New(ish) Ink

I finally got around to getting a photo of my new tattoo. In an effort to sate Maggie's desires, and because I'm a narcissit at heart, (even if I probably spelled it wrong), I post here a shot of my new tattoo.

If you've ever wondered what a chicken would look like if it got a tattoo of a dragon on its leg, well, now you know.

It Was Fun While It Lasted

So last night I'm flipping through channels, occasionally coming back to the "Gay Super Bowl", as I like to call the Oscars. At one point, Melissa Etheridge wins an Oscar for Best Song About The End of the Earth, or something like that. Turns out, Melissa likes the ladies about as much as I do. Who knew?

So she goes up to accept her award, turning first to kiss a buxom blonde (ON THE LIPS!), and then, as if that wasn't bad enough, thanks "my wife" during her acceptance speech. Although I was thousands of miles away, I immediately felt as though something was amiss in my life. A few minutes latter my wife came down from our bedroom with a packed suitcase and a confused look on her face. She said "I don't know why, but our marriage feels like less than it used to be, and I'm leaving" I replied, "I agree, there's no use fightint it, have a nice life. Which kid do you want?" Then we divided the furniture and split up.

Damn you gay people! See what your unholy unions have done to us heteros!? This is on you Etheridge!!

Worst Break-Up Ever, Part I

I think I've figured out a way around the problems with blogger I've been having. The longer posts are going to have to be broken up. Also it gives me an excuse to show off my knowledge of Roman numerals. Welcome to part I!

Maggie, who's over there on the right, posed this question on her blog. I figured I'd answer it here.

I went to an all-boys Catholic High School. No, this isn't the story of my break up with Father O'Fasthands. That actually went pretty smoothly, and paid for law school. No, I only mention that to lay the groundwork for my going to college and having the same experience with girls as your average 8th-grader, which is was the last time I'd spent any great deal of time around girls. And my time in the Boy Scouts didn't prepare me any better. -Make bad joke here-

Worst Break Up Ever, Part II

My first year in college I lived in an all male dorm. Seeing a pattern here? Yeah me too, but this wasn't my fault. When I was signing up to go to UCONN, I had to pick where I wanted to live. At the time the basketball teams both sucked like Britney Spears trying to get an expensive haircut, (thought I'd never mention that didn't you?), and new students could actually pick which below fire-code dorm they wanted to live in. Now they just stick you wherever they can, although even though the state gave them about a billion dollars for renovations, they still can't figure out the fire code. I'm not kidding about that.

Naturally, I asked my father for advice. Who better than a guy who went to school there 30 years before and hadn't set foot on campus since? So he says, "The dorms on the east side were nice", and I check them off as my first preference. Good move. Turns out that in the THREE DECADES since dad had been there, these dorms had gone single-sex. And since everyone else knew that, I got my first choice. Hello to another semester of looking at women through binoculars.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

Worst Break-Up Ever, Part III

Eventually of course, I managed to figure out enough about women to speak with several, date a few less, and convince one to marry me. And that one was already a U.S. citizen thank you very much! But this isn’t about them. This is about breaking up, which is hard to do, even if you’re a doo-wop singer. There’s a song about it. You can look it up.

During the second semester, we had a “July in February” party. We turned up the heat in the rooms, put together an alcohol-based punch that could have probably fueled NASCAR vehicles, and invited the girls from the next dorm to come over. Later that night I would get my ear pierced for the first time. My friend Don dipped an earring of his own into a capful of whiskey, and then shoved it through my ear. Shockingly, it got infected.

Months later I would look back at that incident as the highlight of the night.

That night, I met Tammy. Which is not her real name. She was really attractive, and like me, a freshman. I had seen her checking me out in the cafeteria for months. But at the time I was far too stupid to realize that she was actually checking me out. I thought I just had food on my face.

Worst Break Up Ever, Part IV

I was a confident person in college.

But that night, we hooked up. And by hooked up I mean “sat next to each other and kissed good night.” With tongue! And if anyone’s reading this for salacious details, let me save you some time. Much like Meatloaf, this story ain’t going past third base. In fact, it wasn’t even that close. While Meatloaf at least gets thrown out in a close play at the plate, (all together now “Stop right there!!!” Before we go any further…”), I rounded third base, tripped over my own feet, fell face first into the coaches box, and was mercifully tagged out by the catcher while crawling forward.

