That picture above comes an anonymous reader, who writes in:
Enclosed is a pic of my girlfriend's awesome boobage. Those are D's.
Yes, they certainly are. I suddenly have the urge to go bowling. Here comes the rest of the mail.
My wife says that I am lazy because I do not remove my belt from my jeans when I take them off at the end of the day. If I am just going to wear them again the next day (without washing, by the way), isn't it a waste of time to remove the belt and then deal with the belt loops the next day? And by the way, I miss a belt loop about 50% of the time. Usually I am too lazy too remove and start over, so I just walk around all day with a missed loop. Life is too short.
I never take my belt out of my pants at the end of the day. I have a chair in our bedroom, and that's where I toss the pants – complete with belt and all the shit in the pockets – so I can throw them back on the next day. Also on the chair are any other clothes up for re-use: t-shirts, sweatshirts, mesh shorts, etc. The pile gets pretty high, and then the Mrs. will say, "OY! Clean up this fucking chair!" And I'll be like, "But I USE all that shit!" But then I relent, fold it all back up, and then just dig it right back out of the closet again the next day. Except the jeans. The jeans stay on the chair. No chance I fold those back up.
All told, I am horrible at putting clothes away. When my wife or mom folds clothes and puts them away, they are arranged in very clean stacks, like something you'd see at a Banana Republic. When I stack folded shirts, I do it so badly that the stack looks like a Jenga tower built by a retarded person. It leans. Random sleeves are pooping out all over the place. Or I'll just stuff shit into the drawer unfolded, or folded in a really half-assed manner. This causes the shirts to press up against the ceiling of the drawer, making the drawer pretty much impossible to open. Then my wife tries to open it, lets out a sigh, and then refolds all the shit all over again. It's a fun process.
My wife also has to put new shirts on top of the stack, because I'll just wear whatever's on top. Thus, I wear one shirt all week, it gets washed, goes to the top of the pile, and I wear it again. If the Mrs. didn't shuffle the deck, I'd wear my Eagles of Death Metal t-shirt every day until age 80.
Is there a more bittersweet moment in life than the false-alarm dump? I'm talking when you feel you have a shit for the ages coming on, you get yourself situated on the throne, you go to let it fly, and.... you let loose a Canadian Moose mating call that produces no actual substance.
On one hand, the sound of a pent up fart echoing around the inside of an empty toilet bowl is nothing shy of symphonic. Also, the lack of need for cleanup is always appealing to a lazyass such as I (although a courtesy wipe is still usually called for).
On the other hand, you know that this is just a temporary fix and thus need to plan out the next hour of your day keeping yourself near a toilet for when the shit hits the fan. Just wanted to get your opinion on one of life's most disappointing occurrences.
Yeah, those always feel like wasted opportunities. You feel a shit coming on, you prepare yourself with reading materials and what not, you go to sit down, and then your ass turns into Capone's Vault. And you'll just sit there, assuming it'll come out eventually, only it doesn't. And you HATE the idea of surrendering, of giving up on a poop. It feels like you've failed miserably. I can't stand that.
My list of go-to locations to clip my fingernails has become:
1. Seated on the toilet into trashcan
2. Front step/back porch (warm months only)
3. Kitchen trashcan if no one is home to call me gross for clipping my nails in the kitchen
4. Standing above the toilet trying to aim the razor-sharp projectiles into the bowl
What is everyone else's go-to spot?
It's tough to find a perfect spot for this activity, because you'll invariably get that one nail you clip that flies wildly into foul territory. You didn't even SEE where the fuck it went. All you know is that it landed nowhere near the trash can, and that you'll probably discover it six months from now somewhere down the street. I've tried that thing where you stick your hand almost in the trash can to prevent stray nails from flying out, yet somehow one always finds a way.
Also, there is no way to clip toenails without contorting yourself into a makeshift yoga position you want nothing to do with. Either you put your foot on the toilet seat, which makes your wife go nuts (OH NOES! A FOOT ON THE TOILET! I DON'T WANT A FOOT GOING WHERE MY ASS GOES!), or you have to sit on the toilet and cross your legs to get to them. Or you have to stand in the shower and do it. Any way you do it, it's fucking agony if you aren't the bendy type (and chances are if you read this column, you are not).
I also have a problem where I bite my nails. And I'll do it somewhere, like in a business meeting, where I have no fucking idea what to do with the nail once you've bitten it off. I can't eat it, because my Dad once told me you can get a nail ball in your stomach if you do that. Like a jagged metal Krusty O. It's total bullshit, but the visual is still enough to keep me from doing it. And I don't want to get up to throw the nail away, because then everyone is like, "Why is he getting up? What's he throwing in the trash? Is that a nail? GOOD FUCKING GOD." So I have to, like, hold it. It's horrible. I'd rather smoke than bite my nails. I hate that I do it.
Do you ever flush mid-way through peeing to try and race to finish before it's done flushing? It adds some excitement when you're at work/school/etc.
I do! And sometimes, I do it without even thinking. I'll get to the urinal, flush it while I'm peeing, and then say to myself, "Wait, why did I flush early! OH FUCK! GO GO GO! GET TO THE CHOPPAH!" Then I hurry up for no reason. I think I do it out of arrogance. "You know what? I don't even have to WAIT to flush. I know exactly when this pee is finished." But that's never true.
