Alright, people. Listen, I've had a shitty summer. Literally, though that part was more in the fall than the summer. But the summer sucked some pretty big sweaty balls, as well. Unfortunately, it wasn't MY big sweaty balls being sucked.
But, dammit, Winter is almost upon us, with its long nights, chilly days and randomly designated holidays commemorating the births of demigods--try as you might, you're not going to find a damned bit of blasphemy in those words. It's time for things to start looking up.
And, by golly, would you look at that? The Winter Solstice for 2011 is on December 22nd. Isn't that just the bees' knees? Because my birthday is also on the 22nd of December! What a co-inky-dink, no? My fake French accent is believable, no?
You know what they say, right? That Winter is Coming. They, of course, being the Starks (or what's left of them...oops, spoilers!) from Game of Thrones. Remember back about three posts when I translated the mottos of the houses in Game of Thrones into Latin? Well, Hibernum venit, fututrices! And with it approaches the anniversary of me sliding out of my mother's birth canal.
*visible shudder*
This is all coming together so well that I think--nay--I feel that I must get this shirt for my birthday:
I mean, I am a fan after all. And I really don't have enough black and/or charcoal gray t-shirts. Plus, my birthday is the winter solstice this year!!! The old gods of the North are trying to tell me something, and I believe that something is to con my friends into buying me a t-shirt.
Oh, what a week. I had to do some of that "parenting" thing that's expected of me. Apparently, if you sire the children, you're expected to raise and discipline them. What the hell fun is that? None, says this very grumpy old man.
Anyway, I was putting the kids on the bus on Wednesday morning when the bus driver pointed at me like she needed to speak with me, and then pointed at the boy, indicating that it was about him. Or that's what I interpreted it as, anyway. I stepped closer to the door and she then informed me that my seven-year-old son had, on the previous day, been "cussing up a storm."
Oh really? Do go on!
My son, of course, burst out into tears. Because he's seven. But, you know, a seven-year-old with a sailor's mouth. I wonder where the fuck he learned that (hint: it's college football season).
I get the boy calmed down and tell him to sit and then I reassure the bus driver that I would take care of it. She continues to go on, telling me that it was his first warning and the next time he'd be off the bus and then reiterated that he had been "cussing up a storm" and that he was mad at his sister or something (this is key for later) and that she heard "every word in the book."
At this point, I'm kind of annoyed and the first thing that I wanted to say was "Did he say 'cunt'? Because that's certainly in the book." And then as she continued on, my next thought was "Look, it's not a big deal. It's a string of letters that you have assigned an arbitrary meaning to which just happens to be one that offends you and your religious tenets based on the mythology of a wandering tribe of escaped slaves formulated over four thousand years ago."
Somehow, though, I didn't think that the bus driver would have understood what I said, nor would she have appreciated it.
Finally, she closed the door and was off. I then let this percolate through the day in the back of my mind and I decided it would be totally hypocritical of me to punish him for something I say every thirty-four seconds on football Saturdays. I got home that evening and sat him down for a good talking to; I refused to yell at him, though, because, you know, hypocrite and all.
Basically I told him that we live in an area where a lot of people get easily offended by words like that and if he's going to say bad words, he should do it where people aren't going to hear him and get upset. Because I remember being in the second grade. I remember learning a whole new lexicon. The kid's going to say it, whether I tell him to or not.
I also said that he shouldn't let his sister bother him like that and cause him to get upset to where he's yelling out swear words. At this, he got defensive. "Why would I call her a BEEEEEEEP? She's my sister!"
At which point the two stories did not seem to line up. Later that same evening, my wife came home and said, "Yes, he got in trouble for saying 'bitch' on the bus."
Oh really? He got in trouble for "bitch"? That's "every word in the book?" What kind of fuck-knuckle thinks that "bitch" constitutes every word in the book? Two things happened then: one, I felt better about the talking-to I gave the lad, telling him to be smart and strategic with his curses and oaths; and two, I became really fucking annoyed with the bus driver. I realize that "bitch" is not the first word you expect to hear coming from a seven-year-old's mouth, but don't fucking make it out like he was doing a George Carlin routine.