But this isn’t about all the fun we had getting my fingers untangled from her bra. Nope. This is about her dumping my ass in a public and humiliating fashion, thereby earning herself the sworn hatred of pretty much anyone who was there to witness the scene, or anyone who heard about it, and pretty much anyone who read the classified ads I later took out to tell the entire campus what a bitch she was. OK, one of those things didn’t happen, but I’ll let you guess which one.

Worst Break Up Ever, Part V

Every semester we had a semi-formal. We’d get dressed up, go to a rented hall, dance around and get drunk. By the time the semi-formal rolled around, Tammy on I were on thin ice. Actually, I was already in the water, since she’d dropped the “I want to see other people” line on me a couple of days earlier. You’d have to be a complete idiot not to see where this was going, and that going to the dance together would be a bad idea.

Unfortunately I was that idiot.

The night of the dance rolls around and Tammy shows up. Credit where credit is due, she looked great. Beautiful even. One of my more sensitive friends, who knew what was going on, came up to me and said, “you may as well jerk off now pal, because you’re not getting any later.” He was right, and I should have taken his advice. At the dance, we hung out, but as the night wore on I noticed that she really wasn’t around. And then we found out why.

She had hooked up with a guy wearing a tuxedo, sans jacket. The same guy who had just weeks before rammed an earring through my ear said “You got dumped for a waiter!?” I think I said “Fuck you”, but there wasn’t much of an argument to be had. Turned out he lived in our dorm on the first floor, and this was something that had been brewing for a week or so. One of my female friends volunteered to take Tammy into the girls room and come out alone a few minutes later. I laughed, then realized she wasn’t kidding. I said no, but every now and then, like when writing incredibly long and meandering posts, I wonder what would’ve happened had I said, “Yeah, sure, go for it” I suspect Tammy would’ve gone down faster than, well, uh

Worst Break-Up Ever, Part VI

Well, a hell of a lot faster than she ever went down on me.

So that’s roughly it. While I’ve since had more serious relationships end badly and with more lingering effect, (like amateur taxidermy, but you’ll never prove that), the fact that this was the first girlfriend dumping me in public and in front of most of my friends, would make this the worst.

For those who like stories to have an ending, (as opposed to those of you just praying that this one actually DOES end), Tammy and her waiter stayed together for at least the next three years, and I think married after college. I became something of a popular person in all three dorms, and as a result they led kind of an isolated existence. I talked to her right before I left and wished her luck, and also apologized for any and all grief she’d taken from my friends over the years. As bad as her behavior was, she was 18 and immature, and I was 18 and too stupid to see the obvious. I hope they’re doing well even now, and remain happy together.


But I also hope she’s put on at least 73 pounds.

Understatement of the Year

A Romanian doctor, accoridng to that well known bastion of journalism The Bucharest Sunday Telegram, recently was disciplined in the form of a $190,000 fine after he lost his temper during a urological operation and cut off the patient's penis.

He later admitted her overreacted.

Ya think!?

Thank News of the Weird for this information. Or blame them, as the case may be.

The doctor's union is apparently protesting the fine as "unwarranted." Perhaps they'd like to be involuntarily gelded and then rethink that position.

New Post

For some reason I couldn't post, but I was able to put a new story about the worst break-up I ever had in the comments section. So if you want to read it and weep at the agony I went through as an 18 year-old idiot, it's actually the first comment in the previous post. Hopefully that won't happen much more, because if it does I'm going to shut this blog down and start a new one. And then you'll have to update your links and it's just a big old mess.

Let's Try This

Look in the Comments section

OK Geeks, Help A Brother Out

Since last week I've been having trouble posting. Short entries will fly. Longer ones, not so much. I keep losing the connection to blogger.com. Anyone got any ideas? I'm at work, could there be a firewall or something? Is Blogger just going through trouble? Any advice appreciated.

Friday Night At The Fights

This weekend I took my wife out for a show, then dinner and drinks. Sounds delightful doesn't it?

Yeah, I took her to a boxing match and then we went to a bar afterwards.

She hates boxing. Can't even stay in the same room when I have it on TV. Apparently something about people beating each other bloody bothers her. Unless its Sonny Corinthos beating up someone on 'General Hospital', then that's hot.

