I'm Not One to Hold a Grudge

      Gentle Reader, I've grown sick and tired of these self-pity Facebook status updates. "Why can't I find a good man? So tired of assholes!" The reason for this is YOU don't like guys that treat you well. YOU prefer a guy that borrows 200 bucks, buys cocaine with it, sticks his cock in your ass, drops you off at home, and then sleeps with your best friend AFTER he does the coke with her.  This behavior can only be tolerated once. You can NEVER again speak to a man that treats you like this. If you do, it tells him that it's fine, your dumb-ass will take it, and you probably have a pretty strong jaw and can take a punch.

      If you continually make the same mistakes over and over again, you can't repeatedly tell yourself that it's just destiny or God's plan for you. Eventually, you need to accept responsibility for where you are in life, and make a change if needed. Jesus will never change the fact that you're a whore and that you think being able to suck a dick like it will pay the bills will eventually land you a good husband. It won't. Sucking a mean dick might keep the lights on for a couple months, but eventually he will move on. Guys may be stupid and fueled by sex, but trust me, we can spot a whore when we fuck one. You don't seriously think ALL the girls ask for it in their face?? If you are at least 30 years old or getting close, it's time to blame yourself. Stop waiting for "God" to save you. Get off your knees (double-meaning intended) and save yourself.

      There are three things that I love more than anything else in this world. In no particular order, they are cold beer, friends and family, and a nice rack. God bless a woman with a sweet pair of fun bags. I do love me a good pair of titties, breasts, boobs, hooters, sweater puppies, ta-tas, tig ol' bitties, chesticles, juggs, lung warts, moon balloons, Bert & Ernies, blouse muffins, fun bubbles, button-busters, bouncing bettys, sheet draggers, milk wagons, or even two-bald-gentleman-trapped-in-a-top. My fascination with female breasts probably has something to do with the fact that I was breast-fed until the age of 11. Don't ask me why. Apparently, my mother either found me quite attractive or was really worried about my Vitamin D intake and the risk of early-onset-Osteoporosis. Thanks Mom. I might have severe emotional issues the rest of my life, but at least I can grudge-fuck a girl without worrying about breaking my hip.
      Speaking of "grudge-fucking," this is not an exact science, but it goes something like this. You love the hell out of someone, and then find out they have been cheating on you.  This is the perfect opportunity for a good grudge-fuck. Your mission in this situation is to inflict as much humiliation as you can. Some people would take the obvious path, and try to pull her hair, slap her around a bit, give her a "Russian Bobsled," and maybe try to stick it in her ass like it's your birthday and she ran out of gift ideas.
      These are all amateur moves at best. I always find the best way to walk away still feeling somewhat like a man is to act like you are having the hottest, most mind-blowing sex ever, and then pretend like you are about to bust a nut, and then, I just piss inside them......Now let's see who walks away with the most shame. I'm betting on you, semen-sampler. Yeah, you slept with my brother, but I just took a piss in your baby-maker. Dignity is going to be just a little out of reach for you for a while. So, to wrap it all up, the moral of this story is "Don't Fuck With The Captain!" And if no one ever reads this blog after this, I would not be surprised. Until next time, Gentle Reader.

Russian Bobsled - A sexual act where a man is engaging a woman doggy-style next to a flight of stairs, then pushes her down the stairs, and rides her the whole way down.


The Mind of The Captain

       Welcome back, Gentle Reader. I'm sure the first thing you will notice is that I have made changes to the format. Apparently, reading my blog for too long had a long list of side effects. Headaches, dizziness, seizures, fucking your cousin, hallucinations, and chronic masturbation were the most reported symptoms. If you previously experienced any of these problems, I apologize, and please tell your pregnant cousin that I'm sorry. When I was seeing spots after reading it, I assumed it was just my level of intoxication that was causing it. Hopefully, this will make for easier reading.

      As most of you know, I'm in a new relationship. This is simultaneously one of the most exciting and scariest experiences known to mankind. On one hand, you are so full of hope that this might actually be the one, while on the other hand, your brain and heart keep screaming at you to get the fuck out as fast as you can. As you get older and everyone has so much baggage, things just seem to get harder. Falling in love almost seems impossible, because all you ever do is get in your own way. I've spent most of my life thinking that I'm a pretty sane person. As I have started to get serious feelings about her, it turns out that I might be just as crazy as the rest of you. You start to feel a little insecure, and all it takes is one unanswered phone call and your brain just starts imagining the worst shit possible.  Too much bad shit has happened to you and you don't know how to handle things rationally anymore.
      Let us paint a picture. He/She is supposed to call you after work, but your phone never rings. You think about calling them for twenty minutes and finally break down. They don't answer. So you wait for a call back, or at least a text saying that they are busy getting their junk waxed. Too much time goes by without hearing from them though, and you just start creating shit out of thin air, because the fear of getting hurt makes you want to sabotage the whole damn thing. Most likely, they probably ARE getting their junk waxed, but that's all it takes sometimes, just to plant that one little seed of doubt. Now your paranoid, insecure brain is busy going through "worst-case scenarios."

      You try to bury all that crazy shit, but one day soon it's going to come back up. It will start with something simple and random. Like one day when they ask you to get something out of their purse, and you just know that if you just tilt it the wrong way, random dicks will just start to pour out of it. And that will be all the fuel your paranoia will need for you to flip the purse over, dump the dicks out all over the floor, and scream, "Where the hell did all these dicks come from, huh?!? Answer me, damnit!!!  Yeah! That's what I thought when I first saw you! You looked just like a girl that would have a purse full of dicks!" Ladies, if you would, just try to swap genders for the purpose of this entry, because I lack the knowledge to tell this story from your point of view.  Also, a purse full of pussy isn't funny, it's a fucking pipe-dream.

       Please don't judge me, Gentle Reader. I have been through some bad days. I once dated a pregnant ex-stripper that would go to meet a "friend" for lunch and show up three hours later with $600 cash that he gave her just because he "wanted to help us out."  Yeah, I'm sure he just wanted to help me buy 20 boxes of diapers that we don't even need yet. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact he probably just stuck it in your ass and then gave you a shot in the throat, while you told me you that you guys shared an appetizer sampler at Applebee's. I knew what was going on. I heard that six-hundred dollars is the going rate for ass-to-mouth action these days. Not that I would know, but I do hear rumors.

      On a final note, ladies please don't get mad at your man if he gets a little frustrated when it's "that time of the month." It's not that he doesn't still love you, but he just knows that it's going to be a long week. Not only will you most likely be in a shitty mood, but you can't even have make-up-sex after a fight. So I suggest, instead of constantly saying "I'm on my period," you should change it up, and call it "Blowjob Week." I think this will save a lot of marriages and relationships.  You're welcome. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


Love and Lust

       Welcome Back, Gentle Reader. So yeah, I met this girl, we are falling even more in love while I write this, and I seem to be getting quite a bit of negative feedback. Mostly from female friends I have been talking to for years. Let me start by saying that I'm just as sad as you are that it wasn't you. Okay yeah, so we shared a few laughs, shared a few stories, and I'm even pretty sure our nipples touched once during a hug. This didn't make us soulmates, and we were never meant to be together. I'm sorry, but you missed your chance 7 years ago when you told me you didn't swallow. Sucks I know, but a man has to have principles and stick by them. If not, he ends up with 3 unruly children, a wife that doesn't put out on demand, and eventually, a bullet in his brain.

      So the most common thing I have been hearing is that it is just lust, you can't be in love yet. First off, don't pretend to understand where I've come from or how I feel. Just because it took you 15 months to realize you should probably just marry that fat-fuck, birth a couple kids, and get it over with because you wouldn't ever do any better, doesn't mean that my sweet virgin-ass was going to settle. I'm sorry that you can't pay your bills, teach your children manners, and have lost all hope of finding happiness. You should have thought of that before you let your husband give you herpes and made you feel like you could never be good enough for anyone else again.

      What it boils down to is how do you know when it's not just lust but the real thing. I never thought I would say this, but I can tell you that when you enjoy sitting there laughing with someone more than you enjoy the sex, you should do everything you can to hold on to that. That kind of thing doesn't just come along. It's special and you should treat it as such. You can always find some whore that will "love" the way you fuck her. But when "you know", you just "know." It doesn't matter what anyone else says. When you find someone that makes your face hurt from smiling, your stomach hurt from laughing, and your heart hurt from missing them, then you forget what everyone else is telling you, and just go with it. That kind of thing doesn't just come around everyday, So when you find it, you cherish it, and do your best to make it work.  Until next time, Gentle Reader.



The Captain's First Mate

      Gentle Reader, I apologize for the major drop in quantity and quality over the last few weeks. Even if I don't write all that often, I'm fucking sure my blog can beat up your blog. I had toyed with the idea of quitting on you. I realized that I wasn't writing this for you after all. I was writing for me. We've touched on knives being pulled on me, and girls stealing my change, Nintendo, and self-respect. I just feel like whatever baggage I had is now gone. Also, all of the cynicism, bitterness, and hatred I had for the female gender is pretty much gone at this point. I actually read everything that I had written up to this point and was curious as to where it all even came from. I would like to personally thank each and everyone of you for all of your comments and support. Whatever deep disturbed place I was writing from seems to be just outside of my grasp. I'm not saying this will be the last one, but I'm not sure exactly when the next one will be.

