At the Risk of Losing my Man Card…

Recently I’ve entered two men’s rooms that left me a bit confused.

The rooms were ordinary sized. There is a sink, a throne, and a urinal. It is the bowl that leaves me confused. There is no partition and it’s located next to the urinal.

Is this a one man or two man bathroom? I need to know.

Personally, if I’m dropping a deuce I don’t want some dude waltzing in and pulling out his junk. Second, I don’t like it when people watch me wipe my butt (next time I’ll just take the student loans).

Maybe this makes me a sissy or a prude. I don’t know. I think, however, I’m justified in considering this a one man shop and locking the door.

I Was There, How Was the Game?

So I have an aquaintance. I observed him about 5 minutes into the Titans/Colts game staggering and chatting with 2 of Metro’s Finest.

A few minutes later he appeared near my seat. He was cussing a blue streak. So I told him to shut up (kids around). This was not terribly brave, several of us in the area knew him, he’s generally harmless. He started cussing at me. Someone else told him to shut up and sit down. Unlike most drunks he did. He took this pose with about 5 minutes left in the first quarter.

This pic was taken right after the last Titan touchdown. He never moved after passing out. Three quarters + half time. Neither screaming nor fireworks caused him to stir.

This is for you, ‘Hey Baby’.

Decison 08: Race War

    The election will be over in a week. Good. I’m sick of listening to the enormous amounts of bullshit on TV and reading it on the internets.

 

    Obama is probably going to win, and shortly thereafter I’ll have to prepare my family for the imminent race war.

 

    I haven’t picked a side yet. My grandmother is from Panama which makes me 1/4 Hispanic. My mom and her family were generally treated like shit in her youth (the 50s) for being dirt poor, Hispanic, and Catholic in the South, hence, my general dislike for Bible Thumpas. Years back when I applied to medical school I listed myself as Hispanic (note: I was not accepted. Probably due to racism.) I don’t know if I automatically have to be on the non-white side of the race war given my lineage. I’ll assume for the time being I have options.

 

    On the other side. My old man is very white. Not quite Klan white, but pretty close. Siding with the whites puts the odds of victory in my favor, and I generally prefer to have some kind of advantage. The music would probably suck, I envision lots of battle hymns, but I imagine the job market for me, a white man, would be awesome post-war and post-affirmative action. If a war isn’t about greed, then I have no idea what war is about.

 

    This is a big decision. I hope I make the right choice.

Keep It in the Kitchen

Things I don’t like to find in my food:

• Hair,
• Fingernails,
• (basically any part of a human body),
• Any animal I didn’t pay to be eating (to include insects),
• Paper,
• Stuff I told you to hold (i.e. “Hold the cheese” does not mean. “Don’t forget the cheese.”*)

There are probably more, but these are the major items.

* This is not intended to disparage cheese. I like cheese. But sometimes I don’t want cheese.

When is a Lie Not the Truth?

I cruised into work today in my little four-door hatchback. I generally overtake cars left and right because I’m what is referred to unflatteringly as an “aggressive driver”. I prefer to use the description, “A man with average reflexes, good vision, and no medical conditions that prevent me from turning left, turning right, or merging lanes without coming to a complete stop first”.

Pot-ay-to, Pot-ah-to.

On my journey I spied a car with a lone bumper sticker on the trunk. (I admire the daring choice of the owner to forgo the bumper with said sticker. It demonstrates definite nonconformity). The sticker, half the width of the typical bumper sticker read:

Don’t lie to your kids

I find this interesting as I so rarely lie to my kid. When she broke her arm and needed surgery she asked, “Is it gonna hurt?”

To which I replied, “Yes. Yes it will. What does ‘quit jumping on the couch’ mean to you, now?” I’m all about the honesty.

She’s asked plenty of “How does this work?” type questions, and as a science major I’m not ashamed to say she knows plenty. Frankly, more than some adults I know.

But I can’t say I have never deceived. She believes in God, whereas I don’t. What does it hurt me to pretend until she’s older. She’ll either continue in her faith or not. But that’s a personal journey I don’t wish to derail.

I let her believe in Santa. That’s not a bad thing is it?

I once told her mom and dad were just wrestling.

When my dad’s dog died she asked if he would go to heaven. I told her “Yes, absolutely. (This lie of course is based on the common assertion that animals are not allowed in heaven. Again how could anyone know?)

I think sometimes it must be ok to lie to your kids. Bumper sticker wisdom is for the fucktarded.