I thought maybe I should teach the boy how to swear in a foreign language, so that he would get in less trouble. While French or Spanish or German would be more practical--and hard hitting; every word in German sounds like swearing--perhaps we should with Latin first.
Say what you want about the movie, this is one of my favorite Homer Moments. Ever.
Hovertext for the translation.
And now for the actual "lesson" part. In a deliciously ironic twist, the word verpa that you see above is a slang (vulgar) Latin term for "the penis" and would most certainly be equivalent to our "dick" or "cock". Or Pedro. The funny thing is that verpa ends in an "a" and is therefore a first declension noun, and almost all first declension nouns are feminine. As being a dick isn't really a job, verpa ends up being a feminine word.
The word fututrix, fututrices means "one who is fucked" and the -rix ending makes a female noun. It is the Latin equivalent of "fucker" or (probably a better translation into modern usage) "bitch". Though it is used as an insult, fututrix does not imply "whore", as you might be inclined to guess based on its literal translation. But that's a Latin lesson for a different day.
Oh, and if you're curious, fututor is the male equivalent. And the best application that I can think of is fututor matrum as "mother fucker" (literally "one who fucks mothers"). Anyway, pax fututores matrum. Proficiscor! Have a good weekend.
It is with a heavy heart that I share this story of misdeeds I've done with my dick. No, no...it's okay. I'll make it through. I just have to be strong. Like bull.
Yesterday, my friend Nickbecame dead to me advanced his career, taking a different position with a different company. Since I'm a jealous asshole, I shall miss his presence here within the hallowed halls of my main job, though I am happy for him. As Nick is a regular reader to this blog--as regular as you can get for something that never updates--I thought I would finally piece together the story that I promised back in the dog days of summer. It's called that because I was as hot as dog balls on thigh humping night.
I'm not sure what that means, either.
Anyway, this one is for Nick, who not only is far smarter than I, but is also far better looking. Not to mention he's been banned from nude beaches because the other bathers are terrified of the beached sea serpent that unfurls itself when Nick lays out on his towel. I'm not saying he's massive or anything, but he's better hung than the jury for Phil Spector's trial.
Enough about Nick's anaconda (as a note, it don't want none unless you got buns, hon!); we're here to read embarrassing stories about what I've done with my pecker. And it certainly is interested, even if you don't got buns. Hon.
When it comes to sexual encounters, I've certainly had a few. Unless, for some reason you're my mother reading this. In which case, please, continue lying to yourself and believe that I've only had two. Ever. And none of them were upstairs in my old bedroom. *shifty-eyed*
While my encounters are many, it seems that the greater number of sexual foibles and/or follies took place with She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, otherwise known as Sheila the Buxom The Ex.
If you haven't met The Ex before, feel free to peruse old TMI Thursday posts, as she and her lovely breasts and perfect ass show up there quite often. I feel that, if I compliment her, even these many years after the fact, it will soften the blow should she someday discover several of her sexual misdeeds have been recorded in electronic media. Because it's not like that shit's forever or anything. Oh, internet, what would we do without you? THANK YOU, AL GORE!
Anyway, let's cut to the chase. One night after working at the old bookstore, I went over to the Ex-Fiancee's house. Instead of watching a movie or going out to eat, we decided to probe each other's bodies with parts of our own. This happened on a fairly regular basis. You'd think that, with all the food I wasn't eating, I would have been thinner. Hmm. Go fig.
We were back in her bedroom and I had just worked her out of her clothing and, admittedly, I was had removed my own garments. We were making out pretty hard, hands and lips were moving over every part of each other's bodies. I cupped her breasts, ran my hands down her sides and slipped my fingers between her thighs and into her. Once I felt she was ready, I kissed my way down to her nipples and trailed my lips and tongue down her body as I slipped off the bed. I nestled between her thighs and went to town. After thoroughly enjoying a bout of oral, I decided that I'd try to last as long as possible and just enter her while she was moist and ready.
As a taller man, one of my favorite ways to do the deed is to be standing at the edge of the bed, clasping her thighs, and thrusting into her while her ass is essentially hanging off the edge of the mattress. As I had just finished cunning her lingus, not only was she basking in a post-orgasmic bliss, but she was wet and lubricated and ready. I stood, pulled her willing thighs apart and entered her. Her green eyes flared open as she gasped, she started moaning, and I was off.