Now, you could assume that I got her to go to the boxing match by lying to her. A fair guess, as after all, I got her to marry me by saying that I'm thrid in line to inherit the Sultanate of Borneo. Which for all I know I am. I should find out where that is just in case.

But no, in this case I was truthful. We went because a friend of mine is having a mid-life crisis and decided he needed to learn to box

OK, I've been trying to put this together since Friday. Fuck it, I quit! My friend won. Knocked the other guy out in the first round. It was really cool, and I had some of my usually funny and witty observations about it, but you're never gonna see them because blogger is being a douche'.

You hear that blogger? A DOUCHE'!! A BIG COLD WET DOUCHE!!!

Test

Goddammit.

Real Valentine's Day Conversation

While at a restuarant for dinner.

Her: "I feel bad. You got me a bunch of gifts and took me out to dinner. I just got you a little gift"

Me: "You could pay for dinner"

Her: "Ok, I'll put it on our credit card"

Me: "You could blow me."

Her: "pfft! It's Valentine's Day, not the end of the world."

I'm so returning those gifts.

Wait, You Mean Not Everyone Has This Conversation?

A man and his wife were sharing a bottle of wine when

the man said, "I bet you can't tell me something which will

make me happy and sad at the same time."

The wife thought for a few moments, then said,

"Your dick's bigger than your brother's".

May Have Been A Bad Idea

This weekend I went to the annual ski jumping comeptition held here in CT. That's not me. I go to watch, as I am far to much of a pussy to ever willingly hurl myself off a 50' ramp wearing only skis. Mind you, the competititon included a 10 year old who managed to fly about 180' before gliding gracefully to a halt. I would probably just topple over the edge of the jump and then roll to the bottom of the hill.

While there, I purchased two cowbells. One pink, one blue. They sell them as fundraisers every year. This year I got one for the boy, one for the girl. Then I rang them while the skiers came down the jump. Allegedly this inspires them to jump farther. Frankly I think this is bullshit, as I doubt they can hear anything in those helmets, other than the rational part of what passes for their minds saying "and why did you think it was a good idea to push off the bar?" But I guess it gives the crowd something to do besides hurl snowballs at the jumpers. Which it turns out is frowned on, although I still say they're missing out on a chance to increase crowds with that rule.

When I returned hom I presented the bells to their respective recipients, with the warning that if I heard them inside the house, I would probably kill the bell holder. My daughter looks at the bell and excitedly announces "Daddy, you know what? The next time I get sick I could stay in bed and if I wanted something I could ring this for Mommy to come upstairs!"

I responded the only proper way. "Just wait until Daddy's at work, OK sweetie?"

Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night

But for Christ's sake, go!

Hey, did you hear that Anna Nicole Smith died? Didja? Didja hear that? Didja know she was dead? Didja huh? Huh? Didja huh, huh, huh?

Yes, for those of you who spent the last few days in an isolation chamber, (don't knock it; it's the only place in my house where I can read the news paper in peace), Anna Nicole Smith shed her mortal coil and left this earth sometime yesterday. I could not possibly care any less. But CNN felt differently. They had it as a "breaking story" yesterday. The local news covered it for more time than they spent on a little thing called "Iraq".

Apparently there's a war there. Who knew? Not Anna.

I have to admit, while I didn't spend a great deal of time obsessing over Anna, (as opposed to my fanatical devotion to Jessica Biel), (oh, and my wife too), I knew who she was. She was impossible to get away from. Kind of like fungus. You would think she was gone, but then you'd pull up the carpet in the bathroom and notice a stain spreading where the water had leaked from an improperly sealed tub. That was kind of the equivalent to Anna. You'd read about her screwing an 89-year-old oil millionaire, and you'd think, "well, that's pretty much rock bottom, hope she at least earns the money."

Quick joke: Young golddigger marries an 85 year old millionaire. Figures she'll put in a couple of years at most, then retire in style. Their wedding night arrives and while getting ready for bed, she sees her new husband putting on a condom, putting in ear plugs and stuffing his nose with cotton. She says, understandably, "what the hell are you doing?" He says, "if there's two things I can't stand it's the smell of buring latex and the sound of screaming."

