Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Don't Sweater the Small Stuff

Theme parties are a big deal in America. 

While there may have been a recession, the Ugly Christmas Sweater industry must have been BOOMING.

Before that, there weren't enough hair crimpers in the world to keep up with all the 80's theme parties. 

But why?  In my mind, a gathering's goal is to end up as a party.  That is the top of the mountain in terms of entertaining.  If you are already having a party and then you add a theme, the best you can do is still just be having a party.

And if you are trying to ensure that everyone has a good time, there is a much better way to use the $20 spent on finding a costume.

How about a theme party where everyone brings more booze?  If we were to do a statistical analysis of parties, I'm guessing that booze has a greater impact than Dayglo socks.

Or maybe spend that $20 on iTunes so that I don't have to listen to the Black Eyed Peas four times an hour as part of your 'UGLY SWEATER XMAS PARTY MIXXX!!!1!!1!!"

If you are really that serious about throwing a bash, how about a 'Give Everyone $20 Party'?  Ever watch Oprah?  'YOU GET $20!  AND YOU GET $20!'  People would go nuts.  Party of the year, no question. 

So all I'm saying is that I want you to invite me to your house, give me free booze, only play songs I like and then give me $20.

Otherwise I'm not coming.  You can bitch and moan about that, but remember...

NO ONE likes a pity party.

Unless you give them $20.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Santa Barter

I want to know who was the advertising agency behind 'Christmas Gifts'.

Because that is a line of bullshit.  It is more like 'Christmas Trades'.  I give you a box, you give me a box - abracadabra: Christmas.

The gifts themselves aren't even an important part of the equation. It is more like you are putting a bow on the fact that you ran an errand specifically in honor of that person.

"Yes, Aunt Louise, it is a sweater. But REALLY? Really, it is 25 minutes of finding a parking spot, getting elbowed in the groin by an old woman over the last pair of reindeer socks and an extra $20 on my credit card statement. I don't give a damn if it doesn't fit. Merry Christmas."

Which is fine, I still very much enjoy the Christmas Trading and spending hours finding a gift that isn't exactly what that person would have bought if they didn't have to waste their money buying me something I don't exactly want.

Because it brings together friends and family and reminds us of all the wonderful people in your life.

Unless you're one of those people who get a Lexus for Christmas.

Then I'll trade ya. 

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The Bird

People who flick off other drivers on the road freak me out.

Really?  You are so furiously mad that you pulled up next to me and flicked me off?  That's your answer?

How mature.

Last night some guy cut me off getting on the highway - so I did what ADULTS do.

I sped around him, trapped him behind me with all other lanes congested with traffic and then drove 40 miles per hour down a busy highway with no way for him to get around.

For 20 minutes.

By the time there was a break in traffic and he was able to pass me, he was red in the face and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Then he flicked me off.

What a psycho.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


People love to ask me how I'm enjoying married life.

There is always this tone in their voice like they are offering sympathy - like they know I just lost my job and stepped in a mud puddle. 

I've been single, I've dated and I've been married.

And being married is great.

Imagine unlimited access to boobs.  It is like I took a wrong turn and ended up in a boob parade around my house.  We actually declared my house as its own country and have begun using the boob as our currency.  And my wife is rich.

But that doesn't mean I don't know how awesome it was to be single.  Single people get to flirt which is a faint memory of mine.  Don't ever forget that, Single People.  You know those old guys who sleep on benches at the mall?  That's how single people treat married people - so if you are single, go out and flirt and enjoy being higher on the food chain that a large potted plant.

Single people also have no plans.  I forget what free time feels like - I bet it feels nothing like sorting through recycling or changing lightbulbs.  I can barely take a #2 without trying to tie it to some sort of chore (note: I wouldn't touch anything that uses batteries in my house).

Know what sucks?  Dating.  Dating is the worst.  When people in a relationship give me the Marriage Pity Look I can't help but laugh.  Really, buddy?  I bet your pockets are full of ticket stubs of Matthew McConaughey movies and that you 'really do like all of your girlfriend's friends'.

And when you "really need to talk" it isn't because you forgot to flush the toilet again - it is something serious.  What if you break up?  How long do you have to wait to change your Facebook status?  And you already bought tickets to that Matthew McConaughey movie.

And listen, I'd love to go with you, but I'm busy this weekend.

Gotta hitch a ride on the Boob Parade.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Cool Christmas

If we're being honest with ourselves, let's admit that we all put way too much effort into being cool.

And that those pants make you look fat.

But mostly the cool thing.

The music we listen to, clothes we wear, bars we frequent to black out and wake up singing karaoke to the Cranberries - all of these things are part of our effort to be 'cool'.

And then Christmas comes along and suddenly we've got a pair of pleated slacks pulled up to our belly-button and some bright white New Balances on.

What am I talking about?

Christmas music.

It sucks.  Christmas music is just shitty music that someone recycled with the addition of the word 'Christmas'.

Adding 'Christmas' to a song is like giving it a boob job - it still sucks but now there's something to look at.

Name one good Christmas song.  A song you would listen to if it weren't Christmas.  '12 Days of Christmas'?  That's like listening to a CD of someone singing '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall'

That's why no matter how much Christmas Spirit you try to run off on me or how much egg nog you force down my throat, you'll never see me singing along to Christmas music.

Unless the Cranberries put out a Christmas album.

Friday, December 2, 2011


Life is all about small victories.

You set yourself up to get a few wins per day, and it helps keep the voices out of your head.

So you make it to work in record time.

Or you treat yourself to a cream cheese bagel in the morning.

Maybe some girl at a bar checks you out, and even though you're married and she looks like how hemorrhoids feel - it still is a nice little ego boost.

So while you are patting yourself on the back, I'm here to tell you all that stuff sucks.

Don't get me wrong, I understand that we all need a pat on the back, even if it is of the masturbatory type.  If life were just an assembly line of suck we'd all go insane and start wearing pleated pants and watching Two and Half Men.  

But think about life before your 401k.  Think of the stories, of the victories you've compiled.  Did you drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniels and then beat Pac Man?  Did you and a group of friends turn your apartment into a functioning obstacle course modeled after Nickelodeon Guts?  Did you meet Melissa Joan Hart at a mall, get her number, and then text her the entire lyrics to 'What's The Frequency Kenneth?'

Because the best story I have lately is this cream cheese bagel.

Even in my wins, I'm still a loser.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

In The Bag

You know what industry hasn't been hit by the recession?

The bagpipe industry.

I see all kinds of homeless guys in the street playing guitar, saxophone, bongos, trumpets - if I didn't know better, I'd say the Mighty Mighty Bosstones are roaming the streets of Cleveland begging for change.

But I never see bagpipe players.

Probably because they're too busy being baller.

Granted, the ceiling of a bagpipe player is pretty low - there is no bagpipe version of Kenny G.  And bagpipes aren't going to get as many chicks as, say, a keytar player, but in these tough economic times, it pays the bills.

And that's more than the Mighty Mighty Bosstones can say right now.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Out of (fe)Line

Dear Readers, meet Baffi, the cat.

He's a feline terrorist.  He is disgusted by human extravagances such as 'sleep' and 'not constantly having asses in their face'.

He has no regards for his own life - leaping from impossibly high platforms to destroy and contaminate any source of liquid I may want to consume.

Baffi is an anarchist - destroying order by chewing cords and scratching couches.  'The Man' needs electricity and comfort - Baffi needs chaos.

His only weakness seems to be narcolepsy and string. 

I am a lost cause - lost in some sort of strange Stockholm syndrome where I not only allow his cause - I support it with kitty treats and belly rubs. 

Save yourself, before it is too late.

He's coming, and when he does, you're pant legs will never be hairless again.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Something In The Water

There were a lot of things that caught me off guard when I first left the confines of my little farm town and moved to the big(ish) city of Cleveland.

Walk signs were one.  It seems city kids put a lot of trust into a little sign to tell them when to walk.  We unsophisticated country folk are so dumb and uneducated that instead of looking at a little box with christmas lights in it, we just LOOK TO SEE IF ANY CARS ARE GOING TO HIT US.  It is simple, but effective. But by all means, city kids, walk when the white man tells you to walk.

Another is water.  Everyone in the city seems to think that anything not out of a plastic bottle is poison.  Like unless faucet water goes through a Brita filter, it causes instant and incurable death by murder.  I grew up drinking old-egg smellin' sulfer water out of a 30 yr old hose - my wife throws out water if it has been sitting out for more than an hour.  How do city kids think people survived before Aquafina?  Why do they assume that everything will kill them?  Water is a billion years old and people are however old Andy Rooney was - we've lived this long, suck it up.

But perhaps nothing was as confusing as trying to make plans. 

