Tag Archives: Had a Few Beers Blog

Jackpot still doesn’t allow me to take this job and shove it

I used to think the following fact about me was weird: I gamble and when I win, — win big mind you —  I give the winnings to my wife.

I used to think that most dudes (even ladies) when winning large pots kept their mouths shut when it came to their spouses. Hell, maybe some do, but the more I hear gamblers talk, the more I realize that we tend to share our winnings with our loved ones.

Think about every lottery winner you’ve ever heard talk about what they plan to do with the money.

No one ever says, “Fuck everyone else, I’m keeping all this shit!”

No one does that. It’s all “I’m going to buy my mom and dad the house they’ve always wanted, my wife’s getting her dream vacation and I’m totally having sex with three strippers.”

At least that’s what I’d say.

I bring this up because of two things. First I had a good night conning a bit of luck out of lady luck and second because my wife is insane.

Ding, ding, ding ... yet I'm still moping floors ...

Ding, ding, ding … yet I’m still moping floors …

I was $40 into my bet when I won $630. That’s what I call a “walk away moment.” I don’t care if my drink is still fresh. I don’t care if I just arrived at my game of chance,. I don’t care if the lady next to me is hot, naked and offering me a hand job if I’ll just play a bit more. A return like that is one I have to cash out immediately.

Makes sense right?

I gamble. I enjoy it. Like all gamblers I also have days that I don’t win. Those suck. My rule is pretty simple. Never lose more than $200 and any winnings of $200 or less don’t get reported to the boss.

Actually it’s simpler than that. I play until I’ve had one beer and then quit. Up or down, my rule is one beer and out.

So, there I am Monday $40 into the bet and a half a beer left and shit got real. I was suddenly $630 ahead. Clearly, it was time to quit.

Quit I did.

As I still had half a beer to finish, a fat wallet and time to kill I texted my wife, with a photo of the winnings. Prior to this, we had a deal that I would mop the kitchen floor when I got home that night and I asked, along with the photo of my winnings, if I still had to mop the floor.

She asked how much I had won.

I told her.

She said, “It’s not a grand so yes you do.”

Quickly I queried three female friends of ours about this dilemma. One replied, “You would not have to mop the floor tonight.” One said she, “I would mop the kitchen floor naked for that kind of cash,” and the third wisely ignored me for a while and mocked me several hours later.

In my head I was stuck. Dagmar, as I’ve mentioned before, likes to squirrel away in shoe boxes (despite a robust and healthy banking infrastructure) cash for vacations, rainy days and emergencies.  This bounty would be a hefty addition to her 1930-era investment plan.

Also, I didn’t want to mop the fucking floor.

I called her on the drive home.

Me: Hey, that was a nice win, huh?

Her: It was, awesome.

Me: I can give you 630 reasons why I shouldn’t have to mop the floor tonight.

Her: Whatever, look I’m busy.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

We hung up and I took that to mean that at least for the next 24 hours I was mop-duty free. I mean, $630 has to count for something.

Assuming you’re still with me on this tirade, however, you may have already guessed the outcome.

No, I didn’t mop the floor, but the second phrase out of my wife’s mouth after, where’s the money, was “Why didn’t you mop the floor?”

Guest Blogger Bron: Guys and Girls CAN(‘T) just be Friends!

“You know guys and girls can’t be friends, right?” I said to her, my eyes narrow slits of condescension. This happened last week on a Seattle ferry boat ride.

Red flag and I have a bikini!

Red flag and I have a bikini which I think is code for I’m bat-shit nuts.

“I have a lot of male friends.” she said with an eyebrow arched. “I don’t play well with women. I’ve gotten really good at the platonic thing now. Really, I have.”

In my mind, a flag pole started to grow up and out of her perfectly coiffed hair and a red flag started to sprout toward the sky.  It waved at me loud and proud.

My wife’s friend Candy must have noticed my flummoxed expression because she was looking at me the same way a cat looks at a baked potato – curiosity mixed with irritation. My God, had she never seen the classic film When Harry Met Sally?  She’s in her mid-to-late 20s for Christ’s sake.  That was when I asked myself why have women still not come to a consensus on this issue?

It’s obvious. Did I have to explain it to her?

At this point, you might ask yourself – why then – is the title of this entry:  Guys and Girls CAN be Just Friends? Let me tell you why.

Part of it has to do with search engines (as in porn, lots of internet porn) and also the whole “guys and girls CAN’T be friends” issue has been done to death in blogs, movies, literature, and YouTube.  So, let me get to the gravy on how this works.

It’s situation based — as all relationships are.

Here are the three situations in which a guy and a girl can be just friends:

Friendzone or gayzone?  Whichever.

Friendzone or gayzone? Whichever.

Situation #1
When either the guy or girl is 100 percent gay. Not 50 percent. Not 99 percent. They have to be 100 percent gay. Fag hags have proven this theory to be true since the dawn of disco. They often form quite close friendships with gay men which can last for decades. There are also lesbians who have true platonic friendships with heterosexual men known as dyke tykes or Dutch boys or dyke Mikes or lesbimen (depending on where you live). I must note, however, that a real hetero man will still be waiting for a moment of weakness, so “watch your six,” girls.

Situation #2
If you’re coworkers.  It’s still debatable whether or not work friends are real friends to begin with, but I’ll save that topic for another day. The one caveat to this situation is that you must work closely with him/her daily within the same department. If you work in a large corporation and you meet a girl in marketing that you will never have to interact with, it’s game on. Try to avoid the friendzone as per usual.

Situation #3
When you are a married couple and you hang out with other married couples. If you double date, then you are friends with the guy and the girl. As long as everyone involved is committed to their relationship you should have no problems. Swinging couples play by their own rules and they are not part of this situation. Friends don’t let friends blow their husbands, but friends with benefits do.

Back on the ferry, I asked Candy more about her “friends.” She eventually admitted they were a herd of men she could talk to at the drop of a hat. Many of them she had slept with in the past. She said they were satisfied now with just “hanging out” as friends. We all know that last part just isn’t true, don’t we? The Friendzone is better than the NOzone in their case, I’m guessing.

“What I’m saying is – and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form –  is that men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.” – Harry Burns, When Harry Met Sally, 1989


Beers note:  That video is HYSTERICAL.  Watch it.  Talk about telling …

I get beat by a leather whip while wearing a cowboy jacket and pink boxers … I missed you too

I was going to make this update private, readable by only my wife, Gina, Maggie, Adrian, Marni, Todd B, Mike G (cause he’s cool), Carmen, Craig, Greg, Brian, Leila, Lynn, Bob, Jesse, Jill of course, my cousin Cory, some dude I met last Wednesday and my Dad.

