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Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: Dirty Boy

July 28, 2009

I'm not feeling very teachy today. In fact, I'm feeling more like going home and sleeping through the day, but I have a responsibility to you, the reader, to bring something about blowing something up or whatever. Oh, right, and that whole employer/employee relationship thing, too.

Anyway, you all know that I love me some Dirty Jobs. I don't think I'd like it as much if Mike Rowe wasn't the host. He seems to be a pretty cool guy. He's also a consummate smartass, like me. Unlike me, however, he doesn't pepper every sentence with those sentence enhancers. You know, you just sprinkle them on whatever you want to say and--Wham-O! You've got yourself a spicy sentence sandwich. How the man can wade hip-deep through shit and not say it is beyond my comprehension.

To that end, let's watch Mike blow up a coal mine:

I like that video because you can see the point where Mike wants to piss his pants. I'm sure he was like "Yeah, this is going to be loud. Blah blah blah goofy Pennsylvania mine worker dude. Let's get on with the bang already." And then suddenly he's like 'I just felt my brain reverberating off the inside of my skull!'

Unfortunately, we don't get to see the explosion, just hear it. That's still pretty cool, right? Fine. Whatever.

And, so that I don't get accused of being too phallocentric, what with the obligatory "boys and their explosions" comments that roll around every Tuesday, here's a little something for the the ladies:

One night, while lying in bed, my wife and I were discussing Dirty Jobs, and she sighed and said something wistful about Mike Rowe. There was a prolonged silence, and I finally said, "It's okay, honey. Sometimes, during sex, I close my eyes and pretend that I'm Mike Rowe, too."

Things I Learned This Weekend

July 27, 2009

I learned a couple of things this weekend. I thought I would share them with you.

  • Trying to remove a tick from your body with Vicks VapoRub doesn't really work. Last week, I told you about how I forever forsook the possession of Vaseline. Without a viable petroleum-jelly-based product in the house, I had to opt for the second best thing I could find. I thought VapoRub would work, though. I mean, it's basically petroleum jelly infused with some menthol. Not only would it suffocate the little fucker, but the vapors should irritate and annoy it so that it would want to leave my body. No dice.

  • The idea that you can cause the little bloodsucking bastard to back out of the hole he's pierced in your flesh by touching his ass with a hot match is a lie. I lit a match, blew it out, and managed to burn myself while trying to lightly touch the tick's ass with the blackened end of the match. My wife ended up heating up a pair of tweezers and singeing my flesh trying to induce the little cocksucker vampire to leave. Again, no dice. She ended up pulling it out.

  • My son is a fucking man. In case there were doubts after he dressed up in his sister's clothes, he put those fears to rest this weekend. I saw the offending spot on my ankle yesterday morning and as he was playing near my feet, I asked him to brush it off. He said he couldn't. He then informed me that he had "a spot like that", but he pulled it off. "Where was this spot?" I asked. He then proceeded to pull up his shorts and show me where the tick had lodged itself into his flesh. It was in his groin. In that sort, tender area where his left leg joins with the trunk of his body.

Now that's a fucking man for you. Next, I can only assume that he'll be felling trees with on swing of his mighty axe. And then he'll shave with a knife that he sharpened on the sun-bleached bones of his fallen enemies. Or maybe he'll just do the ultimate in manliness, and kick a cat.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol. XXXIII

July 24, 2009

Here we are, Friday again, or as the Romans called it, dies Veneris ("dee-ace Way-nair-eese"), which translates as "Day of Venus". The Romans tied the days of the week to the heavenly bodies they could see--it made sense, since there were seven days in a week and they could see seven heavenly bodies. Of the original seven names, we've kept three of them, Sunday, Monday and Saturday, and even those have been changed around a bit.

The other four days of the week were given names corresponding to the other heavenly bodies: dies Martis for Mars, dies Mercurii for Mercury, dies Iovis for Jupiter (whose name was Jove, remember) and then finally Venus' day. Incidentally, Saturday was dies Saturni, Sunday was dies Solis and Monday was dies Lunae.

When they were doing trade with the Germanic people, the Germans thought, "Hey, this is a spiffy idea." They happily adopted the seven days in a week notion, but when it came to adopting the Roman gods, they said "Fuck that. Your spiffiness only goes so far, you toga-wearing bastards." Even back then, religion was not a suitable topic of conversation at the dinner table.

So, the Germans adopted the seven day system and then changed the names of the days to reflect their gods and their names for the sun and moon. So, the days of the week turned into Sunday (Sunnandagr in Old Norse), Monday (Manandagr), Tuesday (Tysdagr, from Tiw/Tyr, the Norse god of War), Odensdagr (from Woden/Odin, the All-Father), Thorsdagr (from Thor, the dude with the hammer), Friadagr (from Frigg/Freya, Odin's wife and a lusty goddess of fertility and sex) and then finishing with Sunnundagr Laugardagr which is the Old Norse name. However, English went with the Anglo-Saxon name in this case, Saeternesdaeg--retained from Saturn. The Norse then lent them into Old English after the Danish invasions in the 9th century and the implementation of the Danelaw.

Whew, that was a lot of shit to wade through, but I'm glad I finally passed that along. I've been doing a lot of reading up on the history of the English language. Toss in some refamiliarization with the Norse pantheon for various book research, and I've had a simmering pile of useless information sitting around in my head that has been screaming to try and get out.

Now, if I were living in ancient Rome and feeling the need to reveal something like my vast knowledge of the name origins of the days of the week or ten things that I probably shouldn't reveal, afterward I could heave a hefty sigh and fire this little phrase your way:

Absolvi meam animam.

Pronounced: "Ahb-sole-wee may-ahm ahn-eem-ahm."

Translation is in the hovertext.

Ladies, should things get passionate and the above happens, feel free to use that phrase. Don't think for a second that your partner will be offended or start laughing at you. I mean, Latin is the basis for all the languages of Romance. *ahem* Like I've said before, Latin isn't just a dead language in the Jenks household, it's a means of foreplay.

And fellas, I'm not sure, but I think the appropriate phrase for us would be "absolvi tuam animam". You know how to use it. Preferably while swinging it around above your head in a circle.

TMI Thursday: Honest Scrap

July 23, 2009

So, last week, OtherWorldlyOne saddled awarded me with the Honest Scrap Award. She got the award from the lovely Rita. I'm not sure how it was passed down, but in my mind it was some hot girl-on-girl action and then at the end, Rita was like, "Here you go."

I don't care if that's not how it happened. That's how it happened in here. *taps temple*

I was thrilled for about five seconds and figured, hell, why not actually do one of these meme things. Cuts down on the creativity, right? Then I looked into what I needed to do, and holy fuck, it's a lot of work. First, I have to jump up and down without pants on, but I do that every night when I get home, so check. Then I have to list ten things that no one else knows about me, which is really kind of impossible, since at least someone knows this other shit, most likely because I brag about my many accomplishments and just how effing perfect I am. And there's the other things like saddle award this thing to ten other people blahblahblah take your top off.

And then I thought, oh, hells yeah, I can morph this into a TMI Thursday because I have a lot of little vignettes that wouldn't really make a great TMI post by themselves, but combined together, their power will be unstoppable! Kind of like Captain Planet, but a whole lot dirtier.

So, here is my contribution to both the world of the Honest Scrap Award and TMI Thursday. Holy shit, I'm a multitasker.