Somehow I doubt J. Marshall met that standard, but I like to hope so.

Then J.M died, which wasn't exactly a surprise. What was a surprise was that the will was contested all the way to the Supreme Court. So Anna didn't go away. She kept her face in the news until the case resolved. Yes, our countries jurisprudence now includes case-law based on a bimbo boffing a billionaire all the way to the bank.

Alliteration kids. Learn to love it.

Eventually Anna managed to get some large sum of money, but along the way she got involved in a reality TV show that I'll admit I watched a couple of times.

By the way, I watch NASCAR for the car wrecks. Draw your own conclusions.

Anyone who watched the show could learn for themselves what a stupid, self-absorbed dipshit she was. I found myself rooting for her to lose at the Supreme Court, guranteeing that she'd end up broke, penniless and in a trailer park somewhere. Possibly next door to Britney Spears. But she didn't. She got her money, she had a kid with one or more men, (which is a neat trick when there's only the one kid), and now she's dead. Is it too bad for her family? Yeah, assuming any of them are around. You'd never hear about them. Is it too bad for anyone else? Well, last time I checked, the sun came up this morning, in the east no less, my mortgage was due, the boiler probably needs to be fixed, and the kids need money for some school program called "lunch." Nothing's changed, media hysteria aside.

We're fighting a war that won't seem to end. Our deficit is at record levels. Joe Lieberman just suggested a new tax to pay for the war. Connecticut has a big problem with urban schools and the fact that they tend to, well, fall down. The earth seems to be heating up a bit. And the big concern is why and how Anna Nicole Smith died.

You know what? I don't care.

I stole this from Steve Martin

If you click here you should get to a very funny article about 72 virgins waiting for certain people in what can't possibly be paradise.

Found in the New Yorker, which I'd like to claim I'm highbrow enough to read, but in all honesty, my Mom sent this to me. The same person responsible for "hot dog casserole" This probably explains a lot.

This might be the funniest thing Martin has done since that remake of the Pink Panther with Beyonce'. Boy, that was funny.

Funny in that last paragraph should probably be translated as "craptastic fuck-up".

When You Spell "Love" I-N-S-A-N-E

you're just asking for trouble.

I suspect that this story is all over the place today, but this frankly just cracks me up. Yes, it cracks me up because I am an insensitive asshole and the misery of others makes me happy. I live in a dark hole surrounded by puppets. I can't help myself. You, on the other hand, come here willingly. You sick bastard.

Lisa Nowak has set a new standard for determination in the field of "I loves you so much I jus' can stands it no more." As you may know by now, unless you've been under a rock for the last day or so, Lisa is an astronaut who may have flown a little too close to the sun the last time out. Apparently involved in a love triagle so secretive that two of the other angles weren't all that aware of it, Lisa drove 950 miles straight from Houston to Orlando to confront the other woman. She brought with her a knife, duct tape, (really, is there anything duct tape CAN'T do?), pepper spray, a steel mallet, and one would think breath spray. After all, one can't make a trip of 950 miles without stopping and not smell a little gamey. And when one is confronting the possible girlfriend of the guy you've got the hots for, well, I would think you'd want to look and smell your best.

Know what else you can't drive 950 miles without stopping for? OK, possibly food, but not quite. Having embraked on a few road trips of 800 plus miles myself, (the last, God knows why, involved Dayton, OH), I can tell you that at some point you're going to need to use the toilet. Possibly quite urgently. This will involve, at a minimum, pulling over to the side of the road, dashing into the bushes, letting fly, and getting back into your car. Probably set you back a good 4-5 minutes at a clip.

According to the article I saw yesterday, (and accidentally deleted otherwise I'd use my cool new linking powers), that 4-5 minutes was going to be too much for Lisa. In addition to the duct tape, mallet, knife and pepper spray, (which aren't really all that funny), Lisa equipped herslef with what the reporter describes as "adult diapers."

And that's why I can't follow this story without snickering. And occasionally emitting a low whistle of admiration. Putting aside everything else, if you're the guy in this case, how inflated is your ego right now? Lisa is not only willing to throw away her entire career, and possibly a healthy chunk of her freedom, for your ass, she's willing to do it while driving in a pair of soiled diapers because it's that important that she get there NOW!!

