Tongue In Check

The other day over at Atlas Cerise’s place, he did a post about his beloved VW. It was an interesting post and worth the read but for me it kind of jarred loose a memory that I had all but forgotten.

When I first started going to college, I went to Northern Michigan University way the fuck up in Marquette Michigan. About the only thing I can say about Marquette is that if you like the idea of snow in May, this is the place for you. Fortunately for me, after a year up there in the frozen tundra I had enough sense to get the fuck out of there before I froze to death–or worse.

One of the guys that hung around with us was a sophomore, and he knew the ins and outs of Marquette and told us the best places to buy weed, beer (drinking age was 18 back then), and to find women. As a matter of fact, one Friday night he offered to drive us to the nearby town of Ishpeming, Michigan where he assured us that the copper miner’s daughters that lived in that town were far easier to bang than the college girls we had been working on unsuccessfully for weeks. Six of us packed ourselves into Nick’s late 60’s Ford Fairlane and headed off to the wild and wooly town of Ishpeming where we had been assured we would get laid.

Sometimes fate works in most mysterious ways. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it is a very nice thing–for the most part. I was never the kind of guy that was very good at picking up girls. I mean I just couldn’t sling the bullshit like the other guys could and I was for the most part mortified at the concept of walking across the room to talk to a girl. While my friends and roommates hit on every single girl in that bar, regardless of size or number or teeth, I sat at the bar drinking Stroh’s beer and talking to one of the old miners who kept offering me a chew of his Mail Pouch tobacco and giggling for no apparent reason. Just as I was about to take him up on his offer for some of his chewing tobacco (I’m always on the lookout for a new bad habit), someone asked me to dance and to my surprise, it wasn’t one of the miners.

It was a girl. Maybe woman would be a better description. She had red hair and green eyes (a combination that still sets me all a-flutter) and was about as pretty as anything I had seen in a long time. I honestly can’t remember her name but she was originally from Crystal Falls, Michigan and I have always remembered the name of that place because I thought I would like to live in a place called Crystal Falls. Anyway, for the purposes of this post and my failing memory, we will call her Crystal.

At the ripe old age of 21, Crystal was a few years older than me. Three to be exact. She was a beautician and worked at a shop in Ishpeming. She had a boyfriend who sailed on one of the Great Lakes freighters. She assured me that his boat wouldn’t be in for a few days so I could stop looking over my shoulder for some big hulking deck hand to come over and knock my dick into the dirt. After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, I talked her out of the whole dancing thing because I am hopelessly white and when dancing I take on the appearance of a one-legged hillbilly trying to fuck a jug. I assured her that it would be far more embarrassing for her than it would be for me and she would thank me later.

After a few hours at the bar, she convinced me that she should take me home for the night. Being the obliging sort that I am, I reluctantly agreed. I said good-bye to my buddies and wished them luck as I walked out the door with the beautician. We jumped in her VW Beetle and drove across town to her apartment that was above an appliance store. Doan’s Appliances. We sell all major brands. There was a toaster painted on the window.

Here’s the part where I skip over a bunch of gory details to prove to you that I am indeed a gentleman. Besides, my wife reads this blog.

The next morning we got up kind of early and talked for about 10 minutes and I told her that I needed to get a ride back to Marquette. She agreed that she would take me back to Marquette but she wondered if we could go for “a little ride first.” Well what could that hurt? A nice little Saturday morning ride and then back to my dorm room in Marquette where I would spend the rest of the day sleeping in preparation for a night of drunken debauchery. We jumped back in her cute little VW Beetle and started heading west.

After driving for about a half an hour, I politely asked her where we were going. She smiled and said that we were going to Eagle Harbor. For those of you interested, that is about a 3 hour drive (one way) from Ishpeming and by no means met my definition of a “little drive.” Holy fucking hell. I’ve been kidnapped by a crazed woman and she is going to drive me out into the middle of Lake fucking Superior and drop me off.

Along the way she pointed out all sorts of interesting things to see. There were trees, rocks, some shacks by the side of the road selling pastys, shotgun shells and fresh bait. Just on the other side of Houghton Michigan, she stopped at a convenience store and bought a pint of tequila and a pack of cigarettes. I seriously considered jumping out of the car and running to a pay phone to call my mom to come and get me, but somehow I didn’t think my mom would be interested in driving 8 hours to save her stupid son who had been kidnapped by a crazed woman with a sailor boyfriend. Anyway, we drove on for about another hour before there was even any sign whatsoever of civilization.