1.) In high school, I had a girlfriend who worked at Target. One night, I went through her line and bought a single jar of vaseline. She gives me a look, cocks one eyebrow, and asks in a real knowing fashion, "What is this for?" And I said, "Well, I figure I'm going to need a lot of this since I think things are over between us." We weren't having sex, but I couldn't pass up the chance to be a total dick, especially since I still chuckle at that memory when it floats to the surface. It's one of the bigger dick moves I've ever pulled in all my life...and one of the funniest.

That night I made good on my announcement. Twice.

2.) Speaking of Vaseline, that used to be my autoerotic lubricant of choice. Until one day I was laying in the bathtub and I looked down and saw some horrible carbunkle on the shaft of my penis. Immediately, I thought it was genital warts. I looked at my hand and said, "Who else have you been having sex with?" My hand was curiously quiet on the matter, which automatically means guilt. Whore. Then I figured out that it wasn't genital warts, but just a big nasty zit. On my dick! Fortunately, I was in the tub, so I could soak it until it was soft (the zit, not my'd be amazed at how unhard a dick can get when you realize it's afflicted with acne). I burst the zit, and then I found a second one, and burst it to.

The next day I switched to KY.

3.) On the suggestion of a friend, I once smoked a cigar while taking a shit. It was the most relaxing thing I've ever done. If I could get a blow job at the same time, I think I'd be in heaven. Curiously, I haven't found a woman willing to fulfill this ultimate fantasy.

4.) I once won a pissing contest. Not the kind the where you mark your territory. No, I was going for distance. And I had two witnesses. And it was in the bathroom at the bookstore where I worked.

5.) When I was a Freshman in college, I got shitfaced drunk. Okay, I did that a lot. The first time I got faced, I went running down to the bathroom to piss. I decided it was a long walk back to the urinals (all of five feet), so I whipped it out and pissed in one of the sinks. Two girls were standing in the bathroom, checking their make-up. I saw them watching me in the mirror, so I looked over and nodded at them. They smiled that sort of scared-yet-friendly smile you'd offer a homeless guy who is changing your flat tire for you. As I was finished and shaking the dew from my lily, I looked over and said: "So, you two getting laid tonight?" I left without getting a response.

To this day, I have no fucking clue who they were.

6.) Sometimes, when I crank out a particularly monstrous shit, I feel the need to share it with my fellow man. So, I won't flush. If it's one of those where one of the turdlogs is sticking up above the waterline, I will go to another stall to finish the clean up. I do not want my artwork sullied by the paper. When this happens, I refer to it as "The Nessie."

7.) I know what semen tastes like. Yes, I got snowballed. No, I don't think I was number 37. I must say, I have a rather piquant flavor with an earthy aftertaste.

8.) Once, in high school, the insides of my right thigh hurt, so I thought I'd smear some Ben-Gay on it. At the time, I was a big fan of the Ben-Gay. In order to access the groin, I dropped trou. I applied the salve and thought, "Hey, my pants are down, I might as well piss." So, I grabbed my dick in the same hand that I used to apply the balm. It wasn't so bad until I decided it was time to wipe off and some of the medicine entered my urethra through my pee port.


My first thought after that was, "Hey, if I rub one out, maybe when I cum, I'll force the burning medicine out." However, before I started, I rethought that decision and just let the medicine run its course. It's perhaps the wisest thing--aside from marrying my wife--that I've ever done.

And, yes, Scope told a very similar story to this. I've been sitting on it, though, because I didn't want to look like a copycat.

I've also foregone the use of Icy Hot/Ben-Gay/Whatever other Salicylic acid product there is on the market since that day forth.

9.) I have pissed on Notre Dame Stadium. And while this might seem antithetical to my fandom, I must say I had a lot of beer at senior bar that night. I also pissed on Galvin Hall of Biology and on the bus stop out in front of Hesbergh Library--which you know better as Touchdown Jesus. How I managed to hold it all the way through D Parking Lot, I'll never know.

10.) After my daughter was born, we were going through that "no sex because your wife has just passed a newborn infant through her vagoo and it's tender and sore and trying to recover" stage. One morning, while I was getting ready to go into the lab, I turned on CNN Headline News while I ate my breakfast. Robin Meade and her gigantic breasts were there to greet me. Being that I had a lot of pent up sexual rage and my wife was asleep, I decided that it would be a good time to start Flogging Molly. Things slowed down a little bit when Dr. Sanjay Gupta popped up on the screen, but fortunately Robin was back quickly so I could seal the deal. A little bit might have gotten in my cream of wheat. Being that I've already been through #7 above, I ate it anyway.

So, there you go. Whichever ten of you haven't won this award yet and managed to make it down here, congratulations. You get your very own Honest Scrap Award to disdain love.

Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

A Few Follow-Ups

July 22, 2009

I told you I used to be a member of the Liberal Media, right? If you're new to the show, back when I was in high school, I wrote a weekly column about my small town for the local rag. At the same time, I had an opinion column with the high school paper. I got burnt out pretty quickly doing two gigs like that, which is kind of funny, since one was a weekly column and the other was bi-monthly. Still, I had lots of activities going on, like quiz bowl (what? me? do trivia? never!), basketball, trying to get into college, trying to get laid. You know, the usual shit.

Anyway, what sort of journalistic integrity would I be providing if I didn't do a few follow up stories to those things I've reported here previously? A pretty lousy one, that's what, so to prove that I'm better than Keith Olbermann, I'll do those follow-ups, and you'll like them and not see them as a thinly veiled attempt to hide the fact that I was too lacking in creativity to give you anything new today.


Remember when I told you about that brutal and savage criminal, Joseph Carnavale? He was the man responsible for inspiring terror during rush hour traffic because he built a barrel monster out of the orange and white barrels lining every fucking street in the Raleigh-Durham area and then set said monster alongside the road. Well, not only did he flash a few moments of brilliant creativity, but he also proved that the Raleigh police department is filled with humorless asshats.

Mr. Carnavale, a student at NC State University, had his day in court yesterday and was given 50 hours of community service. Carnavale said he would like to serve his sentence by working with Habitat for Humanity. Clearly, this is a deranged lunatic prowling our least according to Raleigh police.

"The law is what we enforce," Raleigh police spokeswoman Laura Hourigan said. "We go out every day and do our job, and the job is enforcement, and that's why we did what we did."

And good for you, Laura Hourigan. God bless the men and women in blue protecting our streets in Raleigh.

Meanwhile, the guy who killed Jenna Nielsen is still at large. Raleigh police have no leads at this time.


Last Wednesday, I told you of James Waylett--the dude who plays Vincent Crabbe in the Harry Potter movies--and his...advanced studies of herbology. He, too, had his day in court (which apparently was also his 20th birthday). He was sentenced to 120 hours of community service.

He will spend most of it polishing the trophies with Filch. The rest of it will be spent changing Mrs. Norris' litter box.

Since Waylett, who was looking at a possibility of 14 years in prison, was quick to admit the pot was his and cooperated with the police so well, the judge saw fit to give him the community service rather than sending him to the hoosegow. I'm sure Lucius Malfoy had nothing to do with this. spell checker is perfectly fine with "hoosegow", but gives me a red underline for "herbology".


