retrospect, I guess that I wasn’t sure the true nature of my intentions regarding moving in with Chris. He was, after all, my best friend and I liked him a lot. In addition, I had not been to the doctor yet to run the appropriate tests to determine that I, in fact, wasn’t gay so who knows what would have happened had I not gone. I’m pretty sure that I just wanted to move out of my parent’s house though.

It was also at this time that I started experiencing sleeplessness and severe night sweats. I had always had problems with waking up multiple times in the middle of the night, but it was getting really bad at this point and, combined with the addition of the night sweats and a loss of appetite, I began to worry a little about my health. Plus, the night sweats really worried me because now that I was living with my buddy in a bachelor pad I might want to have a girl (or guy – hadn’t been to the doctor yet) over to stay the night and, provided we did any sleeping at all, I would not want for her/him to wake up in a puddle of my sweat. After a few weeks of this and a conversation with my parents (Dad thought I was just homesick, but I think he was missing me instead), I decided to go to the doctor and find out what was going on.

After the normal waiting and waiting (and waiting) for the doctor to enter the examination room he finally arrived, sat down, avoided eye-contact at all costs, opened up my file, and asked what was going on. I was used to this approach as he has never been overly friendly and has had what I determine to be a dislike for me ever since I had gone in with a fake back injury in an attempt to get out of some work at my payroll job. After I started going over my symptoms, I noticed that his ears perked up a little and his eyes actually showed a little bit of interest in what I was saying. I’m assuming that he was fearing the worst (gay), because he quickly took out his stethoscope and checked my heart rate and my breathing. He then looked in my ears and down my throat and gave my lymph nodes a little groping before he moved on the next part of his very thorough examination - the questions.

My doctor, being an older man, doesn’t seem to grasp a lot of things in today’s world. I’ve been going to him for a while and he just doesn’t seem to embrace the modern times and the changes in society. I’m not saying that he is fearful of gay people, but I’m also not saying that he would have a welcoming party if he found out that a gay couple was moving into his neighborhood. I know that it’s a rash judgment to make of someone who I only encounter whenever I have the flu or whenever I need to be felt up while I cough, but something in his voice told me that whatever answer I gave him to his next question was going to solidify his opinion of me for the entire time I was under his care.

After clearing his throat but not being able to shake the nervous tremble, he asked “are you gay?”

My first reaction had been to laugh. I had never been gay. I had never thought about being gay. Sure, I had done some things that might be misconstrued as “gay”, but they were never done with homosexual intent. I was fairly sure that I liked women and only women, but on the other hand, I had never really thought much about it. I mean, I had never had the urge to kiss a man, but I could definitely pick an attractive man out of a lineup. Then, I began to think of all of the men that, if I had to, I would label as attractive. Was it too many? Did the doctor know something that I didn’t? Did he hear something in my lungs that made me gay? Was I a homosexual man living the life of a straight man and I didn’t even know it? I began to panic a little. What if the sleeplessness and the night sweats were a result of being gay and I just didn’t know it? If his prognosis was that I was, in fact, gay, would I still be able to date women? I mean, I really, really, really, liked girls (still do) and I would be super bummed if the doctor told me that I had to start dating men. Wait. I liked women. This is insane. It was this line of thinking that led me to my answer of “No.”

Happy with my answer, I thought that we were through the rough part and maybe he’d now draw some blood or something to determine the true cause of my symptoms. Unfortunately for me, he had something else in mind.

He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I have to ask you this one more time: Are you a homosexual?”

What did he know that I didn’t?!!? He had only checked my heart rate, breathing, ears, and throat. Did I breathe gay? Did my heart beat to more of a rhythm than a straight man’s heart? I’m not even going to go into what he thought he might have seen in my throat because that was NOT an option. I liked women and knew that I liked them and whatever this old fart thought about the possibility of me being gay and whatever illnesses that might be a result of that are…

Oh.

Suddenly, my senses came back and I realized why he was asking these questions of me and why he had the trepidation in his voice. It was then, after having to clear my throat but not being able to shake the nervous tremble that I answered “No, I’m not gay.”

