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Victory, Motherfuckers!!!

September 30, 2010

My wife pointed out to me last night that it's been a week and a half since I committed any thoughts to electronic media, at least in any sort of meaningful fashion. *makes dismissive jacking off motion* So. Hi. How are you?

Normally there'd be a long and wordy bunch of half-hearted excuses about being busy and life catching up with me and references to anal sex here, but I'm not really in for that today. I'm sorry, but my thighs are positively aquiver with joy because, this morning, I am SO full of win--but not Wynn, unfortunately (you know, because she's like hot and stuff).

Last night my wife and I went out with some friends to Trivia Night down at ye olde Irishe Pubbe here in heart of the Bulle Citye. It was a sort of date night thing. We sat and had some dinner (by the way, don't get ye olde pattye melte because it ye olde suckes) and my wife enjoyed a beer while I took full advantage of those free refills on coke, so much so that, by the end of the competition, my back teeth were floating.

We were then joined by our friends, and the trivia started flowing. Did you know that "trivia" is Latin for "three roads coming together"? That's the kind of shit you need to know for Trivia Night.

Lo and behold, we even had a Latin question! Though, it was rather anticlimactic because it was "What is the Latin motto for the United States Marine Corps?" My wife was all over that because, you know, Latin degree and she gets a little warm underneath for men in uniform with great arms.

HOWEVER, I nailed the very first question thanks almost solely to the Friday Morning Latin Lessons. The question: "Who died on August 16th, 1977 shortly after a game of racquetball?" Thanks to the afore linked Latin Lesson, I knew the answer to the question. Fucking. Aye.

Unfortunately, I talked myself out of knowing a question about Trotsky, and I wasn't sure where Berlin was in relation to Rome and the direction west, otherwise we would have won. That's right. We ended up in second place, one point behind the winning team. However, we tied with someone for second, and so there was a "lightning round". The question: what are the ten words in the English language with the most definitions in the Oxford English Dictionary. Thanks to Bill Bryson, I (and my friend Tristan), knew "set" and Tristan's wife offered "go". We won the round, two to nothing and secured for ourselves $25 in credit toward our tab for the night.

But wait, there's more!

In one of the bonus rounds--questions asked to the general populace in between the main rounds--I won...again! Last time I went, I scored a sweet Yuengling shirt. This time? A shirt and an insect transformer for my kids, some pencils and a family day pass to the local museum, along with a bright orange backpack sort of thing. All-in-all is all we are an excellent night of trivial victory. And even today, my thighs are dripping with victory and useless knowledge.

And because it's Thursday, we can't go without a little TMI, am I right? Fuck you, of course I am.

When we got in the car, my wife and I were still glowing with victory and happiness because we actually socialized with another couple! Thanks to my knowledge of geography (minus relative westerly positions of European capitals), my wife was very proud of me. In fact, she turned to me and said, laying a hand upon my thigh:

"I'm so proud of you, if I wasn't having my period right now, I'd take you home and fuck your lights out."

...

*shakes an angry fist at the moon*

Ah well, we can't all be winners all the time.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. LXXXIV

September 17, 2010

Salvete, omnes!

Well, I did it again. Yesterday, I used the word vagina and I once again lost a follower! I even used the strike-through on it, and still, the follower struck out. The truly ironic thing is that this person showed up here from a blog called Sara Swears A Lot. And if you're not reading Sara Swears a Lot, you're doing yourself a great disservice. Let me give you a synopsis of the blog: The author's name is Sara, and she swears. A lot.

One of Sara's favorite words? Vagina. Yes, I just linked to myself right there. Bad form? Maybe. But that whole Latin Lesson was about vaginae. Anyway, I find it quite amusing about the whole losing a follower thing in this case. Well, I find that shit amusing, anyway, but in this particular case, it's even funnier.

So, last night, my friend, the Brewing Optometrist, called me. He was calling to deliver the happy news that he was a father for the fourth time! A beautiful, healthy baby girl! Seven pounds even, nineteen inches long, brown hair, green eyes.

