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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

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Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Monday, November 26, 2007

You start with "damn this is long" and finish with "oooo, that's gotta hurt!"

I had this really funny post all fleshed out – well, mostly – about the first Thanksgiving, but I didn’t finish it in time and now it seems stale, like the crust on the sweet potato pie that’s been on the counter a week. *Heh, you couldn’t see it, but I originally wrote “sweat potatoe.” Praise be to god for spell check and can you imagine what that would taste like? Oh, and the more bible thumping of you will note that I used the lower-case G for 'god' as I’m referring to Gates and the Kingdom of Microsoft, not the Big JC.*

This Thanksgiving post was a humorous diatribe about the fallacies of what we consider to be a “traditional” Thanksgiving. Unlike today, when Thanksgiving is a four-day holiday of football, over-indulgence, and the prelude to gluttony of that “spiritual” holiday in December, the first Thanksgiving was actually a celebration of “holy shit, we didn’t starve this year! In your FACE King of England!”

If today’s reality was a part of the first Thanksgiving we’d see Miles Standish chatting up Chief Massasoit after the feast.

“So, Massasoit, are you going to stay to watch the Cowboys whoop ass on the big screen?”

“No, Miles, I have to make it an early night. The missus and I are headed to Sears at 2am for the annual Black Friday pre-Christmas post-Thanksgiving holiday sale spectacuganza.”

“Oh, well that’s too bad. Capt. Bradford hasn’t even gotten drunk on mead and started his rail against liberal politicians!”

“Yes, that’s always fun to witness, as would Sarah’s calling him a retard. But the braves and I have eaten all the seal, lobster, and fowl we can handle.”

“Well, take an eel pie with you. We just have too many leftovers!”

. . . . . .

Sadly, this post did not flesh out soon enough to make it to press before it became irrelevant. I suppose a more accurate reason that it wasn’t posted was that I was too lazy to actually work on it. Maybe next year.

While it would have been a masterpiece of literary wit and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm about how we’ve bastardized the original intent of the holiday, the reality is that I go for quality in what I choose to share with the world and while I’d be the first to admit there have been many examples of lackluster-edness on this blog, I just didn’t feel the motivation to wrest forth the effort required to give it the quality you all demand; indeed, deserve!

The thing is, I don’t feel an obligation to post, the same as I don’t feel an obligation to be funny when I do; which is fortunate, since this lack of commitment mixes so nicely with my inability to be just that. Think of it as the blogosphere’s version of a nice cotton-poly blend or a Morgan and Coke. What I write is true (mostly) and are stories born of my own experiences in life, which is why I’d never make a bankable television writer: too few poignant experiences.

As a result it sometimes takes a while before I write something that doesn’t fall to the axe after I re-read it and think “who’d care about that crap?” Just as no one is always happy or always sad or always funny, so too is what you read on my blog. I often wear my emotions on my sleeve, sometimes both sleeves. So when you reach what I’ve written, you’re not just experiencing a humorous or saddening (or insipid) recitation of something that I’ve run across in life, you’re gaining a glimpse into my current mood; what’s going through my mind, in a conceptual manner of speaking. Maybe it's evidence of my banality, but I find that I write a far better sad story when I'm sad; a far better sexy story when I'm feeling amorous; and a far funnier post when I'm feeling light of heart. The result is that sometimes it’s happy, sometimes sad, sometimes irreverent, other times deep and serious. About the only condition I haven’t covered is “sexy,” but I hear that’s coming soon (the more perceptive of you might then make the leap that if you want to ever see the much-eluded to "smut post" you should talk dirty to me to get me in the mood. Jus' sayin'). Ha!

To me, blogging is a form of marking my journey through life, erecting signposts along the way (hehe, I said “erect”). It’s also a means of communication, commiseration, perhaps validation? It’s a means of meeting new people – hopefully new friends. It’s a means of inspiration, at least in the sense that, sometimes, others can read what I’ve written and say to themselves “damn, at least I’m not like that!”

It’s also often a means to remind myself that there are still far cooler kids in school than me.

