The Worst Girlfriend Ever

I feel like sharing a story. Either that or my meds are kicking into overdrive. One or the other, but since I'm largely vertical this afternoon, you get a story. One sadly based on a true occurrence. Actually, all of this is totally true. Unfortunately.

When I was a wee lad in my first year of law school, my college girlfriend did one of the nicest things imaginable and dumped me three days in. Actually, it had been coming for some time, we both knew it, and while neither of us were overjoyed about it, we stayed friends. Well, at least until she found out about those rumors I was spreading about how she liked it in the ass. OK, that part isn't true. I would never do that. Or at least get caught at it.

There I was in law school with no steady girl. Bummer right? Well, it could have been worse. And soon it would be.

One night I head out with a friend who works for one of the larger companies in our city. I can't remember what we did that night, but it involved drinking. Naturally, after this we needed nourishment. Or at least bread to soak up the booze. So we headed to a now closed sub shop, (closed because I burned it down later to destroy the evidence, but that's an entirely separate story and I'm taking the 5th on that one anyway. I don't know nuthin' copper). In there we meet this cute blonde girl in a tight shirt, we get to talking and it turns out her mother is my friend's secretary. So I wind up getting her number. And unfortunately, after clearing it with my friend, I decide to use it.

Now you may ask why I cleared it with my friend, who had no interest in this girl. Well, I thought it might be awkward working with the mother of a girl that one of his good friends was laying the wood to on a regular basis and I wanted to be sure he was OK with that. He had no problem. Unfortunately, at that time I didn't know that by the second date I would want to literally be laying wood upside this girl's head, rather than employing the phrase as the clever and witty euphemism for fucking her that you just read. And I wouldn't know until about that same time that rather than use the phrase "fucking" as a crude yet somewhat appropriate term for having sexual intercourse with her would be replaced by an intense desire to "fuck" her by kicking her out of the car, possibly while still driving it, and leave her on some deserted stretch of West Texas highway, possibly near a house full of leather-wearing, chainsaw wielding-dementoids.

So what went wrong? First date, nothing. Drinks, bar, video, (remember videos?), oral sex that porn stars aren't as adept at. Let me put it this way. This girl was an awful person and I regret ever going out with her, but when I'm asked, (as I frequently am, often by complete strangers), "Limpy99, in your well-celebrated career as a swordsman, (that's another euphemism, implying that I have a well-known career as someone skilled at bedding many women, and should be understood to be little more than a pathetic lie), who have you found to be the best at oral sex?" I have to put this girl at the top of the list. Unfortunately without a bullet, as she never seemed to be around when I was cleaning my gun. "Oops, sorry"

Anyway, second date rolls around and she doesn't show up. At all. Apparently she called four hours later, but I was long gone then. My mother took the call and thought that she was drunk at the time. To which I clverly replied "Well, she was when I met her and she was when we went out, so that wouldn't surprise me" Mom just shook her head, something she did a lot in those days.

Who's bored?

Anyway, we try to set up another second date, and this time she comes to my place, which was my parents house. When she comes in, my parents dog, the sweetest golden retreiver ever, (except Brizzy! whew!), bares her teeth, growls at her, and stand behind my legs snarling at her. Great, I think to myself, I'm dating Satan. Unfortunately, I thought that OUT LOUD, and soon discovered that Satan didn't have a sense of humor. Anyway, I gave the dog a biscuit and some holy water and off we went. We got to the bar and I got Satan some vodka and she cheered up. Which she usually did around vodka.

Anyway, the conversation turned, and don't ask me how, to black people. Again, I have no idea how this came up, although I suspect that my lovely young companion got it there by saying her father was an FBI agent, (and wasn't I thrilled to hear that!), and because of that she didn't like black men, but she thought black babies were cute and she would want one, except she'd have to have sex with a black guy and she just couldn't do that. And what did I think of that? she asked.

