Contnt Explict , Here is Blow Spooge Alot of White Juice For Suckage
How could you not want to open that?
After the maid service left yesterday, we had a problem.
First, let me say that, yes, we have a maid service, despite the fact that I don't technically have a job. Not a jobby-job, anyway. Despite the fact that I don't go off to work each morning, we decided to hire someone to clean our house once a week. Why? Because we have so many animals that it is impossible for me to keep the house clean and watch the baby at the same time. I suggested locking the animals in a closet all day (or the baby) but Bobbi said no. Instead, we hired a maid service to keep the house free of the piles of animal hair that move across the floor and lodge in the corners like snow-drifts, ready to kill a small child should it wander into one. A husband and wife come over every Monday and clean for two hours. Everyone is happier and I can now say "Pine-Sol" in Portuguese. Also, we had to get a service because Bobbi is a slob.
Anyway, yesterday, right after the maid service left, Kitty decided to pee on the bathroom floor. Naturally, I was pissed ( no pun) but Bobbi was livid. In a burst of righteous anger heretofore unwitnessed in the history of our marriage, she picked up Kitty, marched to the front door and tossed her out, shouting, "See how you like it out there!"
I was stunned. "listen, if you want to kill the cat, take it down to the vet and have it put to sleep.... but you can't put a 30-pound Persian out in the street in the middle of August."
"Fine, she goes to the pound this weekend. I've had it."
So, Kitty now has a few more days to get on Bobbi's good side again or it's sleep-city.
One things for sure, if you ever come to visit our house, don't pee on the floor. Really.
If you don't know what "more cowbell" is all about, you are missing out on one of the best moments ever on Saturday Night Live. Christopher Walken's deadpan performance in the now famous "cowbell" sketch has made him famous all over again with a new generation. If you watch the video and don't think it's hilarious, watch it again and again. Every time I see Walken remain totally straight-faced as he delivers his lines while the rest of the cast is fighting not to lose it (I'm talking to you, Jimmy Fallon) I just crack-up.
Here's the video
A bunch of my family came to town over the weekend to celebrate my Grandmother's 85th birthday. On Saturday, me, Paul (boyfriend of my sister, Duana) and Dave (boyfriend of my sister's daughter, Alicia) decided to break free of the family grip for an hour and go to the comic-book store. Before I relate the conversation in the car, it's important that you know that Dave works for his Dad who is in the wholesale distribution side of adult novelties.
Paul: I was told not to corrupt you this weekend while you're here.
Dave: Who told you that, Duana?
Paul: No, Alicia.
Dave: Really, Alicia told you not to corrupt me?
Booray: The guy sells dildo's for a living and you're not supposed to corrupt him?
Paul: That's what she said.
Dave: Hey, it's a family business.
Booray: Yea, nothing screams family values like a 10-inch rubber dick....
Instant message from my Dad:
Stumbled across something cool today. It was a website that sold search engine optimization. I went there to see what they did, etc. Then I realized I had found it on the 8th page of google when I entered "search engine optimization."
"I need you to get me a sub for lunch," Bobbi said.
"Get me the chicken sub with a side of wing sauce and blue cheese."
"Be sure you get the blue cheese and wing sauce."
"If you don't get it, the sub's just not the same."
"(pause) Ya' know, we should just put a sign on the front door that says, It's All About Bobbi, so visitors would know exactly what they're getting into when they visit."
"Oh, they know."
I've been doing a lot of research lately about comic book collecting because surfing the internet is the only thing I have available to me that will enable me to block out The Wiggles for a few precious minutes. (Side note: The new season of The Wiggles has just started and the blue Wiggle has a new haircut with sloping, Capt. Kirk-like sideburns. Oh yes, he's gay.)
Anyway, they have a new thing now in the comic world, it's called CGC. It's an independent company that rates the quality of comic books. You send them a comic, they inspect it, assign it a rating (say, 9.6) and seal it in hard plastic. If you buy a comic that is sealed this way, you are guaranteed to get it in the exact condition that it was rated. Sounds like a good idea. But wait! If you break the seal to, oh... I don't know, read the comic.... it loses it's rating. You have to send it back to CGC and have it inspected and re-sealed. Here's the best part: It costs $16 to have a comic inspected and sealed. So, say you wanted to buy Watchmen #10. In near mint condition, that book will cost you $5. The very same book with a CGC rating will cost you $24... and you can't even read it! Well, you can read it but then you have to send it back for a re-seal ($6) and you run the chance that it will get a lower rating because you friggin' touched it, causing you to lose money on your investment.