Then I remembered I’m an attention whore and if it can’t be read by everyone why write it?

Boiled down, any story that ends with Dagmar whipping my ass with an actual whip, while I’m wearing boxers and a cowboyish leather jacket (yeah the one from facebook) should be used as a cautionary tale to others.

For those of you that hate me, there’s also head trauma so stick around.

This one

The Jacket that keeps on giving … me pain.

Really though the night ended with me getting whipped, by Dagmar wearing a leather bra and leather chaps, while I was wearing that abortion of a jacket and pink striped boxers.

Some back story is likely called for.

And don’t you hate that?  Someone is writing something crazy and they cut in with, “but before I tell you the cool shit, here’s stuff I want you too read cause, context is fun”.    Yeah I’d skip too the end too.   Look for the bolded part.

About a month ago Dagmar left me.   So call me ladies!   Okay, okay she didn’t ‘leave me’ so much as she took a new job up the road in a place where I will also be working soon.    We were both moving, she just moved first.

Through luck, chance and charm a good friend of ours just moved there.   She offered, and we graciously accepted, Dagmar a place to sleep at night so she would be spared the hour or so one way drive.

This offer, coupled with the fact that I was going on a three-week long business trip that consisted of retarded crazy hours meant that Dagmar and the cat were moving into our friend’s house until we were resettled.

We were effectively ‘separated’ only I couldn’t have meaningless sex with random bar chicks because Dagmar likes to split hairs.   She’s a total kill joy.

So after three weeks of cross-dressing Germans, creamer incidents and me not dying. I arrive home.

To nothing.

Seriously after three weeks of not being able to get away from anyone … of only having a 10-minute break at the end of the night alone I arrive home to an empty house.

No wife, no cat, no anyone.

I had a hand-held radio for the three weeks I was there, it would call out at four a.m. “Wolverine 17 this is Beached whale 79, I’m at check point “I fucked your mom” and I think the training unit just committed a level one poop in the bed!”

I would yell out, ‘shut up!’ at the radio and cry in my pillow.   But mostly I would just turn it off and go back to bed.

I bring that up because even when I was alone, I wasn’t.   The radio brought me, even at 3 in the morning, constant updates.

So when I arrived home on Wednesday at about 5 in the afternoon I was thrilled that I wouldn’t see another human being until Friday night.

Yeah, so I was crazy for human companionship by Friday.  I was also crazy for a shave, a shower, a change of clothes and my ass desperately needed to get off the damned couch.

I can do a day alone, I’m cool with that.   Forty-eight hours though and I’m getting a bit ‘freaked out’.   At 56 hours I’m talking to myself in the mirror and I’m disagreeing with myself.

Luckily though I get to go see Dagmar, I just have to drive an hour and a half to do it.

Dagmar is full of instructions though before I can come see her.   Pick up sausage links, eggs, white wine that kind of tastes like summer and her new domestic-partner is no better, pick up two packs of cream cheese, make sure they’re blessed by midget angels — cause that’s the kind I like.

I mean I’m just screwed all around.   It’s typical German November weather, meaning it sucks.  I’m wet at every turn but I have coffee.

Did I mention coffee?

Every place I stopped had coffee.   I cannot, on a night like this, ignore coffee.

I think the amount of coffee I drank almost equaled meth before the drive.  Had someone gave me a no shit line of meth I don’t think I could have been more white knuckled during that drive.

Pouring rain, hopped up on java, I think I peed in a Gatorade bottle at one point but I made it.

People!  Interaction!  Friends!

But there’s my wife and there’s that slight bit of awkward haven’t seen you for three weeks, fuck you kiss me, you’re beautiful, time and here we are at the end of the party.  The dinner plates are being cleared, guests are being said good bye too and I’m wearing a leather jacket …

Yeah again ‘that’ leather jacket.

Bolded part starts now for those of you that suck ….

Everyone else but the three of us has left and for a moment I think Dagmar and our host has left too.

I find myself all alone in the living room.

The girls, and my memory here is hazy, disappeared.

I assume there was much giggling.

I’m not sure if I was confused, drunk or just happy here. But part of me realizes it could have been all three so…

When they reappeared, Dagmar was dressed in a no-shit leather bra, leather chaps and holding a whip.  She spoke in an over the top German accent about my, ‘misbehaving’ and then I, for reasons I cannot explain (it was beer) stripped to my boxers.

Anyone who knows me knows that it takes about 3.5 beers for me too get naked because … well it’s me.

Well after getting whipped by my wife while another person watched and laughed with great joy, the great, penthouse-crazy sex didn’t happen because none of us are in college, retarded and it was late, like 10:30 or so.  We’re also old; do I need to mention we’re old?

When I awoke the next morning I had a headache, which isn’t at all unusual but this one was different it was only on the right side of my brain.    Had the left side of my brain just fucking quit, had I finally killed it?   Why wasn’t the pain equal?

I had no time for such trivialities as ‘head-pain level 5’.   I was wearing pink stripped boxer, black dress socks and nothing else.   The headache would have to wait.  I could have asked Dagmar but that would have led to ugly consequences like the truth.   Better to investigate this mystery myself.    I suspected old-man Winter’s did it but the mystery van and Scoobie Doo were no were to be found so I followed my other hunch, they were downstairs.

I mean there’s a pounding on the right side of my head that would have left

Porn star Jenna Jameson at the 2007 Adult Ente...

I’ve just always wanted to include a photo Jenna here.  CALL ME HON!(Photo credit: Wikipendia)

Jenna Jameson impressed, I’m in boxers and black socks.

Solve the immediate problem first my reptile brain screamed, ‘find the clothes.’

I darted downstairs hoping our host was still fast asleep only to discover she was awake, well composed, drinking tea and completely un-shocked by a nearly naked man in her living room making wild claims about shirts, pants and shoes.

“They’re upstairs,” she replied, barely looking up from her computer.


I ran back up and there they were, sorta folded on a nightstand.   Dagmar is to blame, I obviously would have left them in a pile besides the bed … had I been wearing them when I went to bed.

“Does your head hurt,” came the question from the bed as I desperately tried to unfuck inside-out clothes.

Does my head hurt?   That wasn’t code from Dagmar for ‘do you have a hangover’, that question would just be asked straight forward.   What was she …

Oh shit now I remember and, ‘oh shit’ was exactly what I said when it happened.