Being that you're a father, I'm sure you've seen the "Sprout" channel for kids. It's owned by PBS. Anyway, they got this show, called the "Goodnight Show", and its host, Nina, and her sidekick, Star, who is a star. Anyway, Nina is smokin hot, and I let my daughter watch it just so I can check out Nina.
He's right! That plush blob in the wizard hat must have a spell over that lady. She's no Rosetta Stone girl, though.
I saw you endorse graham crackers as a snack in the Jamboroo, and was reminded of a friend who once told me that graham crackers were invented in the early 1800's to curb "unhealthy carnal urges", specifically masturbation. Could ANY food curb that urge? Surely this theory belongs in the dark ages, much like using leeches in medicine...
He's right! According to the Wiki page for graham crackers…
Graham crackers were originally marketed as "Dr. Graham's Honey Biskets" and were conceived of as a health food as part of the Graham Diet, a regimen to suppress what he considered unhealthy carnal urges, the source of many maladies according to Graham. Reverend Graham would often lecture about the adverse effects of masturbation, or "self-abuse" as he called it. One of his many theories was that one could curb one's sexual appetite by eating bland foods. Another man who held this belief was Dr. John Harvey Kellogg, the inventor of the corn flakes cereal.
And for premature ejaculation, try Pegram's Corn Meal! I don't think any one food could work to suppress masturbatory urges. At least, any food that YOU eat. If I saw Camryn Mannheim digging into a box of Oreo Cakesters, I bet my little chieftain would quit asking for attention.
At Christmas time, probably 15 years ago, my brother got NBA Jam for Super Nintendo. Family friends of ours were coming over later, and my brother wanted to show off his new game. So, he played the child of the family, and beat him handily. That child? None other than Gilbert Arenas. No guns were drawn at the conclusion of the game.
Not even a Duck Hunt gun? FACT: The majority of NES Duck Hunt guns were used to for fantasizing about killing family members, and not for the game itself. I killed my sister at least seven times with that gun.
Also, I could never stay on fire in NBA Jam for longer than three buckets. Annoying.
Do you ever chafe from all that whacking off? If so, what do you do?
I try and stay away. But sometimes… Ever jack it to the point of skin breaking, swear to leave it alone until it's healed, and then lose your willpower? YOU CANNOT RESIST YOU. That's terrible jerk. You're just gritting your teeth and whaling away. They need to invent a doggie neck funnel for your penis, so you can't touch it at such moments. Because really, I just can't help myself.
First, let me tell you my lighter is one of those all plastic ones that clicks as you push the trigger straight down. I got it about 4.5 years ago, and I remember because it "died" back in June of '05, shortly after I moved out of my parents house for the 1st time into an apartment.
Well, instead of throwing it away, I decided to keep it because it had a light on the bottom that was in the shape of the Cancer birth sign. It ended up on my balcony where it stayed for months. I was outside on the balcony one night and realized I forgot a lighter, saw the "dead" one and figured what did I have to lose? Sure enough, the thing lit for just long enough to light my cigarette. I kept trying to use it after that and it didn't work, so eventually I gave up on it. Until about 3 years ago and sure as shit the thing lit AGAIN. Ever since then I've got it down and figured out it will light about once every 2-3 months. Is there something behind these all plastic "click" lighters that gives them the ability to last forever?
I think it's like a dead battery. If you ever have a dead battery in a remote or something, it'll still let you get off, like, one channel change for every 8,000 times you push the button. So it's never really all the way dead. It's only MOSTLY dead. It's a tease, really. Sometimes, the battery is half dead, and the remote kinda works half the time, and thus I can't figure out if the batteries are dead, or if the remote itself is fucked. I hate that.
From your last mailbag:
"But yeah, if they found a way to sell mini Reese's unwrapped, we'll all die."
You're welcome, fatty.
It's true. Trader Joe's has unwrapped peanut butter cups. In fact, half the reason to go to Trader Joes' is to buy any number of plastic tubs of candies and cookies that they have laying out all over the goddamn place. They're impossible to resist, like your own mangled dong. They even put it at the counter, because they know you'll succumb there at some point. DARK CHOCOLATE PISTACHIO BARK? FUCK. I MUST HAVE IT.
And all of it is unwrapped. You can just reach a hand in and dig out fifty pieces and stuff them right in your hole. Trader Joe's is making us all fatasses, I tell you.
/has another Cocoa Almond
Drinking alone in WIS:
My wife works late hours, often on weekends (restaurant manager)...meanwhile, I work normal hours 8-5 Monday through Friday. This means I'm often left alone for hours at a time, with nothing to do, no kids to take care of, no real responsibility whatsoever. Now, I could go out to the bars spend a bunch of money, and come back reeking of smoke (no smoking ban in WI...stupid), OR I could sit at home and knock back a beer or 12. Which is great except I feel like I'm teetering on the fine line of alcoholism when I do it. Someone please give me the approval I so desperately need to get sloshed alone.
