Wait, That's Gay?

Sen. Larry Craig of Idaho, (I da ho'? No, you da ho'!), held a press conference yesterday to announce, among other things, that he is not gay. Ordinarily, this isn't something one holds press conferences for. Unless, of course, you really are gay. I know this because I'm straight, and I figure the fact that I've never been caught, (note that "caught" is really important in that sentence), pan-handling for sex in airport men's rooms, or anywhere else, sort of eliminates nay need for me to get up on a podium and yell "Hey everydbody, look over here!! Straight, heterosexual man on woman lovin' guy over here!! Look at the breeder!! Whheeeeee!!"

Unlike Larry.

Because, see, Sen. Larry Craig (R)Idaho, (No, you da ho'!), recently got caught, presumably literally, with his pants around his ankles soliciting sex from an undercover cop in the stall next to him. And I can say that that's what he was doing because big gay Larry actually pled guilty to disorderly conduct, even if he's now trying to undo his guilty plea, which has about as much chance of happening as George Michael has of singing the national anthem at next year's State of the Union address.

Here's what Larry pled guilty to doing. Sgt. Dave Karsnia of the Minneapolis police had obvioulsy pissed off somebody, so he was running a plainclothes sting operation against homosexual conduct in airport restrooms. Question> If I got into a stall and threw my wife up against the wall and proceeded to disappoint her with 10-20 seconds of intercourse, would Sgt. Karsnia have to arrest me? her? both of us? Or does he have to wait for Larry to show up and offer to blow me?

So anyway, Sgt. Dave's job for the day consists of sitting on a toilet ina public restroom and waiting for gay men to come in and solict sex from him, a job which no doubt would lead some to question exactly why they went in to police wrok in the first place. "Yeah, Sarge, unh, we're taking you off the drug sting operation this week. Seems a homo or two got blown at the airport and we need you to go spend 8 hours in a stall and see if you can arrest anyone. And yes, in this case hemorrhoids would fall under worker's comp."

Sgt. Dave, however, is dedicated, or at least near enough to retirement to put up with this assignment. (I almost said "shitty" assignment, but couldn't take the pun) While sitting there, presumably having finished the crossword puzzle and the sports page, he observes Soon-to-be Ex-Sen. Larry "gazing" at him through the crack between the door and the frame of the stall. The story doesn't say if there were goo-goo eyes involved. Larry then enters the stall next to Sgt. Dave, (a name that, the more I type it, the more I think The Village People, and puts his bag against the front of the stall door. Dave says that, in his experience, this is used to conceal sexual conduct by blocking the view. Well, of course, no one would notice two people fucking in a stall if a carry-on bag was blocking the view. And how much expereince does Sgt. Dave have with concealing the view of sexual conduct in a stall anyway?

This is where things get good.

Larry sits down and "tapped his right foot several times", then touched Karsnia's foot with his own. Apparently this is a signal used by people to try to get it on in restrooms. Which means I need to stop tapping my feet while sitting in the john. I really hope that rustling the sports pages isn't also a way to ask for anal, otherwise things could get ugly. Then, Larry "passed his left hand under the stall divider...with his palm up" and moved it toward the front of the stall three times. Sgt. Dave took this to mean he was asking for sex. I take this to mean that Larry was not only close to falling on his face, (think about it. His right foot is already under the stall door, now he's reaching across his body and down and into the stall with his left hand, all while sitting on the throne. It's like the worst game of Twister ever!), but might be out of toilet paper and is using sign language to request help from the guy in the next stall.

Then Sgt. Dave arrested him and Larry pled guilty and paid a $500 fine. He says that he pled guilty to get things over with quickly because he didn't want his home town paper digging it up and embarrassin him even more, becuase apparentyl they're already investigating him for...

get ready for it...

here it comes...

engaging in restroom sexual enounters with other men. Who also are totally not gay and never have been. Just like Sen. Craig of Idaho. Who in my opinion is a big hypocrite, a huge liar and, of course, a flaming queer.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find my tap shoes. It's time to go to the men's room.

Brother, Can You Spare $15 Million?

Or sister. Whichever. All I know is that someone in Indiana has the winning Powerball ticket for a $314 million prize. And I'm hoping it's some combination of the Zoe/Phollower crew so I can try to borrow money.