There are so many decisions - and no one is every happy.  Do we want to go to happy hour? Dinner? After hours?  Do you want to drink beer? Wine? Martinis?  Do you want to dance? Drink? Get a table?  Are we going to eat? Just appetizers? Tapas?


In the country - we just drank.  That was it.  We would literally get a case of beer, drive out to the country and park on some road that no one ever drove down and get hammered.  Or we'd find an old barn and drink in there.  There were almost no decisions to make.  Everyone wanted to get hammered.  Everyone drank Busch Light.  It was just about finding the easiest spot to combine the two.

And when you live in the country - finding a place to drink can be as easy as just crossing the street.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Feet of Strength

Why don't our hands smell terrible?

Human feet smell like garbage - but our hands come off pretty well.  I'm smelling my hands right now and there is nothing special to report.

Yet think of all the disgusting things we do with our hands.

I cleaned up fish poop last night, got rid of an old rotting pumpkin from Halloween and pulled old hunks of food out of the garbage disposal. 

And?  Nothing.  My hands smell just fine.

Yet my feet smell like a soup made out of the stuff you find under a refrigerator.  

The worst part is how much effort we put into our feet - we wash them, wrap them in cloth, then wrap them in a protective shoe.  What other part of our body do we spend that much effort protecting?  My boy bits have a tiny inch of cloth separating them from a giant metal zipper.  Where the hell are my priorities?

Not to mention - when I clean my feet, I USE MY HANDS!

How are hands exempt from smelling like feet?  Aren't they just arm feet?  And aren't our hands just leg hands?  Most animals have four matching feet - do only their back ones smell like Danny Devito's bath towel?

Or worse - Danny Devito's feet?

Monday, November 7, 2011

Tears for Beards

Things I've been up to:

Killed it with my Halloween costume.  Then reanimated the corpse and killed it again:

My wife is the first vegetarian zombie.

Turned my wife into a pedophile by shaving off my beard and looking 12 years old:

Did Hitler have the Chaplin or did Chaplin have the Hitler?

Built this robot to protect me from zombies and pedophiles:

I named him 'Fire Hazard'

And then freaked out when the robot turned on me and became a robotic pedophile zombie.

Emo Robot is emo

It can touch you inappropriately, but can it...feel?

Tuesday, November 1, 2011


Remember when I was all excited about getting egged?  About how I had finally achieved the American Dream?

Well, it happened again.

And I realized something...

...nobody cool ever gets egged.

James Dean never got egged.  Bono doesn't get egged.  I'll guarantee @DadBoner never gets egged, you guys.

You don't have to be a mathematician to know there is 0% chance you'll ever drive past Tom Hanks house and see him in PJ's and a winter coat, hosing egg off of his window.

As I was standing there, sandles in socks, hose in hand, the two teenage neighbor kids walked out to their car and asked what happened.

"I got egged."

"You got egged?  Do you even have kids?"


"And you still got egged?"



I got the egg off my window - but I can't seem to get it off my face.

Thursday, October 27, 2011


I haven't missed watching a single Miami Dolphins game in 10 years.

At least 10 years, actually.

I never really kept track.  It started in high school, when I would drive 30 minutes to a sports bar because my little farm town doesn't have sports bars with satellite dishes and 20 beers on tap.  The only choice you make in my town is Skynyrd or AC/DC.

So it started in high school.  I would drive to that sports bar every weekend, by myself, to watch the game.  Sitting in a sports bar as a 16 yr old drinking cokes for four hours gets lonely, so I would make friends with the groups of people there watching the Steelers or the Bengals.  Sometimes I would make enemies with the people there to watch the Bills or the Patriots. 

But I was always there.

This extended into college, when I would bribe my friends with chicken wings and free beer to come sit at the bar with me every week. 

And when I moved to Cleveland and knew only one person in the entire city?  I was going to the seediest, scariest sports bars in town trying to find one that would give me some black and white TV in the back during the Browns game.

Even after my wedding day, I made my wife promise we would be back at our house in time to watch the game (I splurged for satellite at the house).  We opened our wedding gifts with both of our parents there - and me watching the game.

Over the years, I've met some characters.  One guy told me about how he played against NBA star Charles Oakley in high school, and that his high school GPA was a 3.1.  Then he told me how much coke he did that morning.

Another time I ate one of the best hamburgers I've ever eaten.  I looked up to see the cook come out of the kitchen, his mouth covered in ranch.  He sneezed into his hand, used it to wipe his mouth, and then wiped the whole mess onto his pants.  I never went back to that place.  

I've been through hell and back to watch that team.  And watching that team is hell on earf to begin with.

But I've never missed a game.

Until this Sunday.

This Sunday is the one year anniversary of my wedding.  And if marriage has taught me anything, it is how to value my true priorities in life.

And my true priorities are not having to sleep on the couch Sunday night.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Cat's Meow

I have the Twitter account.  The Facebook account. A Google+ account I ignore.

Obviously, I have a blog.

I'm on Foursquare.  I use Instagram and Pinterest and I'm dipping my toes in StumbleUpon.

I had a Myspace account; a Xanga.  Hell, I was on Geocities back in the day.

I'm so connected to the internet, my body practically needs Wifi to take a piss.

But there is one last hurdle I need to cross before I can truly say I am internet savvy.

I need a cat.

The internet is actually 46% cat.  Every major development with the internet can be tied back to cats or porn or cat porn.  'Early Adopters'?  More like 'Furly Adopters' - amiright?

I mean, what is my social media presence if I don't even upload pictures of cats to my Facebook page.  Hell, REAL social media nerds' cats have their OWN Facebook page.

So I think it is time to add a furry friend to my life.

Plus, I would finally have someone to blame when my browser history shows all that cat porn.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

The Heart of it All

My wedding was the most exciting day of my life.

(Did my wife stop reading, yet?  Yes?  Ok, let's do this.)

Yesterday was the most exciting day of my entire life.

There was a MONKEY with HERPES loose IN OHIO.

If you were to make a Venn diagram of how the zombie apocalypse was going to start, a herpe'd up monkey on the loose in rural Ohio would have been where all the awesome intersected. 

I mean, Swine Flu was nothing but a tease and the nuclear reactor meltdown in Japan was more likely to make a race of Japanese Superheroes than zombies.

This was our big chance.  All we needed was some stupid civilian to try to give that thing a banana and suddenly I'd be bashing in zombie skulls with a cricket bat.

But then news broke that the monkey was eaten by a Bengal tiger.  At first I was disappointed until I realized...


Holy hell!  What on earf could stop a ZOMBIE BENGAL TIGER!!!?  It is the perfect killing machine.  ZOMBIE BENGAL TIGERS!!! are like the physical incarnation of a Slash guitar solo.  But with stripes.

But, then the ZOMBIE BENGAL TIGER!!! was killed and I was forced to face reality - the zombie apocalypse is dead - and not the kind of dead where it reanimates and tries to eat my brain.

Nope.  It was shovel-to-the-head-dead.

And all we're left with are Mutant Japanese Super Heroes.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Flavor of the Month

I can't think of anything I hate more than running into people I haven't seen in awhile. 

There is no way to avoid them asking, "What have you been up to?" and then having to make the hard choice between lying through my teeth or telling them my life is made up of a continuous string of monotonous events that, strung together, make it appear I'm a living, breathing Ken Burns movie.

And if I do chose to lie, there is that fine line between, "interesting adventures!" and "that is just you recapping an episode of Highlander but replacing the Highlander with yourself."


Which is why I'm instituting a 30 day rule. 

If I haven't spoken to you in 30 days, you are out of my life forever. Don't think I am serious?  Just ask that guy behind the counter at Chipotle who forgot to put double meat on my burrito.  Now I won't even look him in the eye.  Mostly because of shame, but, also because of anger.

So if I don't speak to you for 30 days your number will be deleted, your pictures taken off of my Facebook and if I see you in the street, I'm going to just look the other way.

Besides, Old Lady, I don't think I ever knew anyone named, "Grandma."

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Pumpkin Patch

I'll admit it.  I'm a sucker for the American Dream.

I've been in my house for over two years now, and I still get excited when I have "Homeowner Moments".  When a girl scout tries to sell me some cookies.  When I shovel my neighbors' sidewalks.  When the faucet breaks and I have to go all Manly Man trying to fix it.  And then I have to go all Unmanly Man trying to re-fix it after I screwed it up the first time.

I soak that shit up.  I'm addicted to it.  I need little American Dreams Patches that help ease my cravings to edge my lawn and blow leaves into the neighbors' yard.

So when I carved a pumpkin and put it on my doorstep, I was having a little Amerigasm.

But not just at the idea of carving a pumpkin and putting it on my front step for all the little trick'or'treaters to see.