Here's the thing. If I want to buy Detective Comics #1 (first appearance of Superman, the Holy Grail of comics, value=$350,000), I can see paying an extra $50 because it has been certified and sealed. But why pay $25 for a $5 comic that you can't even read?
What does all this mean for comic collectors? It's turned collecting into a commodity trading market. People buy and sell sealed books based soley on value and appreciation without ever reading them. It reminds me of something I read a few years ago about how you can now buy an expensive baseball card and never actually take possession of it. It stays in a secure vault at the manufacturer. If you sell it, all that changes is the name on the receipt. Where's the fun in that?
Personally, I'll stick to buying comics I can actually enjoy.
Last night, I'm sitting in the living room, minding my own business, when Bobbi decides to watch House. The main plotline in the episode is about a pregnant woman with cancer. She has to decide whether to have the baby early, so she can start treatment, or postpone treatment to give her child a better chance. By the end of the episode, the woman is on the operating table, bleeding out, and Dr. House is trying to get the husband to okay a c-section. The husband is crying, Dr. House is telling him that his wife will die either way and they should try and save the baby,but when they finally get the baby out it's not breathing, then the mother goes into cardiac arrest....... STOP!
"What the hell are you trying to do to me?!" I asked.
"You don't like this?"
"Don't like it?! You're pregnant for God's sake! This is exactly what I want to be watching with my pregnant wife!"
No mid-life crisis would be complete without some sort of return to the obsessions of my youth. Since I can no longer live on a diet of Yoo-Hoo's and Twinkie's and actual porn has replaced my need to fantasize about sex with every girl I ever saw from 1978-1985, I've decided instead to start reading comic books again.
I stopped reading comic books while still in junior high school. I didn't enter a comic book store again until 1987 when I was working weekends at an oldies station. On Sunday's I ran a show that required me to pay attention about 1 minute out of every 15 and so, one day on the way to work I stopped at a comic store and picked up a few books. It was a short-lived return to the genre and I only actually read two complete short serials, one 4 issues and the other 12.
Now, here I am at 41 looking to start again (until I realize that I'm too old to care about this stuff anymore). I've decided to get some graphic novels which are usually 12 issue stories in one book. The novels aren't worth anything to collectors (it's the original 12 comics that appreciate) but they are a great way to get an entire years storyline in one dose.
To that end I've been shopping on Amazon. In the course of reading numerous reviews, one common theme stands out. Whenever anyone starts talking about great comics they always mention the same two books: The Watchmen and Batman: The Dark Knight Returns.
These two books are mentioned with such reverence that it's scary. I've read at least three reviews that list The Watchmen as the best comic ever! This from a group of people who will spend an hour arguing over stuff so insignificant as to define their status as true uber-nerds. Yet, they have no problem saying, "The Watchmen? Best comic ever. Followed closely by Batman: The Dark Knight Returns."
By now you may have figured out where I'm going with this and why I'm writing a long post about freakin' comic books. Because, in my bookshelf, I still have the two comic serials that I bought back in 1987.... the only comics I own. The Watchmen and Batman: The Dark Knight Returns.
What are the odds?! Out of the blue, in 1987, I decide to buy a few comic books, I keep them for 18 years and lo-and-behold.... they end up being considered The Godfather of the comic world.
A few posts back I wrote about my discovery that I had a reader who isn't related to me (or an ex-prison lover) (here). Despite my firm belief that she stopped reading months ago, she was able to access the computer in the rec-room at the methodone clinic long enough to make a comment on my post. When I saw someone had left a comment, I clicked it and brought up the comment box. Here's what she said:
LOL! I haven't stopped reading weeks ago! I've been on holidays or having visitors over as I panic because I've suddenly realized that school starts soon and I need to play as hard as I can.
Even while I traveled, I checked out your site to show my friend Leslie and she also thinks you're entertaining! Giddy up! You have Canadian fans eh!
