The Coolest Person Ever (and no, it's not The Fonz)

A few nights ago, Carol and I were having a wonderful conversation on the back deck when I proposed this question to her: If you could be any person in the history of the world for one month, looking like they look, knowing what they know, having all the money that they have, and be able to come back after that month with a full recollection of everything you experienced as that person, who would you be?

As I asked that, I started to think about who I would be and my mind went directly to celebrity cock-smiths. I thought of Brad Pitt during the time that he was sleeping with Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston (not at the same time, but wouldn’t that be awesome if he did? I’d quit my job and begin building an altar to him this very minute if I found out that was true). I also thought of Justin Timberlake because he’s just a cool cat who gets to date a TON of hot women. Then, of course, I went to George Clooney because dating beautiful women while sailing around Italy and the French Riviera all of the time sounds like a really tough life.

But then I started thinking of sports figures. I would love to be Michael Jordan during his first run of championships with the Bulls. I’d hit the clutch shot, win an NBA trophy, and be king of the world. The thing with Jordan is he was always gambling and I really don’t want to deal with a bookie. And, before it’s all said and done, I think a lot more about MJ’s private life is going to come out and I don’t think the public is going to like it that much. I don’t want to deal with drama during my one month hiatus.

I also thought of John Lennon. I think it would be amazing to experience Beatlemania as only a Beatle could (prior to meeting Yoko). Just having his brain and ability to transfer his thoughts into words and music that has lasted 50 years now would be mind-boggling. For that matter though, I wouldn’t mind being any of the Beatles because, in all honesty, I think I would have more fun hanging out with John Lennon than being him. I could be Paul McCartney and collaborate with John, or I could be Ringo and just watch the two of them work their magic first hand. Of course, as I write this “My Sweet Lord” by George Harrison just came on the radio, so maybe that’s a sign that I should be him. Either way, any Beatle would be awesome.

At the end of the conversation, I had made up my mind but it wasn’t any of the people listed above. My final pick was actually a suggestion from Carol that I am devastated I didn’t think of mysef. It was a brilliant pick that makes all the sense in the world, but I will share who that is with you later.

As intriguing as I found this question and the more and more that I thought of other options, I presented this question to my buddy Jeff last night. During that conversation we thought of a few minor details about the question that would need to be addressed. For instance, if you lived as a rich man, could you bring money back with you when you assumed your regular life? If that were the case, Jeff decided he would want to be Bill Gates. After I reminded him that he’d also look like Bill Gates, he said that he would just pay women to find him attractive.

Good plan, actually.

Given that line of thinking, I think I would want to be one of those Indian oil men who live in the gold and diamond encrusted palaces. What those guys earn in the one month that I assumed their life could sustain me and my future generations forever and ever. Plus, as Jeff said, I could just pay women to find me attractive. And given the fact that I’d probably be a prince of some sort, I’d have an entire harem of women. How cool would that be?

After that conversation, however, I began to think more responsibly and wondered if given that opportunity, shouldn’t I go back and change world events. But that changes the rules a bit. I mean, if I was Michael Jordan for a week, I would be expecting the same abilities and results that he had. I would hate to be him, miss the final shot, cost the Bulls a championship, and alter the course of sports history forever. At the same time though, if I were to go back as a historical figure I would want the ability to right some of the wrongs of World History.

Would I want to be Adolf Hitler in the months prior to his decision to attempt to wipe out an entire race of people? Would I have and use his passion and strength to head Germany in a positive direction that did not require the deaths of so many Jewish people? If I did that though, what would the effect on America be? Would I resume my current life in an America that is under German control? How would that alter history as we know it?

Would I want to be Osama Bin Laden? Maybe I could be Bin Laden during the month of September 2001 and prevent the horrible tragedy of 9/11. Granted, that would essentially wipe out any career that Toby Keith has made for himself, but I think the positives far outweigh that negatives there and it would be for the best. If I do that, however, does the US still invade Iraq and depose it’s ruling faction? Would Saddam Hussein still be around terrorizing his people and surrounding countries?

Would I want to be Jeff Gilooly and tell Tanya Harding to take out Nancy Kerrigan’s knee her damn self? Would Nancy have been able to pull out gold? Would she make enough money from endorsements made available to her from her Olympic victory to get her horse teeth filed down?

While the merits of going back to change history so that some despicable events are avoided, I get worried about the lasting effects and the changes to the world when I returned to my normal self. I would love to do a good deed, but for anyone who’s seen “Back to the Future,” you know how changing even the slightest event from the past can affect the future. Doc Emmit Brown was no dummy.

I posted this question on Facebook yesterday and got various responses. My buddy Chris would be Hunter S Thompson during the days of penning “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”, Wendy and Melissa both said Marilyn Monroe, and Sara said either the Dali Lhama, Barack Obama, or Osama Bin Laden. It was even suggested by Kathy that I would like to be Lindsay Lohan. While this would be cool on SOOOOOOOOOOOO many disgusting and perverse levels, I just don’t think that it would be worth it to be her for a month. I would hate to have a 30 day hangover and a bad case of the herps.


So, who did I pick? Well, let me tell you. I picked someone with fame, fortune, and a laid back lifestyle. I picked someone who is constantly surrounded by beautiful women. I picked someone who is so cool, that the cool people come to see him just so that they can be cooler. I picked someone who throws great parties, is dapper, and gets to walk around in his pajamas – all the time. That’s right, I’m talking about Hugh Hefner.

As much as I’d like to be responsible with this decision, being Hugh Hefner for a month in the 70’s would just be too much fun to pass up. I’d constantly be surrounded by beautiful women who are dying to get naked for me, celebrities who come to my parties because they know it’s the place to be seen, and a ton of animals in my own private zoo. I’d have an amazing mansion to live in, a fantastic pool and grotto, and a jet to fly me anywhere around the world whenever I wanted. Also, because living in someone’s body for a month also includes doing their job, I would HAVE to go to work looking at pictures of naked women all day long. Rough life, huh?

I thought about jumping into Hugh Hefner’s life during his run with the Girls Next Door, but why would I want to be in an 80 year old man’s body when I could be him in his own personal prime? Holly, Bridgette, and Kendra are all really hot, but do you really think he was able to do anything with them that didn’t require two blue pills, four hours of waiting, and then 30 seconds to remove his diaper? I’ll take Hef in the 70s any day of the week.

When I presented this option to Jeff, he was baffled (as was I when Carol thought of it for me). We tried to think of anyone cooler to be and just could not. I then posed this question to Jeff: “Does this make Hugh Hefner the coolest man ever?”

We definitely think so.

Now, I want to know what you think. Would you be responsible? Would you just have a lot of fun? What factors in this decision am I missing that could possibly change my mind? Who would you be, when, and why?



On a side note, I highly recommend being me for a month. I love my life and have a lot of fun being me. There’s never a dull moment and you get to be married to my beautiful wife. If you do this, however, you may NOT have any physical contact with Carol. There is a couch in the living room that is more than comfortable. This is my game and I make the rules. Deal with it.

Let me know what you think. I’m really looking forward to this.

Thanks for reading.