I’d fallen out of bed that night and, as it’s a typical German house, there is no carpet.  My retarded brain collided, violently on the right side it would seem, with cold-unforgiving tile.

In my, admittedly flimsy, defense that bed is a head trauma nightmarish contraption of concussion inducing fuck all, it’ll be labeled by OSHA as a class one felony any minute now.   The top mattress is bigger than the bottom box spring and for a retard like me, pushed into the ‘danger zone’ by Dagmar, well gravity was going to win the fight.

My head still hurts.

To my Grandpa, rest in peace Grandpa … you were pure awesome

Grandma and Grandpa ... circa who knowns

I was scared I didn’t have any photos of my grandparents then I remembered I was married and wives like to ‘frame’ things. Five hours of searching later ….

My grandpa died on Tuesday.  Park the pity party outside, he lived a good-long life and I have nothing but fond memories of him.   He was an awesome man and I have nothing but the utmost respect for him.  Though he was my grandfather on my mom’s side it was what my father said to me about him that stuck in my head.“He always worked hard,” my dad said.

My dad is right; my grandfather did work hard his whole life.  That’s a quality I looked up to in my father as well and realize it was a quality my grandfather also espoused.  I’m not sure I ever lived up to either of their standards but I try*.

But both of them are role models to me in that regard.

My earliest memory of my Grandpa Hurlbut is him feeding me ‘doublemint gum’ while I rode on the fender of his tractor as he, in his words,’ farmed it’.   Sometimes, and I don’t think I was allowed to tell mom this, I was allowed to steer the tractor.

I wish I could tell you an awesome story about how I drove it into town and bought beer but I was like five, it’ was all about just holding the steering wheel and giggling cause driving a tractor is cool at five and at 43.

When I first joined the Army I bought a used Mazda RX7 because I was an idiot.   Still though I drove the piece of crap up from lower New York to Upstate New York the visit my grandma and grandpa as soon as I some leave.

The car had a thing, what the hell do you call it, on the outside door, a long strip of plastic rubberized material that prevented other car doors from making dings in my ding-ridden RX7.   Anyway my plastic rubberized thing was lose and I thought, ‘hell Grandpa is handy, he can fix this shit easy!’

He surveyed the problem, extracted a heavyweight drill from a well-organized garage and aimed an auto appropriate screw at the issue.   The drill slipped and he fucked my door harder than any porn you’ve ever seen.     Literally there was a 5 inch torn open wound in the metal when he was done.

The car lasted another three weeks, I think it actually broke down on the way home from that trip and I had a useful lesson in what rotary engines meant.  So no loss.   I just remember him turning to me and saying, ‘oops.’

Grandpa, damnit picking up chicks in a beat up RX7 is hard enough!  Doing it with a 5 inch drill gash on the door is … I was 21, never mind.

I should have asked my dad for advice really, he’d have been like, “son get yourself some type double category seven adhesive and a level 9 bonding agent, apply it liberally with poodle hair and you’re done.”

Dad knows cars, Grandpa built shit.

Key my mom.    We lived in Phoenix Arizona because they ran out of gas money there on the way to LA or something and one year my Grandpa and Grandma came to visit in a truck with a camper which is way cool really.

Travels with Charlie anyone?  No?  Screw you it’s a great book.

Again my dad could outfit any variety of Dodge vehicles with a jet engine given enough time and thought, but building furniture not so much.   I didn’t fall far from the tree there, I built a beeramid last month but it didn’t survive Dagmar101 and I’m still in fucking trouble.

Anyway Mom wanted a desk like thing built in the living room and a bookshelf built in one of the bedrooms.

As a kid, like 12 or 13, I remember being fascinated by the process of building these things.  As an adult I now think, “holy fuck, aliens that discover our planet after we are all dead will study these two items.”  Seriously they, I’m sure of this, are still in that house today and are impervious to fire, flood, earthquake or hell.

Future generations will use them as examples of ‘American workmanship’.

Solid doesn’t do that furniture justice.

At my brother’s wedding Dagmar pulled Grandpa out on to the dance floor (you

little black dresses boys, am I right? Wait this is about my Grandpa, he had a fun dancing with my wife …

were rocking that little-black dress honey, looking damn hot by the way) for a spin.   There are few photos I have of him but he seemed to love it.  Looking at the photo still makes me smile.

Third party story told to me by my Uncle Georgie, fuck you I have an Uncle Georgie and he’s pretty cool … even if he makes fun of me for being a city slicker.

Maple trees make maple syrup, it seems.  Who knew?  Apparently you do some kind of weird magic, sap comes out, you cook it and then pancake goodness flows forth.  I dunno the details, there was cooking involved though.

Grandma and Grandpa were cooking the maple syrup and an argument developed, he thought it needed to cook longer.   She disagreed but he left the room to attend to something (cows!) and she followed his direction.

In the morning she slid him a block of solid maple overcooked uselessness that should have been syrup and decried, “here’s your maple syrup!”   Fuck I don’t even get that story, sorry.   Don’t overcook maple syrup which comes from trees or something.    I am a retard city slicker it seems.

Grandpa and Grandma were farmers, as I’ve pointed out.    I can remember him squeezing the cow’s teats and spraying the milk on a gaggle of kittens and cats and watching them lose their shit.  Even to a disinterested 15 year old it was so cute you had to laugh.    Milk was hitting them and they were ‘paws up’, catching it.

Mom used to tell a story about the family all coming home from something (church?) in the winter and seeing a family of bears near the barn.   Grandpa, she explained, went to the barn and tossed out food them.   Why bears were out of their hibernation caves in winter never was defined.   Grandpa was good with animals I think was the point.   And he was.

Danny Hurlbut, you had a chair at the old farm house on star hill when you were like three.   You broke it.   You broke it because you were three (it might have been already broken, I don’t remember) and I remember grandpa taking that to the garage and ‘industrial-level’ unscrewing that chair.   It was awesome.  He took your little kid chair outside and ‘manned it up’.   I was like 15 or something.  Then you sat in it, for like 30 seconds.

Rest in peace Grandpa …. I’m gonna pop in a Cowboy movie and call it a night.

* And by try I mean I swill a lot of beer and make an ass of myself here, so there are levels of trying.

Ah Sunday, relaxing Sund … A lesson in reading your spouses insane side.

Are you the early riser in your house?  If so you and I have something in common.

Go us!

You and I look forward to the few peaceful moments that come with getting out of bed early and enjoy the  precious few quiet moments we have in alone in the house.   If you watch TV in the morning you’re careful to monitor the volume.  You might even be selective about which lights you turn on in order to not disturb the other sleeping people in the house.