Luckily for me, that was enough for my doctor. He quickly scribbled something in my file, said I’d be fine, left the office, and that was it. He didn’t take any blood, he didn’t order me out for x-rays, and he didn’t have me go next door to the hospital for a cat scan. In fact, he did nothing. I’m still not sure what was wrong with me that caused the sleeplessness and the night sweats. I’m still not sure why nothing more was even mentioned or why more questions weren’t asked of me. What I am sure of though, is that I’m not gay. I’m saying that as a negative or positive thing, I’m just stating a fact. I’m also not declaring it based on my line of reasoning from above or my love of women (well, just one woman these days). Instead, I’m basing it on what is forever written in my medical file and boxed in right in the middle of the page. Right in the middle, plain as day and medically proven based on the repetition of one very tough question are the two words that were so prominent that I had to take a picture of with my cell phone:


Not Gay


I was so relieved.

So is my wife.

Thanks for reading

Heavy Hearted

I write this today with a heavy heart. I got some bad news this morning that has devastated me to my very core and although I will eventually be fine, it is going to take some time to recover from this. This morning in the car on the way to daycare – sigh – Ben informed me that I give him too many kisses.

I’ve had my heart broken before but never like this.

I’ve always worked under the idea that with Ben being a boy there would come a day when I’d have to stop giving him hugs and kisses. As a result, I always make sure to hug him extra hard and extra long so that when that time comes he’ll always be able to remember the great hugs that daddy used to give him. But he still likes the hugs and apparently it’s only the kisses that bother him.

It started out with me putting Ben in his car seat this morning and, once I got him buckled in, giving him his morning dose of rapid-fire kisses to his forehead and cheeks until he laughs and calls me silly. As I kissed him over and over I waited for the giggle but it never came. I figured maybe he was just tired and wasn’t into it so I stopped and got ready to close the door. Before I could get it closed though, I heard the words that will haunt me for a long time – if not forever: “Daddy, you give too many kisses.”

Ugh

I closed the door in a shocked silence and went around to the driver’s side with a pain in my heart and a buzzing in my head. Surely he hadn’t just said that. Maybe I misheard him and what he actually said was “Daddy, you are the freakin’ man!” As I sat down I asked him what he had said just in case I had heard it wrong. His reply, again, was “Daddy, you give too many kisses.”

Realizing that he is 3 and maybe there’s a simpler meaning to the heavy statement he had just uttered, I began to probe a little further.

Me: Daddy gives you too many kisses?

Ben: Yeah,

Me: Too many kisses this morning?

Ben: Too many kisses.

Me: Just this morning?

Ben: No, you give too many kisses.

Me: Do you not like kissing me before you go ni-night?

Ben: No

Me: Do you like me kissing you when we play?

Ben: No

Me: Does Mommy give you too many kisses?

Ben: I like Mommy’s kisses

Me: But you don’t like Daddy’s?

Ben: No

Me: Do you ever want Daddy to kiss you?

Ben: No, that’s okay.

Me: It’s okay that I give you kisses?

Ben: No. No kisses.

Me: But Mommy can still give you kisses?

Ben: Yeah!

Me: But no more kisses from Daddy?

Ben: No thank you.

It was at this point that my heart was broken into a million tiny pieces which I’m sure will eventually fall out onto the family room floor and I will step on in the dark in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom. They’ll be laying there right next to Ben’s toys. The toys that he gave me a thank you kiss for after I gave them to him.

On the bright side, he is only 3 and this (hopefully) is just a mood he was in this morning.

I hope.

I can’t even think of anything funny to add to this. It is a sad, sad day in Scottsville.

Living on a Wing and a Praying Mantis

Life never ceases to amaze me. From the actions and reactions of everyday people to the natural evolution of this beautiful planet we live on, there is always something out there that I have never seen or heard before. Being a bit of a curious guy, I always enjoy these new experiences as not only does it add to my bank of useless knowledge but it also makes me look forward to what else, beyond this current experience, is out there. I live in Belleville, IL and, outside of a few vacations or business trips don’t get to see a lot of what’s out in the world. Hell, I haven’t even experienced all that Belleville has to offer yet. Given that, I am constantly dumbfounded by other countries and cultures and how they differ from us. Good or bad, it takes all kinds to move the world and we are but small pegs in the grand scheme of things.

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to meet one of those pegs – and it changed my life forever.