No, I thought it would be my initiation into the neighborhood.

I placed it right out on my doorstep, where anyone between the ages of 13-17 couldn't help but pick it up and smash it.  They probably wouldn't even realize it happened.  They'd just be walking by, black out for a few seconds, and wake up covered in pumpkin organs and Fourloko.

Every morning I ran outside, like it was Christmas or Easter, hoping that the Pumpkin Fairy had barfed up pumpkin guts all over my very manicured sidewalk.

So this morning I walked out my front door, saw the pumpkin perched up like some sort of vegetable royalty and walked to my truck to leave for work.

And that's when I noticed someone had egged my truck.

Finally, my Dreams had come true.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


A theme of this blog over the years has been 'growing up'.

From buying a house, to getting married, to no longer drinking until I strip down to my boxers and sing Eddie Money songs.

But I'm starting to think I haven't actually 'grown up'...

...I've just turned into an asshole.

I bought a house - was it because I wanted a sound financial investment and a place to start a family?

No, it was because I hate people and living in a large box stacked on top of them is about as much fun as watching Whitney.  Not that I don't miss "Creepy Drug Dealer Guy" and "Awkwardly Loud Sex Girl" as my neighbors, but I don't miss them as my neighbors.

Then I got married.

Was it because I found my soul-mate?  Someone I couldn't live without?  Yeah.  But also because dating is the single worst thing in the world. Dating is a mix of acting and negotiating - how much of yourself can you reveal and in what ways can you steer the relationship in your favor.  Marriage is awesome - it's like - hey, I'm home and I'm going to leave my shoes right there in that spot you hate even though you complain about it everyday.  Have fun leaving toothpaste all over the sink later, because you know that shit drives me nuts.

And once you are married, the bars are useless.

Sure, I used to enjoy going out and spending $75 on liquor and being butts to nuts with 200 other sweaty people I don't like for 6 hours, but you know what?  Fuck those people.  Bars are all about team work - it is only fun if everyone pitches in to make it fun.  But $75 will buy me a damn nice dinner and I'm selfish as hell. 

Besides - I can't find a bar with Eddie Money on the jukebox.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Fighting Chance

I never got much into the whole 'bar fight' scene.

Perhaps that is because I'm a ninny little girl.

But, also, it is because of my low regard for about 78% of earf's population.

Bar fights always start out with one guy making some wise-ass remark to another guy.  It might be a crack about the other guy's haircut, or his girlfriend, or because he is a ninny little girl.

I don't really understand being offended by people you don't respect.  If a guy in an Affliction shirt calls me a 'pansy', it is hard for me care enough about his opinion to get riled up.  I wouldn't ask for that guy's opinion on anything else in the world, so why would I care about his opinion of me?

Besides, I just planted a bunch of pansies in my cutting garden and they look FAAABULOUS!

If people are going to insult me, I at least want it to be an educated opinion.  Don't just call me an asshole as you walk by to get a reaction - that is too easy.

Take me out to dinner, get to know me - ask me about my favorite color and what celebrity I would like to be stuck with on a deserted island (hint: Christina Hendricks).

That way, you can form a great insult that really cuts deep and hurts.

Just don't mention my pansies.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Food Porn

I'm pretty sure there is something out there trying to kill me. 

And I think that something is Food. 

Food's weapon of choice?  Food.

Every time Food shows up at my house we have a great time - but as soon as Food leaves, I'm suddenly so ill I feel like I might explode.

Part of the problem may be that I pick up the Food, put it in my mouth, chew it and then swallow it as quickly as possible.

And the other part of the problem may be that I don't stop until every last speck of food in the house is gone, like little Cindy Lou Who's house on Christmas Eve...

...but let's not pretend like Food isn't to fault here for being so delicious. 

Kind of like how girls who wear slutty clothes can't complain when a guy tries to throw peanuts down her top - I can't possibly be held accountable for eating food if it is in the tri-county area.

And even that analogy sucks -

Because I would have eaten those peanuts before they ever made it to her top.

Mmmmm....Boob Peanuts.

Food strikes again.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Art of War

Marriage is all about competition.

Even meaningless tasks can become a contest of wills.  Last night at dinner, we actually raced to the end of a bowl of mashed potatoes - with first prize being the last few bites of the ice cream in the freezer.

I won.


But then we sat down to watch Jeopardy.  I knew I was the underdog going into this match, as my wife is more cultured, she's bilingual and can read faster than me (you'd be surprised how big of an advantage this is in Jeopardy.  I bet Ken Jennings was the same guy from those speed-reading infomercials from the 90's).

What I did not expect was to be completely humiliated to the tune of 15 to 6.  FIFTEEN TO SIX.  She practically tripled my score.  I could have played Watson and it would have been closer.

So to celebrate, she jumped up and started singing "Time of my Life" from Dirty Dancing.

Then she tripped, fell down and stubbed her toe.

While still singing.

If ever there was effective trash talk, dominating someone in a game of intelligence, while looking so completely inept has to be it.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

No Pants Dance

I'm somewhat confused by this new phenomenon of girls wearing shirts as dresses.

On one hand - I like chicks' legs and butts, so this is a big win.  When I go to KFC I just order 'legs and butts' and when they ask 'Original or Crispy?" I say - 'OOOOOOH YEAH!'

But, on the other hand, I'm stuck shackled in these pants while girls are Porky Piggin' it around town.

Snooki without makeup / bumpit
Why can't guys have some comfort thrown into their wardrobe?  A girl can wrap herself in one piece of cloth that barely hits her thighs, while I'm battling swamp ass in my long pants, dress socks, long-sleeve button down, tie and Spanx (for men).  I'm really self conscious about my figure.

That is why I propose a new product for men - formal overalls.

Think about it.

If girls don't wear pants, why do I have to wear a shirt?  If the only thing we have to cover is our sex bumps, my man nipples should be as free as your Barbie crotch.

Besides, I think it would look better on me than these jeggings.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Pop Goes the Culture

My biggest problem with pop culture these days is that nothing lasts longer than a 16 year old boy on prom night.

Writers only need 140 characters.

Musicians only need a ring tone.

Politicians only need a sound bite.

Trashy rich girls only need one sex tape.

We're slowly Nickelbacking ourselves into a corner where our entire state of Applebeing values ease over awe.

Is it laziness?  Is anything beyond a push notification too much trouble?  Is there an app that can tell me what is good and what is bad?  What does that app say about this blog?  I NEED THIS.

Or is it a lack of taste?  Has the internet made it so easy to be a critic that we just think everything sucks and go towards the path of least resistance?  Are we so jaded that negativity is the new creativity? 

But the real question - did I really just write an entire BLOG POST complaining about people seeking out short-form content that lacks any real talent or creativity?

Hey, Man, it wouldn't fit on Twitter.

And sales of my sex tape have been average at best.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

He's All That

After four years of ugly templates and nerdy color schemes, I've finally gone and prettied up the place. I feel like Freddie Prinze Jr. should ask me to prom now - only to find out he had a bet with his friends that he could turn me into the hottest girl in school. I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME FOR ME, FREDDIE PRINZE JR.!

And, honestly, saying that I prettied the place up is a gross overstatement.

Everything you see here was created by the wonderfully talented Sarah over at SillyGrrl. Go read her stuff and then be jealous at the fact that she probably brushes her teeth in a more creative and stylish way than I do anything in my entire life. Oh - and she can write and bake and build web pages and fly (with the help of some trapeze), too. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't like her at all.

But back to what's important: me. The whole blog is new - except the picture of me with the fake mustache that serves as a bow to the gift that is my beautiful face.

So, as I said - everything is new except that picture of me and my shitty writing.

Hope you like the new look. Now go give Sarah all your money so she can make you look cool, too.

Monday, August 29, 2011

With Our Powers Combined

I outlined last week how I love sports.

The individual talents and greatness of the NBA.

The teamwork and chemistry in the NFL.

The beauty and grace of soccer.

The carnage and brutality of mixed martial arts.

Now I found a sport that has them all:


That's right, a demolition derby, with COMBINES.

Do you city kids even know what a combine looks like? It's like a big metal house on wheels. But then fill that house with diesel fuel and anger.

There is no moment in my life that compares to that moment right before the combines ran into each other. It was like an orgasm at Disneyland while eating bacon.

It was like riding a slip'n'slide made out of rainbows naked into a pool of kittens.

It was like eating a pizza covered in boobs after just getting a really good haircut.

It was like redneck heaven.

And the best part about Combine Demolition Derbies? There is no need for a scoreboard. You can easily tell the winner of every match.


Everyone is the winner.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Cuz I'm a Cowboy

* Click to see full size...laaaaaadies

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Birds of a Feather

You know who are a bunch of annoying assholes?