My wife isn't a big drinker either, so I have that maddening thing where you want to drink, only there's no one to drink with, so then you drink alone, and you don't even know why you're doing it, except that it's something to do. That's where TV and the Internet come in handy. If you're watching TV, or emailing someone, or texting them, are you REALLY alone? I say no. DRINK AWAY, FUCKER.
My girlfriend is a high school chemistry teacher (and is still somehow hotter than I deserve) and has kids in her class named Charion, Shampaigne (yes, spelled that way), and Shandrika. That shit should be fucking illegal.
I think a lot of badly spelled names out there are legitimate misspellings. Like Kwinsee Pittsnogle. I really do think the Pittsnogles were too fucking stupid to know that Quincy is spelled Q-U-I-N-C-Y, and not the retard phonetic way. I don't think they were aiming to give the child a unique spelling. I just don't think they can spell. But there's no polite way to tell someone, "Hey, your kid's name is misspelled, fuckhead." You come off like an asshole or a racist if you do that. And that's why Anfernee Hardaway is still Anfernee Hardaway.
That's why you should have to enter your new baby's name digitally into the hospital computer. On the surface, this would simply be for record keeping. But that way, the COMPUTER can suggest the correct spelling. "Did you mean… Champagne?" The computer is the asshole telling you that you fucked the spelling, not some nurse you're liable to get huffy with.
Bobby Big Wheel:
How old is too old to pick vegetables off your food? When I was a kid I thought I'd like veggies by now, but whenever I get a sandwich or burrito with unwanted vegetables, I pick them out.
You pick them out of a burrito? Wouldn't that ruin the burrito? You'd have to open it up. Opening up a burrito is always death. You can never get the tight seal back. If the degree of difficulty of vegetable removal is high, I'm too lazy to pick that shit out. But tomato slices on my sandwich? Yeah, those fuckers go right out the door.
I do think you reach a certain age where picking stuff out of your food is disgusting. Like, if you were on a date with a chick, and she got a pasta dish with peas, and she picked out all the peas, you'd think that was both weird and gross, right? At some point, you learn to either suck it up, or eat around what you don't like without picking. Age 18, maybe?
I just came back from a three-week vacation back to visit my relatives in Poland. It really sucked, but it was worth it catching glimpses at the chicks over there. Damn, are they hot! It's a travesty that this is not talked about often.
Well, people would talk about Polish women more often if they weren't busying searching for their camouflage golf balls and using their helicopter ejection seats. That's why the Anita Blondes of the world are Czech in origin.
Have you ever had to apply Desitin to your kid's nether regions? I'd rather get shit on my hands than this stuff. It smells awful, and it never comes off of your finger.
Just wipe it on the kid's clean diaper, or use a baby wipe, like your wife does. Desitin is hardly the worst substance on earth to get off your fingers. Ever use Zinka back in the day? That shit was like fucking oil paint.
And gas. Somehow, I can't pump gas without the pump dribbling upon takeout and getting gas on my fingers. Then my fingers fucking REEK of gas for hours. Wipes do nothing. Hand washing does nothing. I like huffing gas as much as the next person, but goddamn. Gas is some stubborn shit.
I know there is a lot of bagging on announcers. Most (Joe Buck, Skip Caray, Berman) deserve it, but this weekend showed again that there aren't enough good young announcers and instead too many aging derelicts.
Case in point No. 1 was Dick Enberg during Sunday's Chiefs-Broncos game. Let's ignore for a second that misidentified Peyton Hillis (white) with Correll Buckhalter (black).
Let's focus on his early statement concerning Broncos center and former Chief Casey Wiegman. In announcing that Wiegman was approaching his 9,000th career snap, we were informed that he could snap once a minute for a whole week.
Enberg promptly responded, "That's a lot of head between your legs action!" (Exclamation added to show his excitement level). It's just getting really bad.
But isn't that the fun of having Enberg around? I'm the opposite. I'd much prefer an old fart like Enberg to do the telecast, even if they can barely see. Pat Summerall announced the Cotton Bowl on Saturday, and it was a delight. I'm not sure he was even awake, but still, his voice was AWESOME. Isn't that better than hearing Joe Buck react nonchalantly to everything that passes by him? "Oh look. Aliens landed. First contact. Cool. JOIN US AFTER THE GAME FOR THE OT PRESENTED BY LOWE'S."
So I've had a long-running argument with my old roommate that he wouldn't want to live with a girlfriend/fiancee before getting married because he'd want to feel like something actually changed when they got hitched, while I told him that he was out of his fucking gourd for thinking it wasn't important to discover if he could successfully live with a woman before committing to her for life. Which do you recommend?
When I wrote this post, a handful of commenters chimed in to say that, statistically, there is NO proof that living with someone prior to marriage gives you better odds of remaining married. That may be so, but I bet those stats is skewed by all the Mormons and Catholics and rural Evangelicals out there who would never get divorced under any circumstances. If you're someone who won't live with another person before getting married, you're also someone who probably isn't going to divorce someone just because you're unhappy, or because they beat you. You probably love God too much to do that, or something. Pushover. I say: If you want to know if you really enjoy the girl's daily company, and you are a normal person, fucking live with her first.