And “cool,” at least as it pertains to the popularity contest into which social networking venues have become, is just not me. I don’t wish to be the most popular kid in school; I want to have friends I could keep for life, even if that’s only one or two individuals. My style is conversational, but hopefully intellectual. My personality is passionate, but introspective. I write to you in my blog the way I’d speak to you in person. Fortunately for you, however, you’re not captive to my words and ideas when you’re reading EA as you would be face to face. Someone told me once – and I find it a paramount compliment – that I’m a “transparent writer.” Not “predictable,” but that I write who I am, not who I wish you to see; that reading what I write gives a glimpse into the person behind the words. I found that statement to be the height of gratification because what I want anyone who reads what I write to come away feeling is that the person who wrote it and the situation described is… human. Fallible. Hopeful. Passionate. Sometimes ridiculous. All those things that make the human condition so grand and glorious, infuriating and mysterious.

The fine line to be tread is in balancing my humanity – and the sometimes boring reality that is day-to-day life – with subject matter that is going to inspire someone to check back from time to time to see ‘how goes’ the life of one of the aggressively mediocre. It’s that delicate balance between “interesting, funny, or inspirational” and “unexceptional.” On the one side of this line is the litany of experiences that will leave someone with the desire to return for more. On the other side is “well, there’s ten minutes I’ll never get back.” On the left is “real”: my totally from scratch cranberry sauce fecking ROCKS. True? Yep. Interesting? Yeah, about as interesting as watching an obese man pick sock lint from his toenails with a toothpick. Also on that side is the real life story about how every single scrap of clothing in my house is now laundered (well, except for the two linen shirts that need to be dry cleaned). Yes, I’m a domestic God, people. But would you care to hear this? I wouldn’t. Hell, I did it and I’m yawning just writing about it. I don't want to be one of those bloggers who think "today I ate beans for lunch and it took me twice as long to get home as normal" is the pinnacle of literary conversation; mostly because I lack the skills to make that kind of thing interesting in any way whatsoever.

So the real question here is: what can I write about that’s both true and interesting/funny/inspirational enough to make you want to visit again? I mean, I think I’ve lead an interesting life so far and I know for damned sure I can be funny. I just need a crowd to work off for the funny to surface. I’m that guy who invents the hysterical come-back to a seemingly innocuous statement. When you’re me and you sit down to write in your blog, you stare at the screen and it stares back as if to say “OK. Now... be funny!”

Well, they say the best way to capture a reader is to make them empathize with your character; to help them feel what your character feels. I read voraciously and I can tell you some writers are gifted enough that they could pen an anecdote about two hamsters mating in a cage and millions would pay to read it. I don’t pretend to be anything even perfunctorily approaching that good at drawing someone in with my written words. But! There is one beacon of exception to this rule of attractive empathy: Sex.

Yes, sex: that tried and true subject that always garners attention despite the fact that we Americans act like we don’t do it at all. Nothing inspires more hits than a picture of boobage or even the insinuation of boobage. But as I’m not female, my boobage wouldn’t really inspire oooo’s and aaah’s. Indeed, it’s more likely to inspire “[gasp!] eewww”’s and “sir, please, put your shirt on; you’re embarrassing yourself”’s. Sure, I could post pics of other people’s boobage, but at last google count there are 28,368,972 other sources so what would be the point? No, EA is about me, not some other boob’s boobage, so any sex story I relate has to be something I’ve either invented in my own mind or experienced in the flesh, not something I’ve plagiarized from another source.

In that vein, I can think of two real life sex stories that suit the dual role of “true” and “humorous.”

When I was in college I briefly dated a wonderfully bright, caring woman named, oh, let's say her name was Heidi. Heidi had two kids (very strapping, adorable boys they were). Her 38-year old "husband" (which I use in quotes because he was such in name, not in action), I soon discovered, had bailed on his family for their 20 year old babysitter. Heidi was feeling pretty damned low about her situation and herself, but she was making an effort to rebuild a life for herself after her husband destroyed the one they'd built together.

She and I went on several "fun-only" dates, hiking in the mountains, telling stupid jokes over casual dinners, and generally feeling each other out emotionally. It was as one of these casual, friendly dates was drawing to a close that the planets just seemed to align and found the two of us in her bedroom, naked, hungrily exploring each other with passionate abandon.

But she was a "safety" kind of girl, opening her bedside drawer and pulling out a condom, which she was very adept at applying to the correct region of my body. I remember the condom looked stout, sort of an opaque white that said it could have been made from the same poly-carbonate material they use on bullet proof vests. Nothing was getting through that sucker. But no matter, it was "go" time.