Seriously. Shut up. You're annoying and I don't like you.

I get the idea of birds. They're pretty and they make cool noises and they poop out seeds that make plants grow all over the place.

And that's all great in the singular case. But when you take one awesome thing and multiply it by a billion, it makes me want to ram a fork in my head and twist my brains around it like so much spaghetti.

I woke up at 5am this morning and there were approximately Too,ooo,ooo,many birds making noise. It was 5am. What the hell are you guys talking about? If you put me in a room with a thousand other people I'd run out of shit to talk about in about 15 minutes - right after we covered the weather and how much I hate Nickelback.

But no, birds are like 19yr old college guys - they just love the sound of their own voice. They were making noise just to make noise. They were so loud I actually learned how to speak bird and translated what they were saying:


How can something that is so cool by itself turn into something so annoying when put into large groups?

You'd think they were people, or something.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Footballs of Fire

What do non-sports fans do with their lives?

I mean, we watch 162 Cleveland Indians games, 82 Cleveland Cavaliers games and between our two football teams (Cleveland Browns and Miami Dolphins) another 32 football games.

That is 276 games a year. Or 828 hours. Or 34.5 DAYS of pure sports viewing.

Luckily, with our teams, you don't have to worry about adding any playoff games.

But that is a lot of time wasted on guys wearing tight pants, short shorts and tank tops.

So...what do the rest of you do with your time?

I kind of assume there is a secret club that means during big games. Like the Super Bowl isn't just for sports fans, but also for a collection of the World's brightest and best to gather around and talk about all the classic novels they've been reading and the new exercise routine that makes them look like a Victoria's Secret model.

Well, I don't have time for Victoria's Secret models, damnit, I'm a sports fan.

But before I get to jealous of these secret meetings, I realize how awkward they must be. Without sports, all of the small talk must revolve around the weather and how glad everyone is that it is Friday.

So, how about them Indians?

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

I'm A Pro

I find it frustrating to hear people complain that they didn't learn anything in college. Or that what they learned is not applicable in the real world. Or that college is a waste of time.

When I look back at college I can't help but think I learned quite possibly the most important lesson of my life:

How to procrastinate.

I use this everyday. Or don't use it everyday, depending on how you look at it.

In fact, I would argue that the single most important skill a person can have in the workplace is procrastinating. Without the ability to put something off until the last minute and then MIND FREAK! that shit into completion - you aren't getting anywhere in life.

And you know where I learned this? Every Thursday morning in college when I would wake up with a pounding hangover and a dirty magazine and realize I had a 12 page paper on sedimentary rocks due in four hours.

Now, when something pops up at work that needs immediate attention, I'm all cool as a cucumber and ready to take charge.

Right after I put down this dirty magazine...

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Honest Question

What would be worse:

Wanda Sykes singing Nickelback songs.

Or Nickelback telling Wanda Sykes' jokes.

Or herpes.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Most Interesting Manchild In The World

One of my nephews turned four this week, and it occurred to me that he is, by far, the coolest person I know.

The kid is amazing. Everything he says is genius. You can't stump him. When you think you are picking on him, he puts your thing down, flips it and reverses it.

I called him using Facetime on my iPad. Here is a sample of our conversation:

Me: Hey buddy, are you having a good birthday?

Nephew, arms raised screaming at the skies: YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!

Do you see that? Do you see the way he dominated that question? He crushed it. That question should be embarrassed for even being asked because he made it his bitch.

Can you imagine having that kind of passion in everyday life? When a coworker says, "Hot out there, huh?" imagine raising your hands in the air and screaming "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS!"

You would instantly be the most popular guy at the office. You'd have to fight off women with a stapler.

But my nephew wasn't done there. My wife (Lady Narm*) tried to screw with him and asked him when he was going to grow a beard like his uncle.

What did he do?

He sprinted across the room, got his face inches away from the screen and yelled "I ALREADY DID!!!!!!" and the sprinted away from the screen and started doing some intense dance/crunking.

Boom, roasted. How do you respond to that? He sprinted towards us to scream a lie in our face and then danced in our defeat. We went from picking on him to needing therapy for the severe ass whooping we just received.

This kid's entire life is like a mix between the speech in Braveheart and a Wiggles concert.

Thoroughly defeated and embarrassed, it was time to end the call. We wished him a happy brithday and told him we had to go. His response?


You win again, kid.

* Since the Lady Friend became my wife, I've been trying to find a new name. What are your thoughts on Lady Narm?

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Holiday Hangover

My ability to binge drink has really fallen off. I'm really good at binge complaining and binge sleeping. When I'm feeling extra froggy, I'll go on a weekend bender of house projects.

But the drinking has tailed off.

And I think it is because of the lack of holidays.

When I was in college (and in not-married), there was always an excuse. Cinco de Mayo is a legitimate holiday for college kids. When you grow up it just means you have the brown rice microwave meal for lunch at work that day.

For college kids, if there is no holiday coming up - you just invent one.

Hell, alliteration is enough of a reason to get fall-down drunk when you are 22. Thirsty Thursday? Do it. Whacky Wednesday? Who wants tequila?

And who doesn't chug a few Monday morning molotov cocktails and burn themselves down to start the week?

But the best that grown-ups can offer is Happy Hour. One hour a day. If I were still in my competitive alcholism phase, this would become a Power Hour. But now the only "Power" things I have are naps.

Perhaps this all stems from the fact that one night of binge-drinking requires three days of recovery time...

...And Thirsty Thursday isn't a National Holiday.


Monday, July 11, 2011

Name of the Game

As my wife and I continue to play Jedi mind games over whether she is going to take my last name, I've realized that I've already won.

Sure, I'd love to see my last name on her driver's license, but my name already has a prominent place:

We are Jeff and Francesca.

Notice that? Do you see whose name came first? You're damn right you did.

I'm the leading man in the movie that is our relationship. If our coupledom was put up on the marquee, my name would be in giant, capital letters covered in puffy paint and glitter. She would have the left-over letters and they'd have to use a backwards 3 for the "e".

There is no rhyme or reason around who gets top billing in couples. It can be guys (Brad and Brittany) or girls (Meaghan and Jerry). It just has to sound right.

And hot damn does my name sound right stepping on the gas and pulling away in first place of the name game.

Know who else's name always comes first?

Brad Pitt.

Brad and Jen.

Brad and Angelina.

See a theme? Always starts with "Brad". Even when he's dating some uber-celebrity, he gets top billing.

Which obviously means I'm like a modern-day Brad Pitt, before he got old and stole all those foreign children.

Yep, Brad and Jeff, two peas in a pod.

Wait - why does his name go first?

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Stop It

Stop it, America.

Stop trying to make people hot. You are making us look bad in front of the rest of the world.

There are plenty of extremely attractive women in this world that we don't need to force ourselves into thinking that Pippa Middleton is hot.

She's not.

She's an above average looking girl.

She also looks about 8 years older than her real age.

She couldn't walk into a room and make every guy stop to look. She doesn't have some incredible body that makes me have to think about baseball so I don't have to sit down. I'm not even sure she could win the Canal Days pageant in my hometown of Delphos, Ohio.

She's just an above average girl that people WANT to be hot.

Same goes for Sarah Palin. She's better looking than MOST people in her position, but do you really consider this "hot":

I mean, is that where we are as a country? Are our standards to the point that the above picture is considered "hot"?

She's 47 years old. There are a lot of hot 47 year olds. In fact, Diane Lane is one year younger and looks like this:

Do you see that picture? THAT is hot. Are you really trying to convince me that Sarah Palin is on a level playing field with this.


Sarah Palin?

And this?

Are equal in hotness?

This is why other countries hate America. We water down hotness. We take the most pure and wonderful thing in the world (hot chicks) and dumb it down.

We've turned Pippa Middleton and Sarah Palin into the Applesbees and Wal-Mart of hot chicks.

And I won't stand for it. I demand standards.

I demand Diane Lane.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Locks of Love

As I've mentioned before, I don't have a go-to haircut.

And when I start to get frustrated with what to do with the mop of always thinning, always graying, always retreating hair on my head, I have one course of action:

Shave it all off.

So thats what I did. I went to the barber and got myself a nice buzz cut. With my beard and new short doo, I look like a cast member from Prison Break, only I can act.

But during my visit to the hair cuttery, the barber made an...alarming...comment.

Just as I was checking out (and after I had already tipped him) he held up a bottle to me.

"Hey, this stuff really helps guys with thinning hair."

I was confused. Did he think I needed that for a friend? Is it close to Christmas and I just forgot? Is my beard thinning out?

Then it hit me. I'm balding.

I knew I had a widow's peak. My hair is retreating away from my face so fast I thought it had to be French. And I have quite a few grays for a kid that turns 28 this week.