      Let me start by clearing up a common misconception people have about me. Apparently, I tend to give off a slightly arrogant vibe. No, I don't have an ego problem, you have a self-confidence problem. I'm not arrogant just because I know I'm better at comedy, trivia, spelling contests, sexual performance, board games, geography, and sculpting figurines out of wood putty.  It's not that I think my shit doesn't stink, I'm just very aware that mine smells a lot better than yours. I do love me some me though. I actually even date-raped myself once. Seriously. I was up late drinking one night and decided to slip myself a sleeping pill. I woke up a couple hours later with my cock in one hand, my other hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, and I was telling myself to just calm down and go with it. And yeah.....I went with it, but the conversation afterwards was just a tad bit awkward. Honestly, I was probably "asking for it" with that short skirt I was wearing.

      I've talked endlessly to you about not giving up hope. There is someone out there for all of us. I've told you to just be patient and you will find someone like you. Ya know, someone else that digs bubble baths and butt sex. Though never at the same time. Trust me, don't do that shit. No one likes bubbles tickling their colon, and no one ever looked sexy submerged in muddy water....You're welcome. I HAVE met someone though. We met, and after an hour, we both knew that we should be together. People say that sometimes you meet someone and "just know." It was like that. She is like a female version of me. Scary, I know. For example, the other day, we were speaking of birth control, and she tells me, "Well I should either get back on birth control, or we are going to have to invest in some wire coat hangers." Now THAT is a woman after my heart. You just have to find someone that works for you and be patient enough to wait for them to show up in your life. If you waste time fucking gutter-sluts, cum-dumpsters, and your wife's sister, you will never find that kind of connection. Sometimes, when you refuse to settle, and you walk alone for a little while, something real just might come along. Don't ever give up hope, Gentle Reader.


What The Heart Wants

      Gentle Reader, I appreciate everything that you do for me. I am thankful for all of your comments, emails, and texts. I love that you love to read what I write. I love that some of you lose your minds and develop some sort of middle school crush on me. Though I must say, just because you can quote three lines from the blog, doesn't mean I am going to sleep with your fat, skanky ass. I have standards, and if you can't count the sum of your tattoos and abortions on two hands, I am pretty sure that counts you out. Especially if your total comes more from the abortion side. Just because I will fuck almost anything after enough beer, doesn't mean that I will sleep with you. My standards aren't exactly down to a science, but I guess they work something like this....

Swedish bikini model = No beer needed  (unless you've been with Tiger Woods)

Mexican weather girl = 2-3 beers needed  (plus an immigration/background check)

Sexy dancer at the club = 4-6 beers needed  (to make me forget you probably have herpes)

Girl that was cute in high school = 7-10 beers needed  (because let's be honest, you aren't that cute anymore)

Average girl I met a party = 11-15 beers needed  (yeah right, 11-15 beers? That's the minimum I'm going to need to even let you blow me tonight)

Redhead with a big mole on her face = 16-20 beers needed  (I guess I might kiss you, if all previous options are off the table and we are the last two people awake at a party)

Ugly bitch with a rep for sucking good dick = 20+ beers  (Normally you wouldn't even stand a chance, but I hear you like a good shot in the throat every now and again)

Gorgeous Japanese girl I met on the sidewalk = N/A  (Not enough beer in the world for that. I don't do Asians. I'm not racist; I'm just not turned on by gender-bending women with bowl-cuts that remind me of Data from "The Goonies")
       As I said before, this isn't an exact science. You must always figure in who is around, the time since my last masturbation, and if she has had her tubes tied yet. Let's be honest, if I can't get you pregnant, you move up two spots. I'm all for a woman's right to choose, but I don't want to kill a fetus. But I will kill a pregnant prostitute. I mean, really? Who's going to miss them once they're gone anyway?  Certainly not me, or the uncle that touched them as a child.

      On a serious note, sometimes you can't help who you are attracted to. Though you might take a step back and wonder what the fuck you are doing sometimes, the heart wants what the heart wants. Sometimes, people just "do it" for you. You can't explain why or how, but they just make you hold your breath when you meet them, you wonder why you feel the way you feel when you look in their eyes, and you spend the next week trying to figure out why you can't stop thinking about them. You get your hopes up, thinking that maybe you have finally found what you've been looking for, and for one reason or another, the whole thing comes crashing down around you. It is a moment like this that I call a "learning moment." Yeah, it didn't work out this time, but at least now you know that you can feel that way about someone you just met. I think as we get older, we get scared that we will never feel that way again. So, when that happens, that should give us hope that one day it will all work out the way we dream it will. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


Punches and Pole-Dancers

      Gentle Reader, let's talk about drinking today. First off, people that say they don't have to drink or do drugs to have a good time think they are better than you. If anyone ever says this to you, feel free to kick them in the chin mid-sentence. Next, I am so tired of people telling me they don't understand. They don't like the taste of it. Really? You think we LIKE the taste of it? We drink because we struggle to find real joy in life dealing with people like you. You and your stable job history, cheap car insurance, and kids that can't take a punch. Fuck that, I plan on committing as many sins as I can, because I want to make sure that Jesus didn't die for nothing.

      As most of you know, I've raised a lot of kids in my life. Infants, toddlers, and teenagers. Hell, I should quit my real job and start a day-care service. The most important thing that I learned along the way is that you should only beat a kid when they are little. That way they won't remember it when they grow up. Kidney-punch those little fucks before they have the ability to make memories. Get a couple years of abuse in for free, and then hug them and say "Daddy loves you." I mean, yes, they might start crying in the middle of a restaurant for no reason later in life, but that's not your problem anymore, is it?

       I want to end with a little advice for the fellas. You should not, I repeat, should NOT EVER enter a strip club unless you're drunk. Seriously, don't do it. There is shit going on in there that no sober mind should ever witness. When you're fucked up, you don't notice them coming out and cleaning the pole with Lysol and a paper towel in between dancers. You start to see the bags under their eyes, the shame IN their eyes, and their C-section scars. It's not a recipe for a good time. You start to look around and you kind of just feel sorry for them, but then you realize that they just got done cleaning their lady-parts with baby-wipes two minutes before they sat in your lap and called you baby. The $200 they made from the blowjob in the alley is now sticking out of their garter and touching your leg. The semen from the guy in the alley is now glistening on her chin from the flashing lights. You never realized that so many 30 year-old women were in med-school. You even start to wonder where the fuck these girls are getting all of these neon bikinis. Is there a Wal-Mart somewhere that only sells slutty outfits and low self-esteem?


Virgins and Vegetables

      Gentle Reader, I have a crooked smile on my face. I had a horrible week, but somehow just the thought of being better than you made me feel so much better. It's not that I'm more down to earth, smarter, or funnier. It's just that I'm more down to earth, smarter, AND funnier. So, a friend of mine has recently started dating someone new. He tells me that she is a REALLY good kisser. Really? A good kisser, huh? I used to think girls were good or bad kissers, and then one of them sucked my cock. Spin-the-bottle skills apparently go out the window for me at this point.

      You guys remember those make-out sessions when you were a teenager? Those things could go on for hours. Both of you scared shitless. You could just kiss and kiss like lips don't get chapped and abortions are cheap. I think we can all remember those days. No matter what age you were. That first time things went a little too far and you could barely breath. All you could do was live in that moment.

Him: Did my hand just brush her boob?"
Kiss, kiss.
Her:  Did his hand just touch my boob?
Kiss, kiss.
Him: Holy Shit, I seriously think I just touched her tit.
Kiss, kiss.
Her: I seriously think he just touched my tit.
Kiss, kiss.
Him: I wonder if she wants me to touch it again?
Kiss, kiss.
Her: Damn, I hope he touches it again


Him: Why do her nipples look so weird? Is that what a vagina looks like? What the fuck? Isn't it supposed to have hair around it or something? Fuck it! This shit is amazing! Best. Day. Of. My. Life.. So why do I feel like a future rapist right now?  And why does it look like an Arby's roast beef sandwich? It looks so strange! I hope she doesn't think mine looks strange. Fuck, what if mine looks weird? What if when they were giving out penises, I ended up with the weird penis? And what the fuck is that beeping noise? Ohhhh, that's her pager going off. Damnit! Fuck your grandmother and her 9-1-1 pages.

      Sorry about that, Gentle Reader. I got lost in a moment there for a second. For a last bit of advice, I would like to remind the pretty girls of one simple thing..........Those drinks actually do cost money. I know the ugly girls realize that a Crown and Coke cost six bucks. Of course they do, they've been buying them for themselves their whole life. I'm not trying to be ugly, just like they aren't trying to be. It's not our fault, sometimes these things happen. Ugly girls, it's not your fault that both of your parents were ugly and you came up short on the "Two Uglies Make A Pretty" gamble. The odds were low to begin with and you crapped out. I hate that for you, but look on the bright side. Farmers need wives too. Someone has to have their semi-retarded children, and the world needs vegetables. Until next time, Gentle Reader.

