Saturday, May 30, 2009

In Which I Vomit In My Mouth

I was browsing the Best-Of section of Craigslist the other day when I came across something that made me throw up a little in my mouth. I should have been prepared for the worst when I read the title of the entry, especially considering the site that hosted this little gem. It was horribly disgusting and it took away my appetite, but I just have to share it with you all. Those with weak stomachs should click away now.

The entry (click here for the link) was titled "I Need Someone To Dry My Placenta".

Enjoy.


Okay, yeah. Even after reading through this a couple of times, it still kind of turns my stomach. As gross as the idea of that is, if some formerly-pregnant chick wants to eat her own afterbirth, who am I to say no? I won't stand in the way of one's ambitions, even if it sounds absolutely nauseating. To each his or her own.

She is correct when she said that a lot of animals tend to eat the placenta after giving birth. The Boss grew up on a goat farm, and she's told me stories about how the mother goats would chow down on their placenta like it was a free buffet. Sure, its natural for animals, but for humans? If you're looking to take something that benefits your health, take a fucking multivitamin.

I just can't imagine someone actually doing that. I mean, seriously. Giving birth isn't like going to a restaurant. It'd be awfully weird I'd think for the OB doctors, wiping sweat from their brow after working hard to safely deliver this woman's baby, to see this woman point to the bowl containing the gory carnage that is afterbirth and be all like, "Can I get that to go?" 

I can't help but wonder if she actually got a response.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

In Which I Need Your Attention, Please

May I have your attention, please?

*ahem*

Gopher Dick.



That is all.

P.S. I found this lovely treasure in a thrift shop, but I couldn't bring myself to purchase it without snickering like a pubescent teenage boy. And yes, for the inquiring minds, it's a children's western novel.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

In Which I Am Fed Up

For Sale: 1998 Ford F-150 XLT V8 4.7L Longbed



Less than 98,000 miles!

Features:
  • Automatic transmission
  • Air Conditioning
  • Tilt Wheel
  • Dual Front Airbags
  • Cruise Control
  • Power windows/locks
  • AM/FM Stereo with CD player
  • Bed liner
  • 4-Wheel drive
  • Current Maine inspection sticker, expires March 2010
This vehicle is in good condition, with very little rust on the body. It has been used very lightly. It has the tendency to break down whenever it senses that it is going to be used for the sole purpose a truck of this size was created. On two separate occasions, the brake lines have exploded and the starter has failed, each time when I was about to use the truck to move from one apartment to the next. 

I am fed up with this vehicle and would like to get it off of my hands. Any reasonable offers will be considered.

P.S. I'm not really selling my truck, as much as I'd like to right now. I'm just frustrated with having to get my truck towed to a garage after it broke down Monday with a truckbed full of stuff going to the new apartment. Nothing like a surprise car repair to add to the stress of moving. 

Monday, May 25, 2009

In Which I Need Therapy

As you all have heard, The Boss and I are in the process of moving yet again. This will be the third time we have moved since I started this blog, and as I mentioned last week, the seventh time we've moved since getting married just three years ago. Our family thinks we are nomads, and I'm beginning to think there is some truth in that.

Despite the frequency of our moves (no diarrhea jokes, please), we still have a large quantity of things we don't need. There are entire stacks of boxes and storage bins that we haven't opened in recent history, their contents completely unknown. We always say that we'll sort through them before we move, and we always feel so ambitious to get it done. And yes, try as we may, we always seem to run out of time and end up schlepping them from one apartment to the next. 

Not this time, though. 

No, really, I swear.

The process has already begun. The Boss and I have gone through a majority of the mystery boxes, and have succeeded thus far in whittling down about 60% of it. It was interesting to see some of the things we had spent our energy on carting around all these years. Most of it was just pure trash. Old receipts, scribbled notes, dead batteries, pay stubs from employers we had ages ago, old magazines... things that really should have been thrown out or shredded ages ago, but for some reason was packed away. 

I can't think for the life of me why we would have packed such things. Even the things that weren't your standard-fare garbage were still items that should have been donated or otherwise given away long ago. None of this stuff was worth keeping, not even as a keepsake. I mean, I don't think I would have saved a pair of jeans that hadn't fit me since 2005 for nostalgia's sake. We hadn't gone through three boxes before I had it settled in my mind that we needed to seek therapy for it. 