I Wish I Was This Funny

"Saturday, April 17, 1991 (N) at [REDACTED]

11 PM: GUAPO ENTERED PARTY AT 138 COLLEGE AVENUE; Guapo approached Julie McCracken; Guapo struck out looking; Guapo approached Leigh Allen; Guapo struck out; Guapo spilled drink all over Allen in the process; Guapo approached Kristina Paige; Guapo struck out; Guapo ejected from Party by Paige's boyfriend; 0 H, 3 E. Guapo 0, World infinity.

12 AM: GUAPO ENTERED DORM; Guapo approached by Francine McDermott; McDermott was visibly intoxicated; Guapo reached on an error by McDermott; Guapo threw a wild pitch; Guapo ejected by McDermott; 1 H, 2 E. Guapo 1, World infinity."

An explanation is in order. I love baseball the way John Daly loves cigarettes, gambling, floozies and Coke. It's kind of an addiction. I also have a low tolerance for people dumber than I am, which fortunately keeps the pool of potential targets kind of low. It does not, however, rule out sports commentators, who I find with few exceptions to be mind-numbingly irritating. Firejoemorgan, which I link to over there, does a phenomenal job pointing out these idiots, and if you're interested in baseball, or just funny articles targeting pompous windbags, you could do worse than waste a few minutes over there. In fact, you're probably doing yourself more harm just coming over here and reading this crap.

But anyway, today they pointed to an article by Andy Rooney of "60 Minutes" fame. Having read the article, I can safely say that Andy has gone off the reservation and is probably mere days away from being found on street corner wearing only a battered adult diaper and muttering incoherently about the good old days when there were two color fountains outside every two rest rooms. In other words, it'll be pretty much business as usual for old Andy.

But anyway, in the comments below that article, a fellow named Guapo posted the above box-score in response to another comment. In more detailed baseball terms than usual, (i.e. "Dude, I totally got to third base before I threw up on her roommate's cat"), Guapo ably restates a night some 16 years ago. I laughed out loud, which is sort of hard to explain at work, unless you're the weird guy with the office at the end of the long hall with the solid door, (guilty!), as it pretty much summed up innumerable nights from my own college career. And probably many of you too, so don't bother denying it.

The Worst Father Ever

Apparently I have some stiff competition in this category.

Two nights ago I took my kids to a minor league baseball game. Field level seats for $10, can't beat that. Although with my kids you can expect to double that on hot dogs, lemonade, cotton candy and beer. Oh wait, the beer is me. We also took the family dog, because they had some kind of Humane Society benefit where you could bring in your dog. I'm not sure ours was all that thrilled to be surrounded by other dogs, as she's a giant wuss, but I gave her half of a hot dog and she seemed OK. I wonder how Moto would have done. Soozie?

At any rate, as the game went on, (our local team was again losing), I had the kids and the dog over in a grassy area to the side of the field. We're right next to the seats along the right-field line. In the front row there is a father and his two kids. A player launches a line-drive right toward them. This family isn't paying particular attention. Someone yells to them, the father looks up....and moves.

You could hear the sound of the ball hitting his youngest kid from where I was standing, maybe 50' away. If it was a head shot I wouldn't even be writing this. If it hit him in the ribs, he'd have left by ambulance. Instead, it got him right in the side, kind of above the hip. He'll have a nasty welt for a few days, but was up and walking within ten minutes. He'd even stopped crying. His father looked like he was about to start.

Now I understand that when a person turns around and sees a line-drive headed toward them, and they aren't particularly athletic, (and this guy looked like more of a NASCAR driver than an athlete), the understandable reaction is to get the fuck out of the way. On the other hand, if you're kids are behind you, CATCH THE DAMN BALL!!

On the plus side, the kid seemed OK, and there's no way that his father can ever punish him again, for anything.

"Son, did you drink all my beer and then drive the car through your mother's prize-winning petunia patch?"

"Yes, Dad, I did. Hey remember that time you stepped out of the way of a line drive that hit me in the gut when I was 6?"

"Carry on son, carry on"

Because Well-Adjusted Kids Are Boring Kids

Part 37 in an ongoing series of me against my children.

Scene: Last Night at Bed Time. Bedroom, (coincidentally), lights about to go out.

Son (age 9): "Dad, can you check the closet for monsters?"

Me: "What are you, 4? really?"