Please remember to sign up on Twitter to follow me @CaptMilesLong. I will get that going when I get enough followers.


Drunks, Death, and Dildos

      Gentle Reader (back by popular demand), I welcome you back for another action-packed episode. I want to start by saying that this vibrator craze is getting a little out of hand. I understand a dildo, but a vibrator creates a sensation that a real man could never duplicate, unless you're Michael J. Fox. These things are packing NASA technology these days. With pearls spinning around and some fucking thing that looks like Beaker from "The Muppets" sticking out of the side. I understand trying to rub one out, but let's not get greedy ladies. Were you the middle child and not hugged enough when you were little?

NASA Vibrator

Beaker from "The Muppets"         

      I appreciate all of the sharing of the blog that has taken place recently. I've heard from a lot of people whose friends wanted to find how to keep up with it. Almost all of the feedback has been positive. All except for a friend of one reader. This reader said, "My friend read it, and said you left a bad taste in her mouth." That's odd. That normally doesn't happen until at least the second date. Speaking of second dates, I need to find a girl I'm compatible with. It needs to be someone that drinks. I don't need anyone counting my beers for me. "Really? Another one? How many have you had?"...... And what's your point? I don't know how many I've had. Apparently not enough to make me stop disliking you right now. Or enough to make you prettier than your sister.  Perhaps you should just let me go with it. And why are carrying around an abacus in your pocket?

Abacus - For those not smart enough to get the last joke
      On a final note, I am curious as to why when assholes die, we have to talk about them and treat them like angels. Just because you aren't here anymore, doesn't mean you weren't a fucking prick. Once you're gone, people will always act like they cared about you more than everyone else did and only speak of the good things you did. So on the bright side, at least I have that going for me, which is nice. My eulogy is probably going to be pretty short, but at least I will go out on a high note. Until next time, GENTLE Reader.


A United State Of Mind

      Tender Reader, this political correctness shit has gots to go. It has gotten entirely out of hand. I do my best to not step over the line, but we all must realize that stereotypes are born from fact and learn to let it be. I'm guilty of taking the politically-correct thing too far myself. The other day I was talking with a friend, and he was saying how he can't believe that this girl would date a "fucking Wigger." Jesus man... really? If you don't mind, I prefer the term Wegro. No one wants to be a racist, but it doesn't mean that a lot of Mexicans don't cut grass and a lot of Indians don't call you Boss-Man. That is just how life works. Feel free to stereotype ME if you want. Fucking white people and their mortgages that they pay on time, and kids that know how to spell. I'm not saying that minority children can't spell, I'm just saying that a lot of them can't spell in English.

      I don't mind if an illegal immigrant robs a convenience store with a fake gun that turns out to be a chorizo taco stuffed into the pocket of his flannel shirt. I just don't want to have to pay for their 10 years in jail. Let that motherfucker out of the pokey, I don't shop where they sell cigarettes in singles anyway.  America will still be safe, at least the parts that really matter. Boycott all you want illegal aliens. Just ease up with your "I got so mad that I made a fucking three-dollar sign." So what? I got so mad that I traded in my BMW because I didn't like the way the windows rolled up. Thanks America.


The Best Of???

       Tender Reader, I have big plans for us, but I need your help. No, I can't tell you what it is. It's a surprise. No, I'm not pregnant. No, I'm not posting pics of my junk. If you have any favorite jokes or quotes from the blog, I would love to know what they are. I need serious fucking feedback on this one. Feel free to comment below, or on Facebook if you know me. I really need all you guys to help me out on this one. It's like this. If you don't give me something, I will block you from reading the blog. Ohhhh yeah, I have that kind of fucking authority. This is my world. "You are entering a world of pain." Any and all comments would be appreciated. Thank you in advance and the first person to comment on the origin of the quoted line in today's blog will receive a very special gift.  And no, it won't be an oral orgasm. You people need to learn how to control yourselves. That's so unladylike.


T-Shirts and Tube Socks

      Tender Reader, we have a good relationship going here. I write funny shit, and then you tell me how amazing I am. I like the way this is working out for me. Starting the blog is probably the best idea I've had since asking that pregnant hooker to meet me at the top of a flight of stairs. Talk about two birds with one stone. I've gotten so much feedback that I let go straight to my head. One reader sent me this, "Your blog is a like a drug, or some type of midnight booty call, if ya need a little something on the side to make your day just a little bit better." Now that's quality fucking feedback. Admittedly, she's probably a dope-whore, and it was a little hard to understand her over the phone with all that cock-meat in her mouth, but I take what I can get. I've even given away a couple t-shirts for various milestones. As I said before, I'm a giver.

      Yes, people still give the double-thumbs-up sign. Don't judge her. She also still says "Gimme five, take a chill pill, fart-knocker, Oh snap!, and talk to the hand." Probably has K-Ci and Jojo's "All My Life" rocking in her CD player too. Sorry, "Sweet Cheeks." I couldn't help myself. I also just got an erection thinking about slow-dancing to that song. Thank you semi-talented, harmonizing pop group for allowing me to rub my junk against girls that were trying to figure out if that was really my junk poking them in the stomach. I was a pretty tall lad. I hit puberty pretty early so it gave me a jump-start on masturbation. While you were trying to figure out what that hair was down there, I was trying to figure out what the fuck happened to my jerk-off sock. I left it within arm's reach under the bed. Please God, tell me my mother did not find it while doing laundry. It's not like you can wash one of those things anyway. You could pinch one of those with two fingers and it would stand parallel to the ground. You would have to at least bend it and crack it before you could even get it in the washer.



Things That Go Bump In The Night

      Tender Reader, the craziest shit just happened to me. I was sitting in my front yard trying to watch the meteor shower, when I hear movement in the grass. I jump up, my motion detector light comes on, and there is a possum standing six inches from my foot. I shout, "What the FUCK?" The possum gets so scared he takes off running so fast that he runs straight into the side of my house, apparently knocking himself out and giving himself a concussion. The combination of fear, funny, and alcohol now has me laying in the front yard laughing until tears are running down my face. This is the point at which the possum decides to regain consciousness and starts running straight at me. I instantly levitate to my feet and again shout, "What the FUCK?" as I run my ass back inside the house screaming like an 8 year old girl. I slam the door and immediately lock the deadbolt; Apparently thinking that a fucking marsupial knows how to work a doorknob, and then I fall over laughing again. Did that shit really just happen to me? Yes, it did. Freaky little bastards.

       On a side note, I will be joining the twitter nation sometime in the near future. Follow me at @CaptMilesLong.


I Rest My Case

      I have gotten a lot of texts and emails since yesterday's post. Things like "I was laughing about the Arby's thing until I thought I hope mine doesn't look like that." Or even "They don't look like that." It was a joke to begin with, but now I feel like I must defend my thoughts. My bad for not providing visual evidence to begin with.

       As the title suggests, I rest my case........


Long Live The Captain

      Tender Reader, we need to have a talk. A REAL talk. I have gotten a lot of things out of this blog; clarity, self-worth, understanding, and apparently a fucking bad reputation. The latter of which I never anticipated. I thought people would see past the jokes, see past the funny stories, and see the real me......I was wrong. All I seem to do is bring more trouble my way and make people think that I am a bad person. Well, I will not let this minor setback get in the way of our journey. Fuck you if you don't like me. I probably don't like you very much either. I tend to work that way. People I don't like don't ever seem to like me very much. Apparently, I make my disdain for them fairly obvious. 

      So, I have been trying to get back down to pimpin' weight since my break-up last November. I have lost 35 pounds so far.  226 < 261. You ladies should really try the "Miles Long's Drink More Eat Less Diet." It really trims the waistline. The way it works is I try to get drunk enough that I can't feel hunger anymore. It's amazing. The side effects aren't even that bad. I'm only suffering from nose bleeds, irritable bowel syndrome, ear-aches, numbness in my lower body, diabetes, sleeping with ugly girls, and scurvy. I have a thing about sleeping with ugly girls. No, no, no, I'm not against it, but there are rules. Well, one rule actually. It must be doggy-style at all times. That way, when I close my eyes and turn my head, you probably won't even notice. I do this for THEM. I don't want to hurt their feelings, because I'm a giver.

      Don't worry about me though, Tender Reader. I am going to be around for quite some time. My family has a history of long life expectancy. I know I'm not going anywhere any time soon. I'm still sitting at a Snoopy folding table at Thanksgiving.....thirty years old and I can't even make it to the grown-ups table, cause none of these fucks wanna die. So the moral of our story today is that Arby's roast beef sandwiches look like vaginas turned sideways. At least the ones with all that extra meat hanging off the side. I'm talking about the vaginas, not the sandwiches. No such thing as extra meat on an Arby's sandwich. Those fuckers are delicious. Until next time, Tender Reader.