WOW!!! Well, spank me silly and call me Matilda! I'm shocked! I'm honored and I feel so extra special cuz you wrote a blurb and linked me! You kick ass!
p.s. You'll always be a riot in my books! I think you're hilarious, but you don't always have to be funny... I'll like you even when you have IMS (Irritable Male Syndrome)
Only, when I brought up the comment box, I didn't notice the scroll-bar indicating that it was a long comment. I only saw this:
p.s. You'll always be a riot in my books! I think you're hilarious, but you don't always have to be funny... I'll like you even when you have IMS (Irritable Male Syndrome)
So, naturally, I thought that my cousin-in-law Joanne had made the comment to be nice. So, I immediately wrote a quick comment:
And you'll always have huge tits in my book but I don't think my sparkling wit is ever going to get me any closer to seeing them!
Then I clicked, "submit," and the window changed to show my comment
.........and I scrolled up to read it
.........and I noticed that the previous comment was in fact not from Joanne but was, in fact, from my only fan and I had just made a comment about her tits!!
AAAAGGGHHH!!!!! DELETE!! DELETE!!
To think I almost insulted my only reader (outside of family and my parole officer). By the way, did you read the part about her friend, Leslie (who thinks I'm entertaining... which may actually be an insult in disguise)? That's two readers people so Dooce can just suck it!
People send me funny stuff in my email all the time. Also, I have a huuuuuge penis.
(Is it a compromise of my artistic merit that I originally typed the previous sentence with the word "cock," then changed it because I was afraid it would be "too much?" Discuss..)
Truth is, about 1 in 10 things that I get sent to me that are supposed to be funny actually are. Most are humorous at best but certainly not worth the huge effort of clicking "forward."
Instead, when I see something I think is worth sharing, I post it here. It kind of screws with the theme of my blog which is, in case you haven't noticed, "Who's important? ME!" But it beats sending out mass emails which I flat out refuse to do as they are a nuisance and cut into my precious computer time better spent surfing for porn.
Today I was looking through my "unique visitor" links, depressed to discover that (as usual) most of the visitors to my site are "bots" trolling for my email address so they can sell me penile enlargement pills or sign me up for an online casino (Idea: combine the two into a site that takes bets on my penis size! But I digress... ).
I'm scanning down the list when I come across a domain I don't recognize. http://blackberriesgirl.blogsome.com/
Who is this, I wonder?
I load up the address in my browser and get a blog. It's a good blog. It's a funny blog. It's even attractively designed. And there, on the right-hand side is a link to The Boolog.
I immediately start scanning her links for other links that I recognize, figuring that she got my link because she is friends with someone I know..... but no.... I don't see a single link I recognize. It's while I'm scanning down the page with my mouse that I get a little hover pop-up on "The Boolog" link. Do you want to know what it says? Do you really? Ask nicely... c'mon... beg for it...... you know you want it......
It says: "LMAO!! this guy is a riot!"
Woo-Hoo!! Someone I don't know thinks I'm funny!! That's right losers... I'm a fucking riot! The rest of you dogs can just suck it! Bow before the comic genius that is Booray!
After a brief victory dance around the kitchen, panic set in. I haven't really been that funny lately. What if she no longer thinks I'm a riot? What if I'm a chuckle or a giggle? How can I work a dick joke into this post to get a laugh? Now the pressure is really on. I'm not sure I can live under this sort of harsh media glare!!
Okay, seriously. I don't know how blackberriesgirl found me but the fact that she linked to me and didn't even bother to email me and ask for a link back is great. Really, if we were dating, tonight it would be all about you, blackberriesgirl. I wouldn't even make you touch the warm banana. (read her blog) But, since I'm married, I want you to know that tonight, when the baby's asleep and the lights are low, I'll be thinking of you when my wife refuses to have sex with me.
I should also point out that blackberriesgirl is not the first person to link to me, just the first one who hasn't made me seek a restraining order. However, hope springs eternal..
As soon as this is posted I'll be adding a link to my side panel but I won't be emailing this obviously gifted and discriminating reader. Instead, I'm just gonna post this up and wait because, deep in my heart, I'm sure she stopped reading me weeks ago.
Bobbi doesn't like my dog. It's not that she hates him, he's just a big dog and she's a little person and he annoys her with his whole "big dog in the room" presence. She also likes to point out how dumb he is, which I always defend by pointing out the fallacy's in her dog. The conversation usually goes like this:
"Boodreaux is so stupid."
"Cayman shits in the house."
"Does he have to cry like a little girl when we don't let him in fast enough?"
"Does Cayman have to shit in the house?"
"Why does he bark whenever someone gets near his food bowl?"
"Why does Cayman shit in the house?"
Of course, Boodreaux doesn't make my job any easier when he walks under the kitchen table and can't figure out how to get out.
