Tongue In Check

As may of you know, I spend hours studying the mysteries of the universe.

Okay, maybe not hours, but at the very least, I spend minutes.

Oh who am I kidding? Solving the mysteries of the universe is a whole lot like my sex life. I spend seconds on it.

With the recent landing of the Phoenix explorer on Mars, many of us have asked:

Well, my crack smoking research team here at TIC has uncovered the truth and we have the visual evidence to prove it.

There is no intelligent life on Mars.

I really don’t like to spend much time talking about gas prices because it is kind of pointless. Gas prices kind of come under the heading of “What Are You Going To Do About It?

Way back in 1973 before Al Gore invented the internet, global warming, and the Nobel Peace prize, I bought a used 1971 Chevrolet Vega. For those of you not familiar with a Chevy Vega, it was a small car with an aluminum block engine and a bad reputation for falling apart. I am not sure what I paid for it, but since I was a college student, I am sure that it wasn’t a whole lot. For some reason, I keep thinking I paid about $1300 bucks for it, but that can’t be right. Can it?

My Vega looked just like the one pictured above only without the fancy racing stripes and the fancy tires. The funny thing about that car was that it was a 4 speed manual transmission. When I was at the dealership looking at it, the salesman asked me if I wanted to take it for a test drive. I said sure. I had driven a truck with a manual transmission once. I had a rough idea how a manual transmission was supposed to work. I can still hear my dad saying–

“Ease out on the clutch and give it some gas.”

After about 4 tries, I finally got it off the lot. My dad, who was sitting next to me, was not impressed. He was a large man, but was still able to easily slide down in that really small seat so that you could barely see him.

Back in the early 70’s we didn’t think about the price of gas a whole lot. We spent all of our time sitting around in fields of tall grass contemplating the universe and trying to look cool.

HIPPIES IN A FIELD LOOKING COOL

Now I don’t want to give the false impression that everyone from the 70’s sat around in fields looking cool. Some of us actually stood on railroad tracks looking cool.

I didn’t sit in a field or stand on railroad tracks. I drove a Vega which was later renamed The Mud Shark for reasons that are best left untold. There’s that whole statute of limitations thing, but for the record, she told me she was 17.

It just dawned on me that this time I may not be kidding about that whole statute of limitations thing.

Holy shit.

Anyway, what reminded me of this whole thing was that earlier this week I had to make a semi-unplanned trip up to northern Michigan. My wife had some family business to tend to and I went along for the ride to see my mom. On Tuesday night before we left, I put 60 bucks worth of gas in my truck. We got up early Wednesday morning and drove the 260 miles or so to my mom’s house. My truck had just under one quarter of a tank of gas left when we got there. I didn’t drive it much for the day or so that we were there because now that I can’t drink, I have absolutely no fucking place to go so I just sat at my mom’s house staring at the back of her head while she spent all of her time in the chat room talking to Daisy and Old Salty. I actually witnessed a 20 minute conversation among 10 or so over 60 people about the origins of Jell-O. (Note to self: Save the last bullet for the day you start wondering about the origins of Jell-O).

We only stayed until Friday because I couldn’t take another day staring at the back of my mom’s head our kids were going to be here on Saturday and we wanted to be here so they wouldn’t tear up our fucking house wanted to see them. I filled up my truck again on Thursday and it cost me right around 72 dollars. We left northern Michigan on Friday morning and took a slightly less congested route home to avoid the Memorial Day traffic heading north. When I got home, I was on empty again, so I went to the local terrorist-owned Sunoco station and put another 60 bucks worth of gas in my truck. It wasn’t quite full, but I just couldn’t put any more gas in it.

To make a long story even longer, in the span of just a few short days, I spent 192 dollars on gas for my truck. That total does not include the 18 dollars I spent on gas for my mower.

Holy Shit.

So that got me to thinking back about when I used to own that old Chevy Vega and how I would put 5 dollars worth of gas in it and drive the 173 miles from Mt. Pleasant Michigan to Rogers City Michigan and still have enough gas to drive around all weekend long and enough money to get my hair done.

1970′S CHEAP GAS PRICES = MORE MONEY FOR HAIR-DO’S

Or maybe that is hair don’t s?

Anyway, in the never ending saga of one fucking thing just leads to another, all this talk about my 1971 Vega made me think of one night in the summer of 1976 when I finally sold that little Vega. I was sitting in a bar, the name of which escapes me, very near the Isabella Indian (feather not dot) Reservation in Mt. Pleasant Michigan drinking with a group of very friendly Native Americans (as they prefer to be called nowadays). Even though I was a college student at the time, I couldn’t stand drinking in most of the “college bars” so I opted for “townie-type” bars and the bars nearest the reservations were the best. Besides, where better to discuss such heady things as Custor’s Last Stand and Marlon Brando’s refusal to accept the Academy Award and the whereabouts of the best pot in town.

On one such occasion, a young Native American man decided that he would buy my 1971 Vega for 50 bucks and since I had a “For Sale–$50.00″ sign in the window of my car, we seemed to be on the verge of an agreement. He gave me 50 bucks and I gave him the keys. We agreed to meet at my house on Monday to take care of the paperwork because I had no idea in hell where the title was. He drove my Vega home and I called my girlfriend to come and get me.

As usual, she was proud of me. It was Friday night. I was drunk and smelled funny and I had spent the day drinking with a bunch of Indians Native Americans. It was a long ride home but I didn’t care because I had 50 bucks in one pocket and ounce of weed in the other.

Anyway, the following Monday my Native American friend showed up with his whole family. I answered the door and said hello and invited them in. For a few very uncomfortable seconds, no one spoke a word. I took one look at him and then at his wife and could tell by the twitching in her eye and the cut across his face that something was horribly wrong.

In a voice that sounded very much like someone had been gargling with ground glass and razor blades, his wife said:

“We want our money back.”

Turns out that my friend, the only slightly inebriated when I last saw him, Native American pot-seller philosopher had somehow managed to wreck my Vega on the way home that Friday night. Apparently while driving my Vega and in deep philosophical thought or deep ancestral trance, my Native American friend somehow forgot to turn when he should have and dove off into a bean field rendering the Vega a crumpled mass of metal, glass and rubber and now his ill-tempered wife with the arm-loads of crying kids wanted their money back.

“All sales are final,” I said as I ushered them out the door and slammed the door in their face.

I can still hear the cries of that hungry baby as they drove away in their beat up old truck. I did love the bumper sticker on the back of their truck though.

“My Other Car Is A Crumpled Mass Of Metal In A Bean Field.”

Man, I miss the 70’s. It was a much simpler time.

The End

So I was sitting here the other day watching television and dreaming about Catherine Zeta Jones’ breasts and just minding my own business as rarely do and my phone rang.

I answered it as I occasionally do.

It was the Mormons calling.

Now for those of you that are relatively new here, regardless of what some may think, I actually do work. Well, that is not entirely true. What I really mean to say is that I get paid to sit home and not work. How fucking cool is that? Seriously. If it wasn’t happening to me, I’d be so fucking jealous.

Anyway, I work for a company in Utah that is owned and operated mostly by Mormons. Actually, if you know anything about Utah at all, the preceding statement was kind of redundant because Utah = Mormons. Mormons = Utah.

Brief history for the newcomers. You old timers can busy yourselves with the following links:

Male Readers.

Female Readers.

Anyway, I was hired by a company in Utah as a development engineer. I’m not entirely sure what a development engineer does, but it pays pretty well and no one expects too much from me. I went to Utah (by myself) and left my family, and most importantly my dog, back home in Michigan. After a few months in Utah, I went insane. Well, I guess what really happened is that I went more insane (if such a thing is even possible). I got an apartment next to Wal*Mart, came down with panic attacks, talked to myself a lot, learned to hate mountains, and then decided it wasn’t worth being so far away from my dog my family and quit my job.

Only thing was, the Mormons didn’t accept my “quit.” They made a counter offer.

Me: I quit.

Mormons: No you don’t. We’ll pay you until we can come up with something for you to do from home.

Me: Okay.

So I have spent damn near the last year getting paid to do nothing. Oh, and did I mention the bonuses? Yeah, I get those quarterly. If it wasn’t for that whole kidney cancer thing, this would have been the best year ever.

The only thing that could have made it better is one of those hot Mormon women from the FLDS church.

Man, Dig That Crazy Hair

Okay, so now you newcomers are pretty much up to date. Well, you are as up to date as you are ever going to be, because if I told you the whole story, I would just bore you to tears. Just ask the long-time readers, they’ll tell you. It’s boring.

So anyway, here is an exact transcript of my phone call with the Mormons:

Mormons: So when can you go back to work?

Me: Anytime after June 1st.

Mormon: So, isn’t your son graduating high school soon?

Me: Yes, he is. He graduates on June 8th.

Mormon: Well, that’s just great.

Me: Yeah, we figured he’d be in prison by now.

Mormon: So listen, me and [name deleted] (company president) were talking the other day and [name deleted] said “hey, maybe it’s time we just buy Mike a house and get him out here to live.”

My wife in the background: AAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: Well, you might as well since I can’t drink or smoke anymore. Might as well be a fucking Mormon. Goddammit. Motherfucking cocksucking son of a bitch titty fucker.

Mormon: Well, we’ve got a little work to do on that whole you becoming a Mormon thing.

Me: Fucking Eh Titty Right.

Mormon: Well why don’t you just make arrangements to come out here in the middle of June so we can talk.

Wife in the background: AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

Me: Okay.

Mormon: And bring your wife.

Me: All of them?

Mormon: That’s not as funny as it used to be.

Me: Fucking Eh, Titty Right.

My wife in the background: AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

So here I am. Smack dab in the middle of a huge fucking dilemma. The Mormons are going to start putting pressure on me TO COME BACK TO UTAH TO LIVE for Christ’s sake. I mean let’s face it, it’s not like I just got over kidney cancer and then my wife got fired from her job and I can’t be without insurance for one fucking second or anything like that, now is it?

Oh well, I try to look at the bright side of things. At least now I know what a prison gang rape must feel like.

But wait…..

It ain’t over with yet.

Later that very same day, my phone rang, and it was my crazy old boss Bob.

You remember Bob, don’t you?

Bob was down in Texas and he had been talking to one of the major drilling companies and they want to hire the two of us to go to work for them.

Bob: They want us to do all of their development work for them and they are going to give us a lot of latitude.

Me: Cool. This would save me from having to move to Utah.

Wife in the background:AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

I don’t know how any of this is going to turn out. I’ve made the arrangements to go to Utah in mid-June. I’ll talk to Bob next week about the Texas deal. I’ll make an appointment to get my wife’s foot out of my ass as soon as I possibly can.

I sure hope my insurance covers foot from ass removal.

Way, way, way, way back when I was in college, I took an interest in a subject that was only offered as part of the Honors Department curriculum. Naturally, you had to be an honor student to take classes in the Honors Department and well, I wasn’t an honor student. Hell, for the most part, I was barely even a student. Actual Honor Students, I was told, were actually expected to attend classes. I tended to show up only for tests.

Anyway, the Honors Department offered several classes in American Folklore, Popular Culture, and Mass Media and I fell head over heels in love with the subject. Luckily for me, the professor who taught these classes was one of my academic advisers and after demonstrating my interest in America Folklore and the mass media, he allowed me to take the classes. Of course most of the students who took Honors department classes were chronic nose-pickers who were obsessed with slide rules and pocket protectors, but I tolerated them well and there was only one documented incident of me beating one of the geeks over the head with her own backpack. Bitch deserved it.

Needless to say, I didn’t fit in at all, but it was no big deal since I rarely went to class anyway. My prof seemed to prefer it that way. He usually just asked me what I wanted to do and I would come up with some off the wall subject that had something to do with Folklore, Popular Culture and or the Mass Media and he would say “great, write a paper and turn it in at the end of the semester.” Oh, did I mention that I worked as a research assistant for this very same prof? Yeah, that helped a whole lot. I did most of his library research for him and he relied on me to make sure that he had all of his facts and figures correct for academic papers that he was regularly submitting to quarterly publications like The Journal of American Folklore and/or The Journal of Popular Culture.

The other day while watching a news story about UFOs, I was thinking about how if I was still into the whole folklore, mass media, and popular culture academic scene, I would love to write a paper about how our depiction of UFO’s in the news media and in popular culture (movies) has changed since the late 1940’s or early 1950’s.

Of course, if I wrote this paper today, I wouldn’t have to follow any pansy-ass academic formalities like accuracy and citing references and junk like that. I could just could make up stuff to suit my needs. As most of you know, I don’t make stuff up. I only deal with facts and figures and overly-complicated theories that are deeply rooted in scientific fact. In short, I insist on absolute accuracy and integrity.

This is going to be a long ride. Buckle up.

Back in the 50’s when UFO-ology burst on the scene, UFOs were very simple. They were so simple, in fact, that witnesses often used common household terms to describe these visitors from another world.

“Hey Martha, did you see that flying saucer?”

“No George, I didn’t. It’s hard to see anything when you got my head shoved in that pillow.”

This is one of the earliest UFO photos from the 1950’s. It’s pretty simple and almost looks like it has a weather vane on top of it. It is interesting to note that the following year Hollywood released a movie called “The Day The Earth Stood Still” and the flying saucer used in that movie was very similar to the McMinnville Oregon UFO pictured above.

Interestingly enough, the term flying saucer was first used by a pilot named Kenneth Arnold who reported seeing 9 flying objects near Mount Ranier in Washington state in 1947. Flying discs had been seen before this particular sighting but they were not widely reported. We can credit the whole “wide reporting” thing to the fact that all of those soldiers returning from WWII were enjoying the prosperous US economy and were doing well enough to be able to afford one of those new-fangled television sets. Nationwide news and reporting helped to make flying saucers a national phenomenon.

I can’t find much evidence that there were many changes to the “basic” UFO shapes through most of the 60’s and into the early 70’s. Of course culturally, we were all turned inward during that time and very few un-stoned eyes were gazing toward the heavens . It is interesting to note, however, that the whole idea of alien abduction and “probing” really took hold in the early 70’s. If we weren’t getting high and enjoying all of the pre-Aids free love, we were getting probed by aliens. It was a very busy time.

It wasn’t until the late 70’s that the UFO reports began to change. We went from large lumbering saucers to fast moving “lights in the sky.” Personally, I found it quite interesting that these “fast moving lights in the sky” UFOs became quite popular after the movie “Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.” I think this movie certainly changed the way we wanted our UFOs to look. It also changed the way we wanted our aliens to act. Our aliens of the early 80’s were no longer those evil looking robots spouting phrases like “Klaatu barada nikto.” They were cute little creatures that you could take home and hide in your closet.

These Guys Will Fuck You Up

This Guy Just Wants To Phone Home

Sometime during the 1990’s, our UFOs changed again. They seemed to become darker and more mysterious and the basic shape changed from the flying saucer to the flying wedge.

Ever wonder why a lot of our UFOs from the early 90’s went all triangular on us? I can’t say for sure, but I find it interesting as hell that at about the same time, America turned two new weapons loose on the world. Were these triangular shaped UFO reports just mimicking our own technology?

F-177 Nighthawk

B2 Bomber

Some of the most recent UFO sightings have gone off in a whole new direction. Check these out.

Looks Like A Juicer

Or A High Tech Bottle Opener

These most recent UFO pictures seem to blow my theory out of the water. Although they do offer a great testimony to the powers of Photoshop. These things don’t resemble much of anything other than some kind of kitchen utensil. For what it is worth though, UFO-ologist don’t think that these craft are manned. They refer to them as unmanned drones.

Sound familiar? Unmanned drones have played a huge role in our recent gigantic bust of a military flop war on terror and now after years of being visited by little green men hell bent on killing us or phoning home, the aliens are sending unmanned drones to check us out. Coincidence? Probably not.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the idea of aliens sending unmanned drones here. It all seems so impersonal. It’s almost like they don’t care about us anymore. Actually, the concept of a faceless enemy may just be a reflection of the world we live in today.

I don’t necessarily believe in UFOs. I admit that I have seen a few things in the night sky that I don’t fully understand, but I am not sure that they were little green men from another world. Hell, I am not even sure that they were drones made by little green men from another world. I just know that they weren’t what I’d call normal. Of course what do I know, I let Stephen Hawking mow my lawn.

I do sometimes wonder what would happen to the world if we were actually visited by some alien force hell-bent on doing us harm. Would we finally find common ground with the rest of mankind in the face of an enemy from another world?

Probably not.

Personally, I’d just put on a tinfoil hat and find a cave to hang out in until the whole thing blows over.

Disclaimer:

Before any numb nutted Johnny Do-Gooder minus a sense of humor and opposable thumbs stumbles on this blog post and starts firing off nasty comments or emails, please, please, please be aware that I have the utmost respect for Stephen Hawking. He’s a man who quite literally knows no boundaries or limitations. He, above all people, must certainly understand that nothing in the universe is sacred.¹

Since my post the other day about Becoming Stephen Hawking, I have been inundated with letters, cease and desist orders, phone calls, bomb threats marriage proposals, and other such threats. ² Numerous people have begged me for the real secret to becoming Stephen Hawking. They seem to think that it has to be more complicated than simply speaking funny through a paper towel roll.

Of course, they are right, proving once again that that old saying “You can fool some of the people some of the time because they are fucking stupid” is absolutely right.

At any rate, I have invited a few dignitaries over to show them the power of my invention. The only compensation I have asked for in return for showing them how to become Stephen Hawking is that they help me out a little by mowing my lawn.

First up, the master of the universe, Stephen Hawking himself, showed up proving that he is indeed a good sport. My only complaint is that he continually mowed cryptic crop circles into my yard and kept falling off the mower.

Stephen Hawking Mows My Lawn

My next distinguished celebrity lawn mower Stephen Hawking wannabe was a little harder to deal with. He kept getting off the mower to eat the grass while shouting things like “this here’s the way we do it in Texas. Yeehaw!” Once we got that part straightened out, we noticed that he would only turn to the right when mowing. This was a bit problematic, but we think we can overcome this problem.

George Bush Becomes Stephen Hawking & Mows My Lawn

Our final lawn mower Stephen Hawking wannabe was a bit of surprise to me because I wasn’t aware that he even read this blog. I thought he kept his reading to the slightly more delusional realm, but hey, to each his own. I certainly don’t want to criticize his mowing abilities because I don’t want my blog to be taken off the air. So, without comment, here is our final guest.

Al Sharpton becomes Stephen Hawking & Mows My Lawn

That’s about all for this week. Next week, we will feature actual real celebrities mowing my lawn. I have a little repair work to do to my mower before I can let the celebrities mow my lawn because Al set my mower on fire. He says that lawn mowing is just the white man’s way of perpetuating slavery. I have no idea in hell what he is talking about, but then again, I never do. ³

Celebrity Mower Preview:

Catherine Zeta Jones Mows My Lawn

¹ And so what if it was?
² That’s a total lie. No one ever emails me. I just say things like that so people will think that people actually read this crap.
³ And neither does Al.

The existence of this wonderful universe we live in is simply a matter of matter vs. anti-matter and matter ultimately winning out. In other words, our existence is pretty much a serendipitous event because it could have gone either way. The universe, the planets, the stars, the black holes and ultimately we humans owe our existence to an epic battle between matter and anti-matter. Of course, if matter hadn’t won the battle we wouldn’t be here to talk about it.

Or else God invented it all and we can stop thinking about all this silly shit and go on about our business.

Earlier today I was thinking about the universe and such thought inevitably leads me to thinking about Stephen Hawking. I simply do not trust the man. Seriously. Have you ever seen the dude give a speech? His freaking lips don’t even move for Christ’s sake. Anybody could be saying those words. They could just have him sitting there staring silently at the audience and just about anyone could be talking for him.

This is a picture of Stephen with his girlfriend. Apparently he likes Mr. Ed and red hair.

Of course anyone that knows me, knows I am all about the science, so it should come as no surprise that this morning I decided to try a little scientific experiment. I went into the kitchen and took the roll of paper towels off the rack and removed all of the paper towels from the roll and threw them away. Of course my wife had a fit, but this is science dammit. I demand the right to act irrationally and irresponsible when I am doing the science. Now back off little woman and let me do “the science.”

Sorry, I get carried away when I am doing the science.

Anyway, with all the paper towels off the roll and safely in the trash, I placed the empty roll to my lips and said the following:

The. existence. of. the. universe. is. simply. the. result. of. a battle. between. matter. and. anti-matter.

(Stephen Hawking aways talks yellow.)

When I spoke each of those words as if the word itself was its own sentence through an empty paper towel roll, I became Stephen Hawking. That’s right. You heard me correctly. I became Stephen Fucking Hawking only without the really hot chicks.

Don’t believe me? Okay then Mr. or Mrs. Smarty Pants, go try it for yourself. Run into your kitchen, get a roll of paper towels and take all the paper towels off and throw them away. Then take the roll and put it up to your mouth and repeat the following:

All. of. the. planets. in. our. solar. system. are. about. 4.54. billion. years. old.

See, what did I tell you. Now you are Stephen Hawking too. It even comes out yellow when you say it. Freaking amazing.

Okay, maybe we don’t all get the hot chicks or get to sit in our back yard and talk to peacocks, but when it comes to “the science,” we can all be Stephen Hawking.

My next post is going to be either:

Maxim’s famed list of the top 10 hotties for 2008 is out. Needless to say, I disagree wholeheartedly with the results.

I’ll spare you the trouble of looking theme up. Here they are “from the bottom up,” so to speak.

Ummm…seriously. Who the hell is this and why does she dye the roots of her hair black like that?

Oh for the love of God. Did we have to put her on the list? She has one redeeming value, and it’s not even freaking safe for work.

Hell, now that I look at that pathetic excuse for a vagina, I’m pretty sure it’s not even a redeeming value. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I’d hit it. Repeatedly.

Personally, I’d put her bottom at the top of the list.

I’m sorry, but she would be at the top of my list.

She’s Canadian.

Oh shit. I think Blogger screwed up again. Here’s the real picture of Sara Michelle Gellar.

Either way, she’s way too high on the list. She probably shouldn’t even be on the list. But hey, what do I know, the freaking giraffe probably wouldn’t even go out with me.

Okay, this is going to cause a huge debate because Colonel is going to get pissed that Marcia Cross isn’t on the list. I’m staying out of this except to say that I have no idea what Eva Longoria is doing on this list.

Damn that Blogger! Why does it keep screwing up these pictures? I am so sorry. Here is the real Jessica Biel. Geez, how embarrassing.

Actually, it is hard to tell the difference sometimes. Personally, if there had to be a Jessica on this list, I would have voted for Jessica Alba.

I think my reasons for voting for her are obvious. She has a vagina.

Number 2: Scarlett Johansson

Wonder why they used this picture of her? Personally, I might have used this one.

Maxim’s Number 1 Hottie of The Year: Marisa Miller

Well I’ll be a son of a bitch. That’s Barney Miller. I wonder if Barney is related to Marissa? Anyway, sorry about that. Fucking stupid Blogger. Here’s the real Marisa Miller.

These lists are pretty much always disappointing, and this one was certainly no exception.

I pretty much lost interest in these things when Farrah Fawcett stopped showing up on them.

Following Hillary Clinton’s recent win in WV, it has come to our attention that she won that election only because a bunch of poor, old, uneducated, white people turned out to vote for her.

Of course we could point out that Barack Obama won the state of Mississippi because a bunch of poor, old, uneducated, black people turned out to vote for him.

But we won’t because that is clearly racist.

For those of you that need help understanding racism in America today, please refer to the following visual aids:

Racist=Wrong

Not Racist=Right

In other news, Rev. Jeremiah Wright said today that if Hillary Clinton was a black man, she wouldn’t be in this position.

Well, okay, he didn’t really say that.

But I bet he was thinking it.

How to get my vote:¹

¹ Unless you are Hillary because her vagina is more like a tiny penis.

Update: Of course I did this post just sort of poking fun at the media for broadcasting the results of their exit polls in West Virgina. They were gleefully reporting the results all morning and they seemed to be saying that only a bunch of poor, dumb hillbillies would vote for Hillary. Then, I read this opinion and I realized that there really are people out there who think that if you don’t like Obama for some reason, then you must certainly be a racist.

Wow.

This is seriously fucked up.

Oh, and this font being overly large is the direct result of Blogger refusing to let me use normal-sized font after using a smaller font for the footnote up there.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you are reading the words or a lab rat.

Today I was sitting here minding my own business as I rarely do and my phone rang. It was the University of Michigan hospital. They’ve been calling me a lot lately but it is usually to remind me of an appointment or to tell me the results of some test I’ve had. Today, however, they wanted me to take part in a national clinical trial to test a new drug that is designed to reduce the risk of cancer recurrence. It is supposed to be especially effective with the type of cancer that I had. The cool thing about it is that by taking part in this trial, I am going to get all sorts of free medical care.

Besides, it is not every day that you get asked to be a lab rat.

Part of my recuperation was supposed to involve going for regular walks. Apparently it was supposed to aid in the healing process as well as help me keep my blood pressure down. The thing is, walking sucks the big one and not in a good way either. I mean I seriously freaking hate it. Within a few minutes of walking, my mind is wandering all over the place and asking me repeatedly, “are we there yet?” So after discussing this dilemma with my wife, we decided that I need to get a bike. No, not that kind of bike. Although that kind of bike would be really great and would go well with my mustache, this is the kind of bike I am talking about. It is a far cry from the $50.00 Huffy I had in mind, but I guess that’s the way it goes these days.

Speaking of blood pressure, I had an appointment with my regular doctor today. My blood pressure was 124/80, which is pretty much normal. That’s a far cry from my pre-surgery high of 221/114, which according to my Dr. was well within stroke range. Here’s the thing about being over 50, male, and going in for regular check-ups. All they want to do is stick something up your butt. Seriously. Every single ailment I have involves getting something stuck up my butt.

Me: My throat is sore.

Dr: I better look down your throat and then stick something up your butt.

Me: I have a headache.

Dr: Take two Aspirin and then let me stick something up your butt.

Me: I think I have skin cancer.

Dr: Well, we need to do a colonoscopy.

Me: I have a boner.

Dr: You need a prostate exam.

I think you get the picture. For the first time in my life, I wish I was Gay. At least I could get something out of this beside a sore butt.

Speaking of sore butt, did I tell you I bought a bicycle today? Oh yeah, I guess I did.

My mother divorced my biological father when I was very young. With the exception of exchanging a few letters about 15 years ago, I have never had any contact with my biological father at all. I did see him once when I was 18. My cousin drove me to his house and I was going to go up and introduce myself. At the last minute I chickened out and just kept right on walking past him as he mowed his front yard. We were no more than 3 feet from each other and he didn’t know who I was. Weird, huh.

Anyway, the point of that little trip down memory lane with ax and crowbar was to tell you that now all of a sudden, after 51 years, my crazy mother is talking to my biological father. She called him after my surgery to let him know I was okay. Apparently he was told of my condition through mutual friends and expressed his wish to be updated. He told the mutual friend that he was praying for me. Apparently he is a very religious man. The apple is not even from the same tree. I guess it just strikes me as very odd how sometimes adversity can have the most unusual consequences. He exchanged some valuable health information with my mother. Seems most of the males in his family have died from one form of cancer or another. Wow, that is just like my mother’s family.

Makes me think of the tag-line from that Mel Gibson movie Apocalyto.

“No one can outrun their destiny.”

I wonder if I can out-ride my destiny? I’m sure going to give it a try.

Speaking of out-riding my destiny, today I got my lawnmower with tits all tuned up and ready to go. Soon I will be mowing the heads off of baby bunnies. I took it out for a test mow this afternoon and had multiple orgasms.