My Dad has a nice head of hair - and I inherited his ridiculous 70's wave that makes me look like a Justin Beiber fan if my hair gets past my forehead. So if he has hair, I have to be keeping mine, right? RIGHT!??! TELL ME, READER.


So when I arrived back home, I was a bit...emotional. I thought I was destined to have more hair on my chinny-chin chin than on my head.

Looking for support, I asked my wife for her opinion.

She took a few steps back, looked at my head, took a few steps to the left, to the right - got a view from every angle and vantage point.

Then she tilted her head to the side, looked me in the eye and said...

"Man, your nose is HUUUUGE!"

Thanks for the support, Honey.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Shop Till You Drop

I would really like to blog more often, the problem is that I'm just way too fucking boring.

I used to have all kinds of great stories and strong opinions - and when I didn't have that I was at least a really good liar.

Now? Now, I'm just lazy.

You know those old guys that fall asleep on the benches at malls? The ones whose lives are so boring that they have nothing better to do than sleep on a public bench while their wife tries to track down that great sale at Macys?

I'm that guy.

I nap at the mall all the time. It is something of a hobby for me at this point. I practically pass out the second my wife asks for my opinion about that frilly top.

Besides, she knows that frilly top totally wasn't my color.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Splitting Hairs

There are a few things a man should have as he nears his 30's.

A suit.

A 401k.

A set of tools.

And - a haircut.

I don't have a haircut.

That doesn't mean I don't GET haircuts. I get haircuts all the time, and the people who cut my hair do a great job.

But I don't have a "look". Sometimes I get it cut short, sometimes I let it grow, sometimes I spike it up, sometimes I comb it to the side, sometimes I put my left arm in, I take my left arm out, I put my left arm in and I shake it all about.

By the time a guy hits 30, he normally has the haircut he'll have for the rest of his life.

I turn 28 in two weeks, and I don't have that haircut. I'm going to go through the rest of my life constantly changing haircuts like those awkward 50 yr old guys that suddenly grow a goatee - except in my case, I'll be rocking jorts, white tube socks and the Flock of Seagulls haircut.

Then I'd just have my suit, 401k and be a total tool.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Office Party

Know what would be the best part of being a professional athlete?

All the chicks.

But the second best part is that every single year has a goal and a form of measurement. Athletes know where they stand at all times.

If you ask an athlete if they had a good year last year, they can provide statistical evidence that they had a good year. That has to be convenient. Imagine how much nicer it would be for them when they awkwardly meet co-workers at the copy machine.

"Hey man, how's it going?"

"We won and I had a good game."

That has to feel amazing. I can't quantify the fact that I had breakfast for dinner and then pulled weeds for two hours last night. It just doesn't translate. Even if I try to come off sounding like a winner, it makes me that much more of a loser.

It also has to be great for remembering big events. I honestly have no idea when I bought my house. It was between 1994-2015. But for athletes, they have automatic reminders for each year. It is much easier to say, "Oh, I remember that, it was right after we won the championship" than it is to say, "Oh, I remember that, I had just sat in an office for 40 hours that week."

But best of all, athletes have singular moments of joy and celebration. In the real world, there is no comparison. Even a promotion isn't necessarily a singular moment of joy - it is the realization that you are now going to have to work even harder.

I think offices should institute some kind of celebration. Like, the Friday before a long weekend, at 4:30 everyone just goes nuts. Poppin' champagne, droppin' confetti, bangin' the secretary. The whole nine yards.

At least then we'd have something to talk about around the copier.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Teenage Suburban White Girls

Can you imagine how hard life is for teenage suburban white girls?

Can you fathom the decisions they have to make on a daily basis?

Guys have it easy - they spend their time playing sports and fighting acne. They're so young and naive.

But teenage suburban white girls aren't afforded that luxury. They don't get to have an adolescence.

Because when a girl hits 16, she gets more than a driver's license - she gets her first shot at the business world.

She has major decisions: does she get pregnant so she can have a TV show? Or does she wait till she's 18 so she can sell her sex tape?

It's too bad life is unfair to the poor teenage suburban white girl, because if the legal age were 16, she could kill two birds with one stone.

Yes, I'm glad I never had to deal with the stress of people wanting to see my sex tape.

Of course, that could have been because of the acne.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Brush With Death

I've mentioned before how my wife is the Enemy of Routine. And also how we like to share.

But it has officially gone to far.

She used my toothbrush.

And, honestly? That isn't a big deal. We do that all the time on vacations and when role playing about being a naughty dentist...

...but by using my toothbrush, she forced me into a terrible decision:

I walk into the bathroom, notice that there are two toothbrushes - mine, which has just been used, and hers.

Which do I use?

Do I use mine? Even though it is still wet from having been used by her?

Do I use hers? Even though she eats disgusting things like carrots?

What kinds of germs are toothbrush germs? Are they fresh and short-term - waiting on the newly wettened bristles of my own dear toothbrush?

Or do they fester after months of use - building strength and organizing like an army of food bits and morning breath?

And that is just too much thinking first thing in the morning. I want the first question I answer in the morning to be, "How handsome is too handsome, and have I crossed that line?" - not risking mouth-death over the wrong choice of toothbrush.

After contemplation, I decided to use her toothbrush.

But the whole situation left a bad taste in my mouth.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Cannibal Crops

What if plants have feelings?

We already know they grow better if you talk to them - who's to say they don't have emotions or can feel pain? Maybe that plant doesn't want water right now it just wants someone to listen - why can't you ever listen? I have tulips and they were made for talking, mister.

As soon as science catches up to realize that plants are like really lazy dogs (or really active cats), it is going to throw vegetarians for a loop.

They've spent so much time trying not to be cruel to animals - all the while kicking this hell out of some asparagus. Suddenly their diet would be high in fiber AND murder.

Think about the holocaust that happens every year around harvest for farmers! Think about your disgusting compost pile! Think about the lawn mowers, the tree limb cutters, the weed wackers.

Think about the baby carrots.

But before you feel too bad, think, also, about the the fact that these plants grow in dirt. Dirt that is made up of their dead relatives and friends. The compost of their fallen breathren.

Plants are cannibals.

Which is kinda gross, if you think about it.

I'll stick to cleaner food.

Like pork.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Gotta Prescription For More Ciao Bella

I've finally returned from my belated Italian honeymoon - leaving a trail of broken hearts through southern Italy. I think Italy's main export is curves. It is like the entire country is a C cup. America's obsession with skinny blonde girls seems silly after being there. Girls in America look like someone put a wig on the number 1; in Italy it is like someone drew arms and legs on the number 8.

But that's not why we are here today - we are here today to laugh at my misfortune.

As part of the honeymoon, we visited my wife's family in Sicily*. They live in a town of about 11,000 - which is similar to the size of my hometown. I wish I could say it was the equivalent of Italian Rednecks, but they have style and don't kiss their cousins - which means they are missing out on all the fun.

We arrived on Saturday, just in time for a big town festival. I had just met her family for the first time (I'm using "meet" loosely here - since I don't speak Italian there was mostly polite nodding and confused giggling), and we were thrown into crowded streets of celebrating Italians. Almost immediately my wife and I were separated, leaving me wandering the streets with nothing but a beard and a positive attitude.

My saving grace was a kind Uncle and the friendly boyfriend of a cousin. In this instance, "saving grace" actually means grappa - which is more or less Italian Moonshine.

The Uncle and Boyfriend fed me shot after shot of the stuff. And that was before noon.

After a few rounds of grappa, some lunch beers, some lunch wine and more confused giggling, the Boyfriend convinced me we should go ring the bell of the church.

Now, this is an old city. We were going to climb to the top of the "new" church, which was 300 years old and next door to the "old" church - which was 500 years old.

We climbed up the winding staircase to find a bell roughly the size of my ego with some ropes hanging to the side. He grabbed a robe and started ringing this giant, 300 yr old bell.

I thought it looked fun so I grabbed the other rope and started to help ring the bell.

Of course, I had never rang a bell the size of a car before, so when the bell swung the other way, I didn't let go of the rope. Unfortunately, the rope also didn't let go of me, and threw me across the bell tower Macho Man Randy Savage style (too soon?).

I stood up with bloody knuckles, an untucked shirt and an awesome story. And became instantly the most popular guy in town (popular kids are the ones that everyone makes fun of, right?)

So while I have made my triumphant return to the States, my heart, and knuckles, remain in Italy.

*My wife is 100% Italian which is how I got away with writing everything in that first paragraph without having to sleep on the couch.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

What's For Dinner? Groundhog

“If you’re not qualified to talk about anything, then talk about everything” says Narm. Okay, I’ll give this a whirl.

