The Ground Rules

If you're going to be a part of this here party, you have to generally obey the rules. They're simple, and frankly, the way you most likely act when you're alone anyway.

• Be yourself. There are no judgements here. I don't care who you are, what you did, what you think (usually) or what you say. If you want to swear, feel free. Heaven knows I do enough fucking swearing myself, unless I'm around FlyBoy and/or The Puffinator; then I switch to the role of conscientious parent.
• Sex is always a good subject. I rather enjoy it. Moreso than your typical human, I'd dare to say. So any time you feel like sharing your experiences, you go right ahead; you might learn me a thing or two. Along those same lines...
• Clothing is optional. We here at Effortlessly Average have very few hangups about nudity or sex. Unlike most of America, we don't think exposure to sexual activity as a child translates into becoming a street walker by the age of 14. That isn't to say we're nudists or that I would allow the Offspring (my kids; not the band) to witness my having sex, but as far as I'm concerned the more nudity in life the better, especially when it's when we're on the internet, where everyone seems to be fucking hot except me.
• Humor is good. I'm a total wise ass in real life, so I'm always searching for new things to laugh at, or about.
• For the love of Christ, no lurking. I'm all about meeting new people. So when you drop by, say so. Just a quick email or comment is all that's needed. Tell me I suck. Tell me you'd like me to suck. Tell me you love the worthless crap I vomit onto the page. Whatever, just do it. (Ah, shit; now you've gone and made me have to pay Nike $1. Thanks).
• Naked pictures are always accepted. Needs no further explanation. Wait. Let me rephrase that: "Naked pictures of women are always excepted."
• No Spam. No, I don't want a bigger penis, thankyouverymuch. Well, ok, so every man on the planet wants a bigger penis, even if he's already large enough to be kicknamed "kickstand." I just don't believe YOU can give me one, Mr. "increase yor size in two hours." Nor do I want insurance, discrete porn, a loan, to refi my mortgage, or to check out your crappy little eBay store. I'm good. Thanks for asking. Not at this time.
• I can easily be bought with sexual favors. (if your female) or a nice ham, avacado, tomato, and sprout sandwich (if you're a guy). I'm also not against returning the favor if you first turn me on to music I haven't heard or a rocking recipe.
• I'll at least consider publishing all comments. I'd like to say I'll publish them all, but there have been times I've left one or two off. Mostly just from people who know me and reveal things - or say things - that are inappropriate. But yours, of course I'll publish.
• Blogger is it, for now. Yes, I know there are better blog generators. Yeah, I know everyone and his/her fucking mother is on MySpace or Facebook or some other I-have-no-life site or other, but you'll find I often go a bit between posts and hey, c'mon, if I can't muster the effort to post regularly, what do you think the chances are that I'm going to take the time to learn how to develope a whole new page on some other site? So while your comments about how much Blogger sucks might be understood, appreciated, and published, it ain't gonna get me to quit. As I said, for now.
• I don't keep a blogroll. It's nothing personal. I guaran-fucking-tee you that if you comment on EA here, I'm going to check out your site too. And I genuinely love it when others link to me on their sites. It's just that I got tired of some people trolling through my blogroll to see what comments I left on other blogs in an effort to prove I'm not who I present myself as. I mean really, they don't need to go to another site to know that! This is the internet for chrissake. We're ALL someone else on here, right?
• That last comment is a load of crap. I'm actually a totally normal, mostly sincere, honestly genuine guy. At least I try to be. No really, I do. Stop laughing, Mom; I do. (geez).
• Avacados grow on trees.

If you think of something you think should be added, by all means, be my guest. Go to LA2047-at-GMAIL-dot-com and say so.

The Cast

Me: Father of The Puffinator and Flyboy. Also, the music fanatical (or is that "musically fanatic?") former conservative Republican who loves sex, travel, and whose mantra is "there are no ordinary moments" or "welcome to life." Oh, and I sometimes say "sucks to be you" too.

The Puffinator: Offspring #1. My guitar playing, fiction writing, eclectic music lover daughter who pronounces "bugs" as if there are extra U's in the word: "buuugs" and still calls me "Daddy." Or "Dadoo;" I hear that one a lot also.

FlyBoy: Offspring #2. The drum playing, rock music loving, fighter jet obsessed son who's prone to dying his hair blue and has reached the age where saying "I love you" to his dad (that's me) is something one just does. not. do.

Jake, aka LazyAss: Our ginger cat who'd rather find a warm spot in the sun than catch a mouse.

Nash, the cone-headed nutbar of a Golden Retriever: He spins in circles when you're about to take him outside, lays on his back with his legs sticking up when he sleeps (picture the dead horse from Animal House), and the only Golden I've ever seen who hates the water.

The Man: My boss. Really, anyone who can direct me to perform tasks at work that I'd rather not be doing.