The task of reducing our life down to a couple of truck loads is always a taxing process. We've only got a couple of weeks left to get our shit together, and we are behind a little bit from last weekends trip to visit The Boss' grandmother. We spent all day yesterday sorting and packing and throwing out our junk, and will spend most of the day today doing more of the same. Our lease signing was rescheduled from last week to this afternoon, and I hope to be able to take pictures of our new (and much smaller) place. 

Happy Memorial Day, folks. Have a beer for me.

Friday, May 22, 2009

In Which I've Done Some Thinking

Dear Son or Daughter,

I apologize for not knowing how to introduce this letter. I'm writing this to you long before your mother and I will try to conceive you. You don't exist in this world just yet, but that doesn't mean I haven't spent a fair amount of time thinking about you. I haven't shared these thoughts with anyone yet, and I wanted to tell you first. Not even your mother knows that I'm writing this, so lets keep this between you and me for now, okay?

Your mother has been asking me to have a child (that would be you) for a while now. The part of her that people call the Biological Clock has been ticking very loudly for her, and for the past year I've told her that I am not ready. This saddens her, as she wants to meet you pretty badly. She and I have talked about you (or at least the idea of you) in length, and she understands now when I say I am not ready to be a father.

I'm sure you are curious as to my reasons why, and to be honest, it took a while for me to figure it out for myself. You won't fully understand this until you are in this position yourself someday, but the main thing is that bringing a child into this world is a huge responsibility. Your mother and I are still pretty young, and there are times right now where we have trouble taking care of just ourselves. Life has given us a few lemons, as the saying goes, and I want to make sure that we can at least provide you with some half-decent lemonade before you come along. 

The other big reason, I'll admit, is a purely selfish one. I like the relationship I have with your mother right now, and I want a little more time with it being just her and I. I want to be able to enjoy some of our younger years together, to build our life to a point where the only thing that we both feel is missing from it is you. 

I want to make sure you know that my saying "I'm not ready to be a father" doesn't mean that I don't want you, my child. The thing is, I do want you. Contrary to what your mother thinks, I want you pretty badly, too. Sure, my heart strings might not get as strong a pull as your mother's do when we see a cute baby at the mall, but it still happens. 

You see, I want to feel you kick and hiccup while you grow inside your mother's womb. I want to hold you just after you are born and feel my life change. I want to look at you and see that you have my eyes and her nose. I want to help you learn to crawl, to walk, to ride a bike, to drive a car. I want to sit through tea parties and make blanket forts and scrub the crayon off the walls. I want to ground you when you do something wrong and reward you when you do something right. I want to watch you grow up faster than I thought to be possible. And yes, I want to worry constantly about your safety, and I want to be the one to provide that for you as long as you'll let me. I want everything that comes with the privilege of being your father, whatever that might be.

So, with all of that out of my mind and down on paper before you, I hope its not confusing to you why I still want to wait a little while to meet you. It all boils down to the fact that I may be an adult in the eyes of the world, but I feel that I've still got some growing up to do. I want to be as good a father as I can be to you, and its going to take me some time to get there. If you don't understand that now, I know you will understand it someday.

Be it with sugar and spice, or with snaps and snails, I love you wholeheartedly, my child.

Your (at-some-point-to-be) Dad

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

In Which I Am Suddenly Awake

It happened just a few nights ago,
while The Boss and I were asleep.
She and I were sawing our separate logs,
snoring loud and dreaming deep.

Suddenly I was startled awake,
but from what I wasn't sure. 
Could it be that the ghosts who decorated our ceiling
had come back to paint some more?

I sat bolt upright in the bed
the covers loose around my waist.
I switched on my bedside lamp
and sat silently to wait.

I waited with my nerves on edge,
and ran a nervous hand through my hair.
It was then that I heard again the noise
that had given me such a scare. 

It was a screech, no, a scream,
a sound not like any other.
I slid down and hid under the blankets
until I felt that I would smother.

I heard the noise again. It was closer!
I placed my hand over my thudding heart.
I then breathed in deep through my nose
and realized it was a fart.

My wife, The Boss, still peacefully asleep,
was blissfully passing gas.
It somehow sounded like a scream
as it exited forcefully from her ass.