Son: "Yeah, I'm serious"

Me: "OK"

Goes to closet, opens it

Me: "Uh, 1,2,3...yep, looks like they're all in there. Good night son" -click-

Son: "You're the worst father ever" (but laughing)

To Hell And Back

Yesterday I took my son to New York for our annual Yankee game. It's 150 miles from our house to the stadium, door-to-door. Roughly. I know I pushed the odometer back to zero fairly soon after leaving. At any rate, its a three hour ride. So we left three and a half hours prior to the game. And we were taking the train, so we only had to go to New Haven, hop aboard Metro-North, and cruise in comfort to 125th street, where we would catch the Subway and spend fifteen minutes or so packed like lemmings into a shiny metal box that smells sort of like a used urinal cake.

Except that the parking lot was full at the train station. And by the time we found another spot and cruised into the station the train we needed had departed by three minutes. And the next one wouldn't leave for an hour and we would miss at least half an hour of the game.

So being the man of action, and little forethought, that I am, I decide we'll drive into the Bronx. As we cruised along the Hutchinson Parkway, making great time, (OK, I may have violated some traffic rules having to do with speed), we were looking at getting to the game in time to maybe see some batting practice. And then we turned onto whatever highway it is, (the Cross Bronx, I think), that gets you to the Major Deegan, which gets you to the Stadium. And unfortunately, in addition to the Major Deegan, also gets you to the George Washington Bridge. Which, judging from the traffic jam we encountered, had apparently fallen into the Harlem River. We simply stopped moving. Eventually we crawled forward. And stopped. And crawled forward. And stopped. And crawled forward. And stopped. And suddenly swerved into another lane, cut off an 18-wheeler, shot forward three car lengths, and stopped. And crawled forward. And so on and so forth. For a fucking hour. Finally, just as I was starting to hallucinate that the Virgin Mother was beckoning me to drive myself and my first-born into the Harlem River, I saw the Major Deegan exit. I broke sixteen different traffic regulations cutting over three lanes in 15', hit the ramp at 60 and headed to the left of three poorly-marked options.

It was the wrong option.

So I drove through Harlem, keeping the Stadium, now separated from us by the Harlem River and the Virgin Mother, who was floating over said river doing a crossword puzzle and saying "Hey, don't look at me. I told you hit the water. You'd be at the Stadium now if you listened to me."

Eventually, I found another bridge and rocketed across it, straight into another traffic jam caused by everyone in the tri-state area, and three buses from Maryland, trying to find a place to park. By now I'm at my wit's end and the game has started, so I agree to pay $28 for valet parking just to get into the game before the 7th inning stretch.

Our seats sucked. They were in the top section, but at the bottom. To get to them one comes out of a ramp into the middle of the section, and then one has to complete a technical climb down to the seats. We were seated just close enough to the edge that a metal bar, which might give someone plunging over the edge false reason to hope, but no chance of survival, blocked our view of some unimportant parts of the field, like the plate and the pitcher's mound. So we moved our seats up a few rows where we sat in the sun and broiled for four hours, during the third of which the Virgin Mother again appeared, but this time with lemonade. There's a chance I may have been suffering heat stress, and since beer was $8.00 for Coors, I had resorted to recycling my own urine by then, so hallucinations were to be expected. Good lemonade though.

For most of the games the Yankees couldn't hit a curve-ball with an ironing board, (Quoting Steve Garvey describing Michael Jordan's chances for success at pro baseball), and they trailed 3-0 going into the 9th inning. But lo, hope springs eternal, and the Yankees put two men on base before Jorge Posada struck out swinging at a pitch that was both high and outside, thereby eliminating the chance to load the bases and creating two outs. A kid, (he's 28), named Shelley strode to the plate. Shelley Duncan. Big kid. Doesn't look like much in the thinking department. Hits a lot of home-runs. Also hits the air a lot as the ball zips past him. I'm yelling at him to hit a home-run for Christ's sake because I didn't turn my son into a sun-stroked vegetable on the Cross Bronx Expressway to see the Yanks get shut-out by the fucking Orioles. "Watch your mouth" said the Virgin Mother. "Blow it out your ass" I replied. "You don't like cussing, go buy a luxury box". As she was standing up to punch me, Duncan swung. We paused, hardly daring to hope, as the ball soard towards left field. Would it go foul? Would it stay fair?

It stayed fair, and my son, the apple of my eye, the whiskey in my liver, screamed with joy and wonder as his team came back from seemingly insurmountable odds to dramatically win the game. Or at least tie it. But surely after that they'd win it right?