When we got to Eagle Harbor we pulled into a little harbor that looked out over Lake Superior. She spent the whole time talking about her boyfriend and naming each of the large freighters that sailed by on their way from Duluth to points south. She talked about her parents, her sister who had been killed in a car accident when she was younger, her plans for the future (she was going to buy her own shop in Marquette some day) and about her plans to marry her boyfriend someday. I said very little for fear that anything I might say could result in a trip to Canada which, for the record, I was not in the mood for. We both drank from the pint of tequila and smoked some really good dope that she had brought along for the ride. I must admit that the dope calmed my fears a little bit. Maybe I just didn’t care that she might be planning to kill me and tie rocks to me and throw me into Lake Superior where my body would never deteriorate due to the lack of predatory fish and bacteria in that almost perpetually frozen lake.

After an hour or so of sitting there listening to her talk about her life and hopes and dreams and drinking the pint of cheap ass tequila and smoking some really fine weed, she fired up her little VW and started heading back to Marquette where life would make sense for me again. On the way back she got sick several times and pulled off to the side of the road to puke. I repeatedly asked her (begged her) to let me drive, but she refused. It wasn’t her car. It was her boyfriend’s. I wanted to ask her if she thought her boyfriend would somehow mind more that I drove his car than he did that I had slept with his girlfriend the night before, but I resisted. Some conversations are simply not worth having. Besides, the answer, no matter what it was, would have been meaningless. Finally sometime around 11 that night we reached Marquette and she dropped me off at my dorm. I wished her a good night and a good life and I walked away hoping I would never see her again.

Way back then, college dorms didn’t serve dinners in the cafeteria on Sunday nights. Students were kind of on their own when it came to finding something to eat. A few weeks after my trip to Eagle Harbor I was sitting my dorm room on a dinner-less Sunday night trying to figure out what I was going to do for dinner. Someone knocked on my door and I was immediately suspicious because no one ever knocked on any doors in Payne hall. They just walked in. I opened the door and there was “Crystal.”

“How’d you find me,” I asked.

“Student directory, ” she said as she held up the most recent copy of it in her hand.

“Wanna have some dinner?” she asked.

“Sure, but I don’t have any money,” I said.

“My treat.”

She took me to a Big Boy restaurant and I had a Slim Jim combo platter and that dessert I always get. I asked her how things were going and she said fine. Her boyfriend was in Cleveland and wouldn’t be upbound for a week or more. They were dropping off a load of taconite in Cleveland and then picking up a load of “road stone” in Saginaw for delivery in Marquette. She asked me how school was going and I lied and told her fine. Fact is, I almost never went to classes but that is material for another post. Anyway, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence she asked if we could go out sometime. I told her probably not because she had a boyfriend and she drove his car so it was probably a pretty serious thing. We pretty much finished our dinners in silence. She took me back to the dorm and dropped me off. Naturally I thanked her for dinner. I’m nothing if I’m not polite.

The sad truth is, I really would have liked to have gone out with her again. She was smart, funny, pretty, and a little bit on the crazy side. Okay, maybe a little bit more than a “little bit on the crazy side,” but you get the point.

I often wonder whatever happened to her and if she ever married her sailor boyfriend and opened up her beauty shop in Marquette. Every time I think of her, I think of a set of VW tail lights driving off into the night and that dessert I always liked. I really liked that dessert.

Back in the summer I did a post about a fictitious interview with Mitt Romney. Obviously, like everything else I have done on this blog, it was all done in fun. Within a few months of that post, I received my first hate email ever telling me how stupid I was, how un-funny I was, and how disrespectful I was to Mitt and all of his wives. Shortly after that email, my stats went crazy with just a whole shit-load of people coming here to read that interview. Some people even felt it was necessary to comment on that post telling me how wrong I was.

Over the course of the last few months, I have received several other emails wishing me death, dismemberment, and cancer of the foot for attacking Mitt and his religion. These people are deadly serious and seriously ignorant because it was obviously all done in fun.

A few days ago I put up a disclaimer at the end of that old post saying that it was all done in fun but that yes, I did indeed hate Mormons and yes, I do not want one of them running my country. I have seen what Mormon governments can do to fuck up an otherwise good state, so I certainly don’t want a Mormon running America. Hell, I am not even sure I want a Mormon in my country, but since we have this whole Freedom of Religion thing and all here, I guess I am going to have to let them stay–unfortunately.

I just want to make it really clear here that I have nothing personal against Mitt or any of his wives. I think they are all probably really fine people. My problem is that Mitt is a Mormon. I mean if he was anything else other than a Mormon, I might find him interesting. Well, okay, maybe not a southern Baptist or a Muslim but anything else would be fine. Okay, probably not Greek Orthadox either. But yeah, pretty much anything else is fine–except maybe Catholics. I don’t want the Pope running this country either.