Now, here's my dilemma. She's hot. She gives great head, I mean off the charts great, and she's drunk, so she's going to do at least that that night, (at least she will if she doesn't want me to drop her off in the "wrong" section of town), but she wants my opinion on what is quite possibly the stupidest thing I've ever heard. And I'm a normal guy with normal desires. So naturally I say "what are you; in the Hitler Youth? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." She looks at me stunned, then laughs and says she was kidding. I somehow doubted it, but for the reasons noted above, I ignored that feeling and finished the night.

So she goes home, and I decide I've had enough and that I won't be calling her. She, however, decided she would call me. A lot. Over the next couple of weeks we did get together a couple of times, one of which was at our mutual friends house for New Year's Eve. During this party she started a fight with me about where people were going in life and why didn't I want to be an attorney who made $90,000 a year to start and work 90 hours a week to get it. I explained I'd like to live past 35, and that I though those people were idiots. She said she wanted to be with those types of people because they were succesful, and I suggested several places she could find them. Then I said "Look Christine..."

Now I haven't mentioned this girl's name before in this story and well you may be wondering why I choose to do so now. And here's the answer: I haven't. Christine was my ex, and this little whore knew it. Unbelievably, (and this reflects badly on me was well), we spent the night together anyway. I even paid for breakfast the next morning. I'm big like that. I call out the wrong name you get free eggs. It's a bargain. Really, what's in a name?

So things stagger along in this fashion for another few weeks. Date, drinks, racist/facist/greedy statement, fight, sex, leave after breakfast, inevitable phone call a few days later.

Finally, Super Bowl Sunday. I'm heading to a party two streets from her parents house. I don't tell her where I'm going because I don't want her around that night. Now, we had been supposed to go to dinner two nights earlier. She pulled about her sixth no-show. By this time I had adpoted a 30-minute and one phone call policy. If she didn't show or answer the phone, I'd do something else. I'm not sure she ever noticed. But I tell her I will call her after the Super Bowl and we'll maybe do something. Like burn a cross, I guess, I just wanted to get laid.

Game ends, I call. She doesn't want to go out. Why not? She has a black eye. Really? How did this happen? Another girl punched her in the face two nights earlier while she was in bar! Wow, says I, I guess you should have shown up for dinner huh? Why'd she hit you? I was talking to her boyfriend. Fascinating! Can I come over anyway? (At this point I was out the proverbial door but I wanted to see actual evidence that someone had punched her out) No, I don't want you to see my face like this.

And I didn't. In fact, I never saw it again. We never offically broke up, although since we never offically "went out" I guess that didn't matter, but I got another couple of messages from her and finally had to call her and tell her I didn't want to hear from her anymore and she should move on. She never asked why. She later told my friend she'd really dropped the ball with me, (after hearing I had a job with a huge firm, which I quit after about six months), to which he replied "sweetheart, you never had the ball" I bought him a drink.

She was dumb, she was racist, she was a drunk, she was unreliable, somewhat psychotic, and probably wasn't dating one person at a time. All in all, my worst choice ever for a girlfriend.

But, damn!, those blowjobs.

Tick Tock, Tick Tock

It turns out that I did not get my daughter's fever. Nope, what I had was Lyme Disease, or some kind of variation that sounds like "ichyosis." Yesterday when the fever came back and topped 103, I decided it was time to go to the ER and get poked and prodded and hopefully get some really good drugs. I was succesful in all three ventures, incluing the first two when the doctor rapped on my head with his knuckles and asked if it hurt.

"Yeah, it does. C'mere, I wanna see if it hurts when I do it to you" is what I didn't say, becuase there are certain limits to the samrtass comments you'll want to make to the guy who's going to decide exactly how many needles you'll experience over the next few hours. For the record it was three, plus a urine test and three chest x-rays.

For the x-rays they rolled the bed about 50 yards to the x-ray room. I told them I could walk but they wouldn't let me out of bed. This is what happens when you tell medical people you're an attorney. They did let me stand up all by my big self for the actual x-rays though.