Wrong. Because a man named Joe Torre hates little kids. To start the next inning Joe Torre, the "manager" of the Yankees, elected to put in Mariano Rivera, the Yankees vaunted, and aging-like-the-portrait-of-Dorian-Gray, closer. The guy who saves games. Not the guy who starts an inning with the score tied. And especially not the guy who starts such an inning when he's pitched in 3 of the last 4 games and in the last two of those got hit harder than a pinata at a Mexican meth addicts birthday party.

"Holy fucking Christ" said the Virgin Mother. "What the fuck is Torre doing? Doesn't he know that he has Joba Chamberlain in the bullpen. The kid with the rocket arm who hasn't pitched in a day? The kid no one in the majors has hit yet? What the fuck is the matter with him?" "Watch your mouth" I said, "there are kids around." To which she replied "Well then I hope they've got more fucking sense than Torre does, cuz he's about to piss this game away", and then disappeared into a taco shell. I took a sip of the lemonade, Rivera gave up two doubles and a home run, Torre never moved off the bench, and the Yankees lost.

The ride home took four hours. I'll spare you the details, but just know that if you ever need a honky to get you out of Harlem in 3 minutes, I'm your man.

Despite all this, I would go back again today just to see the look on my kid's face when Duncan hit that home run. And because I'm pretty sure the Virgin Mother took my wallet.

But next time? We're taking the fucking train.

Take This Ingrates!

Sure, he's not much for household chores, but he looks good just standing around, won't pester your for sex, he never interrupts, never criticizes and he's stayed hard for the last 500+ years! I don't know what more you could ask for.

And for the other 3/4 of the readers, here's Emanuelle Chriqui, who plays Sloan on "Entourage". I like the show and think it's very funny, but the idea that an Irish kid from Queens who stand about 5'4" could land a chick this hot requires a certain amount of suspended disbelief. And I should know, even though I'm taller and not from Queens.

Something For The Ladies

The straight ones, that is. All both of you that read this. As you know, I periodically link to sites with really hot chicks. This is because I'm straight, and probably half of my female audience isn't. And if there's one thing straight guys and lesbians agree on, it's that hot chicks rock. And that a day spent without beer and sports on TV is a wasted day.

But, when I do put up the links to hot babes, some straight chick like Eclectic or Maggie can be counted on to ask for equal time for postings of hot guys. Although to be fair, Eclectic is far more polite than Maggie, which is to be expected since she lives in Oregon where everything is nice and clean and above-average and Maggie lives in Montana, which is currently experiencing weather conditions roughly equivalant to the 8th Circle of Hell, and consequently she lives in a cave and her manners suck.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Usually, I just ignore these requests or politely turn them down by making homophobic remarks and telling them to use their own goddamn blogs for that sort of smut. Cuz I'm polite like that. But not this time. Nope this time I'm putting up a link to something all chicks dig. Men in kilts. And may I just point out that not only am I providing photos of guys, (OK, one. I think. I didn't go through the whole site), in kilts, but these guys work in the northwest and could conceivably be retained by either E or Maggie. Assuming anything's left in Montana besides ashes and charred tree trunks after this summer.

Now why would I do this you ask. Because in the comments to the last post Big Pissy, she of the immaculate lawns, devastatingly well-planned and oh-so-tasteful parties, she of the fashion sense and refined southern politeness, yes that Big Pissy, used the phrase "man meat" And kids, when someone like Big Pissy is willing to go to that level, well, I just have to respond.

Enjoy your clean windows Maggie.

Editors' Note: OK, the first three commenters didn't like the skinny guy the kilt who washes windows. Fine. I can't pick out guys. I can live with this. Here's a photos of some guys at some sort of Highland Games. If this doesn't work, I may go the banana hammock route. And no one wants to see that.

Helpful Tips When Watching Wildlife

I spend a lot of times outdoors. When cruising about I find it's helpful to have a field guide to identify different species. My bird book has come in handy many times fr identifying such exotic species as robins, pigeons and blue jays. After I've shot them. My mammal guide came in handy just the other day when my Dad and I went hiking and ran over a bobcat.

OK, we didn't really run over a bobcat, but we did see one on the road for a split second before it vanished into a swamp.