Heidi and I spent the next several minutes engaged in what the sex ed books would call "heavy petting." Finally the moment came: she rolled me onto my back, straddling my hips and leaning forward so her long, blond hair tickled my chest. Seconds later, I was inside her, our hips moving rhythmically together. In my mind I was drifting into a world that could best be described as a video from the drug-induced director of a Pink Floyd video. Sex is that intense for me. Then, suddenly, Heidi stopped moving and sat up.

"Oh shit." she said in a near panic


"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Then I listened, and sure enough I did hear something that sounded like someone moving about in the next room. I was thinking "intruder."

"Aw damn, I think it's my ex husband!"

"Uh... what?" was all I could produce.

Leaping off me and crossing the room to another door, Heidi hissed "Quick! Get out of here!" while urging me with her hand to move it a long.

"Why the hell should I go" I'm thinking, "you're divorced." Instead, "Why, you are divorced right?"

"Technically, yeah. But he still has a key and he's a cop with a jealousy issue."

My mind was trying to take all this in as Heidi, still naked and really really beautiful began kicking our clothing under the bed when suddenly the door started to open.

My mind went into survival mode. I leapt from the bed and through the door Heidi had opened, quietly closing it behind me just as she threw on a robe and he entered the room.

The problem was, this was no closet she had led me to. It was what appeared to be a sitting room or den. On the other side of the door I could hear their voices; clearly they were at odds over his unannounced visit. I grew uncomfortable with standing in this room, totally naked, when at any moment he could walk in. The only other way out was a door on the opposite side of the room. In a moment of panic, I padded across the room and through the other door... to a garage.

Great. I took a moment to assess my situation. Literally three minutes ago I was hip deep in a beautiful blond. Now I was standing naked in a garage that was lit only with one of those green night lights. I couldn't see it, but the room was filled with the eery green glow, like those plastic wands kids carry around on Halloween.

After a moment or two I was glad I had moved to this new location because the jealous cop ex husband's voice was no longer a distant murmur from two rooms away. No, it was now on the other side of the door again, and coming closer.

The green glow wasn't enough to really navigate by and I feared crashing into something by trying to move too quickly, so I opted for the only defense I had at that moment: total silence and stillness. Backing into the corner next to what felt like a box of winter wear, I resolved to hide in the shadows and wait for him to leave. Except I had one problem: that damned green glowing night light. It was only after I took a more methodical look around that I realized this green glow wasn't emanating from some cheery night light. No, it was projecting from the glow in the dark condom Heidi had slid over my still hard unit. Now here I was, standing buck naked in the dark garage of a woman who's jealous ex husband was about to enter and there's my dick, glowing green like a beacon on a dark night. I could have made a break for the outside door, but I figured with my luck the guy would walk in right as I crossed his path and I'd look like Yoda running into battle with his light sabre on.

My options seemed limited: go for the mangina, tucking it between my legs; try to cover it with my hands; remove the condom and throw it somewhere, hoping he didn't either see it flying across the room or lying there glowing in the darkness. So I did what any panicked guy in my situation would do: I grabbed a glove from the box at random, slid off the glowing green condom, stuffed it into the glove, and crammed the glove back into the box as deeply as I could.

Now here's the funny part. In our relief after the guy left, it never occurred to me to retrieve the condom from the glove and, indeed, I had no idea which glove held it, so someone was going to get a surprise the next time they went skiing.

As if this entry wasn't long enough, I'll quickly tell you the second horrifying sex story.

Different girl; different night; same over indulgence of alcohol.

We're back at my place, already in the throws of passion, when she stops long enough to ask me what I'd like to do. Frankly I was already doing it, so I asked the same question of her.

Her face skewed into one of wicked desire. "You want to do it from behind?"

"Sure!" I may have said a little to eagerly.

"No, I mean from behind. as in, in the butt."

"Sure!" I may have said even more eagerly.

She giggled. "OK, just be sure to use lots of lube."

Say no more! I shouted in my head as I leapt from the bed and bolted to the bathroom where I kept the required stuff. Seconds later, I was back.

She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs to her chest, reminding me to "go slow at first."

I applied a generous portion of lube to both our important areas and took position behind her. Between the two of us, it wasn't long before we were rhythmically engaged in passionate back-door action. My mind seethed with the anticipation of my first "intentional" experience of this nature. Our bodies were wet with perspiration, our breathing heavy.

Not having any previous experience with this mode of sexual gratification, however, I had no way of knowing when things were going horribly wrong. Something didn't seem right all of a sudden. What started as a slight burning sensation elevated to something akin to dipping my cock into a pot of boiling battery acid. I could see from the look on her face that she had noticed it too. I stopped thrusting. Our breathing began to regulate almost immediately. We both looked at each other as if to say "something's not right here; not right at all."