I wasn’t looking to make any new acquaintances, especially none that would touch me so deeply. I was simply walking the 4 blocks from my office building to the parking garage as I do every day at 4:30. With the exception of the sweltering heat, yesterday’s walk was no different than the one the day before and the day before that. I left my building, walked down the street, crossed the street where I always cross it, crossed the next intersection where I always cross it, walked up the two flights of stairs that I always walk up, and sauntered down to my car in the vicinity in which I always park it. It was a standard afternoon.

I didn’t notice him at first, as once I entered my car I was focused on putting the face on my stereo, getting the car started, and cranking the AC. The air coming out of the vents was a little warm at first, but any air movement felt good after the miserable trek I had taken just to make it to my car. As I looked in my rearview mirror to see how much sweat had accumulated on my ever-expanding forehead, I saw him for the first time.

I wouldn’t have noticed him at all were it not for the slight movement he made. It wasn’t even much of a movement, but I caught it out of the corner of my eye and I had to stare back at what I saw fixed on the hood of my car. Alone, outside, and taking refuge in a public parking garage on this blistering hot day, he stared back at me partially in fear and partially in defiance. He was planted on the hood of my Buick (quite a large hood at that) which protected him from both vehicular and foot traffic in the garage. He didn’t belong in that garage and he knew it, but where else could he go?

Searching my soul for what to do next, I came up with a few options: First, I could get out of my car, remove him from the hood, walk him to safety and ensure that he would survive to see another glorious day. Or, I could put my car in reverse, drive home as fast as I could, and see if he could hold on the entire way. While option one would have been good for my soul, option two sounded like a lot more fun.

As I slowly backed out of my parking spot (I didn’t want the game to end too quickly), I saw the surprise and the fear in eyes as he hunkered down against the hood for the wild ride that he now realized he would be facing. He didn’t scream or protest, but instead just sat there holding on for what could be his last possible ride. He was at my mercy and he knew it.

As I exited the parking garage on the downward spiral ramp, I drove a little faster than I normally do just to test his reaction. Half of me expected him to jump off and run away to safety, which I would not have blamed him for in the least. The other half of me, however, really wanted him to try and hang on. I wanted to see what he was made of and I wanted him to want the same for himself. Thankfully, he was up to the challenge. As we spun down the spiral to the ground floor, I could see him clench his arms and legs tighter against the car to offset the forces that were trying to pull him off. He wavered, but never faltered. This was going to be fun.

Once I exited the garage itself, I was stuck in city traffic for a few blocks prior to entering the highway. I got a few funny looks from pedestrians and other drivers as my competitor was not small and actually garnered a lot of attention. He was very noticeable hanging on to my car and fading in the heat. I thought for certain that the heat generated from being there while traversing these city streets would make him give up and escape for some shade, but his perseverance was strong and his will was rock solid. We were going to settle this on the highway.

I approached the highway at about 45 MPH which looked to rattle our hero, but not shake him. Seeing that he was not going down easily, I quickly pushed it to 75. I had but a small stretch of highway to shake him before I had to exit and resume my trek along the roads of East St Louis. The speed limit would be slower there along with many stop signs and stop lights. Any advantage that I was going to get was going to be on this highway and I had to pounce on my opportunity.

I got the car to 75 and was giggling to myself in both amusement and anticipation as the increasing speed made him hunker down even more. Of course, at 75 MPH hunkering down can only get you so far. At one point while driving fast and also changing lanes, I saw both arms and a leg get lifted off of the car so that there was only one leg fixing him to my rapidly moving automobile. Amazingly enough, he quickly gathered himself and resumed his grip with all four appendages. I thought that one more lane change would do the trick, but at that moment I looked up and realized that traffic was really slow in front of me and I had to slam on the brakes in order to avoid an accident. Even through the slamming of brakes and sudden stoppage of the car, my rival held on with all of his might. I was impressed.