This Has All Been One Big Misunderstanding

      Welcome back, Tender Reader. A lot of people have asked me recently why I have put up with some of the things that I did in the past. I think we can all make excuses for almost anything when emotions or great sex start clouding our judgement. We can always think of a good reason to stay. For example, years ago, some friends of mine asked why I continued to let "The Succubus" take advantage of me. I said, "Guys, she gave me roadhead." Well a lot of girls do that, right? No, you don't understand... SHE was driving the car. Understand, now? Something I don't understand is why when women without children are getting older, closer to 40 to be more specific, all they can think about is HAVING kids. But with men, the closer they get to 40, all they can think about is DATING kids. I recently turned 30 and I don't think I would date a girl younger than 25. If you didn't watch Thundercats and Fraggle Rock, just keep steppin'.
      While we are on the subject of disbelief, I am having a hard time understanding what the hell is going on with women and their germophobia. What is up with you and your toothbrush? If I understand correctly, at some point in your life, there will be nearly ten pounds of baby coming out of your vagina, with a near-stranger's hands inside of you. He will pull your child out, try to show the child to the guy you claimed was the father, and the afterbirth, or alien-cocoon-membrane, will follow shortly after. They will wipe the ectoplasm from your baby, and then act like they give a shit about you while they hand the child over still somewhat covered in goo. So... you will hold an infant covered in fetal matter and illigetimacy, but you won't let your boyfriend use your toothbrush?  Do we see something wrong with this equation? You are now holding a professionally-swaddled-carrier-monkey, and you have no problem with sucking my cock three times a week.......Now, let me use your fucking toothbrush.

      The thing I have the hardest time understanding is the discrepancy in beauty and self-esteem. You show me a girl with good self-esteem, I will show you an ugly girl.  The prettier they get, the more they seem to hate themselves. "Too skinny" ceases to exist, and men can now feel free to beat on them, because they hate themselves anyway. Learn to love you for you, no matter what you look like. If you don't like who you are inside, you will never like what you see in a mirror. You have to learn to look yourself in the eye. Last but not least, I don't understand why THESE are the three things all people think they have. And they are wrong on all counts, but the three things all people think they have is good taste in music, a good sense of humor, and a good "Slingblade" impression. You think I am kidding? Next time you are around a group of friends, just bust out some "MMMmmm French fried taters" and enjoy watching those fuckers make fools of themselves. Until next time, Tender Reader.



Never Trust a Spaniard

      Upon further review, Tender Reader, perhaps Jennifer Love Hewitt and I were not such a good idea after all. Perhaps a fairy-tale ending isn't in the cards for me. I mean, she HAS been with Carson Daly, Enrique Iglesias, and Seth Green. You don't walk away from such things totally unscathed. She must have took something with her that she can't return. I am not that worried about the white guys, but that Enrique guy has me worried. He IS a Latin-Hispanic-Spaniard of some sort, and we all know that the word herpes comes from the Latin word for "What the fuck is that?" One can never be too careful. You can never trust a Spaniard, not even that Inigo Montoya fellow from "The Princess Bride." Who knows what kind of cold sores that mustache of his could have been hiding?

      Now on to the topic of the day, which is talking during sex. I love talking during sex, though I must say that my phone bills are getting just a little outrageous.  You have to talk during sex to make it great for both parties, but the worst part about talking during sex is occasionally the girl talks back. In bed is the only place I am good at following directions. You say faster? Okay, I will pick up the pace. You say harder?  Okay, I can do that for you. You say deeper? Hold up now. I can't do shit for ya on that one. That is pretty much all I got. I could stand on my tippy-toes and try to squeeze my butt-cheeks together if I thought that would give me an extra quarter-inch, but I am pretty sure we have reached an impasse on this one. I'm sorry if this disappoints you, but I am doing my best here, and that is all my parents ever said I had to do and I would be okay. So if you don't like it, take it up with my folks. That conversation wouldn't be awkward at all. Communication really is key to any good sexual relationship. If you can't tell the person you are with what you want, and how you want it, how are they supposed to know?

       I would like to take this time to sum up our previous month or so together. No matter what has happened to me in the past, it doesn't mean that I don't deserve the whole pie. Yeah, I will be thirty soon and still single, but so what? We could all be married if we were willing to settle (Thanks for the quote "Ramblin' Woman." Just for the last line though. I will give credit where credit is due, but this is my damn blog.) We must learn to never settle. That doesn't mean you can't compromise on certain things. If you love Strawberry Lemonade Kool-Aid, but she loves Great Bluedini, just let it go. Compromise and communication are what make a relationship work. I will be taking a short break from the blog, a pause for the cause so to speak. I will be on vacation from my paying job and plan on taking one from this one as well. A little "Me" time for the Captain. Until next time, Tender Reader.


Blow The Candles Out....Make A Wish....And Don't Fuck It Up This Time

      Something has been troubling me, Tender Reader. Why do people say "grow a pair" when they want someone to toughen up. Do they know nothing of male genitalia? It is quite sensitive. If you want someone to toughen up, you should say grow a vagina....because those things can take a pounding. Also, why do guys think just because they took you on a date, and paid for dinner, that the woman owes them something? Just because you took her to see some shitty movie she didn't want to watch, and paid for her value meal at Long John Silver's, doesn't mean she isn't walking out of your mother's basement un-fucked. Try being a gentleman every once in a while. Make her laugh. Make her feel pretty. Listen to her. It will get you a lot farther than thirty dollars worth of fried fish and Sylvester Stallone.

      If I am being honest, what is really troubling me is the approach of my thirtieth birthday. Not the bullshit thoughts of not being in my twenties anymore. I could care less about that. I pretty much drank and fucked that decade away anyway. I just never saw myself single with no kids by the time I hit thirty. Shouldn't there be more to life than thinking The Hangover was overrated and jerking off with tears in my eyes? Let us hope so. On a side-note, Zach Galifianakis is in no shape or form a good actor. Stop sucking his dick, America. The credits should always just say Zach Galifianakis as Himself. But, really. Who dreams of being single with no kids when they are a 15-year-old? I certainly didn't. I also didn't dream of having a knife waved in my face and having to wash my one plate before I could eat my next meal. Life doesn't work out the way you plan it. Ever.

      If the dreams of this 15-year-old would have worked out, Jennifer Love-Hewitt would be my wife. We would have two kids, one of which would most certainly be autistic, based simply on her acting skills. I mean, really, we all saw "Can't Hardly Wait." I rest my case. I just feel sorry for our first fantasy-autism-baby. Poor thing, sitting there with a mouth full of crayons and still helping our "normal" kid with his/her math homework. Thank you Rain Man Baby. Daddy is touched by your kindness.

      On a serious note, I thought for sure that by thirty, I would have held a baby in my arms and looked down at my own child. It just didn't happen for me. I accept that. That is why this is the DEATH and not the MISADVENTURES of Captain Save-A-Ho. We must all hold out hope that something amazing is coming our way; because without hope, what is there? Hope is what makes us wake up in the morning and brush our teeth, pull our pants up, and go back to that shitty job we have hated for the last decade. I think that hope and love are the only two emotions that make a life worth living. Until next time, Tender Reader.


Call-Waiting and Saying Grace

      I am beginning to feel that Gentle Reader is slightly redundant and possibly even demeaning. You are no longer gentle at this point. You are, at the very least, a Tender Reader. It's like being in Boy Scouts. Build a fire, pitch a fucking tent, and you get a new merit badge. As a warning, this entry will be a pile of random shit. Try to keep up. I think it's funny where conversations can lead you. You start in one place and the next thing you know, you are asking yourself how you even ended up here. Most of what I share with you comes from everyday conversations, like the ones you have at work or with your friends. So a friend and I were talking about masturbation. Okay, so maybe not YOUR everyday conversations. But eventually we found ourselves talking about naming your vibrator. She quickly responded that she named hers Buddy. I totally get that. Like, hey there Buddy....good to see you today, little Buddy. She said, "Oh no, more like Buddy's on line 2." WTF? Why in the hell would Buddy be on line 2? She simply said, "Cause line one's up my ass." Well that makes total sense now.

       I like a girl that I can talk to about anything. If you can't share your innermost thoughts with someone, then you are wasting your time. I am beginning to truly understand what kind of woman I am looking for. I need a woman like Casey Anthony. I mean, she IS single with no kids. I also hear she is going to have a lot of free time on her hands. Don't shoot me Tender Reader, she was acquitted. Also, do you think you should have to say Grace before eating pussy? I think it would be rude not to. You should definitely thank God for that. That shit is like pumpkin pie with Cool Whip on top. Not really.....it kinda just tastes like pussy. Not that some aren't better than others, but I think it can be a good thing or a bad thing. I think it really depends on how much we actually care about you.

      One of the major complaints I hear out of women is about men that constantly go to sleep right after sex. That's just not my style. I normally try to give them at least a half-hour for us to talk to talk about how good I was. It makes a woman feel good about her, ya know? A man is supposed to listen. I say this again, women. Do not worry about what your man is thinking. Most men are simple. Feed us, fuck us, and shut the fuck up. We have only two emotions. Hungry and horny. So if he isn't trying to fuck you, go make him a sandwich. Words of wisdom. Until next time, Gentle/Tender Reader.




The Captain Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree....Or Does He?? Wait a minute....Is this some kind of fucking riddle?

