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.
5/31/2011
5/26/2011
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.
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.
5/17/2011
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.
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.
5/11/2011
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.
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.
5/06/2011
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.
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.
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