But I think I’m pretty qualified to talk about dinner, I’ve probably had: 11,483 dinners in my lifetime. Give or take the nights where I had two dinners or more. I’m not a master chef or anything just a guy that likes to eat tasty animals.

For some reason, the little woman and I have the same conversation at about the same time everyday. It goes something like this:

Me: What should we have for dinner?
Her: I dunno what do you want for dinner?
Me: Pizza, Chinese, Burritos? (notice I’ve covered all the major food groups)
Her: I don’t really have a taste for any of those...
Me: Okay, well I really don’t have a taste for anything, and I’m open to whatever so you pick. Chicken maybe?
Her: ... (I assume she’s thinking here, or just plotting new ways to drive me crazy about dinner)
Me: So what do you have a taste for?
Her: I don’t really have a taste for anything either.

This normally continues on in the same circular fashion until we get to a food that we’re both okay with. It’s not really “what’s for dinner?” it’s more of a game of “what’s not for dinner”.

If you majored in English/have a degree in English/done a lot of reading you might have come across: Waiting for Godot (classing this blog up a little) and this whole thing is a lot like that- infuriating. Or if movies are more your thing, this is my personal Groundhog Day.

From this point forward, that’s going to be answer: Groundhog. I might finally be able to follow in Bill Murray’s footsteps and break out of the “what’s for dinner” loop.

So dear reader, the next time your significant other, boyfriend, girlfriend, live-in howler monkey or spouse says “what’s for dinner?” answer, Groundhog. Joion me and break the cycle- stop the insanity!

(Note: Not tested in and not designed to work in parts of Appalachia)

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

tortorici, italy

So Narm has been gone now, what five, six days? By this time he has grown fatter on some of the best food in the world, drunker on some exceptional wines, and awash in the progressive, sunsplashed, and naked atmosphere of Italy with his darling/hummingbird wife.

What this really means is that he is stumbling down a topless beach, arms outstretched to gain balance. And the all of the onlookers are screaming bloody murder about some fuzzy American bear terrorizing all of the naked chicks, offering to apply suntan lotion. And the “Polizia” are definitely on their way.

So there's that.

But what really matters is this blog. This blog that he so tenderly tends to/occasionally neglects. It's like the bonsai tree that Mr. Myagi would have had if they ever made a “Karate Kid VIII”. You know, the sequel they would have already made if they would just listen my idea of JUST KEEP MAKING SEQUELS.


But they let a few original scripts get through (uh, duh, “Thor”) and so now there's no “Karate Kid VI: Karate Kid Goes to Sri Lanka” and there's no Bonsai tree, and there's nothing good, and Narm left this blog in my hands. Which is kinda like leaving a piece of cake in the hands of a fat kid, right before dinner.


But like a fat kid after Bariatric surgery, I'm stuck feasting on lemon rinds and raisin skins. Fats McGee has no room left at the inn for this slice of Internet pie. So I'm going to wait till nobody is looking, slide this thing back under the cake server, (and by that I mean his iBook, which he left on his coffee table, which is in his living room, which is at 1405 Westwood Ave, Lakewood, OH, 44107).

(You know, for the fans, And if...if you wanna check out his place. Ummm, keep an eye on it. While he's gone.)

And I'm just going to wait till he comes/is deported home to take care of this little pet pine tree. Because then you'll hear about what an amazing time he had.

And how he got an European sprinkler system stuck between his legs.

p.s.- I just said a lot of something by saying nothing

p.p.s.- Made you look! Pfffftttt!

Monday, May 9, 2011

What You Think About Vat?

I'm busy trying to convince my wife we should go check out the topless beaches instead of the Vatican right now, so I've lined up a few guest blogs to satisfy the hunger that is you, Reader.

But not just any guest blogs...


Wait, that just means the posts were written by people who are celibate, right?

Please enjoy the posts this Tuesday and next, the first written by @buildingjason and the second by @jasonperkowski

But I bet they aren't as much fun as topless beaches.

Not that I would know.

Coming, Dear...

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Happy Bidet To You, Happy Bidet To You

As I mentioned before, the wife and I are finally taking our honeymoon this spring. We're heading to Italy for two weeks of relaxation, great culture and better food.

Or at least that's what I told her.

The real reason I am going?

I want to try out a bidet.

Why don't we have these in America? This is a country of excess and comfort - where 50 yr old housewives drive Hummers and 6 yr olds have cell phones. We couldn't take the next step and add in a bidet?

Never having used a bidet, I am also a bit nervous. I mean, I've done what any rational person would do and watched as many Youtube videos about them as possible, but I didn't realize how complicated the entire process would be.

I pictured it as a Sprite commercial - like a big splash of cold mountain water hitting you in the face. But in this case your face is your butt.

But after some research, there are temperature controls and speed controls - it is just like a shower - except you don't pee in it.

With this new information, I have to admit I'm less excited about the prospect of using a bidet. In my mind it was like those water fountains at the mall that shoot water out of the ground and little kids always sit on. But now it just seems like a really cruel trick. Like if your VCR shot water out of it when you were trying to set the time.

But I'll still try it out. I just can't promise I'll put it on Youtube.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Sick Of It All

I've officially been sick for a full week - which makes me assume I'm going to die.

I checked all my symptoms on WebMD and am pretty sure I have whatever Osama Bin Laden just caught.

I can't decide which is worse - feeling like I've been blowing my nose into thumb tacks all week, or my throat feeling like I chugged a full bottle of Nickelodeon Gak.

But the absolute worst part about being sick is that it ruins all the joys in life.

First, my beloved beard has turned into snotcicles.

Second, it is really hard to make fun of someone when it takes you 13 seconds to swallow the plegm in your throat before saying, "Your Mom is a birther."

And finally, no matter how hard I have tried, my wife remains unconvinced that me putting on Vick's Vapor Rub is considered foreplay.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Got It Licked

I have a cold.

Which means that you should stop what you are doing and feel bad for me.

But being sick does have one huge advantage - you get to rewrite the rules on ownership.

I'm talking even bigger than "Finders Keepers".

If I see something I like? I just lick it. Bam. Owned. No one wants that shit when it has Mad Cow germs on it.

Have a banana on your desk? Licked.

New pen? Licked.

See a little kid holding an ice cream cone? Lick him. Now you have kids AND ice cream.

It's the law. If someone tries to call the cops, just lick their phone. Problem solved.

And if anyone questions what you are doing - just tell them you are sick.

I don't think they'll argue.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Tough Guy

I know I claim to be a redneck, but if I am being honest, I'm actually a big sissy-pants.

I might have the lowest pain threshold of anyone on earf. I could get hurt in a game of peek-a-boo.

Which makes me rather annoying around the house.

One time I hit my funny bone and had to call off work for a week. Which at first seems ridiculous, but how was I supposed to bring the Hospice workers into my office?

For me, a common cold is a natural disaster. Don't even get me started on running out of tissues with the aloe in them. Red nose = Red Dawn.

But just because I don't like physical pain, don't mean I'm not tough in other ways.

It's like the saying goes, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

Unless you mention my weight. I'm a little sensitive about that. I mean, I know I've put on a few pounds but I still think I look good. Who are you to talk, anyways?

Great, now I'm going to cry.

Do you have a tissue?

With aloe?

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Monday, April 11, 2011

Reality Bites

I like America.

Really. I do.

But I don't know that I'm all Sarah Palin about it.

I mean if I were to play Bone, Marry, Kill with three countries - say, Canada, the US and France - I'd probably end up marrying Canada.

But I like America.

What I don't know that I like is this whole election thing. It is great in theory - until you realize that you are putting our nation's future in the hands of the same people that make Nickelback one of the most successful bands in music.

These are the same people that voted Allen Iverson into the NBA All-Star game after he played 19 games one year.

These are the same people that watch Two and a Half Men. And laugh.

So excuse me if I'm not all drunk on the Stars and Bars.

I think it is time to revamp the system. Know what America loves?

Reality shows.

Lets make the world's greatest reality show - a mixture of Jeopardy, the Bachelor and Survivor. I want my President to be Ken Jennings with a chiseled jawline and the ability to eat bugs.

Instead of primaries and debates, I want to see my candidates fight over Immunity from the Final Jeopardy Solo Date.

At least that way, we would have some confidence that our elected officials are qualified.

I mean, if Trump and Palin are going to run anyways, at least they would have to eat bugs.

(Editor's Note: I'm a Redneck, of course I love America - the Canada thing was all a joke. I mean, Nickelback is from Canada, and they're the herpes of International Intercourse.)

Monday, April 4, 2011

Juke Nuke'em

Bars are a strange place. It is a place full of people who really don't like each other. Guys don't like the other guys there, girls don't like the other girls there and everyone is jealous of my beard.