Red Badge of Courage

I wouldn’t say that I’m accident prone, but my body may tell you differently. Over the course of my life I’ve broken (in order) my left wrist, left pinky, left thumb, and left hand. I have a scar on my head from falling off of my bike at a very young age, a scar on my knee from getting stabbed by a cycle at a very young age, a weird looking black mark on the bottom of my foot from stepping on a nail in my bedroom, and so many other scars on my legs and hands from various incidents that are too random to remember that you’d think I would have been able to administer stitches to myself at this point. But the amazing thing through all of these injuries is that I’ve never had stitches.

Not a one.

Well, technically I had stitches in my mouth from when I had my wisdom teeth removed and stitches in my nose from when I got hit in the face with a hockey stick on an errant slapshot that caused my septum to deviate almost completely to one side which required surgery to correct (hence the stitches), but I’ve never been admitted to the ER to receive stitches for any of the myriad of cuts or scrapes I’ve had in my life.

That almost ended this weekend

Carol and I have been working on remodeling our kitchen for a while now and will continue for a while longer, but it’s looking really nice. Back when it was still cold out, Carol took to painting the walls and all of the cabinets various shades of tan and brown to match a kitchen that she saw on one of her home remodeling shows that we both really liked. After finding a countertop at Home Depot on clearance and a stainless steel sink on Craigslist (Carol never buys ANYTHING at full price – ever) we decided that we would (as always) enlist of the help of my jack-of-all-trades father and get to work on it this past Saturday.

Now, my father is well aware of my acumen for getting injured so I am always very cognizant to ensure that I stay either as injury-free or as quiet about any injury that I may have incurred while I’m around him. Unfortunately, the past few times we’ve worked on something together that hasn’t been easy.

My father called me a few months ago to help him put the final touches on his refinishing of his and my mother’s decks. The job called for me to hold a lot of boards above my head while he drilled them into place. Of course, as fun as that sounds, I soon became bored and wanted to get in on the drilling action. The wood he was using was specially treated and, as a result, a little harder than most wood. Additionally, because we were on the ground level working on a deck coming out of their bedroom above us, all of the boards and some of the angles were difficult to get to from a ladder.

The first couple of screws that I drilled went pretty well. The last one I drilled (not because the project was done – it was just the last one I drilled) didn’t turn out so hot. I was on a ladder trying to drill a screw that was fairly close to the house. Being right-handed, I was having a difficult time finding an angle to work from where I could get enough pressure to send this screw home. Well, after a series of drilling and then reversing the screw out, I somehow ended up having the drill jump on me and go right into my left thumb just outside the fingernail.

Because my mother was out there and I really hate using the word in front of either of my parents, I stifled the “F*CK” that I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs and instead kept my cool and looked down at the mass of blood that was now running down my left thumb. I tried to suck the blood (as my father has taught me to do) and see if that would stop it, but the blood kept on coming and was now running down my hand. I got directions from my mother as to where they kept the hydrogen peroxide and band-aids (and gauze if necessary) and went into the house to inspect my new wound.

As I washed it off, I noticed that there seemed to be two wounds that I was bleeding from. The first was right by the fingernail and seemed to be bleeding pretty good. The second was on the opposite side of my thumb roughly a quarter of an inch past the first wound. And, the more I looked at it, it appeared as though the skin was going outward as if it were an exit wound. It, too, was bleeding pretty good. Now, I don’t know if the drill went all the way through my thumb or not. It didn’t feel like it did (as if I had anything to compare it to) and based on the shape and size of the drill bit, I have no idea how it even could have. What I do know is that I had two wounds through a really fatty part of my thumb that appear to be an entrance and an exit wound and anytime that I touch that part of my thumb, it tingles all the way through. You be the judge.

Anyway, that’s not what I’m here to tell you about.

Prior to my dad getting to the house on Saturday, Carol and I decided to do some pre-work. We took all of the drawers out of the cabinets and removed any pots/pans/Tupperware/casserole dishes, etc. out from underneath the countertop and placed them on the other side of the kitchen. Carol then proceeded to rip out a layer of tile behind the current countertop as our new one has a backsplash that would cover up most of the now exposed wall. While she was doing this, I went out to the garage to clear out a workspace for us to cut the new countertop to size before bringing it into the house.

As I was moving things around, I noticed that the sink that Carol had bought off of Craigslist was still out there and needed to be cleaned prior to being dropped in the new counter. I carried it out to the sidewalk, grabbed a hose and a brush, and even went into the house to get some Comet to scrub the shit out of this thing. Once I was done cleaning the inside, I turned it over to look at the bottom. It was there that I noticed a bunch of putty and caulk that was still stuck on from when the previous owners had ripped it out. Being the master toolsman that I am, I deemed that the best tool for removing this was a phillips-head screwdriver.

I don’t know why I picked a phillips-head. I could have used a flathead. I could have used a putty knife. I could have even tried to grab it by hand and rip most of it off. I don’t know if one method would have prevented what happened next any more than another method. What I do know is that once I got started I knew what I was doing was stupid but still didn’t stop.
As I was digging away at the caulk with my handy dandy phillips-head screwdriver, Carol stepped outside to see what I was doing. As I began talking to her I took turns looking at her and looking at what I was doing with the sink. All of a sudden, and I still have no idea what caused it, my hand slipped off of the screwdriver and my thumb slammed right into the rounded corner of the stainless steel sink.

I sometimes wonder why I do the things I do. I sometimes wonder why I’m so careless and so cock-sure that even though I know what I’m doing is stupid, I continue to do it anyway with the idea that nothing bad will happen. I also sometimes wonder why while I’m the middle of doing something and an idea pops into my head of a way to do it safer or more effectively, I stick with my original method because “it’s working well so far.” I knew the entire time that I was working with that screwdriver that the edges of the sink were sharp and that I could easily cut myself. I also knew the entire time that I’m a stubborn ass who wants to get things done my way.

Unfortunately, the result of doing things my way is that I sliced my thumb open pretty good. Basically, I cut it from the top of my thumb in the middle all the way down the inside halfway down the fingernail. Immediately, the blood came pouring out and quickly (once again) covered my thumb. I did the little “oh shit” dance and looked at it again before seeing that I had gotten myself pretty good. As dad taught me, I tried to suck at the blood, but there was just too much coming out. I needed to go inside. Thankfully, Carol was outside as she opened the door for me as I walked into the kitchen to the sink (thankfully, I hadn’t turned the water off yet) and washed off my thumb.

As I held it under the water, the blood would not stop pouring out. Now, in addition to never having stitches, I’ve also never passed out. I’m not sure if I was close to passing out while looking at all of this blood, but I did get a little dizzy and definitely felt the blood leaving my face. Luckily, I was able to bring myself back to reality and decided to move into the bathroom where the hydrogen peroxide was to give it a better cleaning.

From the second Carol saw my gaping would (yes, it was gaping), she began asking me if I needed stitches. Now, like I said before, I’ve never had stitches and wouldn’t even begin to know what a cut that needed stitches would look like. I also was well aware of my current streak of never having had stitches and was pretty adamant about keeping that streak alive. As I looked down at my thumb, however, I saw that not only was I cut but that the cut seemed to be opened a little wide for my liking. At that point I decided that maybe stitches would be for the best, but not after I gave it one more chance with the hydrogen peroxide.