I yanked the covers from my face
and breathed in the cleaner air.
I couldn't believe I had let some flatulence
give me such a scare. 

---

True story, folks. It was funny as hell.

Monday, May 18, 2009

In Which I've Come Down With Something

The Boss and I went down to Massachusetts on Sunday to say our goodbye's to her great-grandmother. She has pneumonia, which is not a good diagnosis for someone in their late nineties. It was a rough day, a long day, and things are still a little raw around the edges. 

We're signing the lease on our new apartment today. I'm trying to be excited and motivated for the move, but after you've moved seven times in three years, the thought of moving again is like trying to get motivated for a colonoscopy. 

I got a package in the mail the other day. It's kinda keeping me from my normal blogging fare today. I got this huge case of it, and I've got no choice but to keep it.


See you all on Wednesday. 

Friday, May 15, 2009

In Which I Get The Short Straw

Dear Local Convenience Store Clerk,

You probably don't remember me, but that's okay. I was just one of a thousand faces you see every day, and I wouldn't expect you to remember any specific one. Not that you could anyways, what with your head so far up your ass, and all. 

See, I stopped into your gas station to pick up a half gallon of milk after I had finished pumping my gas. We've been going through cereal like crazy at my house, and since we don't own our own Holstein, store-bought moo-juice will have to suffice. I waited in line to make my purchase, behind the guy who smelled like a yard of fresh mulch and the woman who looked like she got kicked out of the year 1987. I maintained a safe distance behind them, holding my wallet in one hand and the jug of milk in the other. There were two cashiers working, but I drew the short straw and got you.

When it was finally my turn, I approached the counter and set the milk down on it. I rummaged through my wallet for my debit card, and you scanned the bar code on the milk. Then, in your peculiar dry-yet-wet-like-the-slime-residue-left-behind-a-slug country dialect, you spoke.

"That all?" you said. You didn't look up at me at all, but that's okay. I understand that using a cash register requires a lot of attention, and sometimes forces people to use incomplete sentences. Given the circumstances, I'll forgive that.

"Yeah, that's all," I replied. I wondered if he saw the invisible Slim Jim sticking out of my back pocket that I was intending to steal. 

"No gas?" You looked up at me then, and I saw the red lining around your eyes. I guessed you either had a new baby at home, conjunctivitis, or a bong in your car. 

"No, I already paid for my gas." 

"Uh..." you said, being sure to be as articulate as possible.

I pointed out the plate glass store front. "See that truck? The green one at pump 14? That's me. I paid with my debit card at the pump, and then came in here to get milk." 

You just continued looking at me, and soon I could see a flicker of understanding that grew into a firm grasping of what I just said. Kind of like a compact fluorescent light bulb when you first turn it on.

"Why dinnt you git yer milk furst, an' pay fer dat an' yer gas all at once?"

"I guess I don't know," I replied evasively. Did it really matter? "I guess I just didn't think to."

"Well, nex'time, we're prefur it if you'd mayke all yer credit card purtchases at once. Saves on transakshun fees."

This, to be honest here, kind of stunned me. Were you really asking me to change my purchasing habits to help you save money? You obviously slept through the part of your training class devoted to proper customer service. I weighed out my options for a response, but settled on staying quiet for a moment. You waited for me to slide my debit card through the reader and enter my pin number before speaking again.

"You got dat, Chief? Gunna do better nex'time?" 

I didn't think someone like yourself knew how to be condescending, but gosh-oh-golly, if you weren't condescending just then, I clearly don't know the meaning of the word. You smiled at me through your yellow teeth and handed over my receipt. I was working up a clever response to rock you back on your ass, but at the last moment I decided not to say it. I figured that a man who looks like this probably has enough problems as it is: 


I left your store with a tank full of gas and a half gallon of milk, and no intention of ever going back. I'll be frequenting the major chain gas station just down the road a piece, instead of your run-down hole-in-the-wall that I shopped at solely to help support a local business. Our last encounter happened a couple of weeks ago, and I haven't been back to your place since. 

I suppose I should thank you for what you did. Now that I'm shopping at the Citgo, I'm paying less per gallon of gas, and their milk is cheaper, too! With all the money I'm saving, I can now afford to buy the second season of House MD on DVD.