As the day progresses I'm laying around getting something from an IV bag, (I still don't know what but I'm reasonably sure it wasn't morphine), when my wife comes running in. She's a medical assistant for an office assoicated with the hospital, and apparently she's been pulling up my test results on their computer all morning. So before the doctor comes in I know my x-rays are clean, it looks like I have Lyme, and my urine shows that I'm dehydrated. Actually, the IV kind of gave me that idea. So then the doctor comes in and says "Your x-rays are clean, you have either Lyme or Ichyosis, and they're treated the same way, and you're dehydrated" Then he gives me a prescription and tells me to saty out of work for four days.

Now that's what I'm talking about. I respond pretty quickly to antibiotics, (right now I feel great(er), except for a pisser of a headache and I still have a slight fever), and I'm thinking I'll have at least two full days to paint the house.

So later in the afternoon my wife walks in and says "did you read the side effects list on this stuff?"

Of course I didn't.

"You can't be in the sun while you take it, (10 days), or else you'll break out into a horrible rash and get sick"

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

The Weekend Report

This weekend is easy to sum up. My daughter gave me a nice fever starting on Friday and lasting right through the weekend. Fortunately, I was all better just in time to get to work this morning. I'm totally skipping out tomorrow. It's supposed to be nice and we're way behind on painting the house. So my weekend consisted on lying on the couch half asleep and feverish watching football or bad movies, ("Reign of Fire": Matthew McConnaughey's greatest work or just a really shitty movie? Discuss), and occasionally falling asleep only to wake up and discover that my wife has changed the channel and we're now watching something about a family with 16 kids and how they deal with vacations. Mine would involve a lot of drugs and alcohol if there were 16 kids included. The dog was ecstatic, becuase any time there's an immobile body on the couch that means she's got someone to snuggle up next to. And there's nothing better when you have a fever than a 74 pound dog on your chest.

Last Night

I killed a raccoon with a shovel.

Are you awake now?

Yep, it was not a particularly good night. It acually started in the wee small hours of the morning when I came home from the weekly poker game, only to b informed by my unusually wide awake wife that our daughter had a fever. Which naturally meant that one of us would have it by the morning.

I won.

But it wasn't bad enough to bail out of work, especially as I had to go to court to wrap up a case that had been pending for a few years. Jarndyce & Jarndyce for you Dickens fans out there. All one of you.

So I stagger through the day but finally give up and go home a couple of hours early. The kids, (daughter being fully recovered) and wife leave to go to the local pool for family fun night. I sleep on the couch. On their return, wife informs me that she has to drive back up the strett becuase she hit something and isn't sure it's dead. Turns out it was a raccoon, and indeed, it wasn't dead, but judging from the carnage, it wouldn't be recovering either. Now, my wife obviously has a soft spot for animals, (as evidenced by her agreeing to marry yours truly), and could not bring herself to do the right thing and run it over a second time, just ending the prolonged process. So I had to go up with her and do it with a shovel. That was not fun.

I hope the furry little bastard is in a better place, full of open garbage cans and loose fruit, and no roads anywhere.

Now here's the odd part. I walked the 100 yards or so home, since I wasn't really keen on putting the shovel back in the car. It's dark out, and a car drives by me, dressed in dark sweats and carrying a shovel over my shoulder. The car slows, the driver looks me over, then accelerates away. I suspect that the police got a call later that night about a grave robber wandering the streets.

It's Going To Be That Kind Of Day

Just for future reference, if you pull up at the drive-thru window of your local Dunkin' Donuts with the Suicidal Tendencies well-known hit, (and by that I mean I liked it back in high school), "I Saw Your Mommy (And Your Mommy's Dead)" blasting on your radio, you will get some strange looks.

Conversation last night with my daughter and wife.

Daughter: "Mommy, when you were in school were you popular or a nerd?" (She's five, and we have her brother to thank for this)

Wife: "I was popular honey"

Me: "Yeah, just don't tell her why you were popular"

Daughter: "What about you Daddy?"

Wife: "Oh honey, daddy's always been a dork."

Trust Me, You'll Be Glad You Did

Awhile back a firend of mine told me about Pandora.com. Because I move with the speed and alacrity of a lazy tree sloth, it took me some time to actually check it out. Yesterday I programmed my own "radio station." This consisted of putting in my name and one band I like.