I was almost resigned to go to the hospital, but miraculously, once Carol poured the peroxide on the cut (I would have done it myself but I can never remember if it’s peroxide or rubbing alcohol that makes it sting really bad. As a result, I had Carol pour it so that I wouldn’t jump at the pain and spill the remaining contents of the bottle) the bleeding stopped. It was then that I was able to get a really good look at my newest future scar. I could see that it wasn’t good, but the really deep part wasn’t horribly big and wouldn’t have needed more than 1-2 stitches to close it up and I was NOT going to break my no-stitches streak for a lousy 1-2 stitches. As a result, I decided that I would not be going to the hospital, washed my hands with soap and water (that’s when the stinging occurred – son of a bitch!), put on my Toy Story band-aids, and went back to work.

I was hesitant to tell my father that I was already injured before he even got there, but it was quite obvious that my thumb was covered in multi-colored band-aids. Also, I’m what you might call a bit of an attention whore, so any chance I got to bring up the fact that I was working through this horrific injury, I took. Dad, as usual, just shook his head and went about his business.

Yes, the band-aids, temporary numbness, and constant ramming of my thumb into any object that got in the way and the resulting wave of intense pain may have made things a little difficult, but I worked that day alongside Carol and my dad and we got the counter top and sink done. And, might I add, it looks great. When I woke up on Sunday morning, the pain had gone away and I was left with just a gaping wound which will hopefully close up soon. Plus my no-stitches streak is still intact.

I do wonder if the bleeding is supposed to have stopped by now though…

Oh well.

Thanks for reading.

BTW: I was going to post a picture of it along with the blog, but have decided against it. For anyone that wants to see it, it's on my Facebook page within my picures. Enjoy.

Polyester Princess

*fiction* I feel the need to put that since a lot of people were concerned that “The Bugman Cometh” was a true story. I may have issues, but I’m not entirely insane.

………………………………………………

So my friend Paul’s Uncle Enos just died and he wanted me to go to the funeral. Normally I’d have said no because it’s on a Sunday and the LA Rams were playing the St. Louis Cardinals (although no one can even compete with my Cowboys) and I really want to watch it. Plus, I knew I was going to be hungover because I’d had plans to go to this groovy new disco on Saturday night to meet this foxy chick named Harmony. As a result, I told him “no,” but as fate would have it, Harmony OD’ed on a bad batch of coke and wasn’t going to be able to make it. Plus, some dude named Jaworski was going to start for the Rams and I didn’t know anything about him, so I figured that game would be a total drag anyway. So, suddenly, I was available (as I still am, ladies).

I still can’t say that I was digging the idea of going to a funeral on a Sunday, but as I was talking to my compadre Miguel about the possible chicks that may be there, I got a little wiggle in my pants. While Miguel was talking about Paul’s sisters Rita (whom I’ve already had twice), Betty (whom I’ve also had twice – once with Rita), Susan (who walked in on me and Rita but wouldn’t join in no matter how groovy I looked because it was her sister), and all of his cousins (who Paul asked me not to touch because they were family), all I could think about was his great-aunt Rhoda.

Let me make one thing clear: I dig older chicks. Sure, I like the young ones with their hot bodies and their ability to go all night long (if you know what I mean), but there’s just something about an older chick’s experience that turns me on. See, I’ve been with a lot of girls (mostly my friend’s sisters and girls who may or may not have been guys and that I may or may not have paid for). I’ve been with white girls, Mexican girls, black girls, conscious girls, unconscious girls, girls who like the lights on, girls who want to keep the van door closed, and girls who like to leave the bathroom door at the gas station unlocked because the excitement of getting walked in on really gets them hot and bothered. But as many women as I’ve been with, I’ve never had an older chick.

That was all gonna change at Paul’s Uncle Enos’ Funeral

I called Paul back to tell him that I was going to go and also to get some info about his Great Aunt Rhoda. I remember back when we were little kids growing up and Aunt Rhoda would watch us while Paul’s parents were out of the house, but I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Back then, she just wanted us to call her Rhodie as Great Aunt Rhoda made her feel old. Let me tell you what, she was some kind of wonderful. I remember one time when she took us to the swimming pool she was drying us off prior to leaving and I caught sight of one of her nipples. Being about 8 at the time, I didn’t really know why I liked it, but I did. I liked it so much, in fact, that I began to feel a little tightness in my swim trunks which Rhodie, being totally unaware, brushed over while drying me off. She didn’t say anything, but I know that she noticed and had to feel flattered. From that moment on Rhodie was on my list.

While talking to Paul, I asked him if certain family members were going to be there, purposely leaving Rhodie’s name for the middle of the pack so that he didn’t know that this wolf was on the prowl. Once he said that she was gonna be there, I casually asked what she’d been up to as she was always a lot of fun when we were growing up. Paul told me that in the 25 years or so since I’d last seen her, her husband Robert had died and she’d moved to Arizona to live with her sister Bernice. He said that they were driving in and should make it just in time for the services and the luncheon afterwards at his house. I couldn’t help but notice that Paul hadn’t asked me to the luncheon yet, and figuring that a funeral was no place to make my move - again (*wink-wink*), I knew that an invite would be crucial.

“Paul,” I said “if people are driving in from all over the south for this thing, they’re going to be good and tired and ready to relax. Let me bring over some liquor for the luncheon. Really, it’s the least I could do.” It didn’t take long for Paul to agree to this so in the blink of an eye, my plan was set in motion. This fair lass was going to be mine.

On the day of funeral, I woke up extra early to iron my best shirt, comb my hair back in the way that I knew the ladies liked it, put on my my my my my boogie shoes, and stop by the liquor store to get enough lady-killer elixir for the afternoon (and hopefully early evening into the next morning). As I zipped my wallet up in my front pocket (so as not to obstruct the fine ass that the good lord had blessed me with), I headed out the door, got in my van, and peeled out of my trailer park parking lot. It was gonna be a good day.

The funeral was pretty boring: Uncle Enos was in a casket, they said some prayers, some people cried, and then they went to the cemetery to drop him in his eternal home. I was beginning to get worried though because I didn’t see Rhodie anywhere. I saw the family section up front filled with Paul’s parents, his sisters (who kept looking at me because I looked THAT good), his cousins (who were also looking at me but I wouldn’t touch because they were Paul’s family) and a bunch of old people that I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t see Rhodie.

My plan had been to skip the burial at the cemetery and set up the bar at Paul’s house so that it was ready when everybody got there. As a result, I needed to get the key from Paul after the funeral. On his way out to the cemetery I pulled him aside, grabbed the key, and casually asked where his Great Aunt Rhoda and Bernice were. I told him that I was concerned that they had travel problems and wouldn’t be able to pay their final respects, but all I was really concerned about was me and Rhodie working up a sweat while doing the no-pants dance.

“Oh,” he said “they had some car trouble right outside of town. They’re going straight to the house and will be there for the luncheon. They’re probably going to get there before we do, so would you mind letting them in and making sure they’re comfortable?” My response was simple:

“Gladly.”
As I drove to the house I couldn’t help but think how perfectly this was all playing out. Sure, I’d have to do some comforting and all that shit, but in the end it really played into my hands. If I was there for her in her time of need, maybe she’d be there for me in my time of need. I started to get really excited and figured that I should calm down, so I reached into one of the bags from the liquor store, opened a bottle of whiskey, took a swig, and then shot-gunned a beer. That tasted so good that I decided to do it again. After that, I was feeling pretty groovy so I reached into my glove compartment for my Brut cologne and sprayed myself from head to toe. After all, everybody knows that a lady loves a good smelling man. Rhodie didn’t know what she had in store for her. If I had my way, within four hours of her walking in that door we were gonna do a little dance, make a little love, and get down tonight. Whoo!