You’re, like I, am trying to milk every precious second out of the serene, tranquil morning that you can.*

I like to turn the coffee pot on, tip-toe into the living room and, because I live in Europe and get the American Forces Network on my TV, watch yesterday’s evening news – this morning, while surfing on the iPad.

Weekdays I get a half an hour tops.

But on weekends I typically get a lot more.   So much so that I might even, don’t tell the wife, take a quick 15 to 30 minute nap.   Because life in the 40’s is just that fucking exciting!  Don’t tell the kids …

Then two hours later she wakes up and berates me, while wiping the sleep from her eyes, for not having done ‘anything’ for the past few hours.

Read that last bit again, I’ll wait.

I, fool that I am, thought this Sunday would be like all the others.   True my suspicions should have been ‘hyper-level 10 million level’ when she not only woke up at the same time I did but literally ‘feet hit the floor’ before mine.

Still though no cause to worry, right?

I drifted down stairs to find her brewing tea and the coffee pot already on.

Full-disclosure, though I am awake earlier it does not mean I am in any way capable of making a decision more important than, “should I scratch my crotch or not” for at least 4 cups of coffee and/or 30 minutes.

But not Dagmar, oh no, not her.

She can go from dead asleep to let’s go run a marathon.  Literally, let’s go run, put your stuff on, screw it lets just run in our pajamas, come on let’s go, let’s go!

Her, and you people that are like her, scare me deep, deep inside.   I cannot understand you and I’d be sympathetic if I wasn’t so full of rage toward you.    Slow the fuck down Sparky, we got the whole day ahead of us.

Normally after this many years my morning ritual, when she sees it, is

Well who needs coffee now?

My mornings are … wait huh. Okay I had a point when I start … boobies. Photo shamelessly ripped from Newscorpse.com

respected.   I’m afforded an opportunity to drink coffee, blow my nose, scratch my crotch and make sneering gestures at Fox news anchor Sheppard Smith (an unfortunate consequence of AFN is that during the 6 to 7 a.m. time period it’s him or Piers Morgan – even in my foggy state I pick Sheppard over Piers because Piers just sucks. Plus side note, I predict it’s only a matter of time before Sheppard is caught having dude-on-dude sex somewhere embarrassing, like Florida.  Side note to the side note if you Google “fox news anchor” and select images (if you’re a guy) you’ll thank me … hello ladies!).

And that’s how I overcame my addiction to methamphetamines using nothing but a case of motor oil and a stick of butter.

See what I did there?  I used a joke about getting off track to refer back to the getting off track so we could get back on track.   I’m a geniou … maybe I should just get back on track?

So there I am on the couch yesterday morning, hot and first cup of coffee in hand and there Dagmar is with her cup of tea (when did you become British for the love of God?).  Typical morning really only she’s up of her own volition and the sun isn’t – which tells me something is afoot.

Then it happens, then the statement is made and it is matched by action.   Slamming the footrest back into the sofa without regard to ‘quiet time’ rules at all she jumped to her feet.  Her eyes were wild and her muscles seemed, at least would have seemed, were I awake, to swell.

She became Hulk-Dagmar and there would be action this Sunday morning, quiet time and coffee be damned!

It got much worse as the day went on but I couldn’t take any photos because I was holding televisions up, or something

There. Would.  Be. Action.

I think she was also wearing a green t-shirt which likely led to the hulk analogy, also I was almost asleep.

There are certain ‘thoughts’ expressed in this house that are vocalized but never really acted upon.   For instance in all our years of marriage we have never ate ‘rice and beans’ the entire month even though I’ve been told she’ll do it, she totally can do it, and if I don’t watch out, we will do it.

Hint:  She won’t but it’s fun to hear.

That’s an example of a threat that, made during a ‘discussion about money’, will never happen.  I think it’s called a Paper-Dagmar Argument or something.   I should have paid a lot more attention in class.

Then there are the others.  They’re not threats, they’re warnings.   Things we’re going to do this weekend.  “We’re going to go hike up to the castle”, “we’re going to go to Ikea”, “we’re going to clean the house to within an inch of its life” and “we’re going to go to the blah, blah, blah.”

Any husband reading this understands that probability factors in to each of these ‘statements.’   Yeah maybe we’re going to the event this weekend but you dear wife might, you might blank-percent might, change your mind.   Most of us agree (at the time) that the plan is a good one and start influencing however we can the odds back into our favor.

Our ‘favor’ is code for those of you that are interested for, ‘staying at home, drinking beer and maybe having a fire.’

It’s in the married guy’s bible, chapter II paragraph 4.5.  Look it up.

The one that scares the shit out of me though is the cleaning one.  I can’t predict it, I’m helpless when the cleaning beast rips out of her chest ala Aliens and I know it’s going to hurt me.    The cleaning one is brought up a lot but it’s usually just a light, once over the house, nothing heavy.  But once in a while I find myself moving furniture out of a room and fear for the cat’s life.

So yeah it was the cleaning one.

This is the woman that makes me lift the TV up so she can dust UNDER it.  This request is made and granted during ‘normal weekend’ cleaning.

Can you guess what deep-cleaning consists of?

She once vacuumed a large area rug then turned it upside down and vacuumed the bottom of the rug because German-Puerto Rican people are inside.

This woman once cleaned out and reorganized my toolbox because she wanted me to start a blog or because she’s just that nuts.  You pick.

Truth be known, between moving furniture and polishing the undersides of things I was allowed to listen to podcasts and at about 1 p.m. or so was authorized beer.  The warden has a heart.

To anyone, and yeah I’m looking at you, that says, “You’re the man of the house you do what you want” well I guess your situation is different than mine.   Maybe your dynamic isn’t the same as mine.   To me when she really, really fuck really, wants to do it I’m not going to stop her and I’m going to be a dick if I don’t participate.

Besides I’m too busy holding up the TV so it can be dusted under to really argue and have you MET Dagmar?

*  I have no idea how this works with kids.  I just assume they wake up, poop on themselves, set the pets on fire, eat sugar and yell.    I’m not far off am I?  I forgot only barfing right?  Oh and the cartoons.  Never forget the cartoons.

How not to buy your wife chocolate

I hope this comes across in the self-help spirit I intend. I’m hoping some level-two husband, you know the kind diligently watching Oprah reruns with his wife in hope of someday achieving level 5 so he gets the “night out with the boys” pass and eventually the level 25 “yeah it’s just us going to Vegas honey — no chicks,” uber-achievement special ability.