And her name...uh...well...*scratches head* See, there's the problem. They don't have a name. Every name he suggests, his wife shoots down. Every name she suggests, he shoots down. He called his brother for advice, and he lead off with "What about Triana?", referencing Dr. Orpheus' daughter from the Venture Brothers. When the Brewing Optometrist shot that down, his brother continued to name every female character from the Venture Brothers, including, I presume, Dr. Girlfriend. Or whatever her name is now.

I immediately went with "Eurydice"...because of the connection to Orpheus. Plus, later in life, when his youngest begins dating, the Brewing Optometrist can tell her suitor in his best Dr. Orpheus voice "Do not go in there!" and then point at the nameless child.

You'd have to watch the show to get the brilliance of that joke.

Anyway, he shot down Eurydice, so I went to my backup plan: Latin female names. Strangely enough, I have a list of them here on my desk. Oh, alright, I've been meaning to do a post like this for a while, but I couldn't think up a clever way to lead into it. Fortunately, my best friend from my formative years can't pick out a name from the myriad of girl names on the roster and hang it on his newborn daughter, thus allowing me easy access to penning this lovely post.

Here's the names, with what they mean:

Victoria: "victory"
Amabel: "lovable"
Amy: "beloved"
Flavia: "blonde"
Beatrice: "making happiness"
Regina: "queen"
Gloria: "glory"
Viola/Violet: "violet"
Clara: "clear, bright"
Laura: "laurel; triumph"
Stella/Estella: "star"
Celestine/Celeste: "heavenly"
Flora: "flower"
Julia/Julie: "descended from the Julian line; devoted to the worship of Jove"
Augusta: "majestic"
Alma: "nourishing, kind, generous"
L(a)etitia: "joyfulness"
Sylvia: "of the forest"
Gratia/Grace: "grace; charm; loveliness"
Miranda: "she who must be admired"
Amanda: "she who must be loved"
Barbara: "foreign, savage, blah blah blah (literally)"
Margarita: "pearl"

Of these, he liked "Clara" the best and tucked it into his thinking cap for later. Everything that begins with an A is out...for some reason. He didn't specify, but it could be that they have a couple of A names in their family already.

Margarita was also a term of endearment, like we would use "dear" or "honey". It also has given me an assumed name for my aunt when I go to write the story of my childhood that my wife wants me to pen, since "Pearl" is a nickname for Margaret (which is derived from Margarita). How it came to also be the name of a delicious drink which causes me to pass out in a bucket of cheeseballs, I'm not sure. Perhaps it's a story for another day.

However, I don't look a gift horse in the mouth (yes, I linked myself again! I put a lot of effort into that post. Plus, mostly naked Daniel Radcliffe!). So, while we're on the subject of margaritas...

Frusta tempus contero urbe margaritae!

Pronounced: "Froo-stah tame-poos cohn-tair-oh oor-bay mar-gar-ee-tie!"

*sigh* Translation in the hovertext.


Damn. Now I'm thirsty.

Which is good, because it has gotten hot here...again! Motherfuckers told me last weekend that this past week would be very pleasant and lovely, so I shut off the air conditioner. Now, my balls are sweaty. I blame you, terrible weather prognosticators of the Triangle area. Don't think you're escaping my wrath, either, Weather Channel. You're just as guilty in this.

Plus, Notre Dame is up to their best damned Notre Daminess, which is to say, frustrating me to the point of tears and causing Bad Notre Dame Daddy to come out in earnest. But it's okay, because we've got bleach margaritas.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

TMI Thursday: Minnesota

September 15, 2010

It's always delighted me that I have so many followers and readers from Minnesota. It's a fabulous place, Minnesota, and I can say that having visited it a couple of times. Perhaps the winters are a little long--even for my tastes--but when Minnesota greens up in the spring, wow is it a beautiful sight.

My connection to the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes extends well beyond my best friend in the fifth grade moving there. Perhaps that heart-breaking tale is why I found a girlfriend from Minnesota and then subsequently fell in love with her.