As I was setting up the bar I began to think of Rhodie and how foxy she used to be. I knew that she was much older than me, but I dug chicks in their 40’s and 50’s. Like I said before, they had a certain experience about them, which was a super turn-on. I couldn’t wait to see her again and quickly ran around the house looking for an appropriate place to get it on should the immediate need arise. I found a storage closet that should do the trick, but while doing this, I got a little excited again and decided that another shot and another beer should do the trick. I was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol but figured that it would only loosen me up and make me that much more sexy to her.

Eventually the doorbell rang and, as much as I tried not to, I pretty much ran to the door to let in my lady for the evening. Upon opening it, however, all I encountered were two old bags who must have skipped the cemetery too and were over early for the luncheon. Needless to say, I was a little disappointed and began wondering if they were even coming at all. As I turned around to grab myself another beer, I heard one of them address me.

“Dickey, is that you?” said the voice.

“Actually, I go by Rick now, but yes it is. Do I know you?”

“Do you know me?” she said with disbelief, “I should sure hope so! Bernice, do you remember little Dickey? He grew up with Pauly and they were the best friends. In fact,” she said, “I remember a certain little boy getting a little chubby at the pool one day while I was drying him off. You were just the sweetest little thing with your little tallywacker all sprung up. Bernice, please tell me you remember little Dickey.”

“Rick,” I said in disbelief hoping that this was not really happening.

“What?” said Bernice.

“Little Dickey,” she said a little louder.

“Rick” I corrected her again.

“LITTLE DICKEY! THIS IS LITTLE DICKEY!” she screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear while pointing, whether intentionally or not, at my crotch.

“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, Rhodie” said Bernice addressing her as the one thing that I hoped she would not.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said “you were already in Arizona.”

As I stared at was once a foxy 40-something year old lady, I was devastated that a) the years could be so unkind, and b) that I had miscalculated how old she’d actually be. For some reason, I was thinking that she’d be 50 something at the max, but then again, I was 30 years older so the chances of her only aging 10 years while I aged 30 were pretty improbable. I’ve gotta stop doing so much blow.

While I so fondly remembered her wearing the nip-slipping swimsuit and other various hot outfits, she stood before me in an orange pant suit with Kleenex hanging out of the pocket. Instead of her hair being long and sexy, it was now permed and cut short. While I was mentally kicking myself for making such a horrible miscalculation and wondering if I could maybe talk Paul’s sisters into an orgy (somehow he never warned me about them. Maybe he thought I had more class that to screw his sisters.) I opened the door to let them into the house. It was at that moment that Rhodie leaned in, told me how handsome I’d become and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

It was on.

For some reason, that peck on the cheek carried more with it. The way she did it, she may as well have just reached down, grabbed my crotch, and said “bathroom – five minutes.” I may have been wrong with my interpretation, but maybe that’s because my head was filled with the intoxicating aroma of moth balls and Ben Gay. I knew I had a thing for older chicks, but did my libido really stretch this far? This was a 70 year old plus woman and I’m pretty sure that I had just gotten the same feeling in my pants that I had so many years ago at the swimming pool. I ran to the bar, took three big drinks off of the quickly disappearing bottle of whiskey and opened up another beer. I was 99% sure I wanted this, but it was going to take some intoxication – for both of us. After all, once this dog’s nose had caught a scent, there was no stopping me.

As they made their way into the living room, I offered them a seat and to get them a drink. Rhodie was the first to accept, and after a little prodding from me, Bernice soon followed. Apparently, Bernice wasn’t in the best of health and pretty much relied on Rhodie for everything. Rhodie had to help her walk, help her sit down, and wipe her mouth for her.

“I always keep a ton of napkins in my pocket because you just never know when Bernice is going to need her chin wiped,” Rhodie explained.

After some small talk in which I gazed through her thick glasses into her beautiful eyes, I saw that Bernice had finished her drink and Rhodie was almost done with hers. I quickly refilled both and took another shot and another beer for myself. I was really starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, but didn’t care. I was ready for love.

About a half an hour later, we began to wonder where everyone else was at. Bernice had finished her second drink, but decided to go with a beer after that as she said she was feeling a little light headed from the first. I was light headed too. I was light headed from looking at my elderly princess and envisioning the night we had in front of us. It was going to be pure magic.

That’s when the booze kicked in.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t feeling so hot. I tried to count the amount of shots I had done in my head but couldn’t figure it out. All I knew is that to calm my nerves I had been hitting the bottle pretty hard. I decided to look for the bottle and see how much was left, but all I saw was Rhodie walking to the bar to throw something away. It was my empty bottle of whiskey.

Apparently, in my attempt to loosen myself up, I had loosened the cap on that bottle one too many times and had managed to drink the entire thing. In addition, I had been drinking beer along with it. To make matters worse, I had done this all in the span of about an hour and a half. I guess drinking like this at the disco is much easier when you’re constantly doing lines in the bathroom, but without the coke, this stuff hits you pretty hard.

As I got up from my chair, it hit me like a ton of bricks and I knew I was in trouble. On top of that, Bernice was complaining that she wasn’t feeling good either and asked to be taken to the bathroom. As Rhodie went to help her up, Bernice mentioned that it was too late and screamed for me to bring her a trash can.

While I stood there listening to Bernice throw up in the middle of Paul’s living room, I could hear Rhodie say “I bet she didn’t take her damn pills again. She always gets sick when she drinks and doesn’t take her pills. Now we’ve got to go the hospital again.”

“What?” asked Bernice between heaves.

“THE HOSPITAL!” she said. “LITTLE DICKEY NEEDS TO TAKE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL!”

“Rick.”

At first I was going to object, but then I realized that my evening was shot anway. There was no way in hell that I was going to be able to recover from that drunken stupor to be of any use to either me or Rhodie that night. As beautiful as she looked in her orange polyester, I wouldn’t be able to give myself a memorable showing. I decided to let her go and maybe, someday, I’d be able to ride that geriatric express.

I was just about to leave Paul’s house (screw Uncle Enos. I never liked the bastard anyway and Bernice can find her own damn ride to the hospital), the front door opened and Paul’s Mom came in to take a candid picture of all of us. This is what she got.
















Maybe at least Rhodie will be in town for another couple of days. There’s no way I’m gonna miss out on that action.


Thanks for reading.