Gratefully no longer your customer,

Michael

Thursday, May 14, 2009

In Which I Pass It Along

In recent months, I haven't been one to pass around any of the various blogging awards or meme's that have made the rounds. I appreciate the gesture and thought of such things, I just haven't given them to anyone else to avoid feeling like I'm playing favorites. There are other reasons why, but for the sake of keeping a long story short, lets just leave it at that.

Despite my award/meme neutrality in the past, I've come across something that I just cannot pass up.... The Dedicatedest Blogger award.


The Dedicatedest Blogger is someone who is a blogging powerhouse, who never fails to write a post that will make you laugh, cry, or think. It is someone who makes the rounds to their faithful readers, making sure to comment on their newest entries as best as they can. With all that they have going on in their lives outside of their blog, they still find a way to maintain a feed reader with a couple hundred subscriptions and spend their free time trying to keep up with the deluge of new posts. The Dedicatedest Blogger does all of these things, and still remains one classy person. 

Who do you know that deserves this award? Grab the code for it here:


Feel free to pass it along to those you feel are worthy.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

In Which It Rains And It Pours

It rained over the weekend. The Boss and I were out running an errand or two Saturday evening, and it was coming down at a pretty good rate by the time we were a few miles from home. We sat in silence during the homestretch, the wipers slipping side to side rhythmically. As I swung the car down our long dirt driveway, the headlights caught something ahead of us on the road. 

It was a frog. The first hundred feet of our driveway is lined on both sides with streams and marshes and otherwise wet terrain, so it is not uncommon to see frogs jumping about, even in drier weather. Frogs come out into the rain to help keep their skin moist, so the sudden appearance of frogs in the rain is again, not at all uncommon. 

I've loved frogs since I was a kid (even though I got pissed on by an angry bull frog once), so plowing through them was not an option.  I swerved to avoid it, but another frog appeared just a few feet ahead of it. In swerving to miss that one, two other frogs jumped out from the side of the road. It was an amphibian obstacle course like I had never seen. I started laughing about midway through the first section of the driveway. The quantity of frogs we were seeing was simply unreal. 

"Don't these frogs know to look both ways before crossing?" The Boss asked, starting to laugh herself.

"I wonder if they are part of some amphibian cult, taking part in a mass suicide like those Hale-Bopp comet weirdo's," I wondered aloud. "Either that, or the frog population in this area are all severely depressed."

We were past the wetland part of the driveway now, but the frogs still hopped out in front of us.

"It doesn't have to end like this!" The Boss cried out the window.

"I just.... *hop*... can't.... *hop*... take it... *hop*... anymore!" I said, doing my best Kermit the Frog impression. 

We chortled our way down the rest of the driveway, the onslaught of frogs fading the closer we got to our apartment. I veered the car to the left towards our private parking spaces, and out of the tall grass on the right side jumps one last frog. The Boss and I both jumped in our seats and yelled in surprise, and I jerked the car out of the way one last time.

Unfortunately, I reacted too late.

I told myself I didn't hear the slight "pop" as I passed over it with my tires. 

Out of 100 kamikaze ninja frogs, hitting one isn't all that bad.

Monday, May 11, 2009

In Which I Find A Porno

In Friday's guest post by the wonderful Aunt Becky, I promised to share the story of my first experience with porn. I honestly don't know how I haven't written about this yet, but sometimes you just don't remember something until you are reminded of it. 

While taking a walk with my younger sister one late fall afternoon about seven years ago, I noticed something that looked like a videotape off into the woods a little bit. This struck me as odd, as the road we were walking on was a heavily traveled street in an affluent neighborhood and everything was always fastidiously clean. Leaving my sister waiting impatiently on the side of the road, I trekked into the woods to investigate.

"What is it?" she called after I picked it up.

"I don't know yet," I replied, but that was a lie. 

It was a videotape, but the case was missing. The label had been marred by the recent rain, but I could still make out the title. Clusterfuck: Bondage, it read, accompanied by some verbiage stating that all performers in the video were at least 18 years of age at the time of filming. Of course I knew what it was... It was a porno!

At first I didn't know what to do. I had been trying to get my hands on a skin flick for a while, but when you are 16 years old and you live at home with your conservative Christian parents, there is not a task much more difficult than that. Forget the magazines I had hidden at home... I was holding the veritable Mona Lisa of spanking material, and I couldn't take it home with me! My sister was with me and she would be curious as to what it was. I worried that it might get ruined if it stayed out there much longer, or that someone else might find it, but I realized I had to take my chances and try to come back for it later.