Being a gentleman, I started slow, letting her natural juices envelope and lubricate me (this is an important point, so pay attention; re-read that shit if you have to), but as time passed and I things became slicker with her body's essence, I began to lose myself.
It's also important to note that the Barenaked Ladies song, "One Week", had been pretty popular around this time. If you're unfamiliar with the song shame on you!, it features the lyric "Like Sting I'm tantric!" It's a reference to a rumor that Sting is all about the tantric sex and can go on for something like four or five hours worth of sex. It's not so much that he's tantric; it's just that he's motherfucking Sting!
Anyway, this got me to investigate what tantric sex was. With all that "last as long as I can and unearthly glow of awesome sex" reading in my mind, I decided that this night, the night I was with my fiancee, I was going to try the tantric moves. So there I was trying the shallow, shallow, deep shit. And things were going well. This might be skewed slightly because I was having sex, which means that, in my mind, things were probably going pretty well to begin with.
All that aside, I was trying the alternating shallow and deep thrusts. As I mentioned earlier, my fiancee was pretty wet from our foreplay, and by this point all of me--shallow or deep, doesn't matter--was pretty well-lubricated. So I tried the shallow, shallow, shallow, shallow...thing when my mind was like "Put it in her! Hard! Motherfucker!"
Which is what I did.
Except...as I was doing the shallow thing, not much of my penis was actually in her, so when I pulled back for a deep, hard thrust, I kind of slipped out of her. This did not deter me when I went for the deep thrust.
BAM!
I was in her.
Guaranteed to satisfy
Except...I wasn't in her. When I went for the deep thrust after all the shallow bullshit, I kind of forgot to aim. The next thing I knew...I was in her ass, buried up to the hilt. I knew this because those green eyes that had gotten wider when I entered her now goggled out of her head in a fashion that can only be described as "cartoonish". Her body also started contorting and shuddering in a not good, not so sexy way.
Oh, and she screamed. Loudly.
Unsure of what was going on, I looked down as she was rolling onto her side and feeling around her ass with her fingers to see if she was bleeding. Me, being the suave and debonair lover, did manage to ask if she was okay before I started giggling.
"Well, I'm okay. It's not that I'm opposed to that...it's just...that was the first time...and I kind of wasn't ready for it."
And my loving and caring response?
"I understand. It sure did feel tight. But I understand."
I'm such a prize.
After I washed myself up, we resumed with normal, vaginal sex. However, the butt-cherry had been popped and it was only a few weeks until curiosity got the better of both of us and we returned to the tacitly taboo sport of anal rompage.
My home internet is fucked. That's why this space has been mostly blank. Plus, I have been busy trying my best not to sweat. Epic fail on that part.
I also have to replace my entire air conditioning unit from the compressor to the air handler. And that's been...joyously stress free! I can't tell you just how pleasant this whole situation has been.
Tomorrow is going to be 104, maybe 105. And then Saturday is going to try and top Sunday.
My coinpurse is already sagging a bit more.
I think "In the Out Door" was the winner of the poll (pole...heh). I'll get that taken care of next week. It's not the kind of story you write up on the work-based computer.
I'm hot, and I'm a bit exhausted, and I'm trying to finish writing a chapter in one of my books, so I'm not going to give you a story today. Stop bitching; you've gone months in between posts from me. You can wait a little while longer.
The other problem is, I have a lot of stories I can tell in the TMI vein. So, I'm going to let you decide, based pretty much solely on their titles. Here are your options:
The First Time Colorado The Pearl Necklace Cyclops Who Let the Dogs Out? In the Out Door After Hours Fun
I'll leave the voting up to you. Next Wednesday night, I'll put together whatever it is that you all have decided upon. For reference, all of them are about sex.
So, you have that to look forward to. Better pick the right one.
I could write a country song about air conditioning.
It started back in May, when we turned the air conditioner on and warm air came out of it. I run a heat pump for my house, which is apparently "exactly what I need". Only thing is, it wasn't warming us much during the winter and in May, when we had this first bout of ball-stickingly hot weather, it wasn't cooling.