Yes, it was The Supersuckers, why do you ask?

After that, the folks at Pandora start streaming music through your computer, some from whatever band you picked, other music from other bands that their "music genome project", (whatever the fuck that is), say you'll like since you liekd the first band. You can add other bands at any time and expand your options, and you can also tell them not to play a song again if something like, god forbid, Clay Aiken slips in.

I should put Aiken in there just to see if the program calls me a pussy.

At any rate, it's been two days and I finally have a radio station with reliably great music, no repeats, good information on songs and bands I've never heard of, and most importantly, none of those goddamn morning teams with their stupid ass jokes. If only I could cram this thing in my car.

Lest you think I'm whoring myself out, I have no financial interest in these people. Although if they offered me money, I would totally take it. I'm not an idiot.

Now that my unpaid advertising is over, I wanted to mention that I read in yesterday's sports section about a hockey player who had died. Nothing dramatic, he was in his 80's and I can't even remember his name a day later. But what I do remember is that the highlight of his career was scoring his only hat trick, (that's three goals in one game for you heathens out there), in front of Queen Elizabeth, (presumably the II, although the paper didn't actually say that). And I wondered if perhaps Elizabeth was sitting in the front row, rooting for the other team with a beer in one hand and banging on the glass with the other hand while screaming "WATCH THE POINT!!! WATCH THE POINT!! THAT GUY'S BEEN KILLING US ALL NIGHT!! HIT HIM!! HIT HIM!....Ohhhhhh, FUCK!!

These Are The People I Work With

I work in an office building with many tenants. Apparently some of us are having trouble figuring out how to use the bathroom. This morning we received this notice.

"To All Restroom Patrons:

At your request, building management has expended a great deal of time, effort and money researching, purchasing and installing the most user friendly product dispensers for your convenience and to ensure a full supply of product at all times. Your cooperation, however, is needed to optimize the rest room experience.

1) Kindly FINISH the open side of the toilet paper dispenser first. Do not force the door back across the partial roll in order to access the full role prematurely – this locks up the door mechanism and makes it impossible to restock for your convenience.

2) Please exercise restraint when pulling the paper towel sheets. Forcibly yanking the sheets damages the mechanism and makes the next towel inaccessible to your fellow tenants. Also, please do not force open the dispenser to remove towel(s) for your personal or office use.

3) As a courtesy to those who follow you, kindly:
• leave the restroom in the condition you wish to find it when you enter
• Use the trash receptacle
• Flush the toilet"

I wasn't aware that we had a 3rd grade class somewhere in the building, but it looks like we do. "Flush the toilet"? Christ, who can't do that?

Makes working at home just that much more desirable. At least then you know who's pissing on the seat.

Your Weekend Update

First, I've decided that when I do thru hike the AT, I'm going with Phollower. After reading his last comment, I'm reasonably certain that not only would we finish, but we'd probably finish in record time. Like three days.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So this weekend I went down to NYC to watch my beloved Yankees. They won. Yay. On the downside, I got home at 4 am on Sunday morning, and since we have two kids and my wife was out for the day, sleeping in was not in the cards. But going outside all day long and playing a vigorous game or 9 of kickball was. At one point there were four boys under 9 in my yard. Only one of them was mine. I'm not really sure where one of them came from; my mother took my son to play tennis and came back with two boys. Eventually we returned the other kid. He ate too much pizza anyway.

Early Sunday afternoon I was weeding by the side of the house and my son wants to know why. I tell him that since we're painting the house we might as well put some flowers on the side to replace the weeds currently occupying the place. He says "You're really going to make this look like a girl's house". I respond "Don't you have some paint to scrape?"

By the way, you can barely see the original cut from the scraper anymore.

At any rate, it's late in the afternoon on Monday and I fear the weekend is cathing up with me. Time for a nap.

What I Want To Do When I Grow Up

A couple of nights ago I was watching "Fight Club" for the umpteenth time. I just can't get enough of meatloaf with tits and the homoerotic beating of Jared Leto. Really brings the subtle points home does this movie.