The burning became more intense, to the point where we both sprang from the bed and raced for the shower for relief.

After a bracing shower that stopped the burning, we gingerly shuffled back to the bedroom, turning the lights on for the first time since arriving home.

"Good God, what the hell was that stuff?" She asked.

"The same stuff I always use." I replied, tossing her the tube while looking for my underwear.

She caught the tube, looked at it, then dropped her hand to her side.

"You pinhead," she fumed. "Tell me you didn't turn on the light when you grabbed this."

"What?" I responded, catching the tube she'd just thrown back at me.

I looked at the label:

Now with cool mint crystals!"

Well, at least we were minty fresh.

As a glimpse into the kind of guy I am, you want to know the part of this
that I find most complimentary? "Addictive." Weird huh?

Wednesday, November 21, 2007


If one had a picture, say, saved on his (or her) hard drive. And that person wanted to pin it to the side bar over there to the left, how would he (or she) go about doing that? Name your price, then share the knowledge.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

DING! DING! SWITCH PEOPLE -or- How I Got My Callsign

I come from a Navy family of sorts. Most every guy, at some point, joins and serves; not always with distinction, but hey, that's not a requirement. So I've always fancied myself something of a quasi-military kinda guy. More accurately, I did when I was younger. I even had me a flight jacket with the patches all over it, a la Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

Back then the Navy had what was called a Tiger Cruise, whereby any sailor who could find an empty bunk could invite a civilian onto the ship for a taste of what Navy life is like. My older brother was stationed on the USS Nimitz, which was, at the time, the carrier flagship.

At the time I was toying with the idea of signing up, but there was no way in hell I was going to enter as enlisted. After spending time on that cruise, especially. The officers live WAY better than the grunts, let me tell ya. During the cruise the Navy performed displays of capability from the ship, including a lottery in which the winners could take a jump on an actual F-14 Tomcat. Since I'd seen Top Gun and had the jacket, I felt qualified and entered the lottery.

I won.

And I was S-T-O-K-E-D stoked. If a recruiter had slid a contract in front of me right at that moment I'd have sold my left nut to the US Armed Services.

I was also looking forward to the assignment of my callsign; something cool like "Boomer" or "Street" (in reference to the fact that I was studying Finance in college at the time). I was so wound up in anticipation you would't be able to pull an needle out of my butt with a tractor.

Now people, someday you too may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death! Whatever you do, don't go!

I should've known it wasn't going to end well when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King, of Fighter Squadron 213. The "Black Lions." Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it.

He was about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time and likely one of the only men strong enough to pry a dollar from a Republican's fist. Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting .." Remember? yeah, that guy).

Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike myself. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.

"Bananas," he said.

"Why, for the potassium?" I asked.

"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- but still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nell McAndrew, this was it.

A fighter pilot named "Psycho" gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which he said, if activated, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious. Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. Three minutes later I was trying not to swallow my tongue as we rocketed off the deck and into the sky at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life.

Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80.

It was like being on the biggest roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per second. I swear if something went wrong and we hit the ground, our sheer velocity would create an impact crater so huge that the material ejected would spark the next ice age.

We chased another F-14, and it chased us.

We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G-force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Anyone Married to Me.

And I egressed the bananas.

And I egressed the pizza from the night before.

And the lunch before that.

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade.

I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that never thought would be egressed. I egressed stuff I never even ate! I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target, the G's flattening me like a tortilla, and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to "throw down." Having broken the sound barrier, puking meant that I could see the projectile vomit a split second before I could hear it.

I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Aikman throwing a touchdown pass, or that guy who always had the chicks in my fraternity. But now I really know 'cool.' Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. By the time we landed, I swore I wouldn't go up there again for Gene Simmons' black book, but I'm glad Biff did; every day.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. He said he'd send it on a patch for my bitchin' fighter jacket.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Two Bags."

DING! Switch!

Rapid fire post #3:

I'm really hoping everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday. Sometime between now and Thursday I'm hoping to visit the food bank with a delivery. Seems to me that no matter what I'm going through currently, at least I know my children will be fed each day and so have a lot to be thankful for. We all do in some way.