26 Bitches

*Warning. If you don't have access to some sort of media player or Youtube is inaccessible where your're at, wait until later to read this. It's pretty useless without it*

Before I get started with today’s blog, I’m going to let you all in on a little secret – I watch St. Louis Cardinals baseball games. Yes, the Cubs are now and forever will be my team, but I don’t get Comcast in Belleville and I am not about to shell out the $250.00 that DirecTV charges for the MLB package. As a result, unless they are broadcast on WGN, ESPN, or Fox I don’t get to see many Cub games. The problem is that I still need to get my baseball fix so, as much as I don’t want to, I watch the Cardinals. Don’t get me wrong – I’m watching in hopes that they lose every damn game and that somehow their entire dugout explodes into a fiery ball, but unfortunately neither seems likely to happen. I also like to watch because I love baseball and rather than just be well schooled on my team, I want to know as much about the Cub’s biggest rival in order to hold my own in the conversations/debates that I often find myself getting into.

But that ‘s not what I’m going to talk about today.

Today, I’m going to talk about bitches.

Prior to Monday’s game, the Cincinnati Reds all-star second baseman Brandon Phillips had the following to say:

“I’d play against these guys with one leg. We have to beat these guys. I hate the Cardinals. All they do is bitch and moan about everything, all of them, they’re little bitches, all of ‘em.
“I really hate the Cardinals. Compared to the Cardinals, I love the Chicago Cubs. Let me make this clear: I hate the Cardinals.”

Now while I do love these comments for various reasons, a brouhaha of some sort was bound to erupt once his words reached the Cardinals dugout. And, sure enough, once Phillips got to the plate Tuesday night, the fireworks (and not the explosion in the Cardinals dugout that I was praying for) began.

This is when the real “bitch” emerged.

I had a link from Youtube here, but MLB must have ordered its removal as when I went to verify it prior to posting, it was gone. Either way, during the altercation, both benches cleared and there was a lot of pushing, shoving, and screaming. Amidst this, the players and coaches ended up pushing back towards the backstop where a bunch of players, namely Reds starting pitcher Johny Cueto was being forced against the wall. In order to either escape/fight his way out, he ended up kicking several Cardinal players in the back.

I’ve been discussing this with my buddy Chris since last night and since then, my feelings have changed. As I admitted to him this morning, sometimes my severe dislike for the Cardinals sometimes blinds me a little and as a result, I defended Cueto under the premise that he was being smashed against a wall by a mob of 40+ very angry men and kicking might have been his survival instinct. While I still partially agree with my initial statement, surely there could have been a more masculine and safe way to get out of that situation. Seriously? Kicking? On top of that , he was kicking with metal spikes at people’s faces and backs. And, even if kicking was his only option, couldn’t he have kicked at the players legs or somewhere else less dangerous than their faces? There, Brandon Phillips, is your bitch.

Because I love Youtube, baseball fights, and saying “bitch” so much, let’s review some more baseball fights where players act like bitches (by my count, that’s eight “bitches” so far. Make that nine now).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnF3UTv-Abo

While I respect the pitcher for both the payback pitch and the ensuing jack to the jaw which flat out dropped the batter, why in the hell did he run away? If you’ve got that kind of knockout power, stand in there and take out a few more guys. Don’t run away like a little bitch (10) and let your teammates finish the fight for you. What are you, a Detroit Redwing?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78wwGbijFXw

This one was shown over, and over, and over (and then over again) on ESPN but I never get sick of it. This dude had a game plan and went through with it. However, you don’t just up and decide “Hey, maybe I’ll deliver some sweet chin music to the catcher before charging the mound and flailing my arms like a windmill” on the spot. That has to be planned out. And if you have something that’s bothering you enough that you need to premeditate an attack of that sort, your bitch (11) ass should have taken care of the situation at the time that it occurred.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJWaGxVh-tI

This has to be one of the biggest bitch (12) moves of all time. I understand that a man who very closely resembles a bull was charging him, and Pedro, who I’m sure is accustomed to bull fights relied on his natural instinct to dodge the bull and throw him to the ground (Yes, I know he’s Domincan. But he speaks Spanish and I associate that with Spain and I, in turn, associate that with bull fighting – stop judging me). But, even though Zimmer might resemble a bull, he was a 72 year old (yes, 72) bull who would have been easy to out run. Instead Martinez, in one of the most horrible yet twistedly funny moments in baseball history, threw his old wrinkled bottom to the ground. This, Pedro, makes you a bitch (13).

The good news is, Pedro knew he was a bitch (14) and, although it wasn’t related to this incident, was not ashamed to say so (sorry about the commercial – damn MLB).

http://mlb.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=7097699&topic_id=7224328

Although he only referenced the Yankees as “my daddy” we know what he really meant: I’m the Yankees bitch (15)

However, if you want to see the true definition of being someone’s bitch (16), I highly recommend watching this clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNETI5AbxOo

Nolan Ryan, at the ripe old age of 46, took Robin Ventura, a guy almost half his age and gave him a the beat down of a lifetime.While Ventura would go on to have a very good major league career, he was never able to shed the dubious title of being Nolan Ryan’s bitch (17).

So there, Brandon Phillips, is what “bitches” (18) are. And while I agree with the premise of your argument, you need to back it up. Bitches (19) are not an organization that has 10 World Series titles. Bitches (20) are not a group of guys who, rather than fight back with words choose to hit back where it hurts – on the field and in the standings. And bitches (21) are not a team who has been to the playoffs more times than you’ve blown out birthday candles. Bitches (22) are people who kick, throw old people to the ground, and run away from a fight. Bitches (23) are people who don’t know when to keep their mouths shut. And apparently, bitches (24) are guys that run their trap and then proceed to go 1for 9 in the first two games of a very important series. Maybe you should follow Pedro’s lead and, rather than swatting at a hornet’s nest, just call the Cardinals your daddy.

Jesus, that sounded like a pro-Cardinals blog. But as I stated to Chris earlier, as much as I hate the Cardinals, I do respect them (most of the time). They are the Ron Burgundy to my Wes Mantooth.

Here’s one other baseball fight you may enjoy. It’s one of the most gruesome, disgusting things I’ve ever seen and really couldn’t come up with a bitch (25) in it, so I’ll just leave you with it. Be warned that this is very explicit content.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7D8aDp3RUs

Koreans make me laugh

Later bitches! (26)

Thanks for reading.

Things That I Strongly Dislike (today)

Things that I strongly dislike (today):


Mean people

St Louis Cardinals

Detroit Redwings

Always running out of batteries/light bulbs

Losing – at anything

Tequila

Hangovers

The “c” word

The fact that Mike and Mike in the Morning on ESPN radio discuss NFL football year round and always at the time that I’m driving to work

Mock NFL drafts

Stale bread

People who can’t properly utilize the English language (if everyone else says something one way, why do you think your usage of “We was” is appropriate?)

Being crabby enough to write a list of things that I strongly dislike

Girls who wouldn’t sleep with me when I was single

The periodic table of elements

Not knowing what’s for lunch in the cafeteria because whoever’s job it is to post the menu in the break room never does so in time for lunch on Monday

Bugman

Bats

The Olive Garden (should be further up on the list right by tequila and hangovers)

The fact that Nickelback should be on this list but I can’t put them on here because there are actually a few songs that I don’t mind
Admitting to liking a few Nickelback songs

Oprah

My hairline

Justin f*cking Beiber

West Coast road trips where the games don’t start until 9:00 p.m. and end long after my bedtime.