"C'mon, Mike, what is it?" my sister yelled from the road.

"Just some broken videotape," I said. I tossed it onto the ground and kicked some leaves over it. I rejoined my sister and we continued our walk. She babbled on about something and I ignored her completely, silently developing a plan for how I could return to retrieve the tape. 

I wouldn't get a chance to pickup the tape for a couple of weeks. It had snowed by then, but I refused to give up hope. I put on a bulky jacket and walked towards the stretch of woods where it lay, praying that the leaves I had scattered over it had protected it somehow. 

I kicked back the snow and leaves, and there it was. It didn't seem to be in any worse shape than when I had first seen it, despite being a little wet. I tucked it inside my jacket and walked home, trying to act as normal and nonchalant as possible while teenage adrenaline surged through me. I have the house to myself for another hour, I thought. Plenty of time to see what is on the tape. My imagination ran wild.

I dried the tape as best I could before putting it into the VCR in the basement. The reels were played out to somewhere in the middle, but I didn't bother rewinding it first. I made sure the TV was on mute, and hit Play. 

Now, considering the name of the movie (Clusterfuck: Bondage), I suppose I should have been prepared for what I was about to see. With that said, I was shocked. I couldn't tell where one body began and the next one ended. There were leather straps and buckles and whips and latex and chains and spikes and ball gags EVERYWHERE. In the background were strobe lights and lasers flashing to the beat of the music, which I assumed to be some form of techno. I fell back into the couch, almost in horror. It took me a good thirty seconds before I realized that there were two guys on this one girl, and a third doing something with her mouth. There were other groups of people on various platforms in the room, all angrily pounding away. 

Simply put, it was not what I had thought it would be. 

I think I had imagined something like the sex scenes I had seen in movies, just with less clothes and more boobs. This was nothing like that. To be honest, I was scared. It did not look enjoyable at all. In fact it looked extremely painful. I had never seen so many nipple clamps in my life, before or since.

I didn't get much further than that before the VCR started making a loud clicking noise. Worried that the tape would get jammed (thus requiring an extremely difficult explanation to my parents), I stopped the tape and hit Eject. The tape spit out in a cloud of steam. It hadn't dried enough to be played, and the heat generated by the VCR had evaporated some of the moisture trapped inside. That didn't matter to me, though. I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to watch any more of the tape ever again. I ran upstairs to my bedroom and hid the tape in the back of my closet. 

I never forgot it was there, and although I got it out a few times with intent to watch more of it, I never did. Clusterfuck: Bondage would remain in the back of my closet until I moved out a year later. I came across it when I was cleaning out my room, and quickly wrapped it in a brown paper bag and buried it in the trash at the curb for pickup. I obviously wasn't going to leave it in my room unattended, and I was not going to get caught with that in my dorm room as a freshman in college. One can only imagine the rumors. 

Truth be told, I was a little disappointed. I plotted and schemed for weeks to get that tape, and it turned out to be a nightmare. The little bit I did see of it taught me one important thing, though. When I introduced myself to Internet porn at college, I knew what genre to steer clear of. Bondage? Not for me.

To each his own, I guess. Or, to each three or four at once.

Friday, May 8, 2009

In Which Aunt Becky Makes Mischief

I was talking with Aunt Becky yesterday, and she mentioned that she wanted to write a guest post. I offered her the chance for a guest spot here, and she ran with it. I'll be following up with a post on Monday about my first experience with porn. Enjoy!

---

Sometime after I turned 18, a couple of my friends and I were driving around looking for something-- anything--to do. We had the staples: smokes, weed, gas; we'd had dinner and coffee and were now aimlessly driving around. As we passed a Mom and Pop type video store where I had recently gotten a membership, I had a brilliant idea.

“Hey guys,” I suggested, “I know! How about we pop in the video store to pick up a gross porno to watch?”

The idea was considered gold, and we headed inside. Renting nasty porno is practically a right-of-passage when you turn 18. It's up there with buying a lotto ticket, a pack of smokes and a cigar.