On Thanksgiving itself, I'm cooking up a storm so yay I say unto you "feel free to drop by for much feasting and merriment!" Of course, I have to remain home this year. Last year I spent the holidays in San Francisco with friends. And we sat down to a mighty feast on Turkey Day. Aaaand a few spiced ciders later, however....

Damned tourist! Don't they have a police beating somewhere that they could be filming instead? Until this surfaced it was my word against the officer's!

DING! Switch!

Post #2 today: In response to ADWs remark that she likes pictures "below there":

I know! Can you believe that guy on the right forgot his hat AND his jacket-pocket hanky?!

Like Speed Dating, sans Plebeians

No time to sit and blather on and on about stuff only I care about. OK, if it involves boobies I know I'm not the only one who cares, but this isn't about boobies so those of you who only pop in to see them can, I guess, pop out again and come back later.

As I only have a few moments before the work fairy turns my way again, and I mean that literally, I'm going to be posting several things throughout the day today, just to fill in my moments of boredom and fulfil my self-proclaimed obligation to foster your returning visits.

So, rapid fire entry #1: People the world over assume we Americans are "behind" our so-called leader simply because he and his administration are the most widely listened-to talking heads in the country. Not so. Fact is, it's increasingly only the staunchly conservative Neo-Cons who would vote Republican even if Hitler and Typhoid Mary were their candidates that support this man and his policies. And now, even the wildlife is entering the protest scene. As I read the news before my useless meeting, I came across an article that made me say: you know it's bad when even the squirrels immolate.

Tue Nov 20, 6:01 AM ET
ASHLAND, Wis. - It was an unlucky day for two squirrels and hundreds of Midwestern power customers.

Brian Elwood, a spokesman for Xcel Energy, said a squirrel came in contact with an overhead transformer and knocked out service to 177 customers Monday. Power was fully restored in just under an hour, and repair crews found the remains of the "unfortunate squirrel," he said.

By coincidence, another squirrel got into a substation 40 miles away in Ironwood, Mich., Monday morning and caused a temporary outage that affected about 1,400 customers in Ironwood and two nearby communities, Elwood said.

The utility takes many preventive steps to keep the curious animals away from lines, he said, but they are one of the leading causes of outages, trailing only severe weather.

"We kind of liken it to anyone who's had a bird feeder and tried to keep the squirrels out," he said. "They find a way.

Clearly the squirrels have launched a coordinated attack! You know what this means don't you? The same people who gave you the pliable Constitution will claim that Al Qaeda has infiltrated our wildlife population and is attacking our critical infrastructure. But not to worry! Dick has already dispatched the CIA to begin torturing waterboarding any other squirrels they are able to detain as "enemy combatants." So you're safe people.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

The Cliff-Notes Version

I had a big, long post all written out, but I just don't feel like posting it now. I'm feeling really... weird... lately. I won't bore you with the details except to say I really, really wish I had some friends here with whom I could share a beer and a few laughs. I think I could really use some of those right about now.

I wish I could sort out my emotions of late, but I'm finding that hard to do. So let me give you the short version:

I feel unattractive, undesirable, incurable. I've tried to write the posts I've promised before, but frankly inspiration eludes me when I feel this way. I recently spoke to someone for whom I have enormous respect (but feel I won't be able to know much longer) and I'm left with the feeling that the worst parts of me were shown to her and it's poisoned any respect or admiration she ever had for me. I feel like I must be insane to agree to what I've recently been asked to do, mostly because I'm just not sure how to be what I need to be for it to work, but a bastard if I don't agree. I'm afraid to move forward; yet terrified of standing still. I feel like I'd be better off in life if no one really knew me too well again.

Virtually everyone likes me when they first meet me; but a precious few know the whole me and remain. Certainly this has been the case with women. And I'm just not certain I can handle having my heart broken again. So where does one turn when all they cherished before seems suddenly tenuous? Even this admission feels like handing further ammunition to those who would define me as damaged goods.

I just don't have the energy required to figure it out. Autopilot... on.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Rumors in the Air

Ok, back the ice cream truck up.

There's been a nasty rumor going around lately that I'm actually *GASP!* a nice guy. The hell?! Where did this come from? Here I take the good time and trouble to spread wickedness wherever I go and for what? To be called "nice?" I'm not nice. I'm a total bastard. Ask... well, many people! They'll tell you: "he's a total bastard!" I may not be as funny as Dyck or as mysterious as Fingers, but c'mon, throw me a bone here.

Haven't I sold children into slavery?