I entered East St Louis knowing that he would get a break here for awhile, but after that I had good stretch of Route 15 in which I could get the car up to 80 and really see what he was made of. While I was driving through East Saint he would hold on and when I stopped he would adjust himself accordingly to ensure the best possible positioning for the remainder of our trip. Soon enough, we had passed through town and were descending a hill towards the last stoplight before I really let him have it. Once we reached the stoplight he looked out, saw the situation before him, and looked back at me. For a moment, we connected. We both knew what was in front of us and what was behind us. There was no turning back now as we had come too far in our journey. I was going to give it all I had and so was he. And despite the fact that I was trying to throw his body off of the hood of my car by driving speeds in excess of the speed limit and probably therefore rendering him lifeless, we had developed a mutual respect for each other.

As the light turned green I hit the gas as hard as I could and we tore off of the line. There was no traffic in front of me, so unless there were cops watching or large debris on the road, I had about a mile and half of pure unadulterated speeding and swerving in an attempt to throw him off of my car. Within seconds, I had reached 65 MPH and was swerving from this lane to the next in hopes that the changes in direction would affect his grip and he’d end up tumbling across the hot summer pavement. Nothing. I increased my speed to 75 and kept swerving, but still he wouldn’t budge. I saw far ahead that the stoplight was green thereby ensuring that by the time I got there it would be red and I would have to stop. This was my last chance. I punched it to 85 and was flying down the road. I looked into his beady little eyes and saw that he was scared, but determined. It was at that point that I realized that he wasn’t going anywhere. This poor, misplaced being was not going to let go and at that point I realized that I really didn’t want him to. I began to slow down.

Given the circumstances that presented themselves at that time, I had given him all I had and he had survived. I found that I respected what he did. He didn’t know me and he didn’t know my car, yet he chose to sit on my hood on that fateful day. When I started the car he could’ve gotten down, but he chose to stay there. I think he wanted a challenge and I think he wanted me to present it to him.

As I slowed down so that I wouldn’t rear end the 7 cars in front of me at the stop light, I knew that my speed wouldn’t be increasing for the rest of the trip. Sure, I’d drive the speed limit, but maybe I’d drive just a little bit under to ensure the safety of my new friend. We still had to go through Belleville, but not much of it. Even though he would never say so, I knew he was tired from his struggle and I wanted to make him feel at ease. From that point on, it was my job to take care of him and nurse him back to health. He would live to ride another day.

Once we got to my driveway, I pulled in and exited the car. He was still on my hood, but was starting to move around a little bit in an attempt to get himself oriented. I grabbed my keys to unlock the door to the house, but couldn’t help myself from talking to him. “Dude,” I said “that was one helluva ride. If you need to get back to St. Louis, I’m headed back tomorrow morning. You can tag along if you want.”

He didn’t say anything, but gave me a look as if to say “thank you – for everything.”

This morning as I got into my car, I was reminded of my journey home yesterday. I didn’t see my friend, but maybe it was for the best. Maybe we were meant to spend one special moment together and live with the memories and the lessons. Maybe fate stepped in and said that at that point in time we needed each other, but then we would be separated for life or longer. Or maybe, just maybe, the birds that have a nest in our neighbor’s tree ate him. Personally, I’d like to think it’s a bit of all three.

Thanks for reading.

Don’t-mess-with-me-or-you’ll-feel-the-wrath-of-my-numerous-superpowers Christmas

Hi. My name is Kevin. Every kid has one Christmas that he’ll never forget, and mine happened last year when I was 15 during what I like to call the “Don’t-mess-with-me-or-you’ll-feel-the-wrath-of-my-numerous-superpowers Christmas.” You see, ever since last Christmas when Grandma got me the EZ Bake Oven (my old one had to be retired due to overuse), I have been sitting around making delicious delectable goodies for myself and my imaginary friend Roger carefully contemplating my requests for next year. I knew that the EZ Bake Oven was a fun (and well used) present, but I was getting older now and needed to make some necessary changes in my life. As I licked the icing off of my 7th cupcake of the afternoon, I ran my fingers with the remaining icing on them through my kick-ass Great Clips haircut and that’s when it hit me: I needed to change who I am.