The direction of Israel since Yitzhak Rabin’s assassination. As things are developing under this new leadership, there would seem to be little doubt that full control over the “West Bank” will be transferred to the PLO, to Arafat and to his 30,000 soldiers (disguised as policemen). Few doubt that before too long unless there is an early change in the Israeli government a Palestinian state will come into existence in the “West Bank” and in Gaza; that the Golan will be handed over to Syria in exchange for vague promises; and that Jerusalem, where the PLO ( in total contravention of the Declaration of Principles ) already maintains de facto government offices, will be divided with the western half being the capital of a diminished and vulnerable Israel and the eastern half, the capital of the new Palestinian state. While under Rabin’s leadership, each Israeli concession to the Arabs would be matched by a corresponding Arab concession and that Israel’s security interests would be kept foremost in mind, there now seems to be a headlong rush into “peace at any price”, without proper respect for Israel’s security interests and ultimately for its survival.

Wet farts

Getting busted while staring at someone’s cleavage

Being stuck in the elevator with any of the following people: smelly people, small-talk people, people that I dislike, people who dislike me, executives, Jimmy-Johns delivery guys, the four people who all went on their smoke break together and are now piling into the same elevator together reeking of smoke and sweat, and Liz Klingele (she’s very judgmental in her Facebook posts).

The need to capitalize “Facebook” or else MS Word labels it as a misspelling

The Taliban

Shaving

Blowing my nose at my desk and then worrying about any hangers that I may have missed

My squeaking brakes

Not knowing what that hard thing in my hamburger was and swallowing it prior to being able to spit it out

People who are good at karaoke (if you can sing well and want to get on stage, join a band)

Going from pale to sunburned to peeling and back to pale while skipping “tan” altogether

People in Cleveland who feel “betrayed” by Lebron James. It’s like they’re the dorky guy in college who is dating a hot girl freshman year because they were the cute couple back in high school together. All of a sudden, college has offered her more exposure and every guy on campus wants a taste of that young talent. Seriously, you knew how it was going to end. Get over it.

Burt Young





Alarm clocks

Leaky basements

Every Baldwin (except for maybe Alec because he’s kind of funny now that he’s older and fatter but that rant against his daughter was still totally unacceptable)

The beeping I hear as I walk past the loading dock doors of an abandoned building I pass every day on my way to and from work. Is it an alarm? Is it a motion sensor? Am I doing something wrong? Have they labeled me as a “person of interest?” STOP BEEPING!!!

Paranoid people

SPAM (the e-mail, not the “meat.” I LOVE the “meat”)

People who want me to do work for them even though they’re not my boss

Being helpful

The fact that the last I saw, Joel McHale was sucking face with Allison Brie on “Community” and they’ve had an entire summer to do whatever they want without it being documented for their show. Joel, so help me God if you have taken away any of her innocence I will travel directly to the set of “The Soup” of “Community” or whatever show it is that you’ve whored yourself out to this time around and I will stomp a mud hole in your perfectly ripped and well proportioned upper body.

The fact that one of my lesbian friends told me on Saturday night that she thought I could be gay (that’s when I whipped out the picture on my cell phone of my medical file which clearly states that I’m “not gay”)

Ziggy (seriously, has anyone ever laughed at a Ziggy cartoon? Ever?)

Family Circus (please see above)

The player AND the game

Cats

The fact that I was just my own 500th visitor to my website to verify that I had never written a list of things that I strongly disliked before.

Not being able to come up with a decent topic for a blog so instead I’m forced to write a list of things that I strongly dislike

But I do like all of you (unless you fall into one of the categories listed above. If so, maybe we’ll get along better tomorrow)


Thanks for reading

The Bugman Cometh

I love my son and I thank God every day for making him as adorable as he is. The reason I thank God for this is because if my son was not so cute 97.4% of the time, I would be tempted to exterminate him the other 2.6%.

Last night was not a good night for Carol or myself and it was all because of The Boy. According to Carol, he was a sweetheart all day and they had a great time on her day off. Around 10 to 15 minutes before I got home, however, he somehow morphed from cute Ben to Demon Child and did not morph back for the rest of the night. With the exception of a few bright spots, his vocabulary for the evening consisted of three basic phrases: 1) No, 2) I don’t want to, and 3) I want Bugman.

For those of you outside of my household who don’t know, Bugman is Ben’s name for a character in Toy Story 3. Ben already has numerous Woody’s, Buzz’s, a Bullseye, and countless other Toy Story toys that fill his room and the floors of every other room in our house. Yesterday at Target, however, he and Carol saw an action figure of this “Bugman” and since then, The Boy won’t shut up about it. It got to the point where Carol and I were half-jokingly plotting evil things we could do to Bugman if and when we bought it in order to emotionally scar our young child. That, combined with the fits of crying, screaming, and overall temper tantrums from his being tired was enough to wear us out and make us both crabby for the rest of the night.

After some time to cool down, however, I wondered why he was able to get us so worked up. Was it his disobedience? Was it our inability to get through to him? Or, was it just his complete ignorance of anything we had to say? I decided that today I would try to see what would happen to an adult if I were to act like him while I was at work. Needless to say, my day has not gone very well.

As I walked into the office the first person I saw was my director. She greeted me as she does every day with a courteous “Good morning.” My first reaction was to return the greeting, but I reminded myself of my experiment for the day and responded with “I want Bugman.”

She looked at me kind of funny and asked what I said and I repeated under my breath “I want Bugman.” Being very aware of how I am at times, she laughed it off and prior to entering her office said “you so crazy.”

Hmmm. This could get interesting.

My next actions were to drop my bag off at my desk, turn on my computer, and go to the kitchen area to get my milk so that I could have my morning bowl of cereal. Once I got to the kitchen there were a few people already in there so I figured I’d have to wait my turn. In typical 3 year old fashion though, I decided to just barge my way in there and not stop until I got where I was going. There was a lady bending over to get into the refrigerator but I knocked her out of my way to reach in and grab my half gallon of 2%.

“Excuse me” she said with a tone of snootiness in her voice.

I responded with “I don’t want to.”

“What?” she asked with both surprise and a hint of being offended.

“I. Don’t. Want. To” was my straight-faced response.

At that point I turned around and elbowed two other people on my way out of the small room and back to my desk.

When I got back to my desk my computer was awaiting my login so I entered my login name and password and went through my morning ritual of eating cereal and checking my emails. Just as I put the huge first bite of Rice Squares in my mouth my phone rang and, without even bothering to finish chewing, I answered the phone.

Me: (with a mouthful of food) Credit, this is Scott

Voice on phone: Yes Ken, is Scott there?

Me: (swallowing food) This is Scott

VOP: Sorry, it was a little mumbled. Scott, this is Ria from (company name withheld) and I was wondering…

Me: No

VOP: I’m sorry?

Me: I don’t want to.

VOP: Scott, as a member of (group name withheld) you are required to provide me with…

Me: I want Bugman

VOP: Excuse me?

Me: I want Bugman. It’s at Target.

VOP: Scott, is this some kind of a prank?

Me: No

VOP: Well, I’m sorry but can I talk to your manager?

Me: No

VOP: And why not?

Me: I don’t want to.

VOP: Scott, this is…

Me: I want Bugman.

*Click*


I was beginning to think that this 3 year old mentality had its merits. I could be as rude as I wanted to be and get the added benefit of avoiding a lot of work. There was also the chance that maybe, just maybe, someone would get the hint and go out on their lunch hour to get me a Bugman. I wasn’t putting too much faith in that though.