But there's a scene in the car where Tyler Durden is challenging Ed Norton's character to name something he'd regret not doing if he were going to die immediately. Which is a matter of pressing concern as Durden is driving in the wrong lane head-on at other vehicles. At that point my initial answer would probably have been "I regret not having a clean pair of pants with me", but in a calmer moment I sometimes think of what ultimate goals are out there, things I'd like to do if there were no time or financial constraints. These tend to change from time to time, depeding on what I'm up to. Sometimes it's running the Boston Marathon, (which is probably out since that would undoubtedly lead to my death somewhere around Mile 22), to beating Ashton Kutcher to death with a shovel or to arranging for Ann Coulter to be assaulted by crazed Tibetan yaks.

Actually, that last one is pretty consistent. The only trouble is finding a Tibetan yak willing to get within 5' of Ann. Apparently they don't like the odor.

Anyway, one of the things that usually makes the list is thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. This would require hiking roughly 2,130 miles and take at least 3 months, probably somewhat more. Before I had kids this would just have required a willingness to quit my job and start walking, but now I'd miss the little fuckers too much. Also the whole sex-with-the-wife thing. But someday I'd still like to try this. Plus you get neat nicknames from the other thru-hikers.

Someday, assuming I haven't pounded my knees into jelly, I'll give this a shot.

Anyone else feel like sharing their ambitions?

And Pud, we already know what you want to do with Alan Faneca.

I Should Think This Was Obvious

I was reading the regular newspaper this morning and cam across this headline

"Fight Against Childhood Obesity Slow"

And I thought, "that's OK, the obese kids are pretty slow too."

Here, hold my coat while I go to hell.

Truth in Football

So I'm listening to the radio and there's an add on for Notre Dame football games. For some reason the sound-bite from the game announcers they choose to play is a breathless declaration that "The Irish come hard"

Well, yeah, we do, especially if you tickle our balls.

Thoughts On The Weekend While Waiting For Two Assholes To Show Up For Lunch

Did I mention I'm hungry?

On Thursday our Little League officals called us up and told us our son could play fall ball. We told him and he was very excited. Friday morning they called back and said they were sorry but they'd made a mistake and he couldn't play; they had too many kids after all. You can imagine the phone calls that were exchanged at that point. Suffice it to say the president of the league is probably finalizing a restraining order at this point.

I know that we were late with the registration, but if they called us and said "You're in, show up Saturday with a check", and then call back and all they can say is "oops, tell your kid we feel bad", well, homie don't play that.

So naturally when the little tyke begged to help me scrape paint off the house, (which did indeed cause me to question his sanity), I let him help. I watched carefully, saw he had the hang of it, and then left to go to the dump with further instructions to him to stay off the ladder. Which I took down for good measure. So naturally when I came home I found him seated on the kitched table with his mother bandaging a nice little gash on his forehead. Apparently he reinforced some of the lessons I had imparted earlier and managed to stick the business end of the scraper into his forehead. he's healing nicely thank you. Yesterday I was out scraping and painting again and he asked if he could help. I asked if he wanted to grow up without a father, because he would be if his mother saw him with a scraper again before he turned 18.

Later that night I played poker with a few friends of mine. I had won a substantial amount of money at our regular game a couple of nights earlier; suffice it to say that most of it went back that night, which would have put me in a really bad mood, (who am I kidding? I almost threw a chair through a wall), if not for two things. First, the following line was uttered: "You know what movie gets funnier each time I watch it? Schindler's List." I'm not sure if this was original or not, but I did spit beer across the room when I heard it. A later clarification was made to establish that the speaker was really talking about "The 40 Year-Old Virgin". I can see the confusion.

The second thing that made the losing bearable came in this morning's email.



The same guy who took most of my money was kind enough to send the picture along. Almost makes me feel bad about the whole chair incident.

Almost.

Red wine? Is that for your heart or your pussy?