But if you click here, you'll find one of the more useful field guides I, as a straight male, have ever stumbled across

Always A Fun Moment

I hate those times when you're driving into work and you find a good song on the radio. Then you start thinking about the day and how you're going to try to avoid felony contempt charges and you kind of zone out for awhile. After miraculously staying on the road anyway, because at this point your route to work has become muscle memory and you really could do it with your eyes closed, no matter what that spoil sport cop said, you snap back into awareness, realizing to your horror that you've been listening to Journey sing "Faithfully" for the last 2 minutes 14 seconds, and you don't even have a mullett.

Sesame Street Wisdom

So I turn on the TV this morning so I can watch something while stretching out pre-run. Stretching is very important at my age. I like being able to walk upright.

When Our TV comes on it defaults over to channel 2, which is PBS in our area. Then you have to turn the cable on, (all by remote, since one of our kids, (or possibly the wife), broke the power switch on the actual TV. No one's fessed up yet), and flip to whatever you want. For me its ESPN in the morning, porn at night.

At any rate, this morning "Sesame Street" was on. In the time it took me to flip over, I heard one of the muppets ask another muppet, "Do you know my friend Margarita?" And I thought to myself "Oh yes, I know your little friend Margarita. She's a cute little number who comes on all smooth and dainty, and then the next morning you wake up and realzie she's clubed you over the head and stolen your wallet, leaving you with a bad headache and no money. Yes, I do indeed know Margarita."

In other news, it doesn't look like we'll be making a move on that house. While it did lack zombies or a graveyard, the kitchen is very small, the master bedroom has zero closets, there is no room in the house for our pool table, the lake in the back is a resevoir for the next town and therefore completely off-limits for any kind of activity, and the in-law apartment is directly below what would be our bedroom I am rethinking our ability to buy a house and remain in this town, as the prices just seem ridiculous for what one gets. So I'm rooting for a near total collapse of the housing market.

Don't judge me.

Be Vewwy, Vewwy Quiet

We're hunting houses!!

Yep. After 9 years in a house I said we'd live in for 6, (at least according to my wife, who apparently memorizes every promise I make. Bitch), we have outgrown our house. We need to start looking for a new one. We've talked about adding on to our house as well. We have enough land to pull that off nicely, so we can take our time looking for the perfect house. Which in my mind would be between a strip bar and a liquor store, be made out of candy, and cost $4.76, which is about what's left in my 401K after the ever so exciting stock market ride this week.

The good news for us is that our house has more than doubled in value from what we paid for it. This is probably because we bought it from an estate. Always try to buy your real estate from dead people whose relatives live across the country. The word "motivated" doesn't even begin to describe it. "Hell-bent" is more like it.

The bad news is that while our property has doubled+ in value, so has every other piece of property in a 500 mile radius!! Holy shit. Houses that went for $200,000 9 years ago are up around $500,000 now. Couldn't buy it then, can't buy it now.

Tomorrow we're looking at a house located on the water, with a huge yard, double our square footage, a sauna, two outbuildings and an in-law apartment. It seems to be criminally under-priced. I'm looking forward to hearing a disembodied voice hiss "get out" when we walk in. But I'll tell you what, if this place is structurally sound, at this price I'll take my chances with the undead. "Yes, kids, I know they keep grabbing for your brains. Just keep the football hemets on while you;re in the pool and let's all be thankful Daddy can still make the mortgage payments"

Why I'm Not In MENSA

Well, for starters, my mother-in-law is allegedly a member of this high IQ group. Secondly, I have trouble deciding what to do when the remote battery dies and I might actually have to get up and manually change channels and/or get batteries. And third, let's face facts, I'm a fucking idiot.

But last Xmas said mother-in-law gave me a MENSA desk calendar. Every day there's a new quiz you can take, and in my case, fail, similar to the sorts of brain ouzzlers MENSA people do for fun. Also, they probably spell "puzzle" without the "o". There's all sorts of math questions having to do with apples, oranges, trains leaving different stations at different speeds and crap like that. Also word puzzles. I suppose they're fun of you're into that sort of thing, and also have a thought capacity greater than that of a mildly deranged hamster. Myself I just skip to the back and find the answer.

Yesterdays was a word scramble with all the vowels taken out. You had to figure out what the well-known proverb was. Since my knowledge of proverbs is roughly equivalant to my knowledge of quantum physics, it was right to the back. The proverb was "One swallow does not make a summer" And I instantly thought,"maybe, but it does make a helluva a good night"