Haven't I fostered war in Sierra Leone in an attempt to corner the blood diamond market?

Wasn't it I who suggested Donald Trump fly in the face of conventional comb-over wisdom to pioneer the world's first comb-forward?

And who, my friends, do you think is responsible for the whole "combined name" craze (Beniffer, Branjelina, TomKat, Vaughniston)? Me, baby. ME!

When Saddam needed a solutuion to his "Kurdish" problem, did he go to Allah? Or Lybia? Or the United Nations? Or even Russia for crying out loud? NO! He came to me. And I said "give 'em gas!" Well, ok, that may have been a misunderstanding since what I actually meant was that he should promote lethargy through Taco Bell Grande burritos and 24-hour E! network broadcasting and that would make his opponents feel bloated and sluggish and unable to stir up trouble. He thought I meant Agent Orange. My bad.

And for the love of all that is holey do you people have any idea how much Nappy Light I had to produce to convince the Big JC to let fundamental evangelicalism remain?

Let's look at a list of some of my accomplishments:

Jumping the couch. Mine. Tom was looking for a means of expression to take everyone's mind off the fact that he's just another total Scientology nutjob. Seems to me it worked. BTW, who do you think turned L. Ron Hubbard, a so-so sci fi writer, into the guru of so-called religious cults in the first place? Ok, so I was, like, 4 years old when it really got going, but hey, I peaked early.

Then there's Carrot Top. Yeah, 'nuff said. Me.

Who do you think keeps getting Kevin Federline gigs?

Or keeps to himself the volumes of sex tapes of Jessica Simpson, Jennifer Love Hewett, and David Beckham? Ok, I don't care much for the Beckham stuff, but still, it would be "nice" to let others (aka, the screaming women of the world) enjoy it, and I'm not one to be "nice" even when it suits me.

Who do you think is responsible for that little piece of spittle you get in the corner of your mouth when it's really dry?

Or that damned Crazy Frog? Christ, that thing's so annoying that even I can't take much more of it.

Do you think Achy Breaky Heart was an accident?

I've worked long and hard to ensure every annoying movie goer has a cell phone.

In every restaurant I visit, I make sure to bend one of the fork tines out of place.

Every time I visit a public rest room I remove all but the last ten squares of toilet paper from the stalls.

And speaking of restroom functions, who do you think makes the road bumpy when you have to pee really badly?

And do you have any idea how much vodka and asparagus I have to consume in order to leave that unique smell in every gas station restroom in the U.S.?

Who do you suppose wrote Bush's text on speech vernacular? I can tell you it's not easy inventing words like "presidenting" and "misunderestimated."

I have to work long and hard to generate the volume required to keep those "send this to 10 people or you're a heartless bastard" chain mails going. It's not easy to write those in such a way as to give you both the feeling that they're fake, but not enough of a feeling that you won't still say "but what if..." and send it along anyway.

I mean c'mon, a guy goes out of his way to be a total prick and STILL ... What do I have to do, kick a puppy? Have a love child with Karla? Lead a nation into a war on false pretenses?

All my life I've tried to be the bad boy. I've gone out of my way for crying out loud. But do I get credit? No. I get called a "nice guy."

The point is people, that I work long and hard at cultivating my "dick" status. And it's served me well mostly. But I'm still misunderstood. I am forever plagued with the insinuation that I'm a nice guy no matter how many black market babies I supply to Michael Jackson or Arab children I send to Dick Cheney for his "Soulless Whites for World Domination" monthly human sacrifice meetings. I swear I'd have been struck down by God Himself already if Satan hadn't brokered a deal to keep me on Earth out of fear of my trying to introduce Karaoke and Fondue night in Hell.
So let me set the record straight: I'm clearly not a nice guy. 246 women and their husbands/boyfriends have come to that conclusion, and so should you. You don't want a man like me, ladies! C'mon! I cook! I kill bugs! I love children (they taste like chicken)! I'm casual, friendly, funny, way intelligent, and I clean up nicely, but we all know that's just an act; an image people! Something I use to score dates; I should be the only entry on

And guys, don't think you should foster any ideas of buddydom with this hellspawn. I'll drink with you. I might help you fix your car or build an addition onto your house. I'll help you move when no one else will. I'll even loan you money. But we all know that I don't really mean it: I only want your last beer or to see your wife/girlfriend naked.

So the next time you feel like calling me "nice," just remember: I introduced the Macarena once, and I'll bring it back if I have to.