Unimpressed and ready to burn the house down, my best friend, Joe, gave me the name of a guy who had serviced him...er...his air conditioner...in the past. I called the guy and, because it was the first real wave of heat that we had in the summer, he was pretty booked and couldn't get out to my unit for two days. Remaining unimpressed, I waited. And sweated. Or made my own gravy. Or whatever.
Finally, he arrived, changed out some rusted pieces and recharged my unit with coolant. And then he put freon in the air conditioner--hiyo! Anyway, the air was running fine for a while. Things were cool. Not frosty, but I didn't need to wring my pillow out at night in order to shuffle off to dream land.
Not so my car, however. Er, well, the loaner car that I'm borrowing from my wife's grandmother. It probably needs a coolant recharge, as it is slow to finally cool the air, and once it starts cooling the air, it doesn't do a fantastic job, especially when the heat is 90+. When it's enough to melt lead, as the next few days are threatening to be, it just says "fuck it" and doesn't even try to cool the air.
This is fine, since I'm not in my car that much. Just from getting to home to work to other work to home, and half the time I'm not driving in what could be called "the heat of the day." Unfortunately, with the current weather forecast, despite my best efforts, I'll be driving in the heat of the night, too. And I'm not calling anyone "Mr. Tibbs."
To make matters better, the book store has a long history of air conditioning units not working quite right. Apparently, if half of them are working, it's a good day. A great day, in fact. This summer, there have been very few great days. Exacerbating the matter, I spend most of my time standing near the front door. When people come in, not only do they drag in their git along with the acerbic, clinging stench of second-hand smoke, they also drag in the hot air from outside. This air just sort of settles over my position and, despite not moving, I still stand there and sweat.
Which brings me back to the lab, where the air chillers fail, spectacularly, every summer when it gets hot. Let me assure you, ninety humid degrees in a lab coat is not nearly as sexy as one might imagine. At least the lab coat hides the pit stains, but it's more difficult to surreptitiously jangle my ballsack away from it's adherence to the insides of my thighs.
To bring this bitch full circle, last week, the air conditioning unit was running, but no air was being moved in the house. The fan in my air handler, which blows the air around and moves the cool air into the house and pulls the hot air out, was burnt out. It needed a new motor. So, I called the same guy who had done a coolant refill for me. He changed the fan out and air was moving again.
Now, the fan works great. The air is moving, I hear it humming, and there's a generally decent flow of air through the house. Bad news, though, is that the air that's moving isn't cool. It seems as though the "leak test" for the air conditioning unit wasn't exactly aced, apparently, and the coolant has leaked out. I know this because it's 90 degrees in my house at night when I go to bed. 90 degrees at midnight is not cool, in any literal or figurative sense.
I'm loath to call this guy back, if only for the fact that I'm not sure I won't be liberally sprinkling my questions to him with the word "fuck" and "dickhead". However, I don't like sleeping in a puddle of my own drippings. And the other thing is, I've already paid him $700 for his work this summer, which has basically netted me zero, as I'm right back to where I started in May. Plus, I don't really have $300 for the service call.
So, I could totally write a song about the painful misery of summer's heat without the joys of recirculated air. It'd either be country or the blues, and if it was a blues song, I would so change my name to Boiling Waters.
I probably should not be whining about this, since it's not three million degrees in North By God Carolina...yet. Or again. Or however you'd like to put it. However, I've said it before and I'll say it again: the coinpurse is hanging mighty low.
I guess the price to pay for one very nice weekend is that we'll soon be thrust deep into the bowels of a very certain fiery hell. Some people (Texans, mostly) call it "summer". It's summer, so let's crank the motherfucking heat all the way to 11, right Mother Nature?
Who knew Mother Nature was such a fan of Nigel Tufnel?
Anyway, this whole ungodly heat wave that has been melting butter all across the Midwest and Great Lakes region--and which is headed straight for the east coast--is just more fuel for the fire for the global warming crowd. Any stretch of hot weather causes them to scream about carbon footprints and cow farts and such. Just like balls-deep snow causes the extremists on the other side to squawk just as loudly against global warming. Whatever it is, global warming or not, I know that I have to wring my pillow out around 4:20 every morning, and that's just not good eats.