Anyway, due to the hate mail and all I have received because of that post, I decided to invite Mr. Romney back for a second interview. He was gracious enough to accept my offer and I for one am grateful for this chance to right any wrongs I might have committed in the eyes of my Mor(m)on (TM Phoebe Fay) friends.

Here’s my interview with Mr. Romney:

Me: Mr. Romney, I want to thank you for taking the time to talk with us during your very successful campaign for president.

Mitt: Please, you don’t have to call me Mitt. You can just call me The Living Prophet.

Me: Okay. Thank you.

The Living Prophet: I’m welcome.

Me: So, Mr. Prophet, is it true that Mormons eat babies?

The Living Prophet: What are you some kind of freaking retard?

Me: Yes, thanks for asking.

The Living Prophet: Okay, this interview is over. Joseph, bring me my golden tablets and my seagulls and my salamanders. Dammit, where are my wives? I’m about to crap in my special underwear.

Me: I am sorry if I upset you Mr. Romney, but….

The Living Prophet: I told you to call me The Living Prophet gosh darnit.

Me: Sorry.

At this point, The Living Prophet stands up, walks out the door and gets on his white horse and rides away.

Oh well, I tried to fix things with my Mor(m)on friends but I guess I messed that up, didn’t I?

Some of you who have recently started reading this blog may not know this, but my ineptitude has no known limits. “Oh sure”, you say to yourself, “that’s a pretty fucking lofty statement.” Naturally, I couldn’t agree more, but please consider the following:

How many of you have ever been elected Village Idiot? I mean sure, a lot of you are seriously Village Idiot material, but has the title ever been bestowed upon you by a group of your peers? No, probably not.

To further prove that my ineptitude knows no bounds, I only need to remind you all of this event last winter when I was living out in Utah.

At this point, assuming you read any of those links, you should require no further proof of my impending mental demise (did I actually say impending?), but just in case you still aren’t convinced that I am a total idiot, I offer you this one last “piece of proof” that I may not be in full possession of my faculties.

Now, fully armed with the knowledge that my ineptitude may indeed be expanding at the same rate as the known universe, do I really need to tell you what happened when I had an electrical problem in my home a few weeks ago and decided to fix it myself, or can you just assume that some kind of tragic hilarity must have surely ensued?

Go ahead, talk amongst yourself. I’ve still got the tinglies.

The internets have been all abuzz about this site for some time. It’s kind of funny, but lets face it, cats are funny as hell even without misspelled words and the application of undeserved human emotions. Naturally after reading through some of the hilariously funny posts on that site, I thought I should pay homage to I Can Has Cheeseburger with a few doctored pictures of my own. Sadly, I only had one original cat picture to post so I had to make do with a few others that I “lifted” off the net.

Who hasn’t been caught staring at a pair of boobs? I mean for God’s sake, that’s what they’re there for isn’t it?

I don’t know about you guys, but I am going to miss Condi Rice. She’s provided all of us with a lot of material.

Long time readers of this piece of shit blog know that my daughter has a retarded cat with some ungodly number or toes on 3 of her four feet. She’s been known to chew through electrical chords just for fun and then piss all over herself when she gets to the “good parts.” Yeah, fucking genius cat.¹

They keep looking for Osama in all the wrong places.

Long time readers also know that I am hopelessly in love with Catherine Zeta Jones. I just can’t stand the fact that she is out there somewhere being filled with Michael Douglas dust every night when she could be here getting filled with my dust.²

Less than one year left of this fuckbucket.³ Who am I going to make fun of after that? I really don’t care as long as it is a democrat.

Oh wait, I think these two look like a couple of likely candidates to make fun of.

I’ve been tagged by Malicious Intent and since it is Friday and I’ve already checked out all of my favorite porn sites and I’ve got nothing better to do, I am going to attempt to do this meme. According to the stated purpose, I am supposed to list six non-important things/habits/quirks about myself. Only six? Okay, I’ll try, but limiting myself to six things is going to be really tough. There’s so much to choose from that it’s hard to decide where to start. If Sybil was a book, then I’m a fucking encyclopedia.

1.) Despite what I say and do on this blog, I’m pretty much middle of the road politically speaking. In the past, I have supported more Republican candidates than Democrats. It’s always been hard for me to choose because I feel strongly about certain hot-button issues. For instance, I see nothing wrong with law-abiding citizens owning a gun if they choose to. On the other hand, I think that people should have the right to choose whether or not they want to have an abortion. The fact is, George Bush has instilled in me a total distrust of all things Republican and I will never support any Republican again in any way, shape, form, or fashion.