      Now that we have a good idea of who I am, Gentle Reader, I think it is time to talk about where I come from. Even a superhero comes out of a uterus at some point. I had a wonderfully perfect, all-American childhood. My mother was a stay-at-home mom. My father coached my baseball team. Everything should have been all shits and giggles, right? But apparently, it wasn't. My father once bought my mother a shotgun for their anniversary. Nothing says "I love you, baby," like a 20-gauge pump-action boom-stick. A few months later, he slyly asks, "Honey, if you aren't going to be using that gun I bought you, would you mind if I went hunting with it?" Yeah, real fucking smooth, Pops. That will fool her. Considering he took it with him after the divorce, I guess it was never really hers to begin with.

      My father has been a womanizing drinker as long as I can remember. I can barely remember going out to a restaurant with my family, and my dad NOT hitting on the waitress. I don't think he could help it. It was a reflex, like squinting your eyes when the sun's in your face. At least I get it honestly. It is just part of who he is. My mother had the flu once, when my brother and I were quite little. She was badly sick and bedridden. My father came home from work that first day, and he asked how she was feeling and could he get her anything. She replied, "I don't feel well at all. Would you mind making me something to eat?" Apparently, a bologna sandwich was the blue plate special. Upon arriving home on the second day, my father asked the same thing. Again, she replied, "I don't feel well at all. Would you mind making me something to eat?" Guess what, Gentle Reader? Bologna sandwich again. So, by the third day, my mother had put up with enough. This time she said, "Please, if you don't mind, could you make me something HOT to eat?" Being that selfless, giving man that he is, my dad thought, "OH HELL NO! I don't mind at all. Nothing is too good for the mother of MY children. If she is sick and wants something hot to eat; that is damn well what she will get." And he promptly returned......with a fried bologna sandwich.

      As I grew older, my father began to come home later and later. Drunker and drunker. When finally faced with leaving the house or quitting drinking, he claimed he was only drinking so much because he recently found out he had lymphnoma. Had I been older and wiser, I would have pointed out that it's actually lymphoma. Without the "N." If you are going to tell a lie, at least make sure you spell it right. So, he told us he had lymphnoma, he would have to go to chemotherapy/radiation, and he might not make it. We...were...devastated. Like the way rednecks felt when they heard Dale Earnhardt died. My mother went in to work on Monday, and promptly asked for a day off to take him to his treatment. She called my father to tell him that she got time off, so she could go with him to the doctor. His response? "What the hell are you talking about?" She is talking about taking you to chemo, Pops. "Chemo? I don't need chemo. I have a spot of carcinoma on my nose. They are going to just take it off at the doctor's office." When my mother lost it, and said, "Jesus Christ, you told us you had LYMPHNOMA!" Being the smooth motherfucker that he is, my dad simply said, "A 'noma' is a 'noma'." More philosophical words have never been spoken. A fucking "noma" is a "noma." 

      I think that we all sometimes worry that we will follow in the worst of our parents' footsteps. We try so hard not to simply repeat their mistakes.  I could always say my father was a drunk, my grandfather was a drunk, so I never had a chance;  I could let that be my crutch, my excuse for why I do the things that I do. Our lives always seem so much worse when looked at through a microscope. We all feel inferior at times when we look at other people's lives. I realize that my childhood was amazing compared to most. I appreciate everything that my parents did for me. I loved and still do love my father. He taught me how to play baseball, how to shave, and how to talk a girl into letting me take her virginity. Thanks Pops! The stories I shared were the low-lights, but people still think my childhood was perfect. Not that it was bad, it was great, but sometimes you just need to stop looking around and appreciate what you had or have now. Things aren't always as good as they look from the outside looking in.

      I think this same theory applies to our love-lives. At one time or another, whether happily married now or not, I think we have all looked around and wondered "What the hell is going on around here?" This person is fatter, uglier, and dumber than me and THEY have a family. They SEEM happily married. How the fuck did that happen? Why not me? When is it going to be my turn? Why don't I deserve what they have? What did I do wrong? First off, love is about more than looks and brains. I hope we have all learned that by now. Second, we have to learn to realize that most of these poor bastards are miserable anyway. They jumped on the first train that came by. The divorce rate is nearly 50% in this country, and that's only because the other half hasn't reached that point yet. I know that something really special will come along for me one day. It just isn't my time. There is someone out there whose eyes will light up whenever I enter the room, and I now refuse to ever settle for anything short of that. Not sure when that will be for me, because if she reads even half of this blog, she would have to be somewhere close to out of her fucking mind to even give me a chance. But that's okay, crazy wife from the future. Daddy likey the crazies. Until next time, Gentle Reader.



The Italian Stallion

      Gentle Reader, I had a very entertaining and eye-opening experience last weekend. I was in Charleston, SC visiting my father. Their air conditioners apparently put out twice the cold air of the ones in Georgia. Even though I try to masturbate at least twice daily, apparently when you get to 30, your balls have begun to get a little on the heavy side. I wear boxers, and that apparently doesn't give my junk the proper support that it so truly deserves. So as I am taking a nice long shower, my balls begin to drop it like it's hot. As I go to pull back the curtain and step out, that's when it happens. That arctic cold hit me, and I could literally hear my balls snap back to attention and jump up to hit me right in the taint. That is some serious recoil. I think it's time to go to boxer-briefs at the very least.

      Today, let us journey into one of the few relationships I haven't touched on. She was a little bit off, which is the nicest way I can think of to say the two things she loved the most was to snort coke and suck cock. She found me on myspace, which pretty much dates this relationship, and claimed that we went to school together. Those who know me, can attest that my last name doesn't just pop up in just any old high school. So now we are starting off with a lie. If that wasn't the first red flag, the first one should have been the fact that she was a fucking mouth-breather. You all know these idiots, sitting there all slack-jawed, looking stupid, forgetting what their nose is for. Mouth wide open, sucking in wasted air, like they are in a fly-catching contest. If this doesn't alert you to mild retardation, nothing will. I once thought I had impregnated a mouth-breather. My first response was to tell her to meet me at the top of a flight of stairs. Luckily for all of us, it was a false alarm.

       She was of Italian descent, which means she was genetically engineered to make a good tomato sauce and to know how to take a good punch. I never hit her, but after tasting her sauce, I regretted that decision. The "Italian Stallion" was a coke-head. It was all that mattered to her. I once let her borrow my Nintendo, so that her daughter could play with it. Next time I got in her car, I asked her why two of my games were laying in the back floorboard. She said those were the two the pawnshop didn't want. Question one. Why the hell are we talking about what the pawnshop DIDN'T want? Question two. Why the hell would they not want "Contra" and "Super Mario 3?" Question three, four, etc.... Why in the hell did you sell my Nintendo, fucking powder-hound? Did you even get enough money to support your habit for the drive home? And, again, why in the HELL did they not want "Super Mario Bros. 3?"  This Nintendo was in pristine condition. Nevertheless, the "Italian Stallion" sold it for a twenty-sack. I mean, you didn't even have to blow in the games, thump the cartridge in the g-spot, wipe the entire room down with alcohol swabs, or play while wearing a Haz-Mat suit.

      A good rule of thumb; never date a girl you have to piss for. I know relationships are based on mutual compromise, but if I have to save all of my urine in a microwave-safe-bowl in exchange for you busting out Reverse Cowgirl later that night, I think I would prefer to just rub one out. As humbling as it is to know that my piss alone can keep you out of prison, I think I need a little more out of life. The last I heard, she somehow still had custody of her daughter. So, she either cleaned herself up, found a new bladder to provide for her, or they started selling drug-free piss on Amazon. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


Bookworms, Bimbos, and Baby-Steps

      Gentle Reader, I come to you today with an open heart and honesty. I am, if nothing else, a lost soul. This will not be what most of you are expecting. It probably won't even make you laugh at all. Feel free to close this out now if you thought I might give you a good laugh today. I won't. Those of you still with me, I pity you for reading this. If you have been reading, you know everything that I have been through. A lot of which, I brought upon myself with poor decisions and even shittier execution. I have failed time after time with relationship after relationship. I haven't had a girlfriend since Thanksgiving. This is the longest period of time I have spent alone since I could achieve an erection. You laugh, but it's the truth. I have never been one to walk alone. I depended on women for my own happiness. I needed their approval to feel complete; to define my self-worth.

      I was a whore, in the truest sense of the word. I gave myself away for a few moments of pleasure because I thought that made me better than the other guys out there. The more women I could sleep with, the better man that made me. It did no such thing. It has led me astray countless times. Getting all of this out of my system, and reading it back to myself has been a learning experience for me. I have taken baby-steps to being a better man along the way. Taking one thing from this failed relationship, and taking something else from another. This is what I want. This is what I don't want. I guess I am a slow learner, or maybe I have just never met the one that will change my world forever. I know now that it was my insecurity that gave birth to Captain Save-A-Ho. Being myself was never enough. I felt like I had to pull someone out of a hole that they couldn't get out of themselves, and their gratitude for what I did would be what would keep them here with me. Throw money at them, and they will have to love me. They might love you, but they will never be in love with you. I met a couple women along the way who gave me their number, but I didn't even feel worthy enough to be with them. So, I didn't call.