On Monday, I told you of my drunken interactions with a couple of my students in a little afterhours soiree--and by soiree I mean a poorly-judged stumble onto campus.

Curious as to what happened to the students in the story (I never learned Barefoot Girl's name...other than it was Carrie, so no follow up there). Turns out that both of the students are now doctors. Sean is a podiatrist in Chicago. Andrea is a doctor at Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis.

Andrea is also married. I only know this because her Facebook profile has a picture of her in a white dress dancing with some guy in a tuxedo. My brilliant powers of deduction have led me to this conclusion. Also, I found a wedding announcement from her local paper.

As soon as I find Sean's email address, I'm going to find out if he wants me to repay him for that burger and fries.


And finally, the other night my wife and I were lying in bed discussing how limited our childhoods were when it came to music and television. The whole story can be summed up as thus: if it wasn't the Judds or the Beach Boys, she didn't listen to it growing up, and my favorite band when I graduated high school was Simon & Garfunkel.

Television was not much better. She watched a lot of Golden Girls, 227, Amen and Empty Nest, whereas I watched Leave it to Beaver, The Andy Griffith Show, and the Waltons. I sighed and then said, "Yeah, I spent a lot of time reading when I was a kid."

"And masturbating," she added.

"No, not so much. Don't you remember the Jamie Randol story?"

"Oh yeah. How long would you go in between?"

"Like, weeks. Months, if I could. One of my main reasons, aside from feeling guilty, was that my mom had me terrified that Jesus was retuning at any second!, and I really didn't want to be lying there beating off when the Rapture occurred."

"Wow, so, what, she told you that if you stroked the one-eyed monster, Jesus would come?"

*pregnant silence followed by gales of laughter*

When I composed myself: "I am so blogging about this."

Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: Because You Demanded It

July 21, 2009

Unlike most radio stations in this country, which feature a boring glut of mediocre pre-programmed tripe, I'm willing to take requests. So, today's episode is brought to you by the letter C, as in, Mr. Condescending. He asked for it, and since I'm a whore for my readers, I'm obliging.

So, today we're going to explore the wonders of the Diet Coke and Mentos Eruption.

I'm sure you've all seen the episode of Mythbusters where Adam and Jamie were certain that some form of internet legerdemain was at work during the infamous Diet Coke/Mentos fountain symphony that started the whole craze in the first place. Of course, the idiots boys were proved wrong, and then they tried their best to get to the bottom of why this thing goes off like it does.

My first guess was that it was an acid/base reaction, the base coming from the Mentos (I was guessing some kind of preservative) and the acid being the carbonic acid dissolved in most sodas to give it fizz. Carbonic acid is basically the bastard child of water and carbon dioxide, and it's decomposition reaction looks like this:

H2CO3 -----> H2O + CO2

The problem is that it's not a chemical reaction at play here. Instead, as Adam and Jamie proposed, it's simply a matter of physics. They postulated that the tiny pits, grooves and swirls on the surface of the Mentos helped form tiny bubbles so quickly that they erupted in a fountain of Diet Coke. In a paper published in New Scientist of June from last year, a physicist from Applachian State University here in lovely North By God Carolina unraveled the mystery of the Diet Coke fountain.

Seems as though it's simply a matter of gravity, surface tension and the aforementioned nucleation sites on the surface of candies. The aspartame (the artificial sweetener) dissolved in the Diet Coke is perfect for breaking up the interactions between the water molecules making them more willing to give up the goods. The same trick works with college chicks and alcohol. The surface of the Mentos, which is covered with gum arabic, helps to make tiny bubbles quickly, and the specific gravity of the Mentos helps them to sink to the bottom of bottle, exposing themselves to more Diet Coke. Crushed up Mentos, despite their higher surface area, don't sink as quickly and therefore don't work as well.

That's a fancy way of saying that Diet Coke + Mentos = Fountains of Wayne Awesome.

Now, if you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day. If you teach him to fish, you've just lost yourself a fish junky that will pay you for what you catch. In the same vein, if you give a man some candies and a bottle of diet cola, he'll make a fountain. If you give a man a cap along with those candies and diet soda, he'll make a rocket. Robert Goddard would be so proud.

Well...he probably wouldn't have been proud of that guy.

As Scope pointed out last week, it's all fun and games until one of these rockets goes flying through the window of your house or your windshield...or your abdomen... Then things might not be nearly as funny. Well, at least not for you, but the rest of us will sure point and laugh at your misfortune. So, should you decide to try making your own amateur rockets, do it in a wide open area, alright?

Sadly, I have been proven wrong. Studies of the pH of the Diet Coke before and after the fountain have shown that the pH (measurement of the acidity of a solution) does not change, so the reaction has nothing to do with acid/base chemistry. Dammit! I hate being wrong, but I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong...just not to my wife.

Good thing I didn't tell her that it was an acid/base reaction. Ever. *whistles innocently* I'll be out back with some Diet Coke and fresh-makers if you need me.

Seeing Yellow

July 20, 2009

If you went anywhere near Nickelodeon this weekend, you probably would have stumbled upon this show called "Spongebob Squarepants". It's this little cartoon about the misadventures of the title character, his pink starfish best friend Patrick Star, his self-adoring and arrogant neighbor Squidward Tentacles and the misplaced underwater squirrel scientist, Sandy Cheeks.

Okay, I'm done insulting your intelligence. Of course you're heard of Spongebob Squarepants. Even if you're not as intimately familiar with Spongebob as I am, you at least know of him. This weekend, he turned ten years old, and I've been watching the wacky shenanigans of Spongebob, Patrick, Squidward and the rest for nine years and ten months. It's about as close to love-at-first-sight one could have hoped to have had with a cartoon.

I remember the first time I watched Spongebob...more or less. I was in my first year of graduate school at Notre Dame and one Friday evening I had nothing better to do, so I was on campus. I went over to hang with my friend, Dr. Assy, whom I had just met a couple of weeks earlier and also with whom I was teaching undergrads every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I went over to his place and we shot the shit for a while until his other room mate--Captain B--came home. We shot the shit some more, all the while a powerful thirst was building within my parched throat. It was the kind of thirst that could only be slaked with alcohol.

So, we went to the liquor store right next to campus and Dr. Assy got a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey, Captain B got a bottle of vodka, and I felt my quota of Captain Morgan was running low, so I picked up a bottle. We returned to Dr. Assy and Captain B's joint and proceeded to drink about three quarters of the bottles, apiece. The height of our drunkenness crested sometime around 3:00 in the morning. At that time of the night, naturally, the first inclination is to go onto campus and start some shit...which is exactly what we did.

There happened to be a restaurant/student center that was open 24 hours, which is where we ended up. I don't remember the walk into Reckers (the name of the place); I just sort of ended up there. And, of course, since we were drunk, we knew we were smooth with the ladies. Captain B made the first move and was chatting up this girl who was from California. Captain B, in all seriousness, then said, "We have so much in common. You're from California, I'm from Connecticut, and they both start with 'C'."

I still have no idea how he didn't score that chick.

I met some girl who was taking the organic class that I was teaching the lab for (red flag alert!), but that didn't dissuade me one bit. Instead, I moved in for the kill. She was least, I remember her being cute...but she wasn't wearing shoes. Things were going along just swimmingly when she folded her arms and hopped up and down because she was cold. I mean, it was four thirty or five in the morning in September when we were out there, so it was a touch nippy--at least for those who were sober or at least sobering up. I remember her saying, "Jesus, I hope I don't get pneumonia and die." Except, my drunken ears heard "ammonia". So, I held a hand up, all smooth like and waved it back and forth.