2.) I have spent almost my entire adult life working for companies that are oil-exploration related. A few years ago I realized that I was suffering from total burn out. I mean I have done and seen it all when it comes to making these products and there is nothing more for me to do. I simply cannot go through the motions any more. Unfortunately, no one else is going to pay me what these silly fuckers do so I will have to continue to do what I do–reluctantly. I am currently working on a scam plan to get someone to pay me so that I can get out of this for good. If it works out, I might have to make a trip or two to another 3rd world shithole where I will probably die from some horrible intestinal parasite and be eaten by the locals, but at least my wife will be out of debt. I’ll let you know how it works out–or not.

3.) I am constantly amazed at how much things cost. Nothing costs what I think it should anymore. The other day a simple trip to the grocery store, gas station, and bar cost me almost a hundred bucks. What the fuck? Oh, and for the record, I only had a couple of beers at $2.50 each at the bar, so that was only a small part of the total cost of the trip.

4.) I joke about Mormons on here a lot, but the truth is, they really do scare me. They have some underlying agenda that I don’t fully understand. There’s something very very sinister behind that wholesome look and goody-two-shoes approach to life and I don’t want one of them running our country. Trust me on this one, they are freaks. Very sinister freaks.

5.) I have lived in a lot of places in my life, but living here in this small town that I live in now is the first time that I have ever felt “at home.” I may have to move some day, but for now, this is home.

6.) I take things far to personal.


Okay, here are the rules of the game:

1) Link to the person that tagged you. [check]

2) Post the rules on your blog. [check]

3) Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. [check]

4) Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs. [Not going to do it. Do the meme if you wish, don't if you wish.] Oh wait, I am tagging one person. I tag Angryman because I know he cries like a girl every time he gets tagged to do a meme.

5) Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website. [Ditto]

There’s a meme going around the blogassfear (TM Joey Polanski) that a lot of people have done. The basic concept is that you go through this long and complicated process to come up with your own band name, album name, and band cover. I was going to do it, but since I can’t get the band name I wanted, I have given up. Besides, it’s already taken.

Anyway, the whole process got me thinking about album covers. Obviously a lot of thought goes into designing a great album cover. Or at least it should. A simple web search reveals that there are a lot of websites out there dedicated to album art gone horribly wrong. Some are obviously worse than others.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Chicken Coup deVille? Fucking brilliant.

The power of Christ compels you to come up with this stupid album cover.

HOLY fucking shit.

Jesus, will it ever end?

The answer is obviously no, it won’t end.

No Cody, you can’t “borrow a feeling,” but I will loan you a razor so you can shave off that NASCAR approved mustache.

And I’m guessing that in some states, that makes her legal?

“Well, it was like this, I was either going to drive me one of them racing cars, or I was going to fuck me a pig. They said I was too big for a racing car, so here I am fixin’ to fuck this pig.”

Some things you just don’t need to think about, and this is one of them.

When I see things like this, I really want to say “Now I’ve seen it all,” but you just know that you haven’t really seen it all. There’s bound to be more to come.

In the interest of fore fair play and equal time, today we’re going to take a look at the Republican side of Size Does Matter. Let’s see how these guys measure up.

First up is Mike “God” Huckabee. Obviously he doesn’t have much to talk about here. Perhaps he should pray for a larger staff.

Next up we have Mitt “Where’s All Da White Women” Romney. Mitt’s known for his exaggerated claims but I think he’s gone a bit overboard here. Mitt’s promising to cure Michigan’s economic woes by creating more jobs and making Michigan the “foreskin of technology.” I swear to God that’s what he said.

John “I’m Gonna Nuke Vietnam On My First Day In Office” McCain refuses to be outdone by these Johnny Cum Lately politicians. “I was running for President when these guys were still pissing in their pants,” John told reporters today. Here’s John clearly demonstrating that he is white boy average.

Rudy “America’s Sweetheart Mayor” Giuliani has been just a bit disappointing in this race. He simply doesn’t measure up in the Johnson department. Maybe now we know why. He’s sporting a mangina.

And finally, what post about dick size and republicans would be complete without paying homage to the biggest dick head of them all. Even though George “The Master Of Low Expectations” Bush isn’t running for president, he is the king of small dick republicans everywhere. So for the 99.9999% of my readers who are small dick republicans, I present you with your king, your leader, your biggest small dick of them all–King Dong George…..

So there you have it. Just remember to vote early, and vote often–or don’t vote at all. If you don’t vote though, you can’t be blamed for any of it.