Now, I wasn’t thinking about going on a diet or joining a gym, as that seemed like a lot of work. What I was thinking of was obtaining superpowers. I figured that with random superpowers I would be able to lift heavy things, fly around the world, and use my heat vision to warm up my EZ Bake Oven that much faster. Also, with my new superpowers I would be able to use my light saber or nun chucks to finally make Colby Richards shut his stupid mouth about how many deserts I take in the lunch line. So help me God if I hear “Hey Lunchbox! There’s a 5 piece limit on the pie” one more time, I’m going to tell on him and get him sent to detention. Of course, I watch a lot of TV and I’ve seen the Breakfast Club a bunch of times and don’t want him to be able to have that much fun on a Saturday, so I probably would never tell on him. But, with my new superpowers, I would be able to do some kick-ass ninja like stuff to him that would make him cry like I do every night before I go to bed. Yeah, I needed to get some superpowers.

I wasn’t sure exactly what superpowers I should ask for, so I went into my room. By the way, my room has an awesome “No Girls” sign on the door. My younger brother says that’s because no girl other than Mom has ever been in there, but he’s wrong. When I had my second grade birthday party at the house, the girl in my class that showed up walked in thinking it was the bathroom but she was wrong. She said the smell confused her, but either way there has been a girl in my room, so screw you Owen. You don’t know anything! Anyway, when I got in my room I got out all of my Dungeons and Dragons cards and looked to see what powers would be most beneficial to me and my needs. After a few hours of studying, a few cupcakes, and a nap, I finally figured out exactly what I wanted and made my Christmas list for Santa.

The list looked like this

1) Ability to fly
2) X ray Vision
3) Awesome Ninja skills
4) A friend
5) Another EZ Bake Oven
6) A disguise of some sort (preferably a mask as they are very deceptive)
7) Weapons of war
8) A slow painful death for Colby Richards and everyone else involved with the “eat all of the pie in the lunch line before Kevin gets there” day.
Seeing that it was only June, I had awhile to wait before Christmas (and all of the delicious Christmas cookies) got there. In the meantime, I waited patiently by creating new sugary goodness in my new EZ Bake oven (the one Grandma got me for Christmas had broken again do to overuse – they really need to make those more durable as I use mine at least 4 times a day) and playing D&D with my imaginary friend Roger. As Christmas time approached, I got more and more excited and about my eventual super powered rampage on Colby Richards and all of the other guys who thought it would be funny to get everyone to sit on the opposite side of the school bus from me to “even out the weight.” This was going to be super awesome!

On Christmas morning, I couldn’t wait until I got downstairs to see what Santa had brought me. Mom told me a couple of years ago that Santa wasn’t real, but I’m not too sure about that. I’ve also been told that Star Wars wasn’t real, but people only think that because it happened a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. We have no way to prove that they weren’t real because they’re all dead. The only way to get scientific evidence, I suppose, would be if a piece of the Death Star were to land on earth, but that probably won’t happen. Either that or if Bigfoot ends up being a Wookie. Either way, I guess.

Anyway, when I got downstairs I saw that Santa had come the previous night (see, told you he’s real) and I ran right over to my presents. As I sat down, out of breath due to the 10 foot jog from the stairs to the tree, I began to rip open my presents with squeals of glee. I can’t tell you exactly what I got because that would ruin my disguises, but I can show you the above picture to give you a little preview of the awesomeness that I have become. I tried using this costume to sneak up and kick Colby Richard’s butt, but he said that he knew I was there due to the wheezing and the smell of moldy cheese. After my broken nose heals, I’m gonna try it again.


Editors Note: If you can't see the picture I've attached to this, the story will sound even dumber than it actually is.

The 7 Reasons Why Kathy "Beat"Me

Okay, here it is. Last Friday, Kathy Morgan and I played 9 holes of golf at Elmwood Golf Course in Belleville, IL and according to the final score on the scorecard, she beat me. It wasn’t a dominating effort on either one of our parts, but as the final scorecard proved, Kathy shot a 63 and I shot a 65. After talking so much trash and building up my inevitable victory the way that I did, I figured the gentlemanly thing to do at this point was to tuck my tale between my legs, congratulate Kathy on a hard fought victory, and be extra careful not to let myself talk myself into as humiliating a situation as I now find myself. I want to be the bigger person here.