       One of the things I have learned is that I could never be with a bimbo. If you talk endlessly about yourself and all of the meaningless things you have done, how cute your boyfriend is, then you aren't the one for me. I don't care that you bought a new bathing suit or the fact that your mom only called you twice this week, instead of the regular three times. Cry me a fucking river. Shallow does not suit anyone. It is a symptom of insecurity. If you have to tell me that your significant other is attractive, I think you are missing the point. I'm not saying that there can't be attraction, but I hope that attraction can be built upon things other than looks alone. Instead, tell me how amazing he makes you feel about yourself. About how you have never felt so loved. That I could understand. See, I live my life inside my own head. I have a brain that never stops and my thoughts, my hopes, and my dreams are what make me who I am. I need someone who can at least think for themselves.

       I dig a girl that reads. Give me books over bikinis any day. A great conversation beats a perfect rack every day of the week. A great conversation leaves you thinking, laughing, and smiling for days afterwards. A great bikini just leaves you horny. If you don't read for fun, don't bother. I even read nerdy shit full of dragons, wizards, and parallel universes. Yep, that's how Miles rolls. Like Harry Potter with a hard-on. I have just found that a brain likes a brain that can keep up. So, yeah, I am a big fan of spelling, grammar, and past fucking participles. If you want to give me a try, go work on conjugating your verbs. Also, work on there, their, and they're. That shit makes you look ignorant when you get it wrong. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


The Pie Theory

      Gentle Reader, I know I have been letting you down. It's been entirely too long since the last time we spoke. To make it up to you, I plan on bringing my "A" game today. I feel like this blog is giving me a bad reputation. Those of you out there that don't know me will obviously think I'm an asshole. That may be, but I can assure you that I'm also a complete gentleman. I even open the car door for a lady. Though while holding it open, I do say "Get in bitch." If that isn't a gentleman, I don't know what is. I know I seem like the alpha-male type that women are attracted to. Please don't try to start a relationship with me. Attempting that will be as big of a let-down as losing your virginity, except this time we will both be disappointed, instead of just you.

      I have been having some minor health and emotional problems lately. These are the reasons for my absence. No need to worry, Gentle Reader, I will be fine.  I think we all know by now that a woman will be the death of me. Illness doesn't stand a chance. I work night-shift, so it gives me a lot of time to live inside my own head. I did get to thinking about my life last night at work. How empty it feels sometimes without something real and substantial to fall back on when things aren't going my way. I thought, "Why can't I go home from work, like the rest of these guys, who leave work and go home to sleep with their wives?" It troubled me for a minute, before I realized that I was going to home to sleep with their wives too. Enjoy day-shift, I will enjoy drinking your beer and wearing your threadbare bathrobe you should have thrown away during the Clinton administration. And really, dude? A robe? Though I must say, Egyptian cotton feels nice against my skin.

      Guys, it is now time to explain "The Pie Theory." This is why you can never get what you really need from a married woman. I know it sounds great.... in theory. No responsibility; no one to go home to and fight with. A random sexual encounter without having to cuddle with her afterwards. It's a pipe-dream. If it happens, it's a miracle. Unicorn, anyone? Imagine a pie...with one little slice missing out of the side. Her life that she has represents the pie; she has everything she will ever need inside this pie. She has her husband that loves her, kids that adore her, a good home, and a life she has worked hard to build. Somehow, something feels like it is missing. A few jokes "he" doesn't get, a few thoughts "he' doesn't want to hear. This is where you come in, fellas. You are the missing slice. You are the piece that makes it all complete. You are the first one to "really listen" to them in years. So, now they have everything that THEY will ever need. You have completed the circle. On the other hand, all you are left with is that little bit of happiness that the slice allows. As long as you can be that one little piece that their life is missing, they will continue to use you for that. Have more respect for yourself than I have in the past. Lesson learned. Until next time, Gentle Reader.



Scorn, Horns, and Unicorns

     Gentle Reader, I am supposed to be doing some traveling this fall/winter. I am allegedly going to Jamaica with a group of friends, since we are all turning 30 this year. I worry about the plane crashing. I wonder what would go through my mind during something like that. What would you do if you were on a plane and you see like the engine just fall off and then feel the plane start going down?.......... I think I would just start killing people.  Just to see what it felt like to take a life before I lost mine. Ya know? I would just start snapping necks and grabbing tits. Next thing you know, you're standing in a pile of bodies, and knowing my luck, then you feel the plane straighten out and hear the captain say, "Sorry about that, folks. Little bit of turbulence there. Should be smooth sailing the rest of the way in."

      I am going to go out on a limb today. We are going to discuss sex and relationships. What a shock? I'll alert the media. First off, a little advice for my lady-friends out there. If you get done having sex with a man, and he doesn't cuddle with you, then SEX was all it was. If he liked you at all, he would at least "spoon" for 15 minutes. If for no other reason, this would give him the option of coming back at a later date. If he just throws a towel at you afterwards, tells you to clean yourself up, and then starts putting his clothes back on, I am pretty sure a ring is not in your future. Post-sex behavior is just one example of how different guys and girls really are. Another example is the marriage proposal. Look at the difference in reactions between girls and guys when they find out a friend is getting married. Girls will just start screaming uncontrollably, jumping around, having spontaneous orgasms, and hugging each other like one of them just won a reality show. Totally different with guys. Let a dude tell his buddies he is getting married. That room goes as quiet as a funeral home. A group of men will turn instantly into Marines in battle, "MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN! What the fuck just happened? Get the FUCK OUT OF THERE! We need a chopper here NOW!" The problem is, both men and women are right at this point. Marriage is something to be completely celebrated and completely feared. It can simultaneously be the BEST and WORST thing that ever happened to someone. That's because people change. People grow in different ways, and then they end up growing apart. They can both enter into it totally in love with one another, but the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

      Finding two twenty-somethings with a good marriage is like stumbling across a unicorn in the meadow, or a girl that knows how to suck on balls. All three are mythical creatures. Most girls treat a man's testicle like she intends on pulling it right out of the sack. Right then. Right there. No man wants to look down and see his scrotum stretched to it's limits while you look like you are trying to tear off a piece of beef jerky.  Those fuckers are hardwired in ladies. Just a heads-up. If you don't know your way around down there, either just leave it alone or ask for written instructions. 'Cause shit can go downhill in a hurry down there. I mean, that's how I make my money, so don't fuck with my finances. Also, a tip for the fellas. Keep an ear out while things are getting sexual with your lady. To know what she really likes, without having to ask her (since she's not going to tell you shit anyway), listen for her to say "Oh My God." Not just say it, but she has to say it like it's a fucking question. Like she doesn't know where she is, and doesn't understand what the hell is even going on anymore. That shit needs a lilt at the end of the sentence. Like, "oh my...OH my....oh, oh, Ohh My GOD??" When she turns it into a question, you know you're in there like swimwear.

      Men don't need a lot, ladies. A real horny man doesn't even need a hole. All he needs is a crease. The back of the knee, an arm-pit, or even right under the chin. If you're skinny enough, he will even fuck your shoulder-blades. So stop trying to analyze us, ladies. We are simple creatures. Don't think ten steps ahead, because we haven't made it past what we are going to do to you later. What we say is what we mean. If we tell you that you look beautiful, it doesn't mean we want to fuck your sister. Let that shit go. It only happened once, anyway, and she and I were both drunk. If we break up, you are just going to go after my brother or one of my friends anyway, just to get back at me. Sorry, got lost in the past there for a moment. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


The Ex-Wife Returns (thankfully only in literature)

      The evil villain of our tale has returned, Gentle Reader. Her superpowers consist of only letting you see her children as long as you are in love with her and being able to clean all of your possessions out of a house in four hours or less. We have already touched on the beginning of the relationship, so now let us delve into the demise. For starters, she was the most possessive and jealous creature I have ever ran across. In her mind, trivia night with the guys at Hooters meant I probably gang-banged the entire wait-staff (possibly even the cook.) I once asked her if I could have one night a month to hang out with my friends. Her reply was, "THAT often?"  I'm not a werewolf. I shouldn't have to wait for a full moon to hang out with my friends. The rest of this story will be free of side-notes and my bullshit. It happened, as written, without commercial interruption.

      After coming home late from a friend's bachelor party, everything went to shit. She was throwing shoes, insults, and any other debris she could lay her hands on. That was it for me, so I called my brother, packed a bag, told her I was leaving, said goodbye to the kids, and I left. I came back a few nights later just to talk. She was crying like her best pig just died, and I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Apparently, my lack of emotion did NOT go unnoticed, because she suddenly whips out the 5-inch hunting knife I stole from my father to cut blunts with. In the midst of me realizing there is now a sharpened blade in my presence, she says, "I'm crying, now YOU'RE gonna cry!" Being a man who had never had a knife wielded in his face before, I did what any sane man would do. I shit myself first, shed a tear second, and ran for the fucking door third. Man, did I have my priorities fucked up on this one. Advice of the day: Door FIRST, gentlemen... Door first.