"No, no," I said, all suave and debonair, "you're in organic now. You won't get ammonia. You'll get methane."

I still have no idea how I didn't score that chick.

As the morning ground on, one of my students--a dude from Maine named Sean--showed up (red flag alert!). We chatted things up a little bit and then I uttered the magic words: "Fuck, I'm hungry." Since it was a restaurant, they were able to serve me up a cheeseburger and fries, but when I got to the end of the line, I realized that I left my wallet back at Dr. Assy and Captain B's pad. Undaunted, Sean swooped in and saved me, buying my food for me. Awesome. I gave him an A- for the semester. He was a B student, but when grading time came out, I said to myself "Dude bought me a burger and fries. I'll put a minus on there to make it somewhat legitimate." When it comes to academic honestly, I'm dripping with it.

As I was sitting there eating, someone slid onto the bench beside me so much so that their hip was pressed next to mine. I looked up just as she announced, "Hey! You're my orgo TA!" And, it was true (red flag alert!). There, sitting beside me, was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I had to shift around to hide the fact that I was not suffering from whiskey dick. That's how badly I wanted her since the first day of class, but being a TA, I couldn't try and make a move on her. Her name was Andrea Goldyn. She was a stunning brunette with deep, velvety brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a radiant smile that caused her eyes to sparkle like diamonds. She was shapely, curvy and smelled extraordinary, especially at 5:00 am.

"Hey, Andrea!" I said. She sort of hugged me (red flag alert!), and I was able to keep my burger and fries out of her wavy, curly brown tresses. It was the kind of hair that my friend Jim would describe to me some years later as "sex hair", and while I wanted to touch it, I didn't want to sully it with a Reckers burger. And, as carnal as my passions for this woman were, I didn't want her hair in my food.

We talked for a long time. Mostly about class and then the conversation turned to football--duh, it's fucking Notre Dame. Since it was the fall, football had already started, but I missed the first game of the season because I went to Columbus, OH for a bachelor party. See, my old room mate--also named Matt--was getting married. The next two weekends were games at Michigan and then at Purdue, so I had yet to get to a game, and the Purdue game was tantalizingly close down in West Lafayette, a mere three hours away. It so happened to be that Matt was getting married on the day of the Purdue, in other words, he was getting married about nine hours from when I was sitting around drunkenly chatting up one of my students.

And, it turns out, that gorgeous Andrea had a ticket to the Purdue game...and an extra ticket. Which she offered to me (red flag alert!). Enter moral dilemma. Do I go to the game--that I desperately wanted to go do--with a woman--that I desperately want to do--who is also one of my students--that I desperately want to do--or do I go to my friend and room mate's wedding in Chicago?

And here's the thing: I could see--even through the clinging, lingering tendrils of a long night of drinking--how this would play out. I had to drive, so, naturally, why bother coming back to campus? She could just come home to my apartment, and, in a few hours, we could leave from there. We've both been up all night, so we're going to need to shower before we leave for the game. And, if we're already naked, might as well do it. This might not have been her plan, but it sure sounded good to me.

Sadly, I took the moral high ground and declined Andrea's offer to go to the game with her. We talked for another fifteen minutes or so, and then departed. Happily, I didn't use the "ammonia/methane" line on her. I do remember part of my subconscious screaming "idiot" inside my skull while I watched her perfect ass swaying away from me.

The sun was coming up as we dragged our asses back to Dr. Assy and Captain B's pad. I laid around for a little while. It was a little after 6:30 when I finally decided I should go home and try to get some sleep before driving to Chicago for my friend's wedding. So, I drove to my apartment--admittedly, I probably shouldn't have, but I was feeling pretty sober; the greasy Reckers burger kind of helped in that department, and Andrea's offers and my depraved visions took care of the rest.

However, when I finally fell into my apartment, I couldn't sleep. While the greasy Reckers burger helped to clear my head and sober me up a touch, it still was sitting in my gut like a ton of Crisco. So, I sat there in my chair, sick to my stomach, exhausted, beginning to feel the onset of a wicked hangover. I decided I needed to find something to watch on the tele, so I clicked it on and my channel-surfing landed me on Nickelodeon, which was showing Spongebob. I sat there, enraptured, watching every little bit of it, from the hydrodynamic spatula with port and starboard attachments to the sound advice of "when in doubt, pinky out".

After watching Spongebob, I got up from my chair and brought up the Reckers burger and some of the Captain's Booty. I went back to my chair, collapsed and slept until well past noon. I woke up with a monster headache, Hey Arnold (also a fine cartoon) on the television, and my clock telling me there was no fucking way I was making it to Matt's wedding.

"Fuck me," I said, getting up, scratching the back of my head, and stumbling into my bathroom to brush my teeth. I came out and changed the channel on the television to find that the Purdue game was about to kick off. Suddenly, the conversation I had the night before with Andrea came rushing back.

"Oh," I groaned around a mouthful of toothpaste, "FUCK ME!"

There you have it. The story of how I came to be a fan of Spongebob Squarepants.

Anyway, here is a list of my favorite Spongebob episodes, and since it's his tenth birthday, I thought I'd give you ten of them. In some semblance of my favorites, here they are without further ado:

1) Artist Unknown
2) The Camping Episode
3) Band Geeks
4) Tea at the Tree Dome
5) The Fry Cook Games
6) Dying for Pie
7) Sailor Mouth
8) Graveyard Shift
9) Suds
10) Sandy, Spongebob and the Worm

Even doing that, I could list another ten I consider my favorites, but, hey, maybe I'll tell the same tale on Spongebob's 20th birthday, and I'll make the same lame list and tell the same lame story. Hooray for the forgetfulness of old age!!!

Oh, hey, did I ever tell you guys about the first time I watched Spongebob?

It Feels Like...Another Weird Word Day

July 19, 2009

So, yeah. It's been awhile since I posted one of these. Sunday being a day of rest and all, where you don't work and you don't play and--above all else!--you don't blog. I'm pretty sure that's in the Book of Leviticus somewhere. Right by the rule about not eating camels.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bookcase to put together.

Ha, I'm kidding. Well, not about the bookcase. I have to do that, which is why I'm here, avoiding any semblance of real work. So long as my fingers are dancing over the keys, then they don't have to be tapping fasteners into the panels of the bookcase.

Do yourself a favor and re-read that last sentence. That, my friends, is what I call fine writing. It's like a spectacle crafted out of words. What? A train wreck is a spectacle, too. So, it's not like I was lying to you about it.

This week's weird word is one you've all seen way too often, especially around here. And yet, I loves it like the Precious. The word is "indefatigable".

Indefatigable means "tireless, inexhaustible" or "unable or seemingly unable to be fatigued". It comes from the prefix in-, which in this case means "not", and a second prefix de-, which is used to intensify the root word -fatig-, itself coming from the Latin fatigare, "to weary" (check it out, a first conjugation verb!). Hang the suffix -able on there for good measure in order to add the "capable of" meaning, and you've got yourself a mouthful of wordy goodness.

There's the origin of the word, but how did I come about using it as my own epithet? Originally, my "screen name" had been my real name, and then for "anonymity's sake" I decided to go with the rather blase and bland mjenks. After a few months of being utterly and completely bored with my own name (I've only been seeing it for the 33 and a half years), I thought I'd toss in something new. Since I'm a bit of an egomaniac, I added "the incomparable" at the beginning of my name and went around commenting in people's blogs as such for about a month. I then opted to change it to "the incorrigible", because, well, that's a pretty apt descriptor, too. Along about the time I changed it to "the incorrigible", one of my first loyal readers, Chemgeek, posted an entry to his blog about the "Word of the Day" and the word was "indefatigable."

Being the clever wordophile smartass that I am, I dashed off three different definitions for the word, none of which were "tireless". A few days later, I quietly changed the epithet from "the incorrigible" to "the indefatigable". About a week later, college football season kicked off, and since I'm an alumnus of the University of Notre Dame, I thought it would be clever to capitalize only the ND and of "indefatigable". That is how the screen name has evolved into what you see before you.

Using it in a book won't be too difficult, especially since I've got armies marching to and fro. They'll seem "indefatigable" in their efforts to get from one place to another, or to scale the walls of a besieged city. Also, the lead female protagonist will be "indefatigable" in her efforts to protect her home and her family, all the while she tries to raise the status of her husband's home city to what she thinks it should become. Oh, yeah, and then there's the whole main plot of the story in which she is integral. So, yes, Lillian will be quite indefatigable as she tries desperately to bring about the conclusion of the tale.

Happy Saint Pambo Day!

July 18, 2009

Today is Saint Pambo's day. Saint Pambo was a member of a group of people known as the Desert Hermits of Egypt. He was a disciple of Saint Anthony, and when he asked Anthony what he should do, Anthony told him "Be not confident of thy own righteousness; grieve not over a thing that is past; and be continent of thy tongue and belly."

Pambo took this to task, especially the last part. He spoke little, and what words he said were usually deep and profound. Many people came to follow him--kind of like Forrest Gump running back and forth across the country, I'm feeling--and they worked to help the poor and spread the Word of God to the Egyptians. He was most famous, however, for the fact that he didn't speak often, but when he did, the words were usually carefully selected and their meaning profound.

On the day he died, he was weaving a basket. He looked up at his followers and said:

"There's a million fine looking women in the world, dude, but, they don't all bring you lasagna at work. Most of 'em just cheat on you." He then bought a pack of smokes and walked out.

His follower, Saint Melania, dressed his body and took the unfinished basket to lay in the ground with the body. Reports say that she had long blond hair, wore a black sock cap, went nowhere without her trademark black trenchcoat, and had a mouth that was constantly running.

So, wish your fellow man a Happy Saint Pambo's Day. But just do it with a knowing nod.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XXXIII

July 17, 2009

Ah, here we are, Friday again. Was your week as long as mine? I sure hope not. However, I'm sure that there's not a problem troubling your soul that a little alcohol couldn't cure.

You know who liked a good drink? The Romans. Of course, in the early days of the Republic, they didn't care so much about the wine. They were more concerned with killing the Etruscans (to the north of Rome) and the Greeks on the southern part of the Italian peninsula and the Samnites...who kind of filled in the space between the Etruscans and the Greek settlers, but east of the Romans.

However, once those folks were all defeated (and we'll throw in the Phoenicians and Carthaginians and the rest of the Greeks for good measure), the Romans found themselves with a shit ton of grapes, control of all the trade routes in the Mediterranean, and many parched and thirsty throats clamoring for the wine. Not to mention the Romans were absorbing other Mediterranean cultures into their own, and those cultures loved the wine. So, the Romans decided that--if you'll excuse the phrase--when in Rome...make some wine.

And once the wine started flowing, so did the coins. The Romans decided this was one sweet ass deal, and decreed that it was illegal to make wine anywhere outside of the Italian peninsula. So, the boot became filled with wine and it was soon being exported to all parts of the Empire...especially to those whiny (ahem) folks in Gaul. And boy did the Gauls love their wine, which was convenient because the Romans loved selling it to them. The Gallic folk--who tend to have an arrogance of haut couture about them--didn't water their wine down while they drank it, which was quite a faux pas by Roman standards. Thanks to this, the Romans considered the Gauls to be uncultured, barbaric and slovenly. However, while the Gauls were drinking wine which wasn't watered down, they had to keep buying more and more and more. Oh la, la the wine trade, she was a lucrative one, which allowed the Emperors to build extravagant palaces, public works and armies with which they could keep the wine-starved populace under Roman rule.

And the Romans were able to pretty much corner the market by clever use of their laws, by owning all the great grape-growing areas around the Mediterranean, and by being completely ignorant of the ability to distill alcohol from water. Of course, there's another brewed beverage that is mouth-wateringly delicious, sometimes known as "beer". While beer was important to the Romans during the time of the Republic, by the time they controlled all of the grape-growing areas, the Romans decided that beer was suitable only for the barbarians to the north. So, a combination of ignorance, law, and--in the case of beer--more ignorance with a smattering of arrogance and a healthy dose of the jingling of coins in bags, wine became the most important source of alcohol in the World according to the Romans.

Now, while the old Roman maxim of in vino veritas ("in wine there is truth") rings true, in wine there is also stupidity. And by stupidity I mean that state of mind beyond just being drunk to where you're loud, profane, and you might be taking pieces of clothing off. So, in other words, how I act when sober.

Should you opt for the bar tonight--and why the hell wouldn't you?--and someone decides to get a little too far into their cups and start making an ass of themselves, uttering this will get your point across and sound profound enough that you'll avoid the requisite bar fight that breaks out when someone points out just how drunk another person is.

Tu podex videris

Pronounced: "Too poh-daix weed-air-ees"

Translation is in the hovertext!

So, there you go. Enjoy a lovely beverage, unwind from the work week, and make fun of people in a dead language. Also, if some snob decides to loudly proclaim just how great the French are with their wines and such, you can smirk and set them straight. And that's something to drink to.

And Now for Something Completely Different

July 16, 2009

Normally, on Thursdays (or, normal for the past couple of months), I tell you about some bodily function of mine that makes for somewhat amusing reading. Today, however, I'm going in a slightly different direction.

Yesterday, my youngest started school. While he was in "school" last year, that was pre-school, so he was really just along for the ride and was there so that he could figure out how to act around other people. Turns out, he fits in with the monkey troupe just fine.

Anyway, yesterday he went to kindergarten. He's at a year-round school, and his staggered entry was yesterday and today. So, we all got up, got dressed, got ready and walked him to the bus stop. After what seemed like forever, the bus finally showed up. I walked him around the front and led him to the steps. He got on, sat down, and waved and then drove away.

Me? I'm cool. My wife was all sorts of nervous for him. But, it turns out, he was just fine. He didn't get in trouble. He didn't get upset. He didn't get lost. In fact, he found his room all by himself without anyone helping him. Though he did admit that the kraken kind of frightened him when the boats were taking his class across the lake.

Apparently, he got back on his bus without incident and was delivered home safely. He bounded off the bus and then pranced home. We were worried about this second part, since we didn't know what bus he needed to be on. However, the night before we sent him off to school, we got a phone call from one Dr. Jordan, who assured us that our "baby would get home just fine." Apparently, Dr. Jordan sounded a lot like Bubby from Flapjack.

My son had a good day, played hard and made two new friends, Zachary and Enya. He says that Zachary is cool, but the girl has a tendency to sing songs about rivers in South America.

This made me hearken back to the days of yore, when I first went to kindergarten. I was in the last kindergarten class at Union Elementary School (home of the Aces). I had to walk up the street to get to my bus stop, in front of Amy and Jamie Randol's house. I got on the bus, went to school, and I remember sitting at the head of my table. Little did they know they were feeding my megalomania from a young age.

I sat at the same table as two of my cousins, and the aforementioned Jamie Randol. I remember it distinctly because someone from the local paper came in and took my picture. I was sitting there, flashing a dinosaur picture I had just colored to my cousin Jennifer, who could have cared less. She was bent over coloring her own picture, probably of Raggedy-Ann. My cousin Jennifer fuckin' loved her some Raggedy-Ann. I still have a couple of pictures of me in kindergarten. Maybe I'll scan them in and share them on a day when I feel like being made fun of. Well, moreso than normal.

Contrast my first day of kindergarten (and my sons, if you must) with my younger brother's (sis never went to school). He got on the bus, went to school, and came home. My mom asked him how it went and he responded, "Fine, but I'm not going back." Ah, yes, certain trends in life are set on the first days of school. I had my arrogance sated and my brother...well...some things are better left unsaid.

I even remember my kindergarten teacher: Miss Brown. She lived up the street from me. Apparently, when they closed Union Elementary (home of the Aces), she went to teach somewhere other than where I went to school for the remainder of my elementary and middle high school days. In fact, I had no idea where she was, other than she wasn't anywhere near where I was.

Fast forward a few years to when I was a member of the Liberal Media. I was writing a column about the goings on in my home town for the county paper. While I would often report just the facts, ma'am, I would also poke a little fun at how little went on in the town on a weekly basis.

And then, one night, I got a phone call (my number was listed in the column as the way to get ahold of me and pass along gossip information news). It was my kindergarten teacher, Miss Brown!!! I was excited...for about five seconds. She told me what a good job I was doing and how she enjoyed reading my articles...and then she ripped into me for making fun of small town America. Apparently, she was living in Chicago (or the west side of Chicago) and missed her life in Small Town, USA. And now she was yelling at me about it.

I assured her that I would lighten up on the bumblefucks who lived in town. Then the next week, we had perhaps the most inept bank robbery in the history of mankind go awry and the drama played out on the streets of my hometown. That's a story for a different day, but my reporting on this again painted the town in a rubish light. While I never got another phone call, I could feel the seething anger coming from the northwest. Let it go, Miss Brown. Anger and hatred lead to the Dark Side.

There you have it. I'm now the father of two school-aged children, which might or might not be an indication of middle age. And since everything I know about middle age I learned from watching American Beauty...where's the high school chick with the enormous forehead? I gots me some lust to slap around.

It's Harry Potter Day!!!

July 15, 2009

Finally, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is released today. After waiting for months under the guise of the writer's strike, we finally get to see the adaptation of my favorite book in the series. Ka-loo, ka-lay!!!

However, apparently, our good friend Vincent Crabbe won't be at the theatre tonight. In case you hadn't heard (and the story can be found here), the actor who plays Crabbe--one James Waylett--got pulled over in April. When the police looked in his car, they found eight bags of marijuana. Apparently, later, when the police went to his mom's house, they found "nearly ten" marijuana, I'm guessing nine. Tsk tsk...fifty points from Slytherin and a detention to be served with Groundskeeper Argus Filch.

Of course, Waylett is best known for his role in the Potter films where he portrays Malfoy's bully bodyguard, Crabbe, half of the infamous pair of Crabbe and Goyle. Apparently, the sorting hat made a grave mistake while assigning Crabbe to House Slytherin, despite his parents being Death Eaters. Clearly, Crabbe should have been placed in Hufflepuff.

At least he easily passed his N.E.W.T. for herbology.

Professor Sprout could not be reached for comment.

Oh, and--Jesus H!--did Ginny get hot.

Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: The Power of Sublimation

July 14, 2009

Remember how, whenever the criminal du jour needed to add that creepy effect to his fake ghost story, the villain from Scooby-Doo would always employ dry ice and water to create his ghostly fog. I think Scooby even made some donuts out of the dry ice fog once. Mmmm...carbon dioxide. So tasty.

I guess if you're a stoner and a dog--stone dog--then when the munchies hit, you have to respond, right?

When I was a lad, I remember my mother helping to make a parade for a float in the parade for our local festival. They needed to create a smoky effect coming out of a pot. For some strange reason, with all the papier mache, streamers and tissue all mounted onto a particle board frame with a tractor pulling it unsteadily down the road, they shied away from using actual fire. So, they opted for dry ice in water. I remember seeing the result--a few wisps of smoke-like vapor escaping the top of the cauldron--and being completely underwhelmed.

I've since learned that, if one wants a really good fog effect from dry ice, isopropyl alcohol--otherwise known as "rubbing alcohol"--gives a great plume of foggy carbon dioxide. So, there you go. In case you find yourself working on a float in the near future and you need a good, boiling plume of fog, drop some chunks of dry ice into rubbing alcohol. Just be sure to recharge the alcohol from time to time, because as it gets colder, the effect cools a bit. Heh. Pun.

Dry ice--which is frozen carbon dioxide--undergoes one of those rare phase shifts from solid to gas, called sublimation. Most of the time, we think of solids turning liquid first and then going to gas, but some things go straight from their solid form to their gas phase. Snow will do this sometimes in the winter, as well. The net result of the sublimation of dry ice to carbon dioxide gas is the nice fog effect.

We can also harvest the awesome power of the sublimation explosively. Don't believe me? Take a look.

For some reason, seeing that cinder block get blown to gravel really amused me. I think part of it is because I went to undergrad with this guy named Seville that someone once described as having "a personality like a cinder block." The damnedest thing was, that description was dead accurate.

Walking monoliths aside, I have to say I'm pretty impressed with the power that this showed. If I were to guess, I would have thought that the force would escape up and away from the block where the bottle was not holding it. Shows what I know about explosive forces.

Now, I'm not telling you to go out and try this stunt at home, but after watching this, I would make damned sure that the dry ice bomb doesn't go off in your hand. Otherwise, you might be getting the Tyr experience without all the fun of tricking Fenrir.

See what I did there? Brilliant, no? I thought so, too.

What Do You People Want from Me?

July 13, 2009

I'm certainly no stranger to door-to-door religion salesmen. We used to be plagued by Jehovah's Witnesses all the time up in Bumblefuck, IN. Most of the time, when these young men dressed in their spiffy white shirts, black pants, and ties would knock upon the front door, my mother would ignore them. Even if my brother and I would be standing in the front window where the God-peddlers could see that the house was, indeed, occupied, she'd just ignore them. They'd knock and knock and, eventually, would traipse away without getting to spread the joy of the gospels to us.

But, alas, my mother would have already been on the neighborhood watch line--also known as the telephone--informing the neighbors that there were Jehovah's Witnesses in the town and that they should lock their doors and ignore them. Also, that Christi Tiegland was pregnant again. Can you believe it? What a whore.

Now that I've moved to the South, we don't get Jehovah's Witnesses so much, but we get a far worse kind of plague: Baptists. The first time they came, they tricked me. Two rather attractive young ladies dressed in short skirts and sleeveless shirts were standing on the step out front ringing my doorbell. Thinking that their car had broken down in front of my house and if I helped them to repair it or call for help, they'd repay me in true porno movie style they were selling cookies, I threw the door open. To my horror, they had neither automotive problems nor delicious snacks to sell.

Ladies: Good afternoon, sir. We're with Liberty Baptist Church, and we'd like to invite you to come worship the Lord with us.
Me: I'm Catholic.
Ladies: We want to extend the invitation to worship the Lord to all God's children.
Me: I'm Catholic.
Ladies: The table of the Lord is set for anyone willing to be born again in His glory and righteousness.
Me: *blatantly staring at their breasts*
Ladies: Sir?
Me: *still staring at their chests* Thank you, Jesus!

Eventually, they left. Since the initial confrontation, I had become wary of their religious guile. Another time, I was sitting at home and I had ordered a pizza for me and the kids to enjoy. The doorbell rang. Expecting a big round slice of Italian heaven, instead, I once again got invited to join Jesus at his banquet table--apparently, all that walking everywhere made him hungry. Again, it was two attractive teenage girls peddling the Lord's wares and not delivering me with a pizza nor offering to massage my sins away.

Finally, a third time they arrived. I wasn't expecting anyone this time, so I didn't immediately throw the door open. The kids were running back and forth, screaming that someone was at the front door. Undeterred, my uninvited guests continued knocking and ringing the bell. Finally, the football game had gone to halftime I had had enough, and so I decided to end this little charade here and now.

That, of course, meant dropping my pants. I kicked off my shoes, ripped off my socks and dropped trou. My daughter asked what I was doing. I just nodded to her and said, "Answerin' the door, honey."

I ripped the door open, fully expecting it to be yet another pair of teenage girls looking for a jump to peddle Jesus to me. Instead, it was a couple of dowdy middle aged women, and you could see by the shock on their faces that they were not expecting me to be standing before them in my underwear and a t-shirt. However, they pushed on with their spiel message:

Women: Good afternoon, sir, we're with Liberty Baptist Church and we wanted to ask you some questions.
Me: Aren't you two supposed to be teenagers?
Women: We have many members of the congregation who do door-to-door missionary services.
Me: Well, I guess I'll just have to 'covet my neighbor's wife' instead of his daughters this time.
Women: Are you familiar with Jesus?
Me: Familiar with? Hell yeah. He's a great guy. Cuts the lawns on Tuesday. He does a good job. I recommend him.
Women: We're talking about our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Me: Oh, yeah. THE Jesus. Yeah, I have a healthy snack of his blood and flesh every...well...once a year, at least. Sometimes twice.
Women: Well...if you were to die today, do you know where you'd go?
Me: Are you selling funeral plots or funeral planning? Cause I'm not interested. I want a Viking funeral.
Women: No, we're talking about your immortal soul.
Me: *reaches down to my balls to scratch...and just keep scratching* Oh, yeah, that. Well, I figure I'd go to Purgatory for a few thousand years or however long it takes. They're a little fuzzy on the details. But I'll eventually make it to the Pearly Gates...unlike those bastards who decided to go nailing stuff to the church's door. I pity those poor souls and their eternal torment. *lifts fingers up to nose and sniffs* Yergh. That smells terrible.
Women: Thank you for your time, sir.

I should probably mention here that I don't really believe that Purgatory stuff, but I had a football game to watch and kids to ignore, so I needed to employ drastic measures. So, if you're a Protestant, don't worry...I know that you won't go to Hell; you'll just keep languishing in Purgatory for a while longer than I will.

Anyway, that was nearly three years ago now, and they haven't been back since. Not at least while I've been home. I don't know, maybe they've visited my wife, but I do like to cling to the notion that I've scared them off and that there's a big red X over my house on their Heathen Map.

Paging the E-Nerd

July 11, 2009

The wonderful thing about having a blog is that I have, over the past however many years, come to befriend a great many people from a wide variety of places around this vast globe of ours. Sure, some of you I know in real life or we went to fifth grade together or got shitfaced drunk in Gallagher hall or whatever, but larger majority of my readership is comprised of people I have never met. Would I like to? Fuck yeah, but I really don't see that happening in the near future.

Unless you all get really fucking drunk and wake up in North Carolina and then, after trying to piece together just how the hell you got to North Carolina, you decide "You know what? I think I'll go give that Jenks guy a visit, see what he's all about. Wait a minute...who the fuck lets their grass grow this long, that fat motherfucker over there? Help me, Mr. Wodka, take me away!"

What was I talking about again?

Oh yeah, how keen and spiffy and boneriffic you people are.

Anyway, when I started this whole blog business, I certainly didn't think I'd meet up with someone from South Africa. I figured the most exotic places would be somewhere like Scotland or perhaps some Scandinavian locale. Right time zone, but wrong hemisphere (or some such bullshit like that).

I stumbled across Pfangirl's blog while looking up some shit about the GI Joe movie coming out this August. That was probably two years ago (at least a year and a half), and for a nerdy motherfucker like me, I landed smack in the middle of geek heaven. If you've never given her a read, take a look. I'm especially a fan of her Girlz 'N' Games webcomic, especially this one where she details the writing and drawing process.

Well, this weekend, Pfangirl is hitting something called ICON, which is South Africa's biggest games and comic convention. In order to pimp her webcomic stuff, she had a Girlz 'N' Games shirt made for the convention, and then invited everyone to stare at her chest. At least, that's how I interpreted it. So, because I'm such a good bloggy friend, I was going to leave her a comment, when I noticed something strikingly coincidental about her word verification...which I went ahead and copied, just so people would believe me.

That's right, the word verification is "enerd". Fitting and awesome.

I hope you had a good time at the con, Pfangirl, and that all the dudes staring at your chest lands you a sweet publishing deal for your webcomic.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XXXII

July 10, 2009

Can you feel it? We're in the middle of summer, and that can mean only one thing: the Major League Baseball All-Star Game is upon us. Or nearly so. What was that? Did I hear a collective 'ho-hum' from the audience?

I can hardly blame you. As far as All-Star events go, baseball probably does have the best showcase--though it's been diluted down even further by having 33 players on each side now. Bud Selig, always striving for mediocrity.

Now, there used to be a time when I gave a shit about baseball, and I used to love the All-Star Game. I used to wait with bated breath during the summer months until the event was upon us (I mean, I was a Cubs's not like I was waiting for the play-offs). Now? I had to look it up to see if the damned thing had been played yet or not, and whether I'd have to shuffle this week's Latin Lesson to the World Series.

The last time I watched an All-Star game was in 2000, and that's a bit of a stretch even. I was still single back then, but I was dating the comely and buxom and ailurophobic Bouddica. I lived in a swinging bachelor's pad out by the airport with three other guys, all chemists in some capacity (two biochemists, a chem engineer, and me). Somehow, we all snuck out of our respective labs early. A couple of my friends went and bought the booze, and I picked up a couple of pizzas for the evening. Papa John's, with jalapenos and Italian sausage. I decided that we also needed some porn, so I picked up the latest Playboy out on the shelves. It was the one with Darva Conger in it. I was underwhelmed. The only thing I remember about the spread was that she had nipples that bore a disturbing resemblance to Cocoa Puffs. *shudder*

As for who won the All-Star game? Shit, I dunno. Tottenham Hotspur? Let's go with them. We dragged a television out onto the deck at the house we were renting, but we ended up getting shit-faced drunk and shooting off bottle rockets long into the night. I can assure you that the drinking and the explosives were far more entertaining than the baseball "game".

Anyway, should you find yourself next Tuesday hanging out, drinking heavily, or shooting off illegal fireworks--or hell, all three--you can turn to the chap next to you and fire off this little beauty. Profundity shall ensue:

Lex clavitoris designati rescindenda est!

Pronounced: "Laix clah-vee-toar-eese day-seeg-nah-tee ray-skeen-dain-dah est!"

Translation is in the hovertext.

I did try to look up pictures of some of your favorite teams to feature here, since some of you still like the baseball and whatnot. Most of the Red Sox pictures had already been seen over at Jon and Mike's respective places. A search for "Sexy Twins" gave me results that I wasn't quite looking for (but bookmarked nonetheless). And, sorry, Red, when I looked up "Sexy Padres Fan", all I got was this.

TMI Thursday: The Bee that Roared

July 9, 2009

Lord amighty, is it that time again already? And here, we had just gotten over last week's episode in which I learned to never sit down at the porn shoppe. *shifty-eyed* Anyway, today is my brother-in-law's (Bouddica's brother) birthday. He's 32 or something like that. Whatever. I think I'll tell a story that he'd truly appreciate. Nothing says Happy Birthday BIL like a raunchy TMI story, no?

We'll head back to the fifth grade when I was an erstwhile and callow-faced youth at Salamonie Elementary and Junior High School. There were enough of us that we had two fifth grade rooms. The strange thing, though, is that the fifth grade rooms were separated by a false wall. It was a sort of cardboard-like wall that folded up all accordion-style. I remember it being a deep brown. The thing didn't really separate the two rooms all that well, aside from visibly. We could still hear pretty much everything going on in the other fifth grade classroom, and I assume they could hear us. Wait, check that. I know they could hear us. Here's the sordid tale of how that fact became painfully clear.

Every week, as school children often will, we had a spelling test. We had something like twenty spelling words and usually five "difficult" bonus words. These were optional spelling words you could take on the back of your spelling sheet and then you'd get a 105 or something like that. Anyway, in order to practice for these things, the whole class lined up and we had a spelling bee.

I suck at spelling. Already in this post, I've fucked up "accordion" and "separate" and "difficult" (though that one was because I was typing too fast). So, I only ever won the spelling bee once, and I was so happy I did a sort of happy dance and went to give my friends a high five, and they all stonewalled me. Motherfuckers. The lot of them.

Anyway, I'm getting off track here. One day, we were all lined up at the back of the room, and things were quiet so that everyone could hear their word and try to spell it correctly. So, things were still and quiet with only one voice raised at a time. I think next door they were having a test, as well, because it was awfully quiet over there, too.

That's when I felt a bubbly in my tummy. Being a man of excellent rectal control, I've been known to be able to hold a good fart in and quietly sneak it out, should the situation merit such an action. Being that everything was so quiet and the fact that I was in school, I felt the polite course of action would be to back myself into the corner of the room and try my best to sneak this gaseous eructation out. And so I backed into the corner carefully so as to not draw any attention to myself. I then squeezed by my cheeks and loosened the tensile grip of my sphincter to let a tiny bit of gas go.

A sound reminiscent of a jet engine roared roared from my backside.

For a fleeting second, dead silence filled the room, which was suddenly filled with gales and torrents of mirthful, wonderful laughter. I could feel the color quickly climb into my face, which must look absolutely horrified, I'm sure. However, I couldn't quite contain myself when I looked up and the sweet little old lady teacher--Mrs. Etherington--herself was caught up in the moment and laughing heartily at my gaseous misfortune.

Do you know the episodes of the Simpsons where Marge asks Homer something like "Did you get Lisa a present for her birthday" and Homer looks all skeezy and backs away and says, "Yes, of course I did, I just left in the car. Let me go get it." And then when he's off camera you hear his footsteps pounding and the door slams and suddenly the car peels out of the driveway? Well, I heard something kind of like that, except it was from the other fifth grade room.

There was the pounding of footsteps and the door to the other room suddenly burst open and the footsteps continued down the hall toward our room. Suddenly, the door to our room burst open, and the other fifth grade teacher comes flying into the room.

"Who did that?" she asked. Everyone looked to me, still laughing. Again, horrified, I raised my hand to show it was me.

"We all heard that through the wall!" she proclaimed. And, that was all. She had half a smile on her face as she turned toward the door. And then, she paused, "You might want to check yourself, make sure you didn't leave a mess." And then she was gone.

More laughter and then, finally--mercifully--after about five minutes, everyone quieted down. Finally, through peals of mirthful giggles, I stepped forward and, with as much dignity and grace as I could muster, I softly offered up.

"Pardon me!" This caused the teacher to laugh more, and then we finally bagged the spelling bee and we all went outside for recess a little early. So, I guess, no one won the spelling bee, but we were all winners for having a little bit extra recess. And we owe it all to my ass.

Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

D is for Cross-Dressing...Apparently

July 8, 2009

This is my five hundredth post. I was going to write something pithy and brilliant centered on the number five hundred...but, since today is my son's fifth birthday, you're getting this instead. Nothing says "Happy Birthday, Son of Mine" like being publicly mocked and humiliated on the internet!

Yesterday, my daughter was being a snot. Cookie (as I've designated her on this here corner of the innerwebs) decided she wanted to have a tea all girl tea party. My son, Tank, wanted to go to the tea party, too, but since he's not a girl, Cookie wouldn't let him.

My wife, the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Bouddica, tried to talk Cookie into letting Tank come to her tea party, but she'd have none of that shit. Tired of arguing, my wife went to take a shower.

When she emerged from the shower, there was Cookie standing by the door to our closet, giggling. Tank was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is [name redacted] Tank?" my wife asked.

"He's in the closet," Cookie responded.

"Tank, come out of the closet," my wife said.

"I can't," he giggled. "It's too embarrassing."

This went on for a few minutes until finally the closet door creaked open and, well, this emerged:
The thing on top of his head is a scarf that has been cleverly tied up to resemble a wig. The clothes are Cookie's, but I think the shoes are Bouddica's. It's nice to see the boy can accessorize. Just notice how striking that red belt is with the black ensemble.


The problem is, he didn't want to change out of his clothes. He liked dressing up in girls' clothes. He claimed it was more fun to be a girl. In lieu of a tea party, they decided to have a fashion show. Oh, those plucky children of mine.

My wife is distraught. She wants me to take him and do manly things with him. At a loss, I didn't know what to do. Teach him how to piss in the stream out back? Download some videos of other guys getting kicked in the nuts and laugh at their pain and suffering? Take him to the joint down the street with the signs out front proudly proclaiming they boast an "All Girl Staff"? Blow some shit up? Vegas?

So, I sat down and pondered this situation in the only way I knew how: by asking myself "What Would Homer Simpson Do?" I immediately went home and fell asleep on the couch, ignoring my children. When I took them outside after my nap, Tank was climbing to the top of the swingset and hurtling himself off it. I figured there was no activity that was more "little boy" than a possible shattered pelvis and thusly patted myself on the back for another parenting job well done.

Oh Homer, you never fail me.