That is, until I read this: http://adventuresofpippip.wordpress.com/2010/07/09/the-match-of-the-year/

You did well until the end Kathy. If I had won you know I would have taken the high road, but since you had to get that little dig in, I’ve been left with no choice but to tell the real story and let everyone know:

The 7 Reasons Why Kathy “Beat” Me

1) First, as any golfer knows, a tee-time is when the first golfer is taking their first shot. The tee time is not some random time where you can start golfing anywhere around there and still be within the good graces of the golf gods. I tee time is an exact time. Hence, when I set up the tee time for 9:00, I arrived at the golf course at 8:40 in order to get my bag ready, get the cart prepared, settle in, and get my game face on. By 9:00 I was ready to golf but there was still no sign of Kathy. At 9:07 I received a text from Kathy letting me know that she had just gotten there. This change in my tee off time flustered me as I was obviously golfing with someone who had no respect for the game. This threw me off of my game.

2) Being the gentlemen that I am, I drove the cart to Kathy’s car to prevent her from having to lug her golf bag all the way down to where I was seated. As Kathy was leaning into her car, something bright and pink caught my eye and I realized what it was. Kathy was wearing bright pink underwear which was sticking WAY out of the top of her shorts. It was so bright, in fact, that it partially blinded me – something that I would have trouble recuperating from for the next 3 hours. This threw me off of my game.

3) As we got to the first hole (with Kathy’s underwear still blinding me), I went to the tee and took my first shot. Kathy was very accurate in her description of this as the ball went straight up in the air and to the right. At this point (and only because the course was empty and there was no one waiting on us) I decided to take a mulligan. For anyone who is unaware of what a mulligan is, it’s a BS rule for people to pretend that a horrible shot did not happen and then take it over. I love this rule. I didn’t want to take it on my first shot, but I also didn’t want to start off on a bad foot. Kathy immediately questioned my mulligan (after, I might add, declaring that she had no idea how to keep score in golf) which threw me off my game. Still, after the first hole, I was winning.

4) On the third hole, I began feeling a little woozy. I didn’t understand as I had eaten breakfast, was drinking Gatorade, and was in generally good health. I figured it would pass and got out of the cart to take my tee shot. At that point, I stumbled a little bit, fell down, and was greeted with riotous laughter from Kathy. Apparently, she had spiked me Gatorade with LSD in an attempt to throw me off my game. It worked.

5) On the fourth hole, with the LSD beginning to take full effect, I had a conversation with a hippopotamus that was in my way and asked him to leave. He gladly hopped on his unicycle and rode away with a cloud of banana cream pies following closely behind. Once he was removed, I took my tomato, placed it on the fork, and swung my garter snake at. The tomato went about 150 yards down the fairway and I got back into my canoe to paddle down the fairway and take my next shot. I think the LSD was definitely throwing me off my game.

6) Later on the fourth hole, I think I lost my tomato. I swung my snake at it but apparently the snake swallowed it because when I went looking for it in the field of rabbit princesses, it was nowhere to be found. Either it went into the fields or Kathy picked up my nice juicy tomato and ate it as it looked ever so delectable. Either way, I was going to have to take a drop. I reached back into my tomato sack and looked for another one, but could only find radishes. I would much rather play with a tomato than a radish, but radishes were all I had. Playing with a radish would definitely throw me off my game.

7) Luckily prior to teeing off on the fifth hole, I was able to find my LSD anecdote (which every good golfer equips himself with) and I was immediately relieved of those horrible effects. I looked down at the scorecard and Kathy had miraculously come back and made a game out of this. Her 30 yard at a time shots must have found a way to somehow go 100 yards because she was suddenly scoring better than me. Realizing that her LSD trick had worn off, she now took to more desperate measures. As she lined up for her tee shot, she took a very quick backswing which resulted in her losing her grip on her driver. And, wouldn’t you know it, that driver just happened to fly straight back and crack me in the left shin. Now normally, my cat like reflexes would have allowed me catch this driver in mid flight and set it back in her golf bag without any effort whatsoever on my part. However, because I was still a little hazy from the LSD and Kathy’s bright pink underwear were still sticking way out of the top of her shorts and blinding me, I did not fully see the driver until it was too late. I immediately knew that she had chipped a piece of bone off of my leg because I could hear it rattling around in there. I took it like a man though and continued to play, making no mention of my pain to Kathy at all. This infuriated her to no end as: 1) she let the club go on purpose, and 2) she couldn’t pull away from me on the scorecard. I was luckily no longer playing with a radish (Thank God!), but this new injury definitely threw me off my game.