Yet, a bar is completely reliant on the group. The entire point of being at the bar is to be around people. Otherwise, people wouldn't think it was weird that I drank alone.

So while everyone at the bar hates everyone else at the bar, there has to be some teamwork.

Which brings us to the juke box. The juke box is an extremely important part of the bar scene. Without a jukebox, girls would have no reason to woo, and what is a bar without woo?

So here are some basic ground rules to running the juke box.

1 - Play a song right away. If there is currently no music playing - play anything. It doesn't matter. People just want noise. Everyone likes AC/DC... EVERYONE. Just throw on 'Hell's Bells' and move on. You can argue with your friends about which Sublime track is the best on your own time.

2 - No sad songs. Don't be stupid - this is bar and people are trying to have fun. I like a lot of sad songs - but I don't need to hear "Mad World" at the bar. The only exception is sing-along songs. "Piano Man" is allowed. But it also brings us to our next point...

3 - Don't jump the gun. I get it, I'm at a bar and I am going to hear Journey. It is part of the whole spectacle. But I WILL stop believin' if you play that song at 8pm. There is a time and a place and a blood-alcohol-level for the classics, and an emtpy bar at 8pm is not that time, place or drink order.

4 - Play to the crowd. I'm an elitist prick when it comes to music. I only like indie bands and shit that isn't on the radio - but that doesn't mean everyone else feels the same way. You can sneak in a few unknown tracks, but never more than two before throwing in something that will elicit a "woooo!". If you want to listen to some indie band and drink beer, do it at home like a normal loser.

5 - Have some variety. Everyone has a favorite band - but that is no excuse to play five of their songs in a row at the bar. This also goes for all genre's that fall outside of the "classic rock" catalogue. Sure, you can slip in a Hank Williams song and get by with it - but three in a row and the bartender is skipping that shit and running your tab all night. And you deserve it.

6 - Know your surroundings. If you are at a dive bar, stay away from Britney Spears. If you are at a club, you can probably avoid the Grateful Dead. If you are at my house and I hear one chord of a Nickelback song I'll call your mother and tell her what a disappointment you turned out to be. Which brings us to our last rule...

7 - Never play Nickelback. You wouldn't want to make your mother cry.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Red or White and Blue

I leave for my honeymoon in just over a month.

For those of you keeping score at home (mostly the single ladies) - I'll have been married five months tomorrow (thank god for Google Calendars). So we are running kinda late on this whole honeymoon thing. I guess we were just waiting for gas prices to go up.

So in just over a month we will be leaving for Italy. My wife, being Italian, is excited to see her family that she hasn't seen in a few years. Me, as an alcoholic fatty, I'm excited for homemade wine and pasta.

Since she is fluent in Italian, and the only thing I am fluent in is flatulence, she has been trying to teach me how to speak some basic words and phrases.

I thought this was a great idea - what happens if her and I were to get separated in downtown Rome? How would I find her? Or a phone? Or more importantly, some homemade wine?

With this in mind, she began her lessons. The first word was "grattugia".

This word requires you to roll your R's and not be a complete idiot. Which means I failed miserably. It felt like my tongue was a drunk bum stumbling down the street - or like it had eaten too much Chipotle and now just wanted to watch Wings reruns on the couch.

So we worked through it until I could kinda maybe say something that sounded somewhat like "grattugia".

Proud of myself for having mastered the Italian language I asked what this word meant. Her response?

"Cheese grater"


At what point on my Italian honeymoon am I going to need to say "cheese grater"???

If we get separated in the middle of Rome, am I just going to scream out "GRATTUGIA!" and find my way home?

So now we only focus on words that will be of use during the trip.

Like "vino".

Monday, March 21, 2011

Hayride to Heaven

City kids love to make jokes at we rednecks' expense.

The talky-box makes us look like a buncha unlearned heathens that stumble in the city limits and look more confused than a three legged mule tryin' to do the two-step.

But I see it the other way.

I grew up in the country and seem to have mastered most of what it takes to live in the city; I can handle rush-hour traffic, eat sushi and know how to pronounce 'duvet'.

If I ever learn how to order a drink at Starbucks I'd get my official Metro-Sexual Badge.

But throw a city kid in the country and they are lost.

Case in point: my wife thought small towns just had hayrides all the time. Like it was some sort of redneck transportation system or a daily parade. As if farmers worked all spring and summer to grow the perfect crop of hay so that people can sit on it and ride around on a wagon all day.

And beyond public transportation, there is the threat of boredom. City kids will be driving home from the mall to change on their way to a baseball game before going to the movies and complain about being bored. Guess what - in the country there is literally nothing to do. Your choices are drink until you fall down or...well I guess I never thought about it long enough to find another option, so they're stuck with the drinking.

But there are SOME skills that translate. After a long night of hayrides and drinking beer, when I'm fighting through that hangover and need caffeine, it'll be GREAT to have someone around that knows how to order Starbucks.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Slip of the Tongue

I called something 'retarded' yesterday.

Which is pretty lame.

I work fairly hard to clean up my language and remove some of the ignorant and offensive phrases that are common these days.

For example, 'retarded' just isn't a very efficient insult. Calling someone 'retarded' would mean they have an actual physical condition that results in their mental retardation. I don't want to tell someone they have a physical condition - I want to tell them they are fucking stupid.

It is also lazy and unoriginal to call something 'gay'.

I once stayed in from a night at the bars to hang out with my girlfriend and my friends referred to me as 'gay'. Because nothing says, 'homosexual' like turning down drunken ass slaps with your buddies to have naked ass slaps with your girlfriend.

And 'gay' isn't really a good description of how it is often used. I know plenty of homosexuals who are not effeminate. Just because someone doesn't exude a complete and total image of MANitude at all times does not make them 'gay'.

It makes them French.

Finally, an insult that isn't offensive to ANYONE.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Sporting Chance

I am one of the biggest sports fanatics you'll ever meet.

I'm that guy that spends HOURS everyday reading message boards for his favorite teams. I follow six different beat-writers for the Miami Dolphins. So when news breaks, I get to hear it six times in various 140 character flavors.

I watch at least bits and pieces of every game from my favorite teams. If you are keeping score at home (and I would not only be keeping stats but would have them in an easy sortable Excel spreadsheet), that means 162 baseball games and 82 basketball games.

What about football, you ask?

I haven't missed a single Miami Dolphins game in the last ten years. And let me tell you, that is a LOT of crying for one man to do.

So you would think attending sporting events would be like mass for my religious following of men in matching tank tops.

But no.

When I am at a sporting event, I can barely tell you the score. I don't know how much time is left. Hell, sometimes I'm not even sure which sport I am watching.

Because people watching is much more important. Who wants to watch a homerun when you could watch a dancing fat kid instead? Or sneak a peek at that girl in the low-cut shirt bending down to get her beer. Or that fat kid in the low cut shirt bending down to get jiggy wit' it.

And that is just in the first quarter/inning/period. There has to be a round of "Dating Up", "I Spy" and "Celebrity Look-Alikes".

Not to mention the glorious Kiss Cam. Oh, man, is she going to kiss that old guy? GROOOOOSSS!

It has gotten to the point where watching the actual game is like a commercial - I just want to fast-forward to the end of the quarter.

Because I know they're going to play Will Smith and that fat kid is going to break. it. down.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Cuz I'm A Flirt

Life has a funny way of kicking me in the groin now and then.

Remember how just last week I lamented about how horrible my life was because no one would flirt with me anymore?

Well, I was hit on Friday night.

And it was the worst thing ever.

I expected the angels to sing. Confetti. Maybe a high school marching band. In my head there would be a cameraman there asking me what I was going to next.

"I'm going to Disney World!"

But there was none of that. Just the sad realization that I had spent 24 years of my life trying to sell myself like a reject shirt on the CLEARANCE pile at Marshalls. The free drinks, the bad pick-up lines, the awkwardly staring at girls across the bar trying to overcome the paralyzing fear of actually speaking to them - all of that wasted.

Suddenly all of that blood, sweat and Red Bull that I put into being single came rushing back to my memory.

And now? Now that I'm happily married and just trying to stay out past 11 on a Friday?

Now I get hit on.

Looking this good never hurt so bad.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Sales Pitch

Girls, you don't realize how easy you have it.

You see, men are an ugly species. We've got nothing going for us. We don't have any sexy curves or soft features - and most of us are covered in fur. We are one Rogaine bath away from being Sasquatch.

Think about the last time you saw a guy naked in a movie - it was funny, right? Think about that. Our naked form is used solely for the sake of comedy. There's a boost for the ol' confidence.

Now that you are giggling about our naked sasquatchian form, imagine how hard it is to walk up to a girl at a bar and flirt with her.