Jen commented that she needed proof that the picture I posted was in fact computer generated. I don't know if this will satisfy her but here's the same picture in wire-frame, before the textures and color were added.
Residents Protest Wind Power
Nantucket, PA - Local residents here continue to protest a proposal to install giant windmills off the coast of Cape Cod. The giant turbines would produce 480-megawatts of power - enough to provide 75% of the electricity in the area.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm all for conservation, clean energy and less dependence on foreign oil and nuclear power, " said Bob Johnson, local millionaire and homeowner, "I just don't like the look of the things."
Robert F. Kennedy Jr., a noted conservationist, has joined the fight to stop the windmills. "Why can't we put these things in the desert or somewhere that poor people live? We rich people are always in favor of conservation as long as it doesn't affect our property values. It's bad enough we have to stomach the tourists. Seriously, I've been preaching about energy conservation for years but that doesn't mean I'm willing to make any sacrifice! C'mon!"
I've been playing with Photo Elements lately in a desperate attempt to make my wife look like a porn-star, at least on the computer screen. I came across this picture and was so amazed at the quality that I decided to post it. Click on the picture to view full-size and keep in mind that it's entirely computer generated.
I read a blog called Ernie's House of Whoop Ass. Ernie is ex-military and all man and so his site is a repository for all things martial and pornographic: killing machines and hot babes... that's Ernie.
Recently he wrote about the current protest outside of President Bush's ranch by Cindy Sheehan, the mother who lost her son in Iraq. I think that his post is a good example of what's right and wrong about people who disagree on just about any form of protest in this country. Below are some of Ernie's comments with my notes. First, the good:
Those soldiers who served with Specialist Sheehan will remember him as a soldier with the crazy fucking mom who shit all over everything they're fighting and dying for - That's a valid point. To what extent should a person be willing to go to make their point using someone else's name (and sacrifice). However, in this case, expecting a Mother to be more concerned about the opinion of her son's fellow soldiers than she is about her own pain at the loss of her child is a little unrealistic. You never really understand the connection your parents have to you until you become a parent yourself.
Because so far, I think the only thing she's accomplished, besides pissing off people who have nothing to do with the war, is cheapen her son's death by refusing to accept the fact that it was his decision to join the military. And sometimes people in the military get killed, and it sucks, and it's sad, but that's just the nature of the game. - This has a two-fold effect, questioning the effectiveness of her protest as well as her acceptance of the fact that her son was an adult who made his own decisions and maybe she should respect that.
Now the bad:
And for those of you keeping score and thinking GWB is simply refusing to meet with his mom, I bet you don't know she already got her wish in June of 2004, three months after her son was killed. - It's my understanding that Sheehan has learned a lot more about our motives for war since that meeting but really it doesn't matter. She has a right to protest, regardless of how many times she has met the President. If she met him again today and went back to protesting tomorrow, she would have that right. Welcome to America.
I think mom is plenty pissed off that these events unfolded without her having any power over them, so she's looking to take out her frustration on somebody. And I'm sure that's a bitter pill to swallow and I'm sure she feels that she has to do something, but camping out on some guys fucking lawn isn't the way to do it. - So, to clarify: Protesting the death of your son in a war you feel is senseless by camping out at the President's residence and attracting national attention = inappropiate. Supporting the war and the President by writing essays on your website surronded by links to porn = appropiate. I was really surprised to see Ernie make that comment as he, of all people, is living proof that in America you can say whatever you want in whatever forum you like. I mean, c'mon Ernie, you're claiming her protest is inappropiate on your site which features links to, among other things, video of a women shooting beer out of her ass!
I guess the point of this post... the reason I was bothered enough to write it, is that I will never understand how people can protest so loudly about another persons right to protest or the form that protest takes. Am I the only one who see's the hypocrisy? As far as Sheehan is concerned, the fact that so many people know who she is proves that she is, in fact, staging a very effective protest. I, for one, don't ever want to live in a country where you cannot protest the death of your children in a war started by your government.
For the record, I think we should never have gone into Iraq at the time that we did but now that we're there we should probably stick it out and try to establish democracy in the region. If we can do that, we may see real change in the region in 20 years. My problem with President Bush is the methods he used to justify the war and his stubborn refusal to pay for it, prefering to leave the cost of the war to the next Democrat to hold the office. I can't deny that mass murder in Iraq was more than enough justification for war, I just wish that had been the justification from the start.