Back in the Restricted Section, where I was finally able to go, we went to town. Scrupulously, we scoured the shelves for something really rank like Fatties Hump Old Men or Midgets Do Manhattan. Porno after porno was rejected as none was quite up to snuff in comedic value. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, we found our diamond in the rough. Our shimmering needle in a haystack.

The movie was called “Anal Clinic” and it was to be our entertainment for the evening.

We headed back to my ex-boyfriends house to watch our little gem along with a bottle of (stolen) red wine, giggling like schoolchildren. Someone would frequently say “Anal Clinic” at odd intervals which would be met with peals of laughter throughout the car.

We popped downstairs, after rounding up some of the usual suspects and settled in to watch Anal Clinic. The movie was nothing like we’d thought it would be (as an aside, as this is many years ago, I don't quite remember WHAT we thought it would be). It was a European porn, full of men having butt sex with various people (again, not sure what we'd expected from a movie with such a title)

AND IT WAS SUBTITLED. WHO WATCHES SUBTITLED PORN?

What are you going to miss, exciting plot twists? It’s a PORN. It HAS NO PLOT.

After about 15 minutes, we decided that the porno was too lame to even be watched, so we formulated a new plan. We decided to go naked hot-tubbing, throwing ourselves down in the snow and running back to plop into the hot-tub to warm up.

Oh, like you weren't an idiot at 18.

(weren't you?)

As I was getting ready to leave for the evening, I popped back downstairs to the basement to collect my disappointing porno so that I could drop it off on my way home. I checked the VCR, but it was totally empty. Figuring that someone else had decided to watch something less boring, I checked the area immediately around the entertainment center. No go. Thinking that it may have been shoved into the couch, I checked between the cushions. Nothing, save for a gold brick (seriously. My ex-boyfriend was very, VERY rich) and a couple of dollars in change. Pocketing the change, but leaving the brick, I summoned the rest of the kids to help me look for the porno.

Nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

I waited furiously for the next couple of days to see if anything would turn up. Nothing did.

Figuring that the movie was already late, I wanted to circumvent any phone calls to my house, as I could just IMAGINE my parents reaction, “Rebecca? The video store called and they need you to return Anal Clinic, ” I slunk back to the video store so that I could pay for my lost porno.

Walking the ultimate walk of shame, I headed into the store. I approached the pimply-faced 16 year old kid working behind the counter and said in the most clear and least shamed voice I could muster given the circumstances: “I need to buy Anal Clinic.” I resisted the urge to explain what had happened when I realized just how much dumber it would sound if I tried to justify it. Better for the teenager to imagine why I needed it then for me to spew excuses.

Turning such a deep red that he looked iridescent purple, the pimples a stark white contrast to his face, he sputtered that I would have to come back when his manager was there. Trying not look ashamed, like I'd been turned down many times before when trying to buy a lost European gay porno, I walked out, head as high as I could make it go.

Several days later, I headed back to see the manager. By this time I was an old pro at this. I marched right up to him and said the exact same thing, “I need to buy Anal Clinic.” I didn’t bother to explain WHY I needed the movie, or what had happened, as I was pretty sure he’d heard it all before. I paid the $36-ish dollars and upon waiting for my receipt, the manager mysteriously disappeared to the back room.

He returned several minutes later with a movie box in hand, the title obscured by his hands. He handed me the box along with my receipt, and I was on my way. After hopping back into my car, I allowed myself to look down at the box in my hands. The manager had given me the original box for Anal Clinic, complete with cover art and bold blaring title.

What the hell was I going to do with that box?

I settled upon placing it in my ex-boyfriend's pantry, hoping some unsuspecting victim—perhaps the same shit head who had stolen the tape in the first place--would stumble upon it while looking for crackers.

Little fuckers.

All right, Badass's Internet, dish. Name something shameful that you had to do.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

In Which I Get Stuck

I don't remember a whole lot about my early childhood. I'm not sure if my clumsiness as a toddler caused some memory loss or if I just blocked parts of it out, but all I have are fragments of memories, mental Polaroids of certain moments. My first consistent memories start around age six or seven, but anything before that, short of the crumbs of memories I've somehow retained, is just blank.

The earliest memory I have of my life prior to age six or seven is kind of embarrassing. Considering my apparently subconscious inclination towards doing embarrassing things, that really shouldn't be of any surprise to anyone, least of all to me. I suppose that I shouldn't have to say that I don't remember why I felt so compelled to do this, but my earliest memory is of crawling inside of a pillowcase and getting stuck. 