Or am I mixing up video games and real life again? Let that be a warning to all you young husbands out there, eventually the reward becomes you’ll agree to paint the fucking kitchen plaid if she’ll just shut up and leave you alone for 5 minutes.

Next time, I cut you.

Her: Honey I think we should paint your man-cave pink and decorate it with kitten photos …

You: Do you mean right now?

Her: No, no. Next week.

You: Fine as long as it’s not right now.

You get the drift.

The lesson, if she assumes it’s for her, it’s for her. I care not if you have to re-climb Mount Everest to get another item, the item you have that she thinks is for her, Is For Her.

You can stop reading right now, right here. That’s it in a nutshell. It’s a shitty intor to this update but it’s the gist of it.

There’s of course a reason I bring this up and that was the worst way to intro this story in the history of any damned story ever but here we are.

There’s a small convenience store not too far from my office. Close yet far enough away to warrant a general office-wide shout, “I’m going to the shoppette, does anyone need anything.” We all do this, sometimes people do want something, and sometimes they don’t.

Today the boss’s sweet tooth got the better of him and he wanted a bar of German chocolate. I was going to the store because I wanted a cup of coffee and the wife indicated she’d like a cup too she works, almost literally, next door to the store.

Yeah, yeah Dick Fucking Tracey you figured out where I’m going with this. Give yourself a ‘had a few beers special-little detective badge’ and keep reading.

So going to the store, two coffees and one chocolate (no I don’t need a bag but thank you mister check out dude with the weird pentagram necklace) later I find the Frau.

Who snatches up the chocolate like it’s her birth rite and I should be honored that I brought it to her.

Queen Lord Emperor of Oliverdom: “I see you brought me chocolate worthless peon! I will forgive you this time, that it does not contain nuts or fruits or other wholesome goodness as you have also brought the juice of the coffee

This chocolate does not contain nutty goodness … take it away!

plant, hot as I prefer it, but do not make this mistake again or you will feel my wrath though hundreds of trips to Ikea. Now be gone!”

Okay it wasn’t that bad but I was like, ‘fuck, now I have to go back to the store.”

The boss pointed out, when I told him he owed me double the cost of the chocolate that next time he’d send me for flowers.

He’s a laugh a fucking minute I tell you …

I also noticed that when she came home, the chocolate was in her bag, unopened.

Finally yes, she insists I ‘bold’ the words ‘Queen Lord Emperor of Oliverdom’.

Cause if I don’t … Ikea.

Chicks are evil; a case study. Also I’ll go to bed when I want Mom!

Women are evil.

It’s because they are helpless little frail creatures unable to confront men that makes them evil.

If you ask a man married for more than 6 months if women are evil he will think for a moment and say, they can be.  Ask any man married longer than 6 months if women are evil and he will tell you stories.

This is a story.

As I just said women are frail creatures that like flowers, the color pink or purple and cats.  They like cats because cats kill stuff and that makes no sense at all when you think about it.

Men on the other hand are hulking brutes that invented things like guns, beer and playboy centerfolds.  We’re just smart enough to not kill ourselves at any given moment and sometimes we’re not all that smart then even.

Perhaps it’s not that women are evil it’s just that women are smarter and the ones that we’ve let into our daily lives (day after, after day, after day, after day, after … oh god I need a beer) they gain an understanding of how to manipulate our behavior without our ever knowing our behavior was manipulated until after the manipulation occurred and then damn, it’s too late, you’ve been manipulated!

Women are manipulating.

My wife’s under the impression that I stay up to late and, years ago, she was right.  It’s hard to use a brain at anywhere near functioning capacity when you routinely go to bed at 2 a.m. and have to wake up at 6:30 a.m. but lately, the last year or so, it’s been a reasonable, I think, 9:30 or 10:00 at night for me.

I’m old screw you and get off my .com kids.

Going to bed a bit earlier is a good thing but for her that means 8:00 p.m. because the cat needs milking in the morning and someone needs to feed the washer and dryer I guess.

Klause died a lot ... it's okay though we 'sexxored all the ladies' and were 'mad pimps" but we died a lot really

Klause died a lot … it’s okay though we ‘sexxored all the ladies’ and were ‘mad pimps” but we died a lot really. We were level fail mostly.

Truly I don’t need to be up until 1 a.m. reading scientific journals and … okay I was totally trying to get to level 78 on my super wizard on everdork, or worldofdorkness or you’re not my mom so shut up.

Anyway in my mind 9:30 is perfectly reasonable.  It gives me plenty of time to post “it is NOT” on Facebook and to like people’s photos of kittens.   I specifically do not share things that people say 99 percent of their friends will not share because I want to be in the majority for once.

So I use that time to NOT do things as well, pretty smart amiright?!?!?!

So last night came and at 8 p.m. the following (typical dialog) occurred.

Her:   It’s 8 and I’m going to bed are you coming?

Me:  Not yet I’ve got a lot of facebook liking about this whole Chickfila thing to do!

Her: What?

Me:  (with an eye-roll) Loser, are you new to the ‘net’ or what?  If you support gay rights you have to go on facebook and like all the Chickfila appreciation days posts you see … man go to bed, I have work to do.

Her:  Umm no, that’s not right Todd.  The folks liking the Chickfila appreciating day are supporting the company’s decision to give millions of dollars to anti-gay marriage groups.

Me:  No, that’s not … wait, they are against (quick Google) HOLY SHIT I HAVE LIKE 40 THOUSAND LIKES TO UNLIKE!
Her:  Come to bed soon.

I did go to bed is the point.   At 9:30 after a vigorous work out of my right hand index finger during operation ‘unlike’.

And slept like a baby.

I don’t know about you but I’m a one snooze on the alarm kinda person, sure sometimes we hit it twice but I try for only one personally.

The alarm when off, I smacked it, swore under my breath that someone should

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

legislate a 10 am start of work law or something and then at 6:40 a.m. did my duty and got out of bed.   Bathroom break taken care of I headed down stairs for a cup of coffee and scan of the headlines on the iPad only to discover some asshole invented a 5:40 a.m. and I was currently living in it.

If you don’t know what happened go but up and read the first paragraph again.   Part of her plan to get me to go to bed earlier is to start setting my alarm earlier.

Women are evil I tell you.

I fixed her though, I took a nap on the couch from 5:50 to 6:30 … it was a pretty good nap too.

Why did I buy that song and why is the Showtime series Californication still pissing me off?

Well, as you might recall from the “10,000 hit’s, holy crap where’s my music” update a few weeks back, Steve Jobs literally engineered things so that all my iTunes purchased music would be robbed from me at about the time I did that update.