8) As I limped to the 6th tee box (pretty sure it was the 6th – still LSD hazy), I took what was my best shot of the day. The fairway was a type of peninsula that curled to the right but then arced back out to the left in a shape of long backwards “c”. The fairway was fairly narrow and it sloped drastically downhill on either side of it. I took my swing and when I made contact it was if the fairway had a magnet which allowed the ball to remain about twenty yards in the air and follow it perfectly. My drive went about two hundred perfect yards and was laying smack dab in the middle of the fairway. It was easily my best shot of the day and it was where I was going to make my move to pull away. As we drove the cart up to it though, Kathy jumped out and kicked it down one of the hills. Not wanting to be a crybaby about it, I played my ball from the bottom of the hill. That kick threw me off my game.

9) Around the 7th hole, it began getting a little warmer out. To protect herself from the sun, Kathy got out some spray sun block and began putting it on as we were sitting in the cart. “By accident”, as she was spraying it on her left arm she sprayed it directly in my eyes thereby blinding me almost entirely. The good news is I wouldn’t have to look at those bright pink panties which, two hours later, were still waving around like a flag on the fourth of July out of the top of her shorts. The bad news is I was now totally blind and would have to rely on pure instinct to finish my round of golf. Luckily, as anyone who read the story of my soccer game against The Bullets knows, my instincts are sharp and I am used to overcoming huge obstacles in key situations. Blindness was something that I was used to, but it would definitely throw me off my game.

10) This is where it gets ugly (and for Kathy – quite embarrassing). As we approached the 9th hole, I could sense that we had gone downhill and were now under the shaded blanket of many tall trees. Kathy, who due to my blindness was now driving, slowly pulled the cart to a stop and we were just sitting there. It was at that point that I felt a hand on my knee and a soft breath on my neck. “Kathy,” I said, “this is totally inappropriate. I am a very happily married man and would never do anything to threaten the beautiful sanctity of my relationship with who I consider to be the most fantastic woman in all the world. You must stop now.” It was at that point that the lips touched my neck and I heard the most frightening thing that I had ever heard: it was the gruff voice of the old male groundskeeper whispering in my ear “Who’s Kathy?” Not only did this scare the shit out of me and immediately restore my vision, but it most definitely threw me off my game.

11) Still hazy from the LSD, limping from the driver to the shin, blinded from both the panties and then the sunblock, and smitten..I mean DISGUSTED from the acts of the groundskeeper (psst! Call me!) I looked down at the score card and realized that we were tied. Even after all of these distractions and successful attempts to throw me off of my game, the best she could do was tie me going into the last hole. I guarantee that had everything been up and up to this point I would have had a commanding lead and would not need to worry about it at all. The scorecard clearly stated, however, that we were tied at this point and it would come down to the last hole. Kathy went first and put her shot way right, but over the lake. My shot was not perfect and looked like it was headed for a watery grave, but being the skilled athlete that I am, I was able to 5-skip my ball from one end of the lake to the other where it rolled up onto the grass. I was closer to the hole but we were both on dry land. It would come down to the short game. My next shot was a chip shot that ended up on the fringe of the green, but not very close to the pin. I lost track of Kathy, but she was soon standing near me with her ball on the edge of the green fairly far from the pin. Because Kathy had broken into my garage over the course of the week and bent my clubs, I was having a little trouble with my putter on this day and, as a result, three-putted the final hole for a five. Kathy also took her two or three putts on the green and ended up with a three. As a result, Kathy was victorious.


So, there you have it: The 7 reasons why Kathy beat me at golf. I’d like to say that I had a lot of fun that day. I’d also like to say that Kathy was the better person that day and beat me fair and square. I’d also like to take this opportunity to apologize for all of my sexist rants and degrading comments towards Kathy during this whole ordeal. You took it all in stride, properly prepared yourself, and came out the better golfer. Finally I’d like to say that due to your great show of sportsmanship I have become a better person. A more understanding person. A less vengeful person.

I’d like to say those things, but I can’t. The truth is that I hope you and your bright pink panties go to Chicago and never come back! Men Rule! America Rules! I RULE!!!!!!!

To all the men out there, thanks for reading. To all the women out there, go and get your shine box! (Goodfellas)