If you haven't seen this movie I won't ruin it for you but when you do, try to imagine two things:
1. Imagine that the entire sub-plot about Kevin Bacon's wife doesn't exist because it has no business in the movie whatsoever.
2. Imagine that the movie ends at the point where Kevin Bacon says, "What did you do?" because everything after that serves to totally ruin what was otherwise a decent film. Forget the speech by Sean Penn's wife and please ignore the stupid parade.
This movie was actually good but Clint Eastwood ruined it with all the crap at the end.
After looking at all the pictures in the post below this one, I decided that I needed to practice my Paint Shop Pro skills. If you click on the picture, you'll get a full-size view of what Bobbi and I wish we looked like all the time...
Stop kidding yourself. You'll never look like all the hot babes on the web, and here's why... (click on a picture and roll your mouse over it. Photoshop - the real miracle worker.)
Yahoo News- This week two members of the Jackson jury surfaced in the media to announce that they now consider him guilty. Eleanor Cook and Ray Hultman say they were pressured by other jurors into voting for acquittal, and also plan to sell books, a TV movie and -- in Cook's case -- T-shirts.
"They ought to be ashamed," said Cook, a 79-year-old grandmother, of her fellow jurors in an MSNBC interview. "They're the ones who let a pedophile go."
No, you let a pedophile go you greedy old bitch. If you honestly believed he was guilty and voted to acquit you should be anal raped by Bubbles the Chimp. I can't believe this shit. I can respect the jurors who voted their conscience based on the facts presented but you two are scum. Personally, if I thought someone was guilty, really believed it, there isn't a force on earth that could move me off my decision. What you're saying is that you're convinced that Michael Jackson molests children but voted to acquit anyway!? Fuck you.
***WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF NUDITY AND SOME SEXUAL CONTENT. PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED***
Last Saturday I had an opportunity to visit a Tampa institution, a club called Mons Venus. Let me start off with a little history and then we'll get right to the naked women...
Mons has been in Tampa for as long as I can remember, at least 20 years. It's a tiny little strip bar, one stage and some chairs. Seriously, it can't be more than 500 sq. ft. It's on Dale Mabry Ave, which is the main drag here in Tampa ( the stadium is there ). It's surrounded by places like Bennigan's and Room's To Go. There is almost no parking. The girls are all nude. There is no alcohol, no D.J. (just a jukebox), and a $20 cover charge.
The thing that makes Mons famous is the owner. In the course of his history as a club owner he's seen many Mayors and Police Chiefs come and go and he's told each one to go fuck himself. They've changed the laws, they've raided.... it doesn't matter. Mons Venus still stands and has become such a trashy landmark that everyone just accepts it now. Other strip bars, much nicer strip bars, come and go but Mon's is forever, like herpes. To be a man in Tampa and never go to Mons is like being a man in Green Bay and never going to Lambeau Field. (No, I'm not going to do a "frozen tundra" joke here..)
I was excited about going to Mons because I felt that it'd be great to finally get it out of the way.... sort of check it off my list of things I need to do before I die (Visit London, have children, get rubbed on by a naked stranger.... check, check and check!). I spent a few years of my life working as a D.J. in topless bars (including an all-nude bar) so I don't really get a kick out of them anymore. Once you get to know the girls and understand the business it tends to take the shine off. In fact, until Saturday I'd only had one table dance in my life and that one was bought for me by a friend.
We arrive at Mons and the first thing I notice is how small it is. I mean, I'd been told, but still, it's like going to a strip-bar in someone's garage. The second thing I noticed was the crowd. It was standing room only. Then a girl put her hand on my arm and moved past me and I noticed she wasn't wearing any pants. No pants. Nothing. In the all-nude bar I worked in girls weren't allowed to walk across the floor without panties. Not here.
I made my way to the stage and was immediately impressed. There were five girls up there, no silicone, no tatoo's, no body fat, and they were completely nude. I was standing there thinking to myself, "Wow, these girls are really attractive," when one of them walked over, stood on the rail so her coochie was 2 inches from my face and cocked her leg up in the air and onto a high rail. You know that cheerleader move where the girl kicks her leg up in the air and grabs it with her hand? It was like that, only this cheerleader was naked and had the nicest set of pom poms I've ever seen. WHOA! In Dallas, once the girls took off their bottoms they had to keep their feet no more than 12 inches apart. This was definitely not Dallas.