No idea why he chose then, he just did.

Now some of you apple savvy folks I can only assume read what I wrote back then and laughed your faces off, cause you realized I’m an idiot.   Some of the emails you sent me were uncalled for though, why bring my mom into it!

Some of you less savvy folks signed and thought, well that sucks.

But as a public service I will now tell you how to restore ALL your purchases on iTunes.

Literally every purchase you ever made on iTunes.  You’re welcome, I’d do anything for you.

Step one:

Approach the computer sober.

Step two:

Follow the very easy to find, very easy to use directions on iTunes.

Step three:

Wait for the downloads to download.

Of all the steps I recommend step one above the others because as it turns out apple DOES have an “I fucked up button”.   They just don’t call it the “I fucked up” button, oddly.

Now when faced with years and years of drunken iTunes purchases I’m realizing that my ‘HOLY SHIT WHAT IS THAT SONG’ desire to ‘BUY IT NOW’, even at .99 cents, when added together is the GDP of Guatemala.

Actually I just did the real math, even if every song literally cost .99 cents (and they don’t cause albums are less, I think) it’s only like $239 or so and hell I’ve been buying crap off of iTunes since at least 2007 or so.

But the list is funny to look at it.  The first iTunes purchase for reasons that prove I’m still 16 and cry at night because I’m a special sensitive flower, or something, was The Cure.   I literally haven’t listened to the Cure for more than five minutes in a row since 1993.

That was a purchase made while drinking.

The next few iTunes purchases are pretty boring, Spoon cause I like them and the CD was scratched beyond use (they make crappy beer coasters) and a few others that yeah, I’d totally see me buying that sober.

Then there’s a weird purchase by something called ‘Teagan and Sara” which I’m listening to now and it’s not bad.   But have NO memory of buying it.

Honey look I have an apple AND a snake, take me back PLEASE

Honey look I have an apple AND a snake, take me back PLEASE

Here’s a good one, guaranteed to have been a purchase made after many beers.   The entire soundtrack to season one of the Showtime series, “Californication”.    You remember that show right?  It’s the one where agent Mulder solves alien crimes and whores his way through a series of totally hot LA chicks in an effort to, well, win back his ex-wife.

Basically this was the show’s entire theme …

Honey, I banged a hot blonde, will you take me back now?


Well I banged a hot chick with tattoos, will you take me back now?

No?  Crap.

Look I just banged two totally hot brunettes, at the same time, will you take me back now?

No?  Look you’re being unreasonable here.

Look the series had a lot of hot naked chicks in it, like in every scene and my wife was deployed.  You do the math.

What killed that series for me (besides that fact that I want to retroactively abort the person that wrote in the daughter) is the scene in season two where he goes down on the wrong woman in a dark room during a party.   Look, take it from me there is no <deleted — legal dept.   See me! – Ed.> and that’s how I know that scene was a bunch of crap.

Shit where was I?

Oh yeah.  Californication, umm season one good, season two bad.  Also purchasing the soundtrack put like a crap ton of artists I don’t know, all of whom have one song listed, into my selection of artist lists on my iPhone.

Fuck you Mulder you asshole, alien encounter that.

I guarantee I was reading SOMETHING by Hunter S. Thompson when I purchased this next song, and NO it didn’t have to be (but likely was) Fear and

I was digging Ralph Steadman before most people knew who Johnny Depp was.  I even had a this on a Tee (and still do) in like 1994

I was digging Ralph Steadman before most people knew who Johnny Depp was. I even had a this on a Tee (and still do) in like 1994

Loathing in Las Vegas.   That song was, White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane.  And no matter how tanked I was when I bought that song, I stand behind it because the dormouse said damn it, that’s why.

Here’s one I cannot explain and I fall on my sword begging your forgiveness.  I don’t have a clue why I bought California Girls by Katy Perry, I just did.   I should have to give everyone that just read that a .99 cent refund.

But holy shit the Pogues, I missed the Pogues, and then I played them and I wondered if I could just make iTunes forget that little mistake?   The Pogues are okay, I’ve listened to them (sometimes A LOT) but the burn out on the Pogues hasn’t expired yet, back into the vault you go angry drunk Irishmen, you haven’t served your time yet.

I have no clue who the street dogs are, why I would pay money to down load them or even what they sound like.   Chances are I heard one song, liked it and bought the album.  They’re in the download queue and are expected to be next in the year 2044.

Seems I had a ‘rap’ phase.  I did.  In between Skyrim, Star Trek conventions and … Okay I like some Jay-Z.  Screw you he’s cool.

While everyone, sadly including myself, was flogging their penis (peni?) about what a genius Kurt Corbain was Sublime’s, with Bradley Nowell, was doing awesome stuff.    Bradley Nowell died chasing the dragon, I always thought it was a car crash – but you know you learn things here at had a few beers, it was the smack– , and I’m still convinced he was under rated by everyone.   Had they not broke up after his death I think they would have been as influential as the Pixies are thought to be today.  The surviving members I now know, from writing this, have released a new album.

I’m checking it out.

There’s a lot of comedy, which is awesome.

At the age of 14 learning all the dirty words, and HOW to use them, is awesome.

At the age of 14 learning all the dirty words, and HOW to use them, is awesome.

At about the age of about 12 or something I was watching HBO late at night, which was verboten.    But my parents slept well and if I was quiet and had the volume down low, they’d never know.   Then George Carlin came on, and I couldn’t help myself.  I was holding my sides on the couch in the living room laughing.   Mom of course woke up and instead of beating my ass, like I deserved, she sat on the couch with me and laughed a few times, Carlin wasn’t her thing but she appreciated the fun I was having with it.

It’s been a life-long love affair.  I was heart broke when Bobcat Goldthwait took his fatal, fire induced, career suicide on a late night show.   Oddly he was on NPR’s Wait, wait don’t tell me last week and is still just as funny.

I’m now addicted to Lewis Black, he’s funny.  Check him out.

Back to music, there’s a lot of ‘Clash’, good.  A lot of’ Buzzcocks’ which don’t suck and a shit-ton of Dave ‘god I’m so over that’ Matthews.

I’m not at all sure why Sugar’s “that’s a good idea” keeps popping up on every device I own but I can only assume it’s because I want to kill my wife or I just like the song.

Whichever, I’m cool with both.

And who the fuck are the Tune-yards?   Oh yeah that was that band I heard on NPR, what the fuck was I thinking buying that album.