While I don't remember why I did this, I do remember a couple of other details. It happened after my parents had sent my sisters and I off to bed, and the pillowcase in question was quite large (relative to my size at the time, at least). I remember that I crawled in headfirst, and once inside I pulled my knees up to my chest. There was a fleeting sense of accomplishment at this point, but that quickly faded when I attempted to get out of the pillowcase and realized I was stuck.

With my legs folded against my chest, I couldn't take in a full breath. I gasped at what little air filtered in through the cloth and tried to free my legs. I flopped around, kicking and stretching, and eventually fell over onto my side. Panic set in as I struggled inside my cotton prison, and it never occurred to me to call to my parents for help. 

Eventually I managed to get my legs free and I ripped the pillowcase off of my head, throwing it to the floor. I remember breathing deep the cool air and listening to the heavy thudding of my heartbeat in my ears. The memory fades to black from here. I'm assuming that I either passed out or I fell asleep from exhaustion. Either one would make sense. 

As first memories go, that has to be one of the strangest ones I have heard. Everyone that I have told it to has laughed, and I do have to admit... It is pretty funny. Who thinks to crawl inside of a pillowcase? Only with the logic that a young boy possess would that seem like a good idea.

What is your first memory?

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

In Which I Have Some Questions

I know I wrote a post not too long ago about the various intriguing search terms that have brought people here, but I've had some really interesting ones that begs just one question:

What the fuck?

See for yourself.
  • "badass felts"
  • "badass vegas vacation itinerary"
  • "door stopper to lock my house"
  • "how to pee in the woods"
  • "how to pressure lock a room"
  • "I drink way too much"
  • "I am a man and I can't help myself"
  • "testicles hurt when sitting down"
  • "t-shirt gives away the plot"
Those are all interesting search hits, but this last one takes the cake. It is quite possibly the best search hit that I have seen in the history of this blog.

"I need an exorcism"

I understand the concern, but before you run out and hire a priest, lets run down a few of the key symptoms:
  1. Pale, greenish-colored skin
  2. Elongated tongue
  3. Highly-rotational head
  4. Projectile vomiting
  5. Sudden ability to speak demonic languages
If you or someone you know exhibits these symptoms and/or has recently bitten the head off of a bat, get your ass to a church ASAP. 

The things people search for these days...

Monday, May 4, 2009

In Which I Am Observant, Part Six

Have you ever noticed that when you settle down for a nap to try to get rid of a migraine, your neighbor will finally attack his neglected yard work, using leaf blowers, lawn mowers, and chain saws, starting right outside your window?

Have you ever noticed that the hot chick that jogs by everyday can see clearly through your window? And that perhaps those binoculars should be put away?

Have you ever noticed that your fly was unzipped after you shook hands with the CEO at a job interview?

Have you ever noticed that the sorer your throat is, the more you will need to talk?

Have you ever noticed that the weather outside will improve in direct proportion to how your day at work is declining?

No?

Well, I have. What things have you noticed?

(Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four , Part Five)

Friday, May 1, 2009

In Which I Have A Secret

I've been harboring a secret for a little while now. I had every intention of spilling my guts about it eventually, but I think I was just waiting for the right time. Now is as good a time as any, I suppose, but I must give a little bit of back story before I jump right in.

It was almost a year ago that I introduced The Boss on this blog. I had been writing here for almost two months before I said anything about my being married, mostly for my want to remain anonymous, but also because I hadn't told The Boss I had a blog. It wasn't a huge secret that I was keeping from her, I just wanted to see some success before I did. 

I told her about my blog before I wrote the post I referred to above. I wanted to make sure it was okay with her that I included her in my writing, to which she agreed. I don't think she liked the moniker I picked out for her at first, but she didn't protest it. I guess she found that if the shoe fits, she might as well wear it. As the months have passed since then, The Boss has played an integral part of a majority of my writing here. I've enjoyed writing about our various experiences, and she has enjoyed reading them and seeing the reactions from you, my readers. 

I urged her for a long while to start a blog of her own, but for her own reasons, she resisted.

Until now.

Allow me to introduce The Boss' blog

Please feel free to stop by over there and welcome her to our blogging circle.