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.