Back to comedy, Jeanne Robertson should be held down while I poo … okay she’s kind of funny.  My mom would have liked her and dad would approve.

Rated G comedy, I have ONE thing they would approve of …

Go me!

Vampire weekend is there and if I didn’t like boobs so much even I would assume I was gay.

When the fuck did I find “Bowling for soup” that great band of suck, to be a great band of non-suck?  They had like two maybe three songs that didn’t suck.   Three albums Todd, what the fuck?

I also have a lot of before mentioned pixies, wait for it, tribute bands.

But no Pixies.  Fuck.

What the hell?  Most of the tribute bands are better than the original Pixies but not as good as the original Pixies, if that makes sense.  Back when I started this, a shocking and ancient 6 months ago, my first update was (going to be) about how the Pixies were a really influential band and I could back that up if research wasn’t hard.  Research IS hard let me tell you, trust me the Pixies were influential, to me at least.

A tale of two documents … yeah ‘documents’, it’s not all beer and boobs here

Look I’ve been TRYING to do a play on the ‘a tale of two cities’ with the headline of this blog since the year of our lord 1935.   No clue why I picked 1935 but’ A tale of two cities’ is an awesome book and I’ve always wanted to play on that title.

Screw you start your own blog and make up your own headlines!

See it’s not so easy it is stupid face?

I’m sorry I got so gruff there and I’m sorry we fought.  Let’s move on past this dark chapter in ‘Had a few beers’, forgive me.

I became aware of the need to send a notarized document the wife and I had to send back to the U.S. sometime in June.   It was an email that said, boiled down, sometime during this process we’re going to have to, no shit, don’t delay, post haste, quickly now, send back a document that was notarized.

This image is here cause I felt like I needed three images for this update, no other reason.   Well one other reason, it has a cute cat.

This image is here cause I felt like I needed three images for this update, no other reason. Well one other reason, it has a cute cat.

Also a hardy ‘screw you legal system!’, it’s not 1786 and no one is wearing corsets anymore in case you haven’t noticed.  I can send the gigabytes of data across the world with a click of a button but your retarded raised seal somehow is too important for all that.  My wife demanded during this process, which I’ll get back to in a moment, that we make ‘copies’ of the documents the notary had ‘notered’ (which isn’t a word according to … well MS word, I should said the notarized documents but this update is also complicated, SCREW YOU START YOUR OWN DAMNED BLOG STUPID FACE, sorry, sorry I’m calm again) but I fully realize that copies of notarized documents were as valuable as photos of copied coins, yeah sure it’s proof I copied coins but the coin is the point.

So my I hate the legal system rant aside and getting BACK to the fucking story at hand — I knew in mid, maybe late June that a requirement to send back quickly a notarized piece of paper was on the horizon.

And I prepared.  I knew where the legal office was, I even found out which floor held the notary.   This would be easy, this would be simple.  It would be with done with militaristic efficiency because as any pro knows amateurs study the tactics and pros study the logistics.

Okay I studied it through the bottom of a beer glass but I knew I could have this thing done and sent back pretty damned fast.  It wouldn’t be a challenge at all!  It was going to be easy.

One potential hiccup, if it came when we were planning to visit Italy, over the 4th of July weekend (subject of this update), it would add, ‘difficulty.’

If you’re a military scholar you are laughing.

Stop laughing I hate you.

I’m sorry I don’t hate you at all, why do we fight like this?

Okay back to the story, we were leaving for Italy on the 4th of July and of course the request, because of the time difference, came while we were sleeping on the night/morning before we left.

Still ha, I got you cold weird coincidence, in your face fates!   I had the document already printed out.  I’d talked to my friend Alex in Italy already about how I would execute the plan if needed and felt we had this shit down.  And we DID have a solid plan but it never included my epic hangover, Dagmar’s desire to spend 3.2 hours getting ready and the legal office breaking for lunch (stupid legal office).

Still though we got it done, we’re troopers.  Maggie drove us around, we got the document notarized, we made a pointless copy of the notarized document at my wife’s insistence and we went to (via mailboxes ect) the UPS office.

Me: Ma’am I need this mailed out with all haste, I need it in America as soon as is possible, spare no expense, whip the pilots if you must, these documents must arrive at the soonest opportunity.

Her:  we offer express service sir.

Had this been a pre-flight year, maybe like the year 1900, I would have charted a ship for the express purpose of delivering these documents.

Don’t believe me?  Read on.

Quickly, I need this document shipped to my beloved United States of American (Oh say can you see ...) and destroyed quickly, cost matters not!

I like how first it’s missing then it’s just fucking destroyed. When I called the WTF help line they were like, Oh it was in THE you’re fucked trucked, lemme connect you.

This was the 5th of July.  In my head I did the math, of course the documents would leave Italy that night, putting them at whatever hub they use in Europe that very night then off to the U.S. for an overnight flight and they would land on the 6th, a Friday. Then with a bit of luck, considering the weekend they would burn up in a fire-filled crash of epic fail.

Wait what?

Yeah somewhere around Philly they were involved in a traffic accident that either partially or totally destroyed (yeah, yeah totally destroyed, suck-it English majors) the shipment.   UPS was kind enough to inform me that they lost the document and then further explained that , “oh shit it was totally burned up dude and we had to mercy destroy it.”

I got this notification on the 11th of July.


Big, deep breaths, the date the ‘powers that be’ needed the documents had been moved back.  They now needed them by the 25, which is still, as I write this in the future.  By then we’ll have teleporters and I’ll be masturbating like a monkey in a zoo cause the virtual reality will be so good by then that you can basically tell the holodeck, “I want a scene with five Blonde midget chicks, three normal sized brunettes and a blender  …”

Okay that got a bit out of hand, sorry.

Anyway the 25th is still like a few days away.

Aware of the importance of the documents, in awe of the fucking weirdness of “your valuable (to you) parcel was burned to shit message” I executed plan b, which consisted of me asking my wife for advice.

Me: What the fuck, what the fucking fuck?

Her: Calm down.  Let’s just do it again.

Me: The fuck?

I just, I’m sorry I’m crying here, just need this to get to America. WHY IS THAT SO HARD?!?!?!?!?!

Her: We are going to send it again via the U.S. post office, priority mail.  And stop saying fuck.

Me: great fuc …okay.

And off we went to the Notary for part two.   Interstate road fire be damned, FUC … I mean to hell with you UPS, we’re retired SOLDIERS, we’ll use the trust worthy and time tested United States Postal Service ‘thank you very much’.   They rode horses across AMERICA to deliver mail, they rock and you don’t and I was a fool to ever trust your fire-ridden trucks to start with.