Facegrease

If there’s one thing that drives me nuts, it’s facegrease.

Facegrease?

All that oil that seeps through the pores to the surface of the skin. Ladies powder and stuff, so it’s mostly dudes that have the secretions.

Let me explain my annoyance.

I don’t have an office. I have a cube. Not just any ol’ cube, mind you, mine has a door. However, your standard door would protrude over the 5 1/2 foot ‘wall’ so the ‘designer’ put some bizarre ring of windows around the top edge of my cube to bring the total height to a level that makes a door aesthetically pleasing.

I didn’t ask for this. I’d just as soon work in a bullpen setting as work in a cube, except it is convenient when I’m scratching my balls to not have to look around. I try to be considerate when scratching the boys, and keep it on the DL.

Occasionally, when I’m needed, people will actually come and try to find me. They don’t call they physically seek me out. Yet they don’t want to walk all the way to the corner, where the door is. They stop 10 feet short, peek in the glass to see if I’m there. Lazy bastards.

You know what comes next.

A forehead or nose brushes the glass, leaving behind a nasty, oily residue. Over time, dust has settled on it making a bizarre paste of various man-greases and human dander. It’s like my cube has a permanent blackhead.

I don’t clean it, because I never expose myself to its gnarlyness. Yet I chuckle to myself when a coworker unknowingly rubs his cheek in it.

No Way. Yes! way.

I don’t know too much about the band Yes. I know they exist. I know they’ve been around a long time.

Yet last night I had a dream that I was their manager.

I don’t even know what a manager does, beyond what I’ve seen on TV sit-coms and movies like School of Rock. Basically, I know they are 12 year old children with a strong business acumen. For instance, in the 80’s on The Facts of Life Mrs. Garrett’s girls formed a band and performed for El DeBarge (who, let’s face it is the hottest of the DeBarges). Anyway, the kid, who was always hanging with younger George Clooney named the girls’ band Sexy Lingerie. Genius of the Second Order.

I digress. I dreamed I was the manager of a band, but since that is not really my life’s dream and I have no background in music or the music industry I just stood around asking the guys what they wanted me to do.

I find this puzzling. First, I typically never remember dreams, unless in it I stepped on a snake in my bare feet. Those are the kinds of dreams where I wake myself up with my kicking and thrashing. Second, I don’t know consciously if I even know anything that Yes sings. I think Yes! may have an exclamation point, but I’m not certain. This is not a knock on Yes!. I’m sure they’re great. It’s just so dang weird.

If it had been anyone else. Someone I like (Bowling for Soup ), or even dislike (Suck my balls, Glen Frey), I’d feel a bit better, as there would be SOME kind of connection. But Yes!?

If you blog or read blogs you probably, like me, take in a wide variety of information in a given week. I assume I read something somewhere and it stayed there until it could be expunged in this bizarre fashion. Of the many things I don’t understand, this is certainly one of them.

A Cleavage Haiku

Tempting pert bosom
I want to gaze and nuzzle
Restraining order

My Life as a Single Dad

Effective at 2pm today, I am a single father. Well, my wife is going out of town and leaving the child in my care for two days. As far as I’m concerned that counts as single parenting. The wife is going to see Arkansas v Auburn. To which I say, very quietly, “Enjoy the snoozefest.”

On my agenda:

soccer practice
wait on furniture delivery man
take kid and my sister to opening night a the Predators (Modano is a sissy)
figure out a way to make aforementioned daughter’s hair not look bad for x-country team 
photo.
Cheer for daughter at x-country meet.

In order I predict:

        WIN

        WIN

        WIN

        FAIL

        WIN

80% is passing. I rock at fatherhood.

Buy A Damn House Already

Some old lady shot herself because she couldn’t make her mortgage payment. 

How do you get to be 90 and still have a mortgage? Hell, she could’ve started at age 60 and be done. Geez. I do not understand the thought process at all. Shit, it was a $45,000 house. If she’d saved $1000 a year starting at age 30, she could’ve bought it outright at age 75.

If you are 90, why did you take a 30 year mortgage at age 86. (Although an equity loan, if you want to live it up before you kick it sounds good. Especially if you don’t want to leave an inheritance).

Seriously, it’s bad enough that people like me who just finance a house they can afford and pay for it have to help bail out a bunch of financial retards. If you’re going to linger, Old People, and you’re going to continue to use our resources like water and Viagra. Please at least use the extra time to learn something.

Old people are stupid.