After working uninterrupted for about 45 minutes, my director came to my desk and asked if I would come into her office for a few minutes. Without looking away from the YouTube video that I was watching because I wanted to, I gave her my response:

Me: No

Director: What?

Me: I don’t want to.

Director: (with a tone of don’t-f*ck-with-me) Well, when you get done watching your video I want you to come into my office whether you want to or not.

Me: I want Bugman

Director: Scott, so help me God, if you don’t knock this shit off – I heard about your actions in the kitchen and I got a phone call from Ria stating that you were being ignorant – don’t think I won’t fire your ass.

There was a slight pause here as I went over my options. I knew she was serious as she had brought out her “So help me God” so continuing with this experiment could have very bad consequences. At the same time, I couldn’t cancel the experiment one hour into my day as it wouldn’t be fair to science. Millions of people were counting on the results of this experiment and I was not going to let them down. As a result, I responded.

Me: (under my breath) I want Bugman

Needless to say, this did not please her and she stormed from my desk directly into her office. Due to the fact that her office is directly across from my cubicle and she didn’t even bother to shut her door, I heard her pick up her phone and call down to HR. The basic gist of the conversation was that I was causing problem and she wondered if I was “high on some drugs” or something. Seeing as I wasn’t going to leave my cubicle, she wanted them to come upstairs and meet with me right away.

Now, in typical 3 year old fashion, I decided to switch my mood on a dime and casually got out of my chair and went into her office to apologize.

Director: Now what in the hell is your deal today

Me: I don’t know

Director: you’re acting really strange

Me: Strange?

Director: Yes

Me: I’m sorry

At this point I walked over to give her a hug, as 3 year olds do, but she backed away as if she thought I was going to hit her

Director: What are you doing?

Me; I don’t know

Director: I think it’s best that you go back to your desk. HR will be up here in a minute.

Me: I don’t want to

Director: I don’t care. Get your ass out of my office.

Me: I don’t want to.

Director: Scott, get out!

Me: I. Want. Bugman.

Director: What in the hell?

Me: I! WANT! BUGMAN!

At this point, the HR representative got to my Director’s office at the same time as building security. Apparently, people were growing concerned about my behavior so someone decided to call building security to have them observe me.

As if that was going to happen.

As I casually stood there, both the HR representative and the three members of building security were asking my Director a bunch of questions about my behavior and if I had threatened her in any way. She mentioned that I had approached her but she didn’t know why. I thought my attempts at a hug were pretty obvious, but if she didn’t understand my actions, then she didn’t deserve that hug.

This went on for about 3 to 4 minutes with the five of them talking around me but not directly to me. I quickly got bored due to the lack of attention being paid to me and decided to climb up onto one of the available chairs and started jumping up and down. The first bounce caught them off guard and I let out a shrill laugh to show my utter enjoyment at what I was doing.

After my second bounce, however, one member of building security overreacted, grabbed his stun gun, and fired 600,000 volts into my abdomen. That was not as fun. Let’s just say that after a little twitching and a round of vomiting up my Rice Squares from earlier, I was soon subdued.

As I sat in the building’s security headquarters, I was staring at a team comprised of my Director, my manager, 4 members of building security, my companies HR Director, his assistant, and the little Indian man from the convenience store in the buildings’ lobby (he’s had it in for me ever since I bought a .75 pack of gum with my debit card). I began pleading my case that I was just trying an experiment and I was sorry that it had gotten so out of control. I mentioned that I had gotten the answers I wanted and I apologized again for everything I had done.

This temporary moment of clarity seemed to satisfy their questions as to whether I was a security risk or not as they dismissed three of the security guards and the little Indian man (who never took his eyes off of me. Not even once.) I then proceeded to answer every question they asked of me as if I were an adult and they began to deliberate amongst themselves as to what to do with me.

I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but I could make out terms like “no past history” and “always been a little strange.” I wasn’t quite sure what my fate was going to be, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be any less that a few days off of work with no pay and maybe some counseling. I began to feel really stupid about what I’d done and wondered why I even thought this would be a good idea. Not only was I going to get reprimanded, but everyone in the office was now going to have proof that I was mentally unstable. And for what, so I could amuse myself? Was it really worth it? Did I actually get that much of a kick out of it to make all of this trouble worthwhile? What in the hell was wrong with me?

At this point, I began to get a little upset at myself and couldn’t help but tear up a little. I was ashamed of my actions and was embarrassed that I had acted in such a stupid way and wasted all of these people’s time. As the tears started rolling down my cheeks, my director looked at me and her motherly instincts took over. She immediately came over to me and asked me what was wrong.

Me: I don’t know.

Director: Are you ashamed of what you did? A grown man doesn’t act like that Scott, no matter what scientific test you’re running or how funny you think it might be to mess with people. Now, as a result of your actions all of these people had to take time out of their days to deal with some stupid little prank that only you thought was funny. Only you, Scott. Now, we’ve come to a decision on your punishment but we want to know if you have anything to say for yourself that may make us want to forget this ever happened. We know you’re not a safety risk and we value you as an employee, but this has got to stop. It’s all up to you Scott. What do you have to say for yourself?








Me: I want Bugman.

……………………………

So, while my job lasted almost two years, my joke barely made it through the morning. The good news is that I’ll be able to write a ton more blogs as I will now have a lot of free time on my hands while I’m attending the therapy sessions that were deemed necessary if I ever wanted to return to my now former employer. The bad news is that due to my income being slashed from the household budget, Ben will never get his toy. As a result, for the next 4 months (or however long this therapy lasts) I’ll be hearing the same phrase day after day: I want Bugman.

It kind of gets annoying after awhile.

I have to go back to timeout now.

Thanks for reading

More Randumb Thoughts

I haven’t had a batch of randumb thoughts in a while…


There’s nothing like a good ol’ story of potential anal sex to keep your mother from commenting on your blog : )

Judging by the stat tracker on my blog, I have a reader in Italy. I’m going to assume that it’s my friend Adrienne who is in Europe for the summer, but it’s still pretty cool looking at the map and seeing an arrow in someplace other than the US. If it’s not Adrienne, then Il mio amico Adrienne è piuttosto caldo e si dovrebbe controllare fuori mentre ha la sua laggiù. Ho sentito che lei è abbastanza facile.

Speaking of foreign countries on my map, why are no Canadians reading my blog? I figured that my humor would fit right into their beady-eyed flappy-headed lifestyles. If any of you know any Canadians and aren’t ashamed to admit it, you should tell them about my blog.

LiLo is out of the slammer (thank God) and has begun her stint in rehab. Apparently while she was in prison she occupied her time by filling close to four notebooks with stories about her life. And to think that I was worried about MY parents being ashamed of me by reading about my past behavior.

I am obsessed with Ben’s ant farm. His Uncle Donnie and Aunt Brit (but I’m guessing more Uncle Donnie : ) ) got him one for his birthday and it is the coolest thing ever. Instead of dirt it’s filled with a bluish gel and you can see them digging tunnels and everything. Also, Carol discovered that if you blow into one of the air holes, all of the ants go insane! It’s fun for the whole family.