I was disappointed to see that there are assholes no matter where you go because one of them was sitting next to me at the stage. Actually, I was standing because there are only a few seats around the stage and they fill-up fast. I watched three different girls come over and work the asshole.... and I mean work... rump shakers, back stretchs, lean-ins, everything... and the fucker didn't tip once. Listen, fuck-face, here's the rule: You can pay $20 for some lap dances or you can sit on the stage and tip the dancers but you cannot sit on the stage and not tip. I don't go near the stage without a fist full of ones and I tip every girl who comes over to me. It's a dollar you shit! This girl, who looks like every girl you couldn't bang in college, just bent over and twisted her ass in your face and you can't spare a fuckin' dollar?! It's just plain rude.
Okay, back to the story and the part you've all been waiting for: The lap dance.
I held off on getting a lap dance because, as I mentioned earlier, I'm not a big fan. Still, I felt it would be a crime to finally go to Mons and not get a dance, so after being asked about five times I finally said okay. A beautiful girl with minimal makeup and medium breasts led me over the the couch's along the wall (Let me make it clear that this girl was Sandra Bullock/girl next door beautiful, not Christina Aguilara/trashy whore beautiful. Most of the girls at Mons look like college cheerleaders).
***WARNING: IT'S ABOUT TO GET GRAPHIC AND I WILL BE USING PORN LANGUAGE SO, MOM, PLEASE STOP READING NOW***
I sit down on the couch and the girl leans over to tell me the rules. The actual rules in Tampa say that the girl must stay 6 feet from the customer at all times and, obviously, no touching. Her exact words to me were, "Don't touch my pussy and don't touch me anywhere with your mouth. Anything else is fine. Enjoy yourself!" Then she stood up, took off her top and bottoms and jumped on me. She turned around with her back to me, sat on my lap and lay back across my body with her head next to mine. Then she did something I have never seen anyplace I have ever worked: She took my hands and put them on her tits! That's right! After I had had my fill of "feeling her up" she bent over with her ass on my dick and started rubbing up and down. I couldn't believe it. At that point, many thoughts were rushing through my mind but the most frequent thought I had was, I should have worn thinner pants. I mean, I had heard about Mons but I always thought that it was an exaggeration. I was wrong. Don't touch the pussy, don't touch anything with your mouth, everything else is fine. I must admit that even I, jaded ex-D.J. who knows it's all an act to make money, was impressed. This girl had skills. She was making eye contact, grabbing my hair... she was better at fucking me with my clothes on than most girls are at actually fucking me! Next time I'm wearing silk pants and no underwear.
Still, I came away from the experience feeling cheated. As much as I enjoyed it, I feel like I should have enjoyed it more... like other guys were getting more for their money than I was. After careful reflection I came up with some possible reasons for my feelings:
1. Having worked in the business, I know that it's a business.
2. Unlike most guys, my level of enjoyment when it comes to all things sexual is directly related to the enjoyment of the other person. Being naturally insecure, I get my biggest thrill out of being wanted. Try as they might, strippers will never make me feel sexy, although the girls at Mons Venus are the best I've seen at faking it. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't even get a boner until the song was almost over, something I'm sure she noticed and I felt bad about. Now, if that same girl had walked up to me on the street and merely mentioned that she wanted to take off her clothes I would have been a fuckin' tri-pod.
3. Finally, Bobbi suggested that I also don't get to have the "forbidden fruit" rush that many men get. It's true because when my lap dance started I thought, "Wow, I can't believe I'm married and I get to feel up this sexy girl!" Then I remembered that Bobbi is very secure in her sexuality and could care less if I feel up a stripper. I'm happy about that but at the same time we always want what we can't have. (By the way, Bobbi has been to Mons and yes, she's had a lap dance).
Ultimately, it was worth every penny and I will go back again someday but probably just to take a friend who has never been. Everyone should go to Mons Venus at least once.
That's right. All hope of ever having a Cristmas morning filled with train sets and action heroes has been squashed after today's ultrasound. Come December, I will be the father of two girls. It's all Easy Bake Ovens and Barbie Dream Houses from here on out.
Ultrasound Tech: It's a girl.
Me: You're sure?
Me: Okay, looks like we're gonna have two girls.
Bobbi: I think he kinda wanted a boy.
Tech: Well, it's his fault.
Me: How's that?
Tech: You decide the sex.
Me: Well, I don't know how it is in your house but in our house Bobbi pretty much decides the sex.