Thursday, November 08, 2007

Tweaking the Formula

Ok, real quick...

I just got out of the shower and am sort of lackadaisically making myself prepared for work. As I was toweling off here in my bedroom I noticed my blog had several unpublished comments. Not wanting to waste a second I sat down to address the situation aaaand that's when inspiration struck.

First order of business after publishing comments: to look up "lackadaisically" to discover how many points that would be in Scrabble, but alas, the
Oracle has failed me. I suppose I could play the game to find out, but I don't relish getting my ass kicked by some 10-year old in Sri Lanka. Besides I don't have that kind of time this morning.

Second: see if I can get a feel for what floats all y'all's boat in terms of boobage. After all, I want the finished product to be juuusst right. Besides, you've all been so nice to visit me lately and let me know you're eagerly hanging on my every next word (heh) and I think that deserves something dammit, don't you? Ahem, anyway. Exhibit 1:

So? Good? Bad? I think it has a certain "I need to be turned off for life before I join the convent" sort of quality to it.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Behind the 8-Ball

Ok, I'm working hard *hehe* on the smut post, so just be patient people. I'm not just some Larry Flynt porn peddler here. I'm working on quality! But let me ask you, do you think it's really possible to fuck (sorry, there's just no better way of saying it) someone so energetically that you blow her earrings out? Just wondering.

ANYwho--- here's a couple things to ponder, snicker at, or dismiss entirely in the meantime.

Funniest thing I heard lately: "Ok, I'm going back to my penis poem." You know who you are: you funny.

Something I really did not need to hear someone say loudly from one of the stalls as several men were lined up at the urinals: "Woah, smells like someone's been eating asparagus!"

Other posts I'm working on as I can, either between my job requirements or being able to kick my son off the computer at home:

  • My take on spirituality vs. religion (yes I think they are very different things)
  • How to make a PB&J (a challenge from Superstar)
  • My urge to join a charity organization like the Peace Corps
  • A title I metaphorically call "Going Deep"
  • Another installment of my short (thank God) stay "inside"
As you can see, the queue is backing up. I feel like I'm online for a Hanna Montanna concert.


But wait; there's more! How could I have forgotten? I'm also working on a post in which I detail a sure fire way to double, tripple, or even factor-ten your blog hits, virtually overnight! And this won't be some pithy commentary littered with thinly veiled attempts at humor and/or entertainment. No, people, this will be a hard-hitting expose on what it takes to make it in today's blogosphere: tits.

Yes, my friends, tallent and something to say that others find interesting will only get you so far in the modern world of the internets. If you really want to close escrow you have to have to be sans Y-chromosome and proclaim to love you some skin flute. Of course you attract the pervs too, but hey, even the carcass of the golden-fleeced ram attracts worms.

Never Let It Be Said I'm Not A Giver

Because BottleBlonde asked, and I'm apparently vain enough to accommodate a woman who's not only startlingly beautiful, but funny and smart to boot, here's a close-up of my golden- colored eyes. It's the only redeeming physical quality I have (aside from, maybe, the fact that my shoulders, at their widest part, are 58 inches around). Picture quality sucks thanks to the poor-ish quality of the enlargement (a disappointment usually reserved until a woman sees me naked) and the fact that I have zero Photoshop skills, but you get the idea. I like the color of my eyes and I hope they remain that color and sharpness for the rest of my days. It's everything around them that needs to be redesigned. Heh. I'd better click "Publish Post" before I think twice about this.

UPDATE:: I changed the picture up there. I like that one better. A little cropping here, a little cropping there; but never changing the color. How would you like to see those staring out at you every day? Yes, I'll take my compliments as they are intended: gracefully. Unless you're all saying you like them just to be nice; like telling a fat person he's got a great personality. heh. I tried to find another picture of myself that might suffice, but I could only find this one:

Friday, November 02, 2007

Wherein you reply, "yep, the web's full of weirdos!"

I originally received this tag from Pseudonimity, but in light of so much that's been going on in my life lately I've procrastinated. But yesterday Valerie tagged me with the same thing, so I figure I should let it go before I suffer annoying meme backup.

So here's the deal:

  • Link to the person who tagged you. Check.
  • List 7 facts/habits about themselves. Check.
  • At the end, tag 7 other people and link to their blog. Check.
  • Let them know they've been tagged. Oh geez, the pressure of picking 7 people... Ok, gimme a few minutes.