I need to slow down my typing: my knuckles are sweating.
Anyway, global warming, celestial alignment, God's hot little prank on all of us--whichever reason you can come up with for this ball-saggingly hot streak, there's no denying that the temperatures are cranked up. Grab yourself a cool glass of ice tea or iced water or scotch on the rocks and check this shit out:
By the way, when I hit 45, scotch on the rocks is all I'll be drinking. You've been given ten year's warning, Scotland! Time to up the manufacturing process!
As you can see in the video, the sun doesn't get along too well with Thai food, either. That big, galactic fart was a solar flare coupled with a massive ejection of charged plasma particles. Fortunately, that was pointed anywhere but toward the Earth. If it had been pointed here, well, we wouldn't be having the conversation, now, would we?
Here's another clip, a closer view but also viewed at a slightly different wavelength of light so you can see the shit falling back into the sun. It's pretty awesome to see the light flaring when the sun's own ejecta lands back on its surface.
Now, run that back and pay special attention to the place where the flare originates and watch it as the flare erupts. Did you see that dark circle running away from the epicenter of the explosion? That's a blast wave. On the surface of the sun. From where part of it blew out.
*takes hat off head and fans self*
Pardon me. I need to catch my breath.
Here's something cool, though. If you look at your keyboard right now, everything you see--the carbon that makes up your flesh and bones and the plastic keys to your keyboard, the aluminum that forms the frame, the hydrogen and oxygen that makes up most of that delicious cup of coffee sitting on your desk, even the calcium and phosphorus that makes up the ceramic of your coffee mug--all came from shit like this. The sun--or any star--burps out the atoms that make up pretty much everything (elements heavier than iron, though are made when the sun truly gets surly and goes supernova) when it ejects material out of itself like this. Most of that stuff fell back to the sun's surface, it's true, but some of it went floating off into the deep, dark nether regions of space and may, someday, turn into the coffee mug or ballpoint pen of some future denizen of Earth. Or it could go further out and be incorporated into some alien life form's civilization.
That's pretty fucking beautiful, if you ask me (and I know you did...why else would you be here if you didn't want to know?), even if the sun could, tomorrow, point one of those blasts directly at the Earth. If it happened, we'd have about eight minutes to call our loved ones and hurry to the shelters where we can bend over and kiss our asses good-bye.
Kind of warms the heart a little, right? Well, good. Now that your heart is warm, it matches the rest of this hellish weather, doesn't it?
I went and saw the one-night-only special release of the Two Towers last night. It's the extended version that was reformatted for Blue Ray release, so it had all of the good stuff in it that was left out in previous theater releases. And, I learned a couple of things from the movie last night.
1) My bladder just isn't cut out for an extended-cut version of a movie. Toward the end, I was like "Yes, okay, Sam. We get it. Songs and saving the world. Now shut the fuck up and get your chubby little Hobbit ass into Illien. I've gotta piss!"
2) Miranda Otto has some very fine freckles across the bridge of her nose, upping her "DAWWWWWWW" factor by about ten million.
3) Aragorn, as portrayed in the movie, is a shitty general and commander. Why anyone would follow him into battle is beyond me. I guess it's a sense of duty to the aged houses of Numenor, but that doesn't make sense, either. Your kingdom is crushed and you spent most of your life hiding out in Rivendell? Well, sure, I'll blindly follow your instructions and get myself killed. How noble of us all!
I'm speaking of the battle for Helm's Deep. Or Helm's Derp, as I dubbed it last night while the movie was running. I realize that the whole thing is set up for Gandalf to sweep in at the dawn and ride down the orcs and break their ranks and send them scurrying off into the forest where they get crushed. I get that. But, Aragorn was seriously Herping the Derp during that whole battle.
"I see a force of ten thousand coming!" he tells Theoden. Then he just hangs out and broods. He doesn't actually fucking prepare for battle. No one was out digging trenches to keep the orcs away from the walls. No one was pounding stakes into the ground to herd the orcs into smaller gaps.