Her:  look just send it espress mail, It’ll be there in like a 4 days tops. We can also track it, this is easy.

Me: I’m off to be your hero and mail this IMPORTANT DOCUMENT vial the U.S. Postal service, long may they live, do you think they’ll use an actual horse to deliver it like the pony express did?

Her: Express mail, Todd.   Do I need to do this?

Thus I was off, the first plan had met with a failure that burned but this plan was fool fire-proof.

I marched smartly into the post office and quickly noticed, or was noticed by, one of my wife’s fellow co-workers, she summoned me into her line.

How can I help you she asked, I need this to get back to the U.S. as soon as possible, it’s really important, I replied.

What is it she asked?

A power of attorney, I told her.

HOLY SHIT, she said, this has to go first class and for the love of god we need to add a return receipt.

I agreed, because what the fuck do I know about mail and yes, first class sounds important.  If you fly first class that’s good, if you stay somewhere and are ‘first class’ it’s great.

This first class sounds better than even espress … my wife’s such a cheapskate, damn her.

Me:  Yes, yes, (orgasm voice) yes!  Put me on this first class thing, where the hell have you been all my life?  Return receipt, can I have two? Insurance, hell the first one burned up, 1 million dollars please.  Track it while its standing still ma’am I care not!  Add them all please, damn the price, levy the fines.  Whip the men that are charged with moving, we don’t have a whipping fee? What is wrong with American these days?

Her: So that’s like ($20 bucks) and its ‘first-class, return receipt’.

Me: I have done my family a fine service, honor has been done this day and the gods have …

Her: Here’s your receipt dude is there anything else?

Me:  Well I had more to say about the honor thing …

Her:   I need to help the next customer.

Me: but honor demands I …

Her: NEXT!

Which led to me proudly explaining to my wife how I had sent the document extra insured, if I die honey you get like a billion bucks and it’s first fucking class love, how cool is that?

“I told you EXPRESS mail,” she said

“But your friend said first class, what the fuck am I a postal expert now?”  I replied.

“No but I am, you idiot.”

Had I a dunce hat, I would have worn it.

Adding insult to injury I sent a bottle of wine Italian oil to a friend in Chicago two days earlier and it got there first, it got there in like three days and I sent it “I don’t care when it arrives” mail .  I guess I just gave up the ending.   Yeah the super important document got there.  But not before I considered, honestly priced in fact, flying my wife back to the states on a 2-day see our daughter but mainly deliver the goddamn document (notarized for the 3rd time mind you) to the powers that be.

Breast moles, sauna boners and what the hell is a ‘dorie gary broken’?

If you follow this blog at all, and I’m talking to BOTH OF YOU RIGHT NOW, you know that I took a two-week hiatus. During that drunken black out break I became afraid to check the WordPress stats page, because a ‘no views today’ would have made me cry like an infant in a puddle of my own pathetic.

And I would have been naked so don’t picture that in your head – to late? Shit, sorry.

But eventually the little voice my head said, “dear dickhead, you umm going to update this fucking thing or what? You’ve got one that’s almost ready to go. How about not surfing for porn and or playing games tonight and like taking 10 fucking minutes to, I don’t know, update this shit.”

The little voice was right and I was spending entirely too much time at ratemyrack.com (Emily YOU’RE STILL NUMBER 1 baby!) and not enough time making an ass out of myself here, for your enjoyment. So I uploaded business trip tips and thought, “fuck it Sasha hasn’t called in like a week, we’re good.”

Then I looked at the stats.

Jesus. Christ. Fuck. God. Almighty. What. The. Fuck?

There are days here that I don’t post that get more hits than days that I did post.

I’d love to say it’s because of all of you, the ones that are literally reading this now. I know you came back to share some of my lovely wit with your friends and family. Maybe you showed grandma that wonderful update where I used the words tits, beer, fuck and ball hair all in the same sentence, I mean that was an epic sentence but alas, it was not the reason the stats were still high.

See I wasn't kidding ... it's all about suana boners at had a few beers

See I wasn’t kidding … it’s all about sauna boners at had a few beers

It’s because, and you likely know this, sauna boners. Yeah sauna boners. I knew it would be sauna boners that saved me. (By the way that sentence has never before been written, ‘I knew it would be sauna boners that saved me’ … FIRST BABY).

D.C. Dana has awesome search terms, “mars robot, heat shield, kittens,” as an example. I never get cool search terms that includes robots and only one kitten hit. It was ‘kitten boners’ though so not much of a win there.

Two word press bloggers I follow, Sweet mother and Oh my god my wife is German I bet don’t get too many boner hits. Okay Oh my god my wife is German probably gets a few but they are the good kind of boner hits such as: are boners okay in Germany vice Boner hot boning in boning country. Actually I have never had a hit for, boner hot boning in boning country but I expect to any minute, mainly cause I’ll add it to the tags so … there’s that.

The point is boners are keeping me up (yeah, yeah you see what I did there) hits wise so … thanks. I’m happy you like reading about erections in mixed company saunas, even though they don’t really happen. And I love that you come here looking for porn (has your search engine of choice no image preview function) with terms like, “German sauna erection” and find my dumb ass spout off about Rush Limbaugh or the horror that IS the Golden Corral.

Then there are the other ones. The weird, what the hell, hits. Vacuum cleaner sex, which okay I get it’s a fucking (get it) niche but besides a weird rant I did a month ago, I NEVER MENTIONED fucking vacuums. Sure I’ve looked at the vacuum and though, could I? But I never wrote about that, until now I mean.

Here’s a fun one, “boob moles.” That was an actual search term for this blog (more than once), ‘boob moles’ and again I’m left wondering why. I KNOW on a base level why, I have the most

Sometimes I play connect the boob mole with these photos ... mostly not.

Sometimes I play connect the boob freckles (they’re NOT MOLES asshole!) with these photos but it’s hard with all my drooling .

awesome friend that on demand sends me cleavage photos and her boobs have moles on them (it makes them hotter oddly) but WHO THE FUCK COMES HERE TO INVESTIGATE BOOB MOLES …

Here’s a fun search term that four of our wonderful internet neighbors used to come to this blog, “trolls have sex with female elf.” And honestly who among us hasn’t googled trolls have sex with female elf a few times but I’m just not sure why the internet algorithms would point them here.

Finally there is this search term, ‘dorie gary broken’. Yeah, whatever that is. I Googled dorie gary broken and Google basically told me to shut the hell up

I quit, okay I don’t quit but I want to quit.