      So after making my way to the door at a "gingerly" pace, apparently I got it open just wide enough to let what little bit of  "It's gonna be okay" I had left inside me squeeze through and run up the road screaming. As I watch my courage barely squeak through the door, she shoulder-butts it closed. Oh, fuck me. Now she is waving that damn blade around like a three-time-repeat-champion Mexican knife-fighter, while questioning my intentions of leaving. "Where are you going?," were the exact words, if I remember them correctly (and I'm pretty sure I won't ever forget them.) After assuring her that I had NO intention of ever leaving her, I attempted to pick up the phone to call the police, Jesus, or anyone else that might be able to help. I heard no dial tone; All I heard was, "Put the phone down FUCKER!" And down the phone went. I might be a whore, but I'm not a dumb whore.

      Somehow, after enough talking, I managed to escape this "Pit of Despair" alive. Multiple suicide threats later, she finally agreed to move on with her life. I only returned to that house once while she lived there. It was the creepiest day of my life. I went to get my personal things while she was at work. I eased the key in the lock the same way I eased the door open seconds later. Finding no psychopaths in the building, I tip-toed down the hallway to the bedroom, until I came face-to-face with a nightmare. What I found will give me chills until the day I die. What I saw on the bed was a man-shaped pile of things with a sheet thrown over them. It literally looked like a man sleeping under the sheet. Arms. Legs. Head. Body. The "man-shape" was actually made of my personal belongings. I'm not talking just clothes. We are talking watches, journals, awards from high school, etc. They were piled up and shaped so it looked like a man was laying under the sheet. All I could think was, "Please tell me she hasn't been spooning with this fucking thing."

      After safely escaping with my belongings, and what was left of my sanity, I was on my way towards a divorce.  I paid the rent on the house for three months so she could get her life on track. I was staying at my brother's house while she was apparently experimenting with how bad she could trash a rental house before I lost my deposit. The day I showed up to move back in, I noticed a couple things right off the bat. Number one...this fucking place was empty except for the mess that was left. It looked like nuclear fallout. Number two....She took EVERYTHING. I know what you are thinking, Gentle Reader. If she took some furniture, it was her right as a wife. I ain't talking fucking foot-stools and futons. She took the toilet paper off the rolls, ice-cube trays out of the freezer (yeah, I was kicking it poor-man-style then, but what kind of sick bitch takes the ice-cube trays), and although she did leave the last can of "Who-Hash", she even took the light bulbs out of the fixtures. She took all of the silverware and dishes, except for one spoon, one knife, one fork, and one plate. It inspired me to leave this message on my answering machine; "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but I'm busy washing my dish."

       So no toilet paper, no ice cubes, and no lights, but I still had something, Gentle Reader. What I had was a dead hamster left laying in the middle of the freezer. Yeah, you read it right. Dead Hamster. Middle of freezer. Whiskey....Tango....Foxtrot? I also had a mattress that was left in the master bedroom. And on this mattress, she had written "MILES LOVES 'THE EX-WIFE' 4-EVER" in Sharpie, surrounded by a heart with our wedding date written underneath. Not She Loves Me, but I Love Her....For....Ever. On the underside of the mattress, where I wouldn't find it for six months. She also never got around to changing her last name while we were married. She waited until the divorce was under way to change it, because she "wanted to take part of me with her." So guys, the next time you start to get a little creeped out because your girl read a couple of your text messages, don't bother calling me with some sob story.  I've seen worse. 




If These Balls Could Talk

      Welcome back again, Gentle Reader. Today my mind is in a thousand places, so this entry probably will be as well, but I had a few things that I wanted to share with you. First off, I want to thank each and every one of you that continue to read this. It is truly a humbling experience to know how much funnier I am than you and everyone else you know. Also, a sincere thank you to "Sweet Cheeks" who said she would love, Love, LOVE to have the very first "I Was Saved By The Captain" t-shirt. And I never even "saved" her, go figure. She also told me she was "obsessed/psycho/stalker" about reading it. So a big round of applause for Sweet Cheeks for being the scariest and most loyal reader a fellow psychopath could ask for.
      So I was watching "8 Mile" over the weekend, and while watching Marshall Mathers and Brittany Murphy have movie sex, I started lusting after Ms. Murphy. I immediately changed the channel. I knew what would happen if I kept watching. Me....making love....to myself. Very bad idea. There are two things you should always remember, Gentle Reader. Big girls give better head and never jerk-off to dead people. I think it has to be disrespectful on some level. As far as the big girl/head thing, it's a fact. Don't worry skinny girls, I don't think it has anything to do with talent. I am pretty sure it has something to do with the thickness and softness of the cheeks. It's either that, or they are just more comfortable with having their mouths full.

      While we are on the subject of good advice, I have one more life lesson I learned along the way. I will not, on any occasion, have sex with a girl that is on her period. Some guys will even do oral at this point. I will see you in Hell...... you fucking degenerates. I just have no interest in going to the bathroom afterwards to clean my cock off like I'm cleaning my sword off after battle. Braveheart, I am not. I mean patience is a virtue right? So I will catch you on the flip-side, ladies.

      For those who think I went a little too far today, try to remember I write this knowing that my mother is going to read this. Love you, Mom. She is actually a big fan. She loves me for me, and that's all a son could ever ask for. We were actually talking about her dreams of having grandchildren the other day. I said, "I'm sorry, Mom, I'm pretty sure I must be sterile or it would have at least happened by accident at this point." She asked me if I was being safe. I said, "Of course I'm safe, I always pull out and just cum on their face." True story. That shit happened. It's a process to reach this point of candidness with your mother. It takes years. You can't just go from talking about report cards, and then go straight into facials and money-shots. So I figure if you are still reading at this point, I now have free reign to write about anything, without worries of losing you. It won't get any worse than this, I can assure you. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


The Dawning Of The Cape

      Well, well, well, Gentle Reader. It's hard to believe that we have been together for a little over a month now. Does this mean we are going steady now? Do I have to pin you behind the sockhop before we get to the "necking?" Because I have a pretty big fear of commitment, and that would scare the shit out of me. Let me start this one with a little advice for the fellas. Guys, there are two acts in your life that you should never perform violently. Those two things are shaving and masturbating. Fucking bad things bro, bad things. Also, on a side note guys, don't date girls from Athens. Too risky. Check an HIV map of Georgia, and Athens looks like where the Queen of the hive lives; Unless you have Magic Johnson money, this is a gamble you don't want to take. For you new readers out there, just want to say that reading a blog is like foreplay with a woman.... it works out best if you start at the bottom and work your way up. For once in our relationship, Gentle Reader, I am going to give you what I promised. This is the tragic story of my brief marriage. Hold on to your nipples.

      I was 20 years old when I met The Ex-Wife. Forgive me for not coming up with a more imaginative name, but I couldn't think of anything that would describe the experience better. She was 28 at the time, which would make her almost 30 for those math-challenged readers.  Like this red-headed, freckled fuck I went to school with. He was in my freshman English class when he was 19 years old. Let me repeat, he was 19.....in Freshman English. Hey, we all have different skills. We weren't all meant to read and write. So, me and The Ex-Wife were both servers at a restaurant. I was a lost soul chasing after someone else I thought I really loved while she was chasing after me. I finally went to see her one lonely night, slept with her, attempted to drive home, and then....the Clusterfuck. She didn't want me to just fuck her and leave, so as I am walking to my car, I hear her screaming obscenities and throwing things against the wall. What possessed me to ever come back? It's called sex. Men are slaves to it. If it weren't for sex, we would still be in the caves we crawled out of thousands of years ago. Men have sung songs, written plays, built buildings, and even taken over countries for the love of a good woman. It is our sole motivation for going to work everyday.  So please don't judge me, Gentle Reader.

      So I met this woman, and she looked like Celine Dion and the old WCW wrestler Sting had a lovechild. Like old-school Lex Luger-days Sting. Not "The Crow" Sting.  I had attended multiple colleges with minimal success at this point, but I was finally making good grades again. But after meeting her son and playing video games for hours on end with him, I decided someone needed to take care of him, because SHE certainly wasn't doing it. I actually witnessed her daughter take a piss in the corner of the living room and then start lapping it up like a thirsty dog because "her brother told her to do it." The Ex-Wife just shook her head and laughed. Are you fucking shitting me? Your 5-year old just drank her own urine in the living room and you find this amusing? Fine, you keep laughing...I'm going to throw up on myself and then take a 45 minute shower.

      Her parenting skills consisted of telling the children, "Just wait until my boyfriend of two months gets here. He will take care of this. He should be here in two or three days." Yeah, that will teach them not to fuck with you. Gentle Reader, next time your dog shits in your floor on a Tuesday, beat the fuck out of it on Friday morning and see if they learn anything from it. She also had a talent for quitting jobs. Give me a dollar an hour raise, Ex-Wife quits her job. Hey, honey-twat, you realize I went from 8.75/hour to 9.75/hour. Let's not start sucking each others' dicks quite yet. We aren't the Jeffersons. This is still a family of four that needs to be supported. She told me she had lived in a car once growing up, and as long as we had a house, she felt rich. Well you know what makes me feel rich? Running water and satellite television. So get your shit together. One time, while briefly working at a paint store, she bought every gallon of customer-rejected paint the store had in the warehouse, because she thought she could make money with it. What...the...fuck? You just spent $170 on a truckload of paint and there aren't two gallons that match in the whole fucking lot. Are you Bob Ross all of a sudden? You planning on painting some "happy trees" with all that goddamn paint?