On a related note, it’s not a good idea to have a few beers and then take the lid off of the ant farm to try and extract the ants that are simply laying there and appear to be dead with Q-Tips. They aren’t necessarily dead.

I have determined that for my entire existence on this earth, I will perpetually have one big pimple on my face at all times. It is officially unavoidable. The one currently occupying my forehead is nodding in agreement.

I’m going to be teaching my wife Carol and possibly our friend Sasha how to massage by using them as guinea pigs for each other. That way, they’ll be hurting each other during the process instead of me. Also, I’ll have two hot oiled-up women in the same room with me while touching each other. But mostly, it’s for touching… I mean teaching purposes. Really…

It’s hot. Nothing humerous about that at all. It’s just plain freaking hot.

Every so often, Carol will make a batch of potato casserole and I’ll grill up some brats with the intention of having a ton of leftovers for lunches and evenings that she works. As I enter the third consecutive day of eating the aforementioned meal, however, I’m a little nauseated at the fact that 1) I have to eat it for lunch – again, and 2) there’s still more left at the house.

I took Ben to the library the other day to pick out some books, but the only books he wanted were based off of TV shows like Dora the Explorer, Sesame Street, and Diego. I’m not sure if that says more about the fabulous marketing of the television stations or my horrible practices as a parent. I say we blame Canada.

I’ve decided on a very life-altering event. I’ve decided to think long and hard about a time that I can sit down to contemplate a good time that I can seriously consider an opportune time to quit smoking.

Baby steps

As much as I love the movie “The Hangover,” I now can’t listen to Phil Collin’s “In the Air Tonight” without seeing Mike Tyson air-drumming and then ducking for fear that he’s going to hit me.

On a related note, for fans of Zack Galianfaiabkaldadkakis from The Hangover, check out http://www.funnyordie.com/between_two_ferns.

Apparently the bats have left my yard and are now across town at my buddy Chris’s and his girlfriend Sarah’s house as Chris sent me a text last night that he saw a few and then went inside. To quote him “I can water the garden in the morning.” See! It’s not just me. Those bastards are creepy! (not Chris and Sarah. Well, maybe Chris and Sarah, but mostly the bats)

My Cubs have lost the last four games by a combined score of 49-15. I’ll send a prize to whomever can come up with the best punchline for that one. Seriously. Take your best shot.

I’m gonna vomit if I eat one more bite of this potato casserole.

The actor Christopher Meloni was just on a radio ad. You may know him from Law and Order: SVU but I know him from the HBO prison series Oz. I tried to watch Law and Order, but I just can’t take him seriously because I’ve seen him naked too many times. Maybe that explains why Carol is always laughing at me.

Brett Favre is retiring. Again. Maybe.

On a nice note, Carol and I spent a really fun night a few Saturday’s ago at the Pour House in Bellevegas for my oldest friend and Endless Love Wendy’s birthday party. I have known Wendy longer than anybody who is not related to me and have loved her every day of it. She is a sweet, beautiful person who was lucky enough to have found her soulmate in her equally awesome husband Chris. Happy birthday Miss Wendy. I am lucky to have you in my life.

On a not so nice note, my co-workers who are playing on the internet ALL FREAKING DAY still can’t find the decency to take five minutes out of their afternoon to read my blog. I will continue to call these suck-asses out until they see this and tell me to stop. So, until that moment, you all can suck it!

To the rest of you,

Thanks for reading

Scott Gets Anal

Sometimes, as a couple grows more and more accustomed to each other, their needs change. It’s not as if something is wrong or something needs to be fixed, but instead it’s as if something has turned into a monotonous act and needs to be addressed. Spiced up a little, if you will. That’s why last night Carol and I did something in the bedroom that I never thought we’d ever do.

At first I was hesitant. We had discussed this act before, but had quickly dismissed it as it wasn’t exactly within our comfort level. Additionally, change can sometimes be a very frightening thing. See, I am a creature of habit. Even though I can be spontaneous, I choose to follow a basic routine most of the time and do what I know works best for both Carol and I.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to trying new things and am definitely not shy when it comes to this kind of stuff, but what I’m talking about here was a little different. I mean, we’ve been sleeping with each other for the better part of 7 years and we have always done it pretty much the same way. There are little variations here and there, but for the most part we position ourselves the same way every time and do what we have to do. It may not be exciting, but it does the trick. That’s our life.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but this wasn’t our first time attempting this either. After a few bottles of wine on the back deck one evening, we tried it but with no success. Actually, I should rephrase it and say that I tried it, but Carol wasn’t very much into it and it ended up with Carol lying on top of me and both of us laughing hysterically. The attempt had failed, but it planted the seeds in our mind that this was a definite possibility in the future.

After that failed attempt, we didn’t talk about it anymore. I had put it out of my mind for the most part, but every night when the time came around, it was always there as an option. I didn’t ask Carol about it because I figured the more that we talked about it, the more it would be built up and make us increasingly nervous. I knew that Carol was thinking that if we did it once, it would become part of our regular routine and would lose some of the specialness that we wanted it to have. I tried to convince her that just because we did it once didn’t mean we’d have to do it every time or even ever again, but we both remained hesitant. Still, we were both very curious and it hung over our heads like a dark cloud.

Finally, last night I had had enough. As Carol was in the bathroom washing up, I turned the lights off, stripped down, and got into bed. After finishing in the bathroom, Carol came into the bedroom and immediately sensed that something was different. She saw me laying there on the bed and she knew what I wanted. Hesitantly, she got into bed, said “really?” and I responded with “yes.” Tonight was the night that it was going to happen.


At first I felt weird. As often as I had thought about it I had not taken into account the fact that it would feel so different. I mean, I had done this before but never with Carol, so having her there threw me for a bit of a loop. Finally, I became comfortable with this new position and tried as hard as I could to make it work – for both of us. We looked at each other, said “I love you,” and then took it to the next level.

I won’t give you all of the details of our night, but I will tell you that it is something that I am not looking forward to doing again. First of all, it was uncomfortable. I am meant to fit into certain places and this was just not one of them. On top of that, my back hurts today like nothing else. Maybe I should have stretched beforehand or even afterwards, but as I was taking a much needed shower this morning I felt the twinge in my back and knew that this was something I would not be doing again.

I talked to Carol this morning and, to my surprise, she said that she liked it. Actually, I have no idea why it surprised me as Carol is usually up for anything involving this, but somehow I thought she would feel a little disoriented. I know that when I woke up this morning, I felt as if my entire world had been turned around. It felt pretty good for the most part, but I really just wasn’t happy with the ending. This was out of the ordinary and I didn’t like it.

I guess it all goes back to me being a creature of habit and liking what I’m familiar with. Did it feel good? Yes. Did I get a good night’s sleep? Yes. Did Carol do everything in her power to make it comfortable for both of us? With the exception of her one leg that kept getting in the way, yes. It seems, however, that after doing it I’m just not as excited as I thought I’d be. As a result, the next time we do it (hopefully tonight!), we’ll probably just go back to the same positions we’ve used for the past 7-8 years. They’ve worked well for us and we’re very familiar with them.

I guess it all goes back to me being a little anal.

Thanks for reading.




Oh, in case you haven’t figured it out, we just slept on the opposite sides of the bed.

Freaking perverts

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.