It's true; the Ex- was a Minnesotan, complete with that soft northern accent dominated by nasal a's and long, drawn out oo's and oh's. Despite her speech impediment (I kid, I kid), I did manage to fall in love with her and ask her to marry me. She accepted, and so we had to start this whole "marriage and wedding prep" thing.

Which is why I've been to Minnesota a couple of times. I headed up there the spring before I jigged my way to Notre Dame so that we could begin the arduous task of thinking about flower arrangements, photographers, places to get married, and cake. You know which of these was the real reason why I agreed to come to Minnesota. Cake frosting goes so well with 36Cs. What?

Oh, and there was the small task of meeting her father.

I know I should have waited to ask permission for his daughter's vagina hand in marriage--I should have done that with the girl I, you know, actually married, too...but I didn't. In either case. However, I had made the decision to ask this person to marry me, and I was so nervous that I kind of just let it slip my mind. Er, I mean, I totally overlooked it.

Plus, she didn't care. And her dad was okay with it. As long as she was happy and some such bullshit.

So, anyway. I found myself in the suburbs of Minneapolis on a fresh and lovely Friday afternoon with my affianced in her father's huge and empty house. Dadums was still at work. He said he would meet us at the restaurant--his tip!--for dinner.

Which means that we had a few hours to ourselves. In a big, empty house.

She showed me around and we carried our stuff into her room. It was a lovely light blue color, and she had a pretty big bed for someone who was supposed to be sleeping alone. I made the comment and she got that sultry, smoky look in her eye. And I knew it was on.

I slammed her (delicately) against the wall, my arms wrapping around her waist and my hands grasping her ass as I began to kiss her. She fervently returned the attention and began pulling my shirt up off my head. We were going to need to shower before dinner, anyway, so we might as well get naked, right?

And so we did. I practically ripped her top off and threw her bra somewhere behind me. She tugged and pulled at my belt and my pants, finally releasing me. Falling to her knees, she pulled me into her mouth and began stroking and sucking me. After a few minutes, she began to rise, but I all but tackled her onto the bed, pulling her pants down and kissing my way down the front of her body. Once she came to the throes of ecstasy, I mounted the bed and entered her.

Now, the Ex- wasn't necessarily a screamer, but she liked to get loud. Especially in an empty house. She was moaning as I was thrusting deep into her, demanding more (or "mohr"...oh, those delightful Minnesotans!). I pulled out and she turned around, bending over the side of the bed. I came at her from behind--our favorite position--and things got even louder. As I was pounding away at her, I thought I heard some strange noise from the first floor of the house.

"Did you hear something?" I asked, slowing my rhythm.

"It was probably just the mailman. He comes around this time of day," she said, gasping with each thrust. "Harder," she begged. "Please. Fuck me. God, please, fuck me."

And so I did.

I reached up and pulled on her ponytail, causing her back to arch. I grabbed onto one hip and continued to pound away and she screamed and moaned with each thrust. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I pulled out of her, pulling back on her ponytail so that I could cum on her breasts. I, too, moaned with delight as I coated her chest with my seed. We both collapsed onto the bed.

And then we heard from downstairs, someone--older and male--clear his throat.

Oh. Damn. If "FML" had been invented at that point, I would have said it. Several times.

Giggling, she hastily got up and cleaned herself off. We put our clothes back on and--red-faced, me moreso than her--we went downstairs.

Her father wasn't an overly large man. In fact, I was taller than he. I was also broader of shoulder and--back then--I was in much better shape. Of course, none of this factored into how imposing he was at that very second when I shook his hand, trying to force myself to look into his eyes. However, his stony demeanor and the way he was staring daggers at me might have played into how I had trouble looking him in the eye.

"So," he finally offered after the initial platitudes about having a good trip, nice to meet him, oh look at the ring he bought me were out of the way, "are you two hungry?"

I muttered something incomprehensible and the Ex- told him that we should probably shower to get the travel funk off our bodies. His look said "travel funk...uh huh..."