Ok, eight facts-slash-habits:

  1. My eyes are a golden yellow color. No, I don't have hepatitis or jaundice.

  2. I was in a motorcycle accident that resulted in lots of blood, staples, donated cadaver parts, and two surgeries. But I survived thanks to a kick-ass armored jacket and a full-wrap ceramic helmet.

  3. I eat M&Ms by color. When I buy a bag, I dump them all out, sort them by color, decide on a "scheme", then eat them in order, always starting with brown. Brown is never in one of my schemes, unless it's nearing Halloween. For Christmas I'll eat all but the red and green. For Halloween, all but the brown, orange, and yellow. Easter is all but the yellow and green. If I'm missing the ocean, I'll leave the blue and green for last. I've done this since I was a kid and have no idea why. When I finally get it down to only those in my color scheme, I'll eat those so that there's always the same number of each color on the table. Weird, huh?

  4. I've become kind of an adventure whore as I age. I've always loved having fun (who doesn't?), but I'm finding as I age that I'm enjoying "danger" more than I used to. Or maybe it's just the hint of danger. Or maybe it's me grasping at my youth. Who knows, who cares? I've always had a thing for jumping bikes (my BMX as a child and motorcycles as I got older) and still get a thrill out of all kinds of motorcycles. I've bungee jumped, gone zip-lining, survival hiking/camping, and intend to skydive for the first time next year.

  5. I write really, really good smut; or so I've been told. ::author's note:: by popular request -nay DEMAND!- I'm writing a smut story now. They are actual stories; stories of seduction; stories of desire; so much more than "he threw her down and nailed her." You can tell me if I'm lying about being good at it.

  6. Books and music, to me, represent actual places and memories, not just things to occupy my time. This is probably why I still buy actual CDs - as opposed to downloading tunes from the web - and keep every book I buy. When I open a book I've previously read or pop in a CD I've not heard in a while, the ghosts of where I was in life when I first experienced that particular media will jump out at me. And if you look at any of the commercially mass-published books in my library you'd notice many dog-eared pages and underlined phrases or words (I'd never do that to an antique book, of which I have many). I do this because I know I don't have a monopoly on excellent turns of phrase, so I remember those written by other authors to use as ideas in my own writing. And I luuurve me some reading in a hot bath.

  7. And, well, since by the time I publish this particular post you'll have all heard it already, I went to prison once. If you don't happen to know the details, read down a blog or two. It was the darkest point in my life (till my wife left) and the effects not only lingered for a long time after the event, but served to change me in the most profound ways - nearly all of which were for the better, although it took a lot of hell for me to realize it and it certainly didn't feel that way at the time. Please, try not to judge.

There ya go. Seven things that make me whatever I claim to be.

Now. Who to tag...

Dang, I read a ton of bloggers; how to narrow it down to seven?

Well, it's going to have to be random. Since I'm and Excel geek, however, I'll create a random number command and let it pick seven numbers in it's hi-techie way...

Ok, here's what it came up with:

Nicole, Crystal, Jules, Betty, St. D, Kelly, aaand Debbie

Huh. It picked all women. I swear that was random. Well, I had to remove Valerie, but that's because she already tagged me. But other than that it was totally random. Seriously. Shut up.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Too numb for a title

I thought it was ok to at least have hope.

I thought I'd come to grips with reality, even if I still maintained we could change it.

I thought I was finished feeling like a worthless piece of scum.

I thought you couldn't hurt me anymore.

I thought I had no more tears to cry.

But I was wrong. Again.

Why is it so important that I believe the same thing?

Not wanting to is not a fault on my part.

It's hard to "get past" when one has had many years to fall out of love with the ohter, and left when that process was mostly complete, but the other didn't have the same luxury.

Ten Things I Did Today

  1. Reviewed every single post I've ever made on this site
  2. Deleted every single reference to my "alter ego"
  3. Removed every single picture of me
  4. Noted that I really fucking suck at writing sometimes
  5. Wondered why in the hell anyone would want to read the insipid crapola I spew here
  6. Realized that well, my writing seems to have improved significantly since I started EA
  7. Noted that I have 127 posts saved as drafts in my archive. 127, people. Damn.
  8. Decided Micheal Jackson would have a better shot at attracting women right now
  9. Wrote a list of everything I could remember I did today, to distract my brain
  10. Started writing a really, really steamy smut post

- The Number of People Stunned by My Mediocrity