As you all know, I have beautiful feet. Most of it is natural, but I do perform a wee bit of maintenance now and then with a pumice stone. I save all of the callous grindings in a jar.

In a few weeks I’ll be having my annual Freaky’s Fabulous Funnel Cake Fantasy party.

All of the funnel cakes will be piled high with "powdered sugar".

Between you and me…if you’re asked to be somebody’s ‘plus one’. Decline.

Walking with sense of purpose, I quickly approached the urinal, chastising myself for making this so urgent.

Even as I stepped up I simultaneously unbuckled my belt (to release the Kraken) and relaxed the urinary sphincter to get the party started.

I’ve done this thousands of times.

What I hadn’t counted on was the infrequency with which I wore this day’s trousers.

The button didn’t come through the hole as quickly as I’d expected, and I had an unstoppable tidal wave of warm, yellow fluid rushing to my crotch.

A quick panic driven second attempt.

Success!

I yanked down my fly, and a golden arc of this morning’s Mountain Dew erupted violently from my nethers.

I’ve never felt like such a winner.

I consented to allow her to do this, as I am the male, and therefore, boss of all that occurs that may affect Casa de Weasel.

Once inside, of course we picked up a few other things. Some beer. I needed some bread. She asked for permission to purchase paper towels. I admonished her that this was bad for the environment, and she should continue to use her old T-shirts and socks as cleaning rags. However, I agreed she needed new household sponges and let her choose the next model she wanted. (for X-mas I’m getting her a new broom. SSHHhhhhh!)

Somewhere along the way I picked up a can of almonds.

We proceeded to check out where I paid for it all. I am of course the man, responsible for all finances.

I then, collected the bags to carry them out. Upon grabbing the last bag, I looked back to see the almonds still in the basket, unpaid for.

Patiently, I turned to my wife and asked, “What about those?”

She had already started walking toward the door, and yelled back, “I’m sorry, honey, I couldn’t see your nuts.”

Now in junior high, she has been cheer-leading. That means in addition to non-stop tumbling around my house, I’ve also had to go to several middle school football games over the last month and a half. Despite what you may have heard, watching little boys run around in tight pants is NOT one of the things I like to do.

Fortunately her school’s team sucks.

Unfortunately, EVERY school makes the playoffs in what I assume is a hallmark of some bullshit socialist agenda.

Last night I was pleased to learn that the school we were matched up with had beaten my kid’s team by 30 points during the regular season.

Imagine my distress at halftime when "my" team was up by 2 touchdowns and the specter of a 2nd round game loomed before me.

I never gave up hope though. Inch by inch, yard by yard the other team scratched out 2 touchdowns of their own by the end of the second half. And in a stroke of luck, they had a kicker who managed to squeak a PAT through the uprights. My kid had no such kicker.

While I personally was elated that I didn’t have to waste any more time with this middle school football nonsense, I joined in the throng of angry parents that booed the 11 year-old "place kicker" and laughed at his tears of failure and despair. Perhaps when I urged the crowd to flip over his parents car and set fire to it, I went a bit to far, but the important thing is that everyone believed I truly wanted us to win.

Here’s hoping the basketball team sucks just as much.

It took the bartender about 1/2 hour to make my drink.

When I was finally served, I asked, "What took you so long?"

"We had to send someone out to buy the chocolate. No offense, sir, but no one usually orders such a gay drink."

I have a handful (at most) of personal flaws.

1. I’m extremely selfish. What you want to do matters little to me, I’m going to do what I want to do.

2. I’m probably too generous as a lover. It may seem to be a positive, but as a married man it may be a cruelty to the poor ladies that only get one sordid yet delightful taste.

3. I’m aware of how pretty my feet are and I’ll let you know it. Frequently. (try a Google search of this blog for "feet")

4. I’m not going to share my dessert. Don’t ask, it merely embarrasses us both.

One flaw I don’t have, or at least I don’t think I do, is meanness. I’ve been puking my musings on the Internet for 6 or so years and I don’t think I’ve ever deliberately tried to insult anyone directly or behind their back. I find it tacky and beneath my honor as a Southern Gentleman.

I might give a few people "the business" to use an Eddie Haskell term. I certainly use a lot of hetero- and homo-erotic innuendo, but if I truly didn’t like someone, I’d just pull them from my feeds and move on. Taking the time to be actively mocking or hateful is a waste of time and reveals more about you than them.

Of course, I’m a thoughtful man, so when faced with any criticism I become introspective and seek to determine if there is any validity to what I’ve been told.

It’s true that I may toss in in a bit of innuendo here and there, but if you’ve had conversations with me in real life and can apply my speech patterns, I don’t think you could really be offended. I know, I know, some people get offended by everything. Fuck them. I mean regular people.

It’s still true though that I make a lot of frisky sounding comments? Why? Genetics. I can’t prove it of course. But my personal history supports me.

When I was a toddler, I would wake up before my parents and drag a blanket and pillow into the living room (where the only TV was) and watch cartoons until Mom woke up to make breakfast. You might think I covered up in the blanket and rested my head on the pillow.

Not exactly.

Most mornings I molested that pillow within an inch of it’s life. Even at a very early age, I sure loved rubbing my wiener on things.

Mom and dad must’ve woken up at some point and walked in to see their two year old son humping some bed linen. I was probably focused on the task at hand. I’m sure they quickly retreated, because they assumed this talk wouldn’t be needed until I was about 12 and when the did have it, worst case they’d be talking to me about gay butt secks. You can’t blame them for shrinking away from discussing a budding bedclothes fetish.

I experimented with other things. I shamed my poor Teddy Bear. I hope the Toy Story thing about toys coming to life isn’t true. I’d hate for Teddy to have to discuss the terrible things that happened with Stretch Armstrong. Stretch was safe of course because his stretchable skin had too much friction. No way was I gonna subject my weasel weenis to that. Even at a young age, boys know how important that appendage is.

Eventually I grew up a little. I turned 5 and moved on to girls and set the various, pillows and stuffed animals aside.

Even so, I can’t walk into a Linens ‘n Things.

At least not without baggy pants.

A lot of gun nuts love Charlton Heston, because he held his musket over his head and defiantly shouted, "You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers!"

He made a real display of it, as if it would be difficult to do, like climbing Denali or kissing Rosie O’Donnell.

Truth be told, the hardest part of the entire endeavor was digging up the body.

I remember including a paragraph about how even the children felt the call to do murder and that one such act was romanticized in song.

When I have time, I’ll write a bit about how I was transferred to a different school where they could monitor me more closely.