      As far as housework goes, she was no Mexican maid named Consuela, let me tell you. I would come home from work to a plateau of unfolded clothes on the couch. She would tell me, "I did five loads of laundry today." Hold up, swole-up, you didn't do ONE. If nothing has been folded, you haven't finished the first one. So there for a while, I was working thirteen-hour days, and then coming home to laundry piled up neck-high on the couch, dishes that haven't been washed since the Clinton administration, and kids that need a spanking for something they did two days ago. Why put up with this? I loved her son like he was my own. He called me his Dad, and I felt like I really was.

      So, this covers the beginning and middle of my relationship with The Ex-Wife. Later on, we will get into the end. This shit is just getting started. I am trying to stir up a little readership, so I am now holding a Follower contest. I have fourteen now, and plan on giving something away to number twenty. I was thinking two free weeks of relationship advice. Or maybe a "I was saved by the Captain" t-shirt. We will work it out. Until next time, Gentle Reader.


Assholes and Thumbholes

      Well, Gentle Reader, it has been far too long, but a superhero's life is full of adventures that keep him busy. I mean, I have rent to pay for four ex-girlfriends, diapers to buy for three more, and various other errands to run. I actually had an entry written Monday morning and accidentally deleted it. Dumbass. I have a story I feel I must share. I was accused of being a gaycist over the weekend. It's like a racist, only you hate homosexuals instead of the people that wash your car and bag your groceries. I was at a house party at Trixie's house, and someone asked what that was in the vegetable tray. Being a cultured gentleman, I replied, "I believe that is edamame." This young, gay man wearing a long-sleeve shirt with holes cut in the sleeves so his delicate thumbs could breathe fresh air counters with, "I never thought a redneck would know what edamame was." Oh hell nah. It didn't even piss me off at first, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. It was one of those ticking time-bombs where someone says something to you, and you barely give it any thought. Then three hours later you are making pancakes naked or whatever it is you do, and you think "Wait a minute, what the fuck did he just say to me?"....tick...tick...Boom.

      It was one of those moments, except I wasn't making pancakes. I was still at the house party. As was "Thumb Hole." I came to the realization how insulting that one comment really was. Here is this guy from an Atlanta suburb who came on down to Nowhere-ville and thought since I was from here, I must be an ignorant redneck. I beg to differ, kind sir. I couldn't be further from it. I don't hunt. I don't fish. I don't drive a truck you need a fucking rope-ladder to climb into.  I don't own a pair of overalls or a deer rifle. I don't play the banjo or the spoons. I rarely go barefoot, and I don't have a sister to fuck even if I wanted to. Not to mention the fact that your IQ is probably near the square root of mine. Being in the inebriated condition I was in, I also felt like he insulted my family, my friends, and the town I grew up in. Those who don't know me, let me enlighten you. This is a dangerous combination. Miles Long + Drunk + Insult = Holy Fuckballs. I don't resort to ignorant cuss words and yelling when I want to insult someone. I chip away at you like a fucking sculptor. Say something, I pick it apart. I am like a sniper in the brush, just waiting to take the shot. I can be relentless, and I can be an asshole, but I make it clever and funny, which to me is all that matters. Needless to say, after the time-bomb went off, I had tunnel vision. At this point, I was just waiting for Thumb Hole to open his mouth, so I could turn it around, insult him, and make everyone else laugh in the process. This is always the best way to handle it for maximum hurt feelings. As an example, he almost fell backwards in his chair and caught himself. Then he said, "I just saw my life flash in front of my eyes." I responded with "Were you disappointed?" Eventually with everyone's laughter filling their ears, they will feel all alone in this small world, and victory shall be yours.

      After about an hour or two of attempting to crush Thumb Hole's spirit, I noticed he had disappeared. I inquired to his whereabouts and was told he was in the car refusing to come back inside. I actually felt bad, so I went out to the car to talk to him. I found him laying in the back of a hatchback Subaru looking like he had been crying. So I explained to him why I was upset with him. I also apologized for my relentlessness and told him to please come back inside. Meanwhile, back at the party, a couple of his friends were pretty much accusing me of a hate crime. I have gay and lesbian friends. Don't fucking go there. I didn't dislike him because he was gay, I disliked him because he acted like an uppity asshole who thought he was better than me. It can be the same way with all types of minorities. If someone ever crosses them, it is only because of their race, religion, sexual orientation, etc. That way they can act however they want, and when someone insults them back, they just call you a gaycist, racist, or a bigot. They don't have to take responsibility for their own actions. My step-father even once said "You know what you would be good at, impersonating a gay guy." I wasn't even sure how to take it. I thought it's not my fault that I'm smart, sassy, and an excellent dresser. I don't mean to stereotype; I know all gay guys aren't smart.  I thought this was a good story to share, so share I did. I promise to not take as much time updating again. I plan on writing what should be the easiest one yet. It will be starring "The Ex-Wife." Need I say more? Until next time, Gentle Reader.



The Succubus

      Welcome back, Gentle Reader. Last time we spoke, I brought up the "DON'T FALL IN LOVE" rule. I also mentioned that this was my Achilles' heel.  I can assure you, it's not what you think. It's not that making love with a woman makes me fall in love. The problem is men sometimes fall in love with making love to a woman. Not with the woman herself.  Guys, beware of this phenomenon.  Great sex clouds the mind and impairs judgement. So what if she is pregnant with twins? This "lady" knows what she's doing.  This is not a reasonable thought. I know, I've been there. This is a symptom of sleeping with too many girls that just lay there. Or is it lie there? My friend, "Hancock Barbie," will let me know. She is a grammar-nazi/English teacher. I digress. I was with a married woman once who would just lay there in utter silence staring at me. Then at some point, she would say "........I just came......" like she was trying to find out if Ferris Bueller made it to class that day or asking about the intricacies of Voodoo Economics. She was gorgeous, don't get me wrong, but this kind of girl makes MEN want to fake an orgasm. I actually did.......twice.

      The opposite of this is a succubus. Wikipedia says this about a succubus. "In folklore traced back to medieval legend, a succubus (plural succubi) is a female demon appearing in dreams who takes the form of a human woman in order to seduce men, usually through sexual intercourse. The male counterpart is the incubus. Religious traditions hold that repeated intercourse with a succubus may result in the deterioration of health or even death." Ringing any bells yet, gentlemen? Yeah, you read that right, she will literally fuck the soul out of you. For example, I knew this girl that showed up at my house one day with the smoothest vagina on this side of puberty. I wasn't sure if her snatch was an albino, or if it was just on chemo. I mean there wasn't even a Gillette Fusion ProGlide challenge then; these were the "Mach 3" days. I think she must have waxed it in my driveway. A man is defenseless at this point. It was things like this that landed me in the arms of "The Succubus."

       Apparently, "The Succubus" was honing her cock-sucking skills while the rest of us were studying for spelling tests, because she was a former stripper, pregnant with twins, who lived in an empty house, and was lacking of all possessions....and these facts had no effect on me whatsoever. I mean, at 26 years old, at least most of us have acquired some shitty VHS tapes and a closet full of out-of-style clothes. Not "The Succubus." She was twice divorced and had nothing but a belly full of babies and a healthy sexual appetite. I had lusted after her for a decade. My cousin and I went swimming at her house one day while we were in high school, and she came walking downstairs to meet us in a see-through shirt and no bra. It was like the porno version of Rachel Leigh Cook in "She's All That."

      I told "The Succubus" she didn't have to work, she could just stay at home with her two new little babies. I mean, how much money can a girl even make "working the pole" with a twin-boys-C-Section scar?  Not enough for day-care, I'd wager. I bought the car-seats, double-baby-stroller, Diaper Genie, crib, changing table, diapers, and a breast pump that couldn't keep up with the appetites of two infants. Even still, toward the end of our relationship, by which I mean I kicked her out three days later, she told me, "You don't do enough for me." Really? So first, I'm a piece of shit that doesn't care because I wouldn't sign the birth certificates like I was the father, and now I don't do enough because I won't give you $600/month just for whatever. After clothing and feeding you and the two boys, I DON'T have $600 left for fuck's sake. Can I at least get a $200 a month cock-credit that I can work off at my leisure? Yeah, didn't think so. "The Succubus" literally told me, "I knew you didn't care about me and the boys when you wouldn't sign their birth certificates." As Maury Povich would say, "You are NOT the father."

      This is the first experience of Captain Save-A-Ho that I have shared with you. I assure you that there are more to come. Not to worry, Gentle Reader, I have put the cape up. It is gathering dust in the attic. Where we hope it will stay. I know that if Adam couldn't make it out of the Garden of Eden without a divorce, then maybe I shouldn't feel so bad for my failures here on Earth (See Video.) Happy Easter, Gentle Reader!