I hope the guy does the right thing and at least offers to pay for the 2-3 speeding tickets I'll bet she got.

Warts 'N All

Apparently there's a new vaccine against HPV, which I understand has something to do with preventing genital warts. And also has the side benefit of preventing/reducing cervical cancer. Not having a cervix, I may have missed some of the details. Wanna talk about prostate medication? Didn't think so. Moving right along.

Several states, including, rather surprisingly, the blue state of Texas, are passing laws requiring that all girls in 6th grade or beyond get the vaccine. It's mandatory, like measles. Some parents are complaining, claiming that this infringes on thier rights as parents to decide, well, I guess to decide what preventable disease their kids can eventually die from. The theory is that the kids will figure out that since they don't have to worry about warts, they're going to violate their parents' teachings and start screwing the bejesus out of each other.

OK, here's news-flash shut-ins. Your kids are gonna fuck. Not well, but they're gonna. As soon as they can persuade a member of the opposite sex, (let's not even go same sex with these parents. Baby steps), that they're somewhat less than completely repulsive, (took me 19 years), they're gonna go at it like weasels in heat.

I'm good with the similes huh?

As I recall from my teenage years, warts wouldn't have bothered me one bit. In my dumbass little version of the world, I would just go buy some Compound W and take care of things. Hell, if hairy palms and potential blindness weren't keeping me from a little alone time, ("I'm just reading Sports Illustrarted Mom!! Leave me alone!!"), I seriously doubt that the potential of warts might keep me from actually playing as part of a team.

Here's what might have.

AIDS. Pregnancy. (Especially mine!!). Herpes. Girl's father is the Chief of Police. These are factors that will dissuade your teen from having sex. The fact that the girl has been vaccinated for HPV isn't the deal-breaker. So get your headout of your ass and get to the doctor's office.

And while you're there, grab a handful of condoms too. Cause it's gonna happen, and playing the ostrich isn't going to help.

If It Floats, It Must Be A Witch

Lately I've taken up swimming as a form of exercise. Mostly because it's a lot easier on what's left of my knees and hips after all those years of Olympic-caliber running.

Special Olympic-caliber running if you want to get technical about it.

Seriously, I've been passed by 9-year-olds in road races. And I'm not above hawking a loogie onto their backs as they run by either. I was once absurdly proud of myself for pushing myself into a sprint, (in the very loosest sense of the word "sprint") across the finish line, passing the guy in front of me.

The guy might have been 12. Fuck you pal, I won.

Now I swim. No icy roads, no traffic, no bad knees. I'm up to a mile at a time. You might think I mention this as some kind of accomplishment. For me, it is. But keep in mind that I "swim" in the same sense that a beached whale "walks". There's a lot of harsh attempts at breathing, an assortment of odd noises and usually a crowd of people can be counted on to gather around and try to put me back in my natural environment. Which is probably a couch with a bag of Fritos and a beer watching a strenuous TV sporting event like poker.

Seriously, poker was on NBC last weekend in the afternoon. I play poker, I like poker, but if you're at home on a Saturday to watch a poker tournament you are in desparate need of either an intervention or some kind of internal organs so you can get out of that iron lung.

Anyway, back to my accomplishment of swimming a mile. The other day I come staggering home from swimming and more or less collapse on the couch. I put on the TV and prepare for the sweet release of death, or sleep. On one of the channels, probably The Discovery Channel, since they get off on this stuff, they have a show that puts me in my place. There's a woman on who's going to swim a mile in about half an hour. No big deal. Faster than me, (by a LOT), but I'm not proud, as I think I've showed over the last year or so here. But she's going to do it in THE ANTARCTIC OCEAN!! Seriously. She's jumps off a boat anchored a mile offshore and swims to the beach. The water is 32, but apparently salt water has a lower freezing temperature. I complain when the water in the pool is 80. She's dodging ice chunks and penguins. Our pool has lane dividers. And penguins, although I have no idea why. They just shit all over the place and eat all the fish. This chick plows ahead for a half hour in this water, staggers onto the shore, then is promptly covered in blankets, stuffed in a motorboat, people pile on top of her, she's rushed back to the boat and put in a special warming room to recover from what the TV people blithely call "near hypothermia." If that was me, you know what they'd call my condition?

Dead.