"Hey...there. I saw you from across the bar and thought you were super attractive so I thought I would come over and...hope you were drunk enough to talk to me."

Being a guy is like being a salesman for a product that you know sucks.

That is why we have to rely on pick-up lines and alcohol to even have a shot at picking up a girl.

I hear attractive girls complain about the fact they never have guys approach them at a bar. Well, if you were a guy, would you approach you? Imagine approaching a complete stranger in a crowded, loud bar - now try not to sound creepy. It is nearly impossible.

Anytime you have to stop yourself and think, "Wait, does that sound like something a rapist would say?" you know you are set-up to fail.

And fail we does.

But we keep trying, keep working those angles, keep trying to sweeten that deal.

But mostly, we rely on the booze.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Put a Ring On It

It isn't often that I am THIS disappointed in a product, but I have to vent.

I haven't gotten hit on ONCE since wearing this damn wedding ring.

If sitcoms have taught me anything, it is that wedding rings are chick magnets. Hell, there is a movie about Adam Sandler dating Brooklyn Decker's boobs just because he is married.


And no one will even throw me a bone. I'd have a better chance of getting hit on if I were wearing a replica Lord of the Rings band. Or one of those class rings that Zach Morris bought from that skeezy ring salesman that left green marks on everyone's fingers.

And obviously I'm not going to act on any of this - but damnit if I don't like to feel pretty every now and then.

Maybe I'll start wearing a fake non-wedding ring on my finger to pick up chicks so I can tell them, "Sorry, I'm married."

Or maybe I'll return this ring and see if they have something a little sexier. I mean, if a ring lands Adam Sandler a date with Brooklyn Decker's boobs, I should be able to get to first base with Betty White, right?

Monday, February 21, 2011

Weather or Not

If anyone wants to know what the weather in Cleveland is like; I had my sun roof open yesterday for a nice afternoon drive and woke up this morning to a car completely frozen over from freezing rain.

Although, I guess that is a bit misleading, since my sun roof was still open today.

Which meant I didn't just have to scrape the ice off of the windows of my truck, but also my center console.

Happy Monday.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

What's My Name

One of the first rules of being married is putting a limit on the amount of dirty comments available.

My wife doesn't need to hear me talk about how I almost saw down the shirt of the cashier at Burger King. Mostly because she was 250 lbs.

But I also don't need to hear about that new guy in her yoga class and how great he looks for being in his 40s. Or anything about his "downward doggie".

So rather than hold it all in, we each have a few celebrity crushes that allow us to release our innuendos outward.

She has her crushes: LL Cool J, Lenny Kravitz, John Hamm, Me, Robert Pattinson, every Italian soccer player on the face of the earf, etc.

Mine include Marissa Miller, Norah Jones and Rihanna.

Following this system, all was well in the world. When one of these celebrities popped up on the screen, we would let loose with some of the most filthy and disgusting things that would make most rap songs sound like something from Yo Gabba Gabba.

That is, until Rihanna had to go and screw everything up.

You see, she put my last name in her new song, "What's My Name?"

"Oh Nomina, what's my name?
Oh Nomina, what's my name?"

Followed by some lines so filthy Andrew Dice Clay felt uncomfortable.

How do I explain this to my wife? What she thought was just a silly crush is obviously deep, passionate love. Rihanna has it bad, and, while it is hard to blame her (I mean, look at me), I'm a committed man and can't go running off to her private jets to be pampered and pleased as she sees fit.

No, this is my break-up letter to Rihanna. I'm sorry, but this just won't work.

Besides, I'm holding out for Marissa Miller

Monday, February 14, 2011

When Your Heart Hops, Skips or Jumps a Beat

I'm tired of people trying to define love.

Love is inexplainable. It isn't a math problem. You can't just say, "I love X because they have Y and Z."

Otherwise everyone would love me. Because I'm the total package: looks, brains, abs, punctuality and humility.

It goes without saying that we all like people who are kind, attractive, thoughtful or have huge boobs. It is human nature - and saying that is why you love someone is obvious.

Love shouldn't be explained or quantified. It should happen. It should be a thousand tiny reasons that you yourself don't even realize.

So while I am sure your boyfriend or girlfriend is nice, and funny, and attractive, I hope they also wake you up at 1:30am to ask how a T-Rex would jump rope with those tiny, stupid arms.

Because my wife does. And that is more of a reason to love her than anything you'll find on a candy heart.

Unless that candy heart says something about huge boobs.

Happy Valentine's Day

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Dating Up - Ashton and Demi

Welcome to the 2nd edition of everyone's favorite game -

Dating Up.

Where I put up two celebrities so you can put them down.

Here's how it works:

I show a celebrity couple in all their pre-angry voicemail / drug rehab / sleeping with a Nazi-hooker bliss - and you tell me which one is more physically attractive, and therefore more important.

The person in the relationship who is less fun to look at is dating up.

This week's lucky couple? Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore.

First up - Demi.

She's hot. Ok, let's just get that out there. I'm not denying that she wango's my tango. But know what isn't hot? ROBOTS! And you cannot convince me that her 48 year-old ass isn't made out of 99% synthentic materials. I'm more worried about what her emissions are doing to the o-zone level.

On to her little beaux, Ashton Kutcher.

I get it. He's goofy and giggles while he talks and always has cool hair. Like the love-child of Jimmy Fallon and Orlando Bloom. And I guess if I were a chick he could be fun to look at. But he is also running full speed ahead into "Matthew McConaughey" territory, which means we should all be looking to destroy him as quickly as possible. If only we had a 48 year-old robot with 99% sythentic butt cheeks!

And there you have it - which one of these people (term used loosley when describing Demi) is calling every 20 minutes just to "check-in" because they didn't like the way that your friend was looking at you even though you've known them forever and there is nothing going on there?

Monday, February 7, 2011

Name Game

Now that I am married, I am getting asked all of the usual questions:

How does it feel to be married?

Are you going to have babies?

How many babies?


What flavor?

But perhaps no question comes up more than "Is she going to take your last name?"

Which got me to thinking -

Is there ANY scenario that would make it ok for the guy to take the woman's name? I don't mean "OK" in the "We can do it!" Rosie the Riveter kind of way - but in the, "My friends won't make the whipped noise everytime I see them" kind of way.

Like what if your name was Harry Buttsmells. It is totally cool to switch then, right?

What about more realistic names like Weiner, Gay or Buttsmells?

And not just if you have a BAD name - what if she has an awesome name - like Incognito, Bond or Buttsmells?

Seriously, I need to know, because I'm sick of my friends making the whipped noise.

Monday, January 31, 2011


I normally don't do this on my blog, but here is a picture of my wife:

The woman doesn't know how to make statements. Everything she says is in the form of a question. It is like she has some weird obsession with curved punction.

Every conversation starts with a statement posed as a question:

How about how much you love bacon?

Why is Meryl Streep such a good actress?

How about how is it so cold outside?

And it goes on and on.

The problem isn't that she is asking questions - it is that she is asking questions that don't have answers. She might as well be asking me for the meaning of life or why Nickelback is famous. Plus, she says something and then looks at me for a response - like I am some social mistake that I can't even answer a simple question.

This has been going on for years now - and I never knew how to respond. When nearly every sentence starts with "How about how" there are only so many smartass things to say.

But then - I finally figured it out.


Yes, four.

Everytime she asks a question that has no logical answer, I just say, "four".

"How about how you hate carrots?"


"Why isn't there more cereal?"


"Why are you crying?"


It works perfectly. And it lets me drift in and out of conversations. Whatever she says I just respond with, "four" and I can't be wrong.

In fact, now that I don't have to answer her questions all the time, I've had a chance to tackle some of the bigger questions in life. "What does it all mean?" "Where do we go when we die?"

If you want to know go ahead and ask. I've got a perfect answer for ya.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Your So Vain

I'm not sure what the Obamanable Snowman is going to talk about in the State of the Union tonight, but I sure as hell hope it is this:

Yes, that is an actual item for sale at Wet Seal.

If you aren't sure why this upsets me, think about what it is saying.

'If YOU ARE single, so am I'

Not: 'If your single, so am I'

So unless they meant "your single" as in "your single mission in life is to seek out and destroy the person who created this shirt by delivering a bear wrapped in explosives and a can-do attitude" then the person who created this shirt needs to be hunted down by a bear wrapped in explosives and a can-do attitude.

Is this where we are as a society? Every person on earf spends their days getting to second base with their mobile phone on texts, Twitter, Facebook, blogs and Googling "What was Lisa from Saved by the Bell's real name?" and yet we can't get this right?

So if the next generation can't even spell correctly, let's all blame Wet Seal.

Because it is obviously there fault.