So, we showered--in separate showers--and got dressed and ready to go to dinner. We pile into Papa's car and then head off to the restaurant. We get there, and instead of waiting in the vestibule of the restaurant, we hit the bar--again, his treat! After a couple of Manhattans, apparently the old man has cooled toward me. We get our table, and we sit down. The waitress comes over and tells us the daily specials--some fish dish (presumably not provided by the Cat in the Hat), some low-carb offering (we were just starting in with that craze at the time) and some smothered chicken breast dish.

She took our drink orders and let us mull over the menu for a bit. After she left, the Ex's dad--a regular at this restaurant, presumably--said, in a low voice, "You should go for the steak. I assume you've already had enough breast for the day."

I tried to die of embarrassment right there, but I failed miserably. However, that was the only time during the evening--the entire weekend, in fact--that he mentioned our little afternoon entertainment.

That night, when we did it again (imagine this...he didn't protest at all that we would be sleeping in the same bed) we were much quieter.

EDIT: What the hell? I meant "ten thousand lakes". Honest.

The Air Up Here

September 14, 2010

I'm a fairly tall individual. I'm a hair under six foot four inches...although, with my hair growing longer now and piling up on my head, I might be at six foot four even.

Being tall has many, many perks. Among them, there's being struck by lightning, being the first to get shat upon by birds, and the ever-present danger of your forehead meeting low lintels of doorways and poorly-hung ceiling decorations. Lamps, those fouls beasts, are the bane of my frontal bone's existence.


There are some actual advantages to being tall. The ability to peer down shirts is one of them.

And it's something I've been taking advantage of since the sixth grade.

A conversation I had with my best friend, the Brewing Optometrist, some time around the 11th grade:

Me: Dude, I think I just saw Rebecca Scanlan's belly button.

TBO: So?

Me: From above.

TBO: Bastard!

And so it was during my formative years and on into college. Spy some cleavage and grab an extra peek. I've enjoyed the view of many a curved, round breast in my day, peering down into the dark crevices hidden by her shirt. What a glorious thing it is to be tall.

Except...there was this one time, when I was a senior in high school. I was friends with one of the finest specimens of femininity there ever was to grace the halls of Huntington North High School. Her name was Jodi Hippensteel and she had tits as big as planetoids. It was as if the gravity of her shirt had captured a pair of asteroids and their combined gravity was enough to hold them there, jiggling back and forth wherever she went. Back in the day, I'm sure if you would have looked up "huge and perky" in the dictionary, there would have been a picture of Jodi Hippensteel, circa 1993.

You'd need a life vest to motorboat those babies. Unfortunately, she did not have a ripe, round apple of an ass to go with Emmet Otter's Jug Band in her shirt. This allowed me to focus all my attention where it needed to be.

I also just learned, thanks to the marvels of the internets, that Jodi was living in South Bend at the same time I was at Notre Dame. Universe, I'm trying not to hate you right now.

Have I digressed? Probably, but it was a happy place. Mostly.

Anyway, Jodi and I were pretty good friends. Perhaps not the finest of friends; certainly I was never invited over to spend the night at her house, painting her toenails (dammit), but we were friends.

One day, in physics class, my friend Jodi was wearing this ridiculously tight red-and-white checked shirt. It probably best fit her in the second grade, but no one was complaining. Least of all me, and my two friends sitting next to me in physics: the Brewing Optometrist and this guy named Chris.

For whatever reason--the blood, she wasn't pooling in my brain at the time--Jodi came over to ask me a question about something. In the physics lab, we sat at tables that were tall enough we required stools. Conveniently, they were just tall enough for someone of Jodi's height to be able to comfortably put her elbows on the table and lean forward--way forward--and rest her chin on her hands with her elbows splayed wide.

Which she did.

Right in front of me.

And this is when I underwent the greatest internal conflict, ever.

The more basal, blog-writing part of me appeared on my left shoulder, screaming in my ear "Look at 'em! LOOK. AT. 'EM! You're never going to get a better chance. Never! Look at 'em! LOOKAT'EM!"

On my right shoulder, the better part of me--clothed in white, strumming a harp, wings aflutter--was saying "Maintain eye-contact. Maintain eye-contact. Don't look down. I'll do it for you. DAMN!!!"

Like the fucking saint that I was am, I did not look. Not even a peek. Though, I'm sure she could see the internal conflict playing out on my face. Do I regret not looking? Not so much. She had several hot friends that I felt I had outside chances with, so I could always play the "I'm a nice guy card" while trying to get into their pants.

However, the Brewing Optometrist and Chris both got presented one of the finest titty-oriented shows ever. Not only am I nice guy for not looking down Jodi's shirt, but I'm also a caring and giving friend, because that conversation lasted for about five minutes. Five, long, agonizing minutes. And the giggles from those two bastards sitting next to me were growing louder and louder as my desire to look down grew stronger and stronger.

Fortunately, I was saved by the teacher entering the room and starting class. Jodi bounced back over to her seat, but rather than pay a damn lick of attention to whatever the hell the teacher was blathering on about--force vectors, speed of light, momentum, some bullshit--I sat there and stared at the sweet round curve of Jodi's breasts. Sideboob is excellent, even when clad in red-and-white checkers.

And that appreciation of mammaric flesh has served me much better to this day than any force of friction calculation ever has.

A Wretched Proposal

If may be so bold, I'm going to ask you to participate in today's story. I want you to think back to earlier in the year, when I had television problems. Remember that? Okay, good. Your part is done.

You may also remember that I used some money from my annual bonus to buy a new flat-panel television...just in time for the World Cup. However, I still had the old, rather malfunctioning television taking up space in my living room.


Oh, sure, we hid it behind the doors of the entertainment center--itself a bit of an eyesore and about as stable as a college romance forged at a kegger. What to do with these two piles of refuse sitting in my living room? What to do, what to do?

As the television still sort of worked, I didn't want to just throw it out. I also didn't want to keep it around. I was in a sort of tele-limbo while I tried to make a decision.

Then, one day, I heard a commercial on the radio saying that Best Buy--they of the big yellow tags and the really shitty customer service--was offering e-recycling. Just bring in your old electronic appliances and they would take care of them for you. They would even give you gift cards for your trouble, especially if the appliance still worked.

The catch was that not all Best Buy stores had an e-recycling center. I needed to verify before going about the task of lugging my rather heavy television in only to find that they would not accept it.

Recently, we switched out some furniture in the house and we got a much nicer center for the television to rest on. Not to mention, it is now a far sturdier base, so I'm not afraid of my beloved third child television toppling over while my son is dancing around playing Link from the Legend of Zelda series. In the course of rearranging the room and switching the furniture, I ran (and, I'm not exaggerating, I promise) my tele up the hill of my front yard and stowed it in the back of my car. Whenever I could, I would take it Best Buy and get rid of it, safely and environmentally consciously.

Which brings us to Labor Day weekend. I decided to drive to Best Buy near my wife's place of employ, and see if they had an e-recycling center. I had the children with me. I walked in, queried the man at the front, and he directed me toward the customer service counter where I could leave the television.

Fabulous! Away we went back to my car where I hefted the television into my ursine grasp. My daughter grabbed the remote, my son carried the chord so that it didn't drag on the ground, and my daughter closed the back of my car. Into the store we went, through the doors, and over to the customer service counter. I set the television down and waited in line.

Finally, it was my turn and I told the woman that I had brought in the television for recycling. While in line, I began to fantasize about all the wonderful electronics I would be able to buy with my newly-acquired gift cards, a reward for my environmentally-conscious efforts.

"Excellent, thank you," she said, "that will be $10."

I pondered for a second and whipped out my Best Buy card. $10 was a little less than what I had envisioned for the effort of dragging the television into the store, but, what the hell. I figured I could get the $10 as a credit on my card, which meant a little less I'd have to pay off in order to even my balance with the cold, heartless capitalistic pig of Best Buy.

I swiped my card, but nothing happened.

I swiped it again. Again, nothing happened.

"I can try it for you, if you'd like," the young lady offered.

Suddenly, the lightbulb over my head finally began to flicker to life.

"Hold on a second," I said as she was poised to swipe my card a third time. "Are you...are you charging me $10?"

"Why, yes," she stated. "It's our policy, with anything that has a screen. Televisions, computer monitors. Things like that." She was so perky delivering the news I wanted to punch her in the throat.

"I'm sorry. I must have misheard you. You are charging me to recycle this television?"

"Yes. It's our policy."

"Fuck a bunch of that!" "Then I will be taking my television back now, thank you very much," I said.

"What are you going to do with it?" the girl asked, suddenly huffy and defensive. The perkiness had disappeared in half a heartbeat.

"I'm going to set it out on the curb in front of my house. Someone will take it away. For free!" I added a bit of extra emphasis on the last two words. I probably even raised my eyebrows in a mockingly friendly fashion.

"But it won't be recycled!" she countered, still huffy. Apparently, the eyebrow-raising had not had the intended results.

"Don't care. Someone will take it. For free!!" Again, the added emphasis on the tail end of the sentence. More eyebrow waggling, to boot.

And so, I gathered my television back up. My son took the chord so that it did not drag on the ground. My daughter took the remote. We were leaving the store when the asshat at the front tried to stop us.

"Where do you think you're going with that?" he asked, defensive.

"To my car, douchebag. I own this television and you can't stop me. Although, you're free to try. I'm sure it would look nice on you as a hat." And I continued on out the store, unmolested, to my car.

I went home. I carried the entertainment center to the front of my yard, setting it beside the driveway. I put the television in it. I hung a crudely-made sign (is there any other kind?) that simply said FREE! on it.

The following day, the television was gone.

A week later, the entertainment center was also gone.

For free.

Making Up Is Hard to Do

September 1, 2010

What a week. I've been fucking busy, like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Except, you know, unless something really bad happens, I'm always going to have two legs.

Always

Shall I give you a quick recap of what's gone on this week? No? Well, fuck off, you're getting one anyway, chief.

Monday: Scramble in the morning to get everyone out the door on time with everything they need for school: backpacks, homework, books, lunch money. Suffer from intense indigestion as I roll the car down the street to the gas station, hoping that I can scrape together enough spare change and/or suck sufficient dick for nickels in hopes of having enough money to put a couple of gallons of gas in car. Succeed in gassing up car. Get daughter to school on time for chorus. Get son home in time for school bus. Get to work at decent time. Get phone call telling how daughter lost her lunch money. Curse. Like a sailor.

Tuesday: Get awakened balls-ass early by shrieking child threatening to throw up. Sit in bathroom on the edge of the tub (uncomfy) in boxers while child coughs, spits garbage into the toilet, then decides he's not going to puke. Says he doesn't want to go to school. Give in to his wishes. Crawl back into bed. Have puky child crawl into bed with you. Try--and fail--to fall back asleep whilst puky child thrashes around in bed beside you like an epileptic watching anime. Get up. Get daughter ready for school. Get in car to go get more lunch for daughter. Threaten her with bodily harm if she loses this. Reward yourself with Chick-fil-A breakfast (mmmm). Realize son is fine. Get him dressed. Get both children on bus. Get ready for work. Go to work. Get summoned to the director's office. Mentally begin updating your resume and wondering whose dick you're going to have to suck in order to get a good recommendation. Get told that the project you just switched to is being switched again. New project gets started next week. Finish shit up and move to new project. Heave sigh of relief, return to lab, and continue rearranging matter to suit your purposes.

Wednesday: Wake up early. Get dressed. Don't eat breakfast. Don't drink coffee. Do get balls fumbled by some strange woman. Feel relief because that shit's been sort of building up for a while you don't have any hernias, you've lost weight, and your blood pressure is fucking awesome. Reward yourself with Taco Bell lunch. Ignore your clean bill of health being shot clean to hell. Hope that the greasy shitstain on the back of your pants comes out with a little Shout, some Oxyclean, and a ritual sacrifice to Billy Mays. Note: may involve cocaine.

Aaaaaaand...that's where I am right now. What other joys does the week hold for me? Fuck if I know. I'm somewhere between My Hurricane's Name is Earl and having...prior commitments *shifty-eyed*...on the opening weekend of college football.