Tech: No, I mean the sperm decided the sex of the baby, the egg has nothing to do with it.
Bobbi likes to point out that I tend to say the most inappropriate things to people. I'll admit that I have little fear of asking a direct question but sometimes I make a legitimate mistake, like the one I made two years ago.
We had just moved into our new house and were out to dinner with our new neighbors. Nelson and Maritza are the best neighbors a person could hope for and we've often said that when we move we're taking them with us. They have a little boy named Noah and, at the time, Noah was about 3-years old. He used to stammer when he talked, like kids will do when they are just learning (or so I thought).
We were sitting at dinner, having a great time, when Maritza mentioned something about her son and I said, "You mean N-N-N-Noah?"
"Are you making fun of my stuttering child?" She asked.
"Yes, he stutters."
"I just thought he talks that way because he's so young!"
"No, he has a stutter, I take him to a specialist every week."
"Oh my God..." said Bobbi, embarrassed to be married to me.
"I didn't know!! I just thought it was cute!!" I pleaded.
"Nope, it's a stutter," Maritza said, and went back to her dinner.
Other times, I'm willing to defend my remarks, like I did the last time we went out with Nelson and Maritza and, once again, I said the wrong thing to Maritza. We were finishing our meal when Maritza set down her silverware on her empty plate and said, "Wow, I can't believe I ate everything!"
"I can," I said.
"Booray! Exclaimed Bobbi, "That's a horrible thing to say!"
Later, after we got home, Bobbi lectured me on how I should never say anything about a woman's weight, even if I'm joking, even if she's thin. I defended myself by explaining that the only reason I said it at all was because I don't associate Maritza with weight. There are people that I would never make a weight crack around but Maritza isn't one of them because I just don't see weight when I see her ( mainly because she's not really fat!). Also, and this is the real point I think..... She asked for it! If you're sensitive about your weight, you don't call attention to the fact that you're the first person to finish a huge meal! C'mon!!
I don't know, maybe I'm just totally out of tune with women when it comes to the whole fat issue. Bobbi gets very upset when I point out that she's gotten much bigger in the last few months, and she's pregnant.
Nelson: Where you guys at?
Booray: We're over in St. Pete. We went to a movie.
Nelson: What did you do with Sam?
Booray: Left her in the car.
Nelson: Air or no air?
Booray: Air, of course! Dude, what kind of father do you think I am!?
Here's an example of a typical Dr. Phil conversation:
Dr. Phil: Today on the show we have a woman who has been shoplifting for five years. She also beats her children, cheats on her husband and kills small animals, mostly kittens.
Guest: (sits quietly)
Dr. Phil: Now, you know that what you are doing is wrong, don't you?
Dr. Phil: Well, don't do it!
(audience erupts in applause)
Dr. Phil: When we come back, we'll talk to a man who is a child molester and tell him to stop too.
I have never seen Dr. Phil give advice that isn't the most common sense on the planet. You don't have to be a psychologist to tell people to stop doing shit that is so obviously wrong! Listen, numb-nuts..... when a person goes to a psychologist with a problem, they already know what they are doing is wrong, that's why they came to see you! Your job is to help them figure out why they can't simply "stop." The only good thing Dr. Phil does is when he passes the guest off to an actual, practicing expert who then spends weeks helping the person confront their problem and conquer it. Also, I like it when he gives away shit. Otherwise, he's a hack.
He: Listen...... you're not allowed to have Pizza Rolls for dinner anymore.
She: I can't help it, they gave me gas.
He: I'll say, I spent the whole night listening to you blowing ass. I counted at least five.
She: Sorry about that.
He: Why can't I be in a normal relationship where the man is the disgusting one?
She: I was wondering if you heard it.
He: Heard it? Hell, you woke the baby up twice...
My friend Jen, who I've never pictured naked once (more about this later) has finally written in her blog which I set up for her a month ago. Jennifer is very funny and used to work with me in radio (although I've never fantasized about bending her over the control board).
Jen holds the distinction of being the only hot chick I've ever known who I've never fantasized about. Never. Not even once. It's an anomaly, like a two-headed frog or Pauly Shore. I can think of hundreds of ugly chicks that I've had a quick daydream about but never Jen, not once. I don't understand it. It fascinates me no end.
Anyway, read her blog. It's worth reading just for the phrase, "Pop-culture fraud." If enough of us read it maybe she'll post again before Christmas.