This is probably why my company doesn't pay for your drinks during our offical outings. Perhaps a smarter policy than I'd previously acknowledged.

http://www.drinkatwork.com/2006/07/drink-at-workcom-short-film-drink-with.html

Oh Sure, Ask The Police

My paralegal, a semi-reliable source of information regarding pop culture, (but a dead-on balls accurate source of who's scrweing who in the office), told me this morning that while there is an actual videotape of Steve Irwin's death, it's being held by the cops while they complete their investigation.

Investigation? Do they suspect foul play? Are they trying to identify which sting ray did it? Will there be an arrest? The guy got stabbed in the heart by a wild animal. Case closed. Burn the tape.

Speaking of the police...

News of the Weird, (in my favorite local weekly, The Hartford Advocate, or on the web at NewsoftheWeird.blogspot.com), reports on the latest antics of the New York City PD. Frankly, I'm surprised that city hasn't descended into total anarchy by now given stories like this. Apparently four cops responded to a Bronx apartment for a landlord-tenant dispute, (knowing the Bronx this probably involved a missing roof), but "were distracted by a teenager in the hallway smoking marijuana." So, because there's nothing more important in the Bronx than a kid with a loose joint, (who won't share), the cops chased him.

This is where the pit bull comes in. From parts unknown comes the Hound of the Bronx, no doubt braying ferociously as an eeire fog creeps into the tenement hallway, (said fog being the by-product of everyone else in the building exhaling under their doors), and launching a surprise flank attack on the officers.

They respond, as New York City police seem prone to do, by discharging an overwhelming display of firepower, firing off 26 shots. Although to their credit, no one called a SWAT team for back-up. The end result? One dead dog, one officer with a dog bite, (and probably rabies and/or a series of life-altering experiences every full moon), and three officers wounded by gun-fire...from each other.

The brief story doesn't mention what happened to the landlord, the tenant, or the little bogarting bastard with the joint. I'm guessing he got away, since of the four officers chasing him, three were down with gunshots and one had a dead pitbull attached to his ass. But then, the trouble with stoners is that he may still have been at the end of the hall looking at the carnage and saying "Duuuuuuuuuude"

Anyway, hopefully, the Irwin investigation doesn't end with a dead stingray and three scuba officers with spear gun wounds, but don't count on it.

Can You Say "Irony"

This is a actual headline from CNN.com. Clearly having trouble sorting out their news stories.

'Crocodile Hunter' Steve Irwin dies, Al Qaeda official captured

I'm not sure why this was combined, unless the stingray that stabbed Steve Irwin with a poisonous barb was named Omar Bin-sal-A-bim or something like that.

I originally had a longer post in here expressing my thoughts about people like Irwin and their probably inevitable deaths at the hands, (barbs?), of the dangerous animals they can't seem to help from getting too close to. But after reading it I decided it was a little too mean-spirited and, after about an hour of dicking around with blogger, took most of it out. I feel bad for his kids and as a father I wish the guy had had enough common-sense to stop fucking around with poisonous animals after he had kids of his own.

I will say that I don't beleive for a minute the reports that Irwin was not provoking the sting ray before it went after him. Sting rays just don't launch unprovoked attacks on people.

Unless maybe there's more to this whole Al Qaeda connection that CNN has going.

Things I Learned Today

And it's not even noon!

After a long night of playing poker, (badly), I woke up and headed to the throne room. Relax, that's as descriptive as I'll get. While sitting there with time on my hands, I seized the opportunity to improve my vast knowledge base, (HA!), and read me some National Geographic. I like to learn new things, unlike my daughter who returned from her first day of first grade and was asked "what did you learn today" and cheerfully replied "Nothing!"

This morning I learned that I do not want to relocate to Manchuria, which really isn't anything I didn't already know, and then, in an article about shoes, I learend two things. One, it must have been a slow month at National Geographic to resort to interviewing Manolo Bahlnik, (or however you spell is name), and two, that, accoridng to a different shoemaker "You can't be a dominatrix in sneakers."


On a side note, right now my dog is outside frantcially barking at another dog who is going through obedience training in the field across the street. She's like the kid in school who won't stop passing notes. Here she is now: