Tongue In Check

See, here’s the thing. My wife and daughter have to do everything I do. They don’t have a single, original idea in their pointy little heads.If I jumped off a bridge, they would jump off a bridge.

For example, I got a new cell phone. Normally that is not a big deal,  but two years ago I got a phone that I have hated….no, HATED with a passion ever since I got it. The buttons on the old phone were so small that I couldn’t even dial a number on it. I had to put the numbers in with a pencil otherwise I would hit about 3 numbers at a time. Secondly, the buttons would periodically change on it. Just as soon as I would get used to what button did what, every fucking thing would change on me and my buttons would no longer work. One day a button would pull up my contact list and the next day that same button would take a picture of my nose.

Anyway, I got a new phone and here it is:

Is that not the manliest looking phone you have ever seen? It does everything. It even has a special button that I can push and it will make bacon and waffles for me. I swear to God, it’s true.

So when my new phone arrived this morning, I took it into the bedroom and had manly sex with it.  After we got done, we showered together (because it is waterproof) and then came out to the living room where my wife and daughter (the fucking copycats) announced that they wanted to go to the phone store.  I agreed because I needed to get a case for my new girlfriend phone and a car charger.

Naturally, I thought this day was going to be all about me and my new phone.  Boy, was I ever wrong. We got to the store and my wife and daughter announced that they wanted to buy new phones for themselves because, apparently, their old phones were not quite gay enough.

Fucking Bitches.

The only thing I can say is that their phones are totally and completely gay.

Could that phone be any gayer?

Oh, and their phones don’t have Push To Talk. My phone has Push To Talk. I’m never going to use it, but it has it. How cool is that?

If I ever get another wife and daughter, I am going to get ones that have their own ideas and don’t have to copy me.

And maybe they’ll come equipped with Push to Shut-up®.

A boy can dream, can’t he?

Now if I just had someone to call.

Sometimes we get so caught up in ourselves and our lives that it is easy for us to forget the real reason for the Christmas season.

Perhaps this little reminder is necessary.

A few thousand years ago in the time before electric lights and personal pleasure devices, a poor woman gave birth to the Baby Santa Claus in a manger. Personally, I have no idea why she was in the manger instead of the hospital, but this was a long time ago. Perhaps God decided to invent the Baby Santa Claus before he invented hospitals. I don’t know. I was never very good at math or mythology.

Anyway, rumor has it that the woman that gave birth to the Baby Santa Claus was a virgin. Personally, I don’t believe that because I took a biology class in high school and according to the teacher, Santa’s mom needed to get boned so she could get knocked up and if she got boned, she wasn’t a virgin. That’s one of those ipso fatso things.

But, as usual, I digress.

The Baby Santa grew up, got fat,  grew a beard, made some elves out of clay and one of his rib bones, married the serpent that was tempting him with an apple,  and trained some reindeer to fly. He was obviously some kind of miracle worker like George Bush or Charlie Manson (all God’s children and former Mormons).

As part of his Santa Claus gig, Santa used to fly around in this big sleigh delivering presents to all the good boys and girls all over the world. And then one day, the Mormons captured Santa when his sleigh developed engine troubles over Utah and he had to crash land somewhere just outside of Moab.  Santa was tried for not wearing his special underwear and sentenced to death. At first the Mormons tried to kill him by putting salamanders, sea gulls, and golden tablets down his pants. Instead of killing him, these things only mildly disturbed Santa.  The Mormons were furious with these developments, so they crucified him.

Damn those dirty Mormons. They’ve killed The Spirit of Christmas!

Anyway, after Santa was crucified, they buried him in a cave with 72 virgins and after 3 days, he came back to life, got back on his sleigh and drove off into the sunset thinking to himself that this is the stuff legends are made of.

After a couple of days of hard sledding, he landed his sleigh at the north pole where he was greeted by an army of hungry elves and one really pissed off Mrs. Santa. Obviously she had heard about Santa laying up with the 72 virgins for 3 days and was not amused.

She doesn’t look amused, does she?

After taking a serious ass-reaming from the old bat Mrs. Santa, Santa turned to the elves for some warmth and comfort.

Obviously, Santa was feeling better now.

Let’s recap, shall we?

Santa was:

• born to a virgin
• crucified by Mormons
• “sleeping” for 3 days with 72 virgins
• ass-reamed by Mrs. Claus
• comforted by elves

Really, what more could Santa ask for?

Wow, it’s not every man that can have a hat for his penis. Santa is a lucky man and he is the reason for the season.

I admit that I am not the brightest bulb in the fixture, but

I’ve been reading that Victoria’s Secret catalog for many years, and

no matter how hard I try,

I just can’t figure out what the “secret” is.

Can You?

Pardon the interruption, but I seem to be missing.

If anyone knows my whereabouts, please contact me.

Thank you.

Today my wife and daughter got up, got dressed, packed far too many clothes and set off for Columbus, Ohio for two days while I  sit home and take care of the animals–2 dogs and 2.5 cats (Jackie’s water-head cat does not count as a full cat).  My how times have changed. Jackie had to go to some lawyering seminar. Christ, you spend 3 years of your life and 500 billion dollars to be a lawyer and then you have to go to a seminar–go figure.

Anyway, since they were driving down to Columbus, my mind naturally wandered off to fantastical things like strippers, great Mexican food, Gin & Tonic, and Marlboro Ultra Lights, which for me, is the essence of Columbus and since I used to make the drive to and from Cow Town every week  from May of 2004 to September of 2006, I couldn’t help but remember just how the trip went.

Turn left out of the drive way and drive to the end of the washboard road. Turn right onto the main highway and drive east past the cemetery and the feed store where the skanky bitch with the acne-scarred  face and the ever present crusty substance in the corner of her mouth charged you an additional 25 dollars because the fucking U-Haul had dirt on it.  Drive on up over the crest  of the hill and past the village limit sign that reads:

MANCHESTER

Village Limits

Home of The Famous Chicken Broil

Now what there is of the town just rolls out before you — the closed down car dealership, the market, Thorny’s house, the gazebo, the stop and rob, the never ending row of antique shops that no one ever goes to, the banks, the pharmacy, and then over the bridge that crosses the lovely River Raisin and you just can’t help but think about all the times you stopped and watched your boy fish along those banks and the time you stopped to say hello and he barely spoke to you. It hurt and you didn’t understand what it was that you might have done wrong and then you looked over and saw two gorgeous teenage girls sitting near him on the rocks and you realized it was all as it should be.

Just after you cross the bridge, there’s the intersection of East Main Street and Route 52. Right on the corner of that intersection is the Village Tap Bar, another haunt for your wayward fromer kidney.  Turn right at the intersection and pass by The Tap’s parking lot.  Who is there today? Sadly, you’re not. Head on out of town past the once thriving Johnson Control Research Center and Injection Molding plant and then south towards Clinton, Techumseh, Ridgeway and Britton and then the long stretch of nothing but flat farmland leading into Dundee, the home of another of Cabela’s huge super-stores. Keep on driving past the Wilderness Bar where you used to meet up with Batty Old Boss every Friday afternoon on your way home from Columbus for a few drinks and some God-awful greasy bar food. Those days are gone now. Thankfully.

Then turn south on US 23 and drive as fast as you can–70,80,90 and more to get to the Ohio border cause once you hit Ohio, you ain’t going to drive any faster than 65. Fight your way through the Toledo traffic and wonder if you will ever be able to drive through Toledo without thinking about Jamie Farr (Klinger) from the old MASH show.  Stay on 23 until it meets up with I-75 in Perrysburg right by the mosque with the big missiles on either side of the dome cause you just know when the end comes those missiles are going to fire off and kill us one and all and you can’t help but think about Alan Ginsberg.

And then it is just drive for all you are worth. Drive past towns with names that have no meaning whatsoever,  Bowling Green, Portage, Jerry City, Cygnet, North Baltimore and finally to Findlay.  Ohioans pronounce it Fin- lee but you pronounce it Find- Lay for no reason other than that is the way it is spelled.  You wonder if you will ever get the image of the small pickup crushed by the semi on the side of the road just outside of Findlay that one morning. People’s lives changed forever that day and they will never go back to the way they were before.

On the south side of Findlay at the big Pioneer Sugar towers, you hang a right and follow the loop around to Ohio 15 where you continue  driving south and east. There’s  nothing to see here folks, just endless road, rivers, trees, fields, billboards, overpasses, railroad cars with gang tags that look totally out of place in the middle of  a bean field, traffic signs,  and then all of a sudden and out of the blue and probably for reasons you will never ever understand, Ohio 15 turns back into US-23. You’re just driving along on one road thinking about nothing and the next thing you know, Boom! you are on another road thinking about nothing.

South of Carey now and for no apparent reason you are reminded of all of those little coal mining towns that sprang up  along route 52 in McDowell county in southern WV and you remember the first day of school and how little Donny Rose showed up with no shoes and the principal and the teacher spent a  long time talking about it in whispers.  If ever the deck was stacked against someone, it was little Donny Rose. Grand Mal Epilepsy, chronic flatulence, and a grotesquely misshapen face. As someone once said, when cousins fuck cousins for generations, something is bound to go horribly wrong. He wanted to be a policeman when he grew up and where he went after first grade, I have no idea. He never came back to that school.

The towns seem farther apart now but they are getting bigger. Stop at Marion for a piss break and maybe a cup of coffee from McDonald’s. That Starbuck’s coffee is expensive and bitter.  Another cigarette now. Maybe a half pack gone already today and you’ve only been up for 3 hours. Enjoy it while you can. In a few short years, those days are over for good.

Between Marion and Deleware there’s  a continuous string of nothing. Speed traps punctuated by strip malls  and car dealerships. By now your brain and your ass are numb. On through Deleware and Lewis Center and Powell and then finally Worthington. Just on the outskirts of Worthington there is a bar called the Ruckmoor and you can’t help but think about the night you walked in there in late August on your way home from work and the drunk at the end of the bar looked at  you and said….”Hey, we don’t ‘llow no niggers or spics in this bar” and you think about how it took everything you had not to hit him right square in the face and how you stood there for a good ten minutes drinking your drink trying your dead level best to get him to take a swing at you but he just wouldn’t look up from his drink.

And then you hang a left on Wilson Bridge Road and follow it east and south past all the industrial parks, office buildings, cheap hotels, restaurants, and then you are there. But you are nowwhere really. You are just sitting in your truck in the parking lot thinking about Friday when you will be making the drive back home again.

After a while, you just learn to live for Friday…..

You know, we’ve never been what you might call a “Leave It To Beaver” kind of family; all jacked up on your typical family tradition and values, but sometimes even I think we might go just a little too far.

On Saturday night, my little dog Carmen got a little carried away with herself and she got in trouble. Honestly, I don’t even remember what it was that she did that pissed me off but I smacked her on her little ass and she turned around and started growling and barking at me rather viciously and rather loudly. Naturally this pissed me off, so I started chasing her through the house because I was going to seriously whack her fat little Chihuahua ass. She ran (waddled)  between chairs and tables and under foot stools, growling at me all the while, until she came to rest right at my wife’s feet.

Did you read that? She came to rest at my wife’s feet.

Carmen hates my wife with a passion but she was so distraught with me because she was in trouble that she ran to my wife for help. Oh Lord, what have I done?

Naturally, this broke my heart so I reached down, picked her up and walked away with her cradled in my arms. I admit it. I had a little tear in my eye, but it was okay because she licked it away.

About that time, my darling daughter Jackie came down the hallway and asked what all the noise was about. My son explained to her that Carmen got in trouble. This is exactly where and when I realized that I was never meant to be Ward Cleaver all full of dignified fatherly actions and grace under pressure.

My son said: “Oh that stupid little bitch Carmen got in trouble for being an asshole and Dad was going to discipline her but he decided to grow a vagina instead. “

Oh Ward, don’t be too hard on the Beaver.

Last night while watching Rudolph the Big Nosed Reindeer I realized that even though I have been watching this delightful Christmas special for almost 44 years, I never realized what a prick Santa was.

I also never realized that the whole point of the show is that if you are different, you should be sent away to an island with all the other misfits. So I guess if are any stereotypical race with a big nose, you should be packed up an sent away to a deserted is…..

Excuse me, my inner voice is calling me.That prick drives me nuts some days

Me: Yeah, what do you want now?

Inner Voice: It’s Rudolph the RED-Nosed Reindeer you asshole. Not Big Nosed Reindeer.

Me: Are you sure?

Inner Voice: Why would I lie?

Me: Oh, like you’ve never lied before.

Inner Voice: Look it up asshole. It’s Rudolph the RED Nosed Reindeer. It’s a classic Christmas tale.

Me: Oh, so what you are telling me then is that I really have nothing to post about?

Inner Voice: Have you ever had anything to post about?

Me: No.

Inner Voice: Well then don’t worry about it. Just slap up a picture of some hot chick and go on back to dreaming about when your life made sense.

Me: Fine, have it your way.

• Is it just me, or is everyone losing interest in blogging? Suddenly, it all seems like it has been done or said before. I hate the notion that I am becoming formulaic. I keep searching for inspiration, but I just can’t find it.
• Gratuitous Nipple Slip.
• The number one search term that brings people to this blog?  Camel Toe. Perhaps now you understand why I am losing interest.
• Can we actually hold out for another month before Obama takes office? It’s not that I think he has all the answers, but I just don’t know if we can afford to flounder for an entire month before someone who might know what they are doing takes office.
• It has been snowing here since Saturday night. I might be coming down with an extreme case of cabin fever.
• Since I moved this blog to Word Press in August,  788 people have clicked on this picture.
• Since I published this post on September 2nd of this year, 6,169 people have clicked on it. It is the most read post on this blog.
• What a waste the last 8 years have been. Ultimately, we will only win The War Against Terror (TWAT) by being even more terrifying than the terrorist. Put me in charge for 6 months and there will be no more terrorism.
• My bathroom remodeling project is finally done (except for the crown molding).  If I can ever get motivated, I might post some pictures. I think it turned out pretty good.
• Several years ago someone built a house on the property behind my house.  It’s a beautiful house but it has sat empty for 3 or 4 years. Someone has finally either rented or bought it.  So much for firing the AK-47 from the deck. Heh, heh, heh.
• Winter birds are surprisingly colorful.
• Big fucking deal. These cocksuckers made 20 million last year. Am I supposed to be impressed that they are willing to work for a buck this year. Lynch the bastards. Give me 20 million this year and I’ll gladly work for a buck next year.
• It has almost been a month since the election and Sarah Palin is still a complete twat. Tina Fey, however, is not.
• Maybe now this pig will wander off into complete obscurity. She should have never been here to begin with.
• The architects of our constitution were no doubt some pretty bright guys who probably had the ability to see far into the future, and even though through their subsequent writings we know they fully well intended for there to be a wall of separation between the church and the government, they weren’t quite so clear when it came to the constitution.  I mention this only because it is now the time of the year when countless nut bags will begin belly aching about  nativity scenes on the courthouse lawn. Despite the fact that Iran is a clear-cut case of what can go wrong when there is no separation of church and state, some people just can’t get over themselves.  For all I care, you can sleep with a nativity scene if that is  your thing, but it should not be on taxpayer funded government property. That is what churches are for.
• The top 5 blogs clicked on from my blog roll:

1. C. Rag
2. Angryman
3. Alosha’s KItchen
4. Myth Vs. Reality
5. Old Fish and Lemonade

• The top 5 referrers to this blog are:

1. Meggie
2. Colonel
3. Beach
4. Sara Sue
5. Lollygaggin

• I’m tired now.
• I want to go where it’s warm……..