Many people say that Bill Clinton was America’s first black president. This is arguable on oh so many levels, but that certainly hasn’t stopped the Democrats from debating this claim.

Obviously, Hillary is trying hard to prove that Bill was indeed the first black president.

Barack Obama comes back hard with the claim that “It’s not the length, it’s the diameter.”

Poor John Edwards has had a hard time measuring up during his campaign for the presidential nomination. Obviously, poor John is hopelessly white.

So I guess it is up to us, the voting public, to decide which democrat is has the biggest dick.

I know I have told you before that I am the proud owner of a cat.

There, I said it.

It’s kind of like the 12 step program for alcoholics. The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

My cat (and I use the word my in the loosest sense possible) sits around all day long staring at the walls or sleeping on the back of the couch. She really doesn’t do much at all. She only wakes up long enough to eat or hack up a hairball. At night though, after I go to bed, she comes alive. She walks into the bedroom purring at the top of her lungs and jumps on the bed. She’s so fat that when she lands, the entire bed shakes. Living in Michigan, I don’t have any idea what an earthquake feels like, but I suspect it feels a lot like a huge cat jumping on your bed just as you are falling asleep.

Last night Trip was especially problematic. Oh, did I tell you that her name is trip? Yes, that’s her name. Not trip as in clumsy, but trip as in LSD. Whoever designed this cat had to be on a serious acid trip because someone took the colors orange, black, and brown and mixed them all up in the most mixed up way possible and turned out a hefty little cat with the world’s most perfect little orange mustache just above her upper lip.

Anyway, just as I was falling asleep last night, Trip jumped up on the bed and started purring at the top of her lungs. She slowly made her way up to the top of the bed and started pawing at my head. She does this so I will pet her. Now don’t get me wrong. If she would do stuff like this during the day, I would gladly pet her on her fat little head, but when I decide to go to bed, I decide to go to bed and I don’t necessarily want to pet the kitty. At least not the 4-legged one anyway.

I made several attempts to make Trip leave me alone. I pushed her away. I hit her on her fat little head. I knocked her off the bed. Nothing worked. She kept coming back for more. I’ll say one thing for her, she doesn’t take things personally.

Digression Alert:

Have I ever mentioned that my wife is a World Class flailer? If she becomes startled by something, especially if she is sleeping, she will start whipping her arms and legs around wildly and scream at the top of her lungs. It’s very annoying because it usually happens just as I am falling asleep. (Remember this fact for later in the story).

Back to our story:

As a very great man once said, “No one knows how greatness comes to a man.” Don’t ask me who said that because I don’t know. Maybe I made it up. Maybe I heard it somewhere. Anyway, last night as I lay in bed battling a very determined cat, I had an epiphany. It came to me suddenly and completely without warning as epiphanies often do. I gently scooped Trip up and held her about a foot in the air above my sleeping wife and then dropped the cat onto my wife’s belly. Naturally, this startled my sleeping wife.

A startled wife = A flailing wife.

A startled flailing wife + a fat cat being dropped on her belly = Cat flying through the air.

The conversation after the event went something like this:

Wife: What is wrong with that fucking cat? ¹

Me: I have no idea.

Wife: I swear to God I am going to kill her if she does that again.

Me: Good idea.

Wife: Fucking cat.

Me: Fucking stupid cat.

This morning Trip is laying on the back of the couch staring at me. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I got up. I think this means war.

¹ No, that was not an accident. When my wife speaks, the words really do come out pink.

I sincerely hope that you guys know that none of this is real. I mean almost nothing on the internet is real and this blog is certainly no exception to that rule. I felt like I should clear that up since I get a lot of complaints from my friends and my family members about how I portray myself on here.

I mean let’s face it, on this blog, I pretend to be a person who:

–loves his Chihuahua a little too much
–loves porn a little too much
–gets paid for doing nothing by a generous employer turned benefactor
–worships Gin
–drinks too much sometimes
–likes to shoot things
–loves mowing his lawn
–is obsessed with breasts
–hates Mormons (except for those generous ones that pay me to do nothing)
–loves Catherine Zeta Jones, Nikki Cox, and Lucy Liu
–believes multi-tasking is watching porn on the computer while watching cable news on TV
–regularly tells his kids that Hal the Mailman is their real dad
–has learned to hate President Bush with a flaming fucking passion
–thinks Al Sharpton is really just a fat gay man masquerading as a fat gay man.

I could go on, but I won’t. For the sake of my friends and family, I need to put this sham to rest once and for all. I need to come clean and tell you who I really am.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Hey, wait just a fucking minute.

.

.

.

.

.

I really am all those things.

I guess the internets is real. Oh well, I tried.