We don't have enough men to guard the walls! Well, here's an idea: don't allow the orcs to attack across the entire face of the wall! Take away their access! Walls are supposed to keep people out. Use them like they should be used. Dig some trenches. Pound some wooden stakes into the ground before the wall. Hoardings, man! Build some fucking hoardings! Throw some caltrops on the ground: the fucking orcs don't wear boots! Take advantage of that!
And, for an impregnable fortress where the people of Rohan flee when under attack, Helm's Deep was sorely lacking in defensive weapons. We have a horn! That will scare them! Much better than any trebuchet or catapult or ballista to frighten off the bad guys! It's a horn! Scary! *trembles*
The whole Elf thing bothered me, too. I mean, aside from the fact that the Elves were all about unassing Middle Earth and leaving it to men to sort out, how the hell did they get to Helm's Deep all the way from Lorien (or even Rivendell)? It took Gandalf five days to find Eomer and bring him down to Helm's Deep, and Lothlorien is even further away than that.
When they get there, our buddy Aragorn commands the archers on top of the walls. Instead of barking out quick orders, he gives out long commands in strings of Elvish. "Draw your arrows! Fire your arrows! Have a cup of tea! Does this cloak make my ass look big?" This is war, Aragorn. You need to kill more of them faster than they can kill you. Quick, short commands are best. "Knock! Draw! Fire! Knock! Draw! Fire!" The beauty of the longbow is that it can fire about twenty arrows a minute, and that's if you're slow and taking aim. You're supposed to flood the air with arrows, dude, not wait for the attackers to start scaling the walls.
Anyway, they made a big deal about the one culvert in the wall that could be breached. If Wormtongue knew about it, how did Theoden overlook it? Why weren't there a couple of guys down there with crossbows defending the culvert? Oh no, scary rats! Aiee! Better yet, why wasn't the drainage diverted into a moat? For a dude who wrote this while fighting in the trenches of World War I, Tolkien was kind of fucking clueless about siege warfare.
And then the real kicker comes after they blow up the bombs under the wall. The wall has been breached, which should have sounded an immediate retreat to the keep, but instead the Elves just stand there with their thumbs in their asses. Orcs are pounding through the hole in the wall, and yet they stand there dumbly staring at them. No wonder their race is failing; it's Middle Earth Darwinism at its finest.
Aragorn finally comes to and sees that the shit has hit the fan. He commands the Elves to fire one volley into the onslaught of orcs, and then, rather than sound a retreat, he gives the archers a command to charge!
Buh?
Dude, archers are there to support your ground team. They aren't the ground team.
It's a great movie, and the battle is visually stunning, I just had a hard time swallowing why anyone would willingly fight for Aragorn other than trying to curry favor with him if he ever did manage to find his way to Gondor and claim his inheritance. You'll notice Gandalf took control of the defense of Minas Tirith, and now I think we can see why.
At least Miranda Otto is fucking cute. I still wouldn't dump Liv Tyler for her, to be sure, but a little Ned Stark by-blow wouldn't have been a bad thing. Amiright?
We got married on a Friday afternoon in the fall back in 2000. It happened to be that we got married on a football weekend, but fortunately, Notre Dame was playing at West Virginia. If it hadn't been an away game, there's no guarantee that I would have shown up for the ceremony. There would have been less chance that I showed up sober.
I'm a real catch, I tell you what.
Anyway, we didn't tell any of our families that we were getting married. We decided to do it and enjoy our honeymoon--which was really just sex in the top room of the Holiday Inn in lovely downtown South Bend. There was even a duck flying around the top floor of the hotel--or at least something that sounded like a duck. I swear it wasn't my ass.
The following day we decided we needed to call our families and tell them about our nuptials. I decided to go first--only after I watched the first half of the West Virginia/Notre Dame game.
My father was not at home at the time--he was out running some errands or something. So, I got my mother. I broke the news to her, and then suffered through thirty minutes of questions as to why I would do this, why I would take a chance with my education, and why I would marry someone that I had just met a few months prior and whom I barely knew. Fortunately, my father came home toward the end of my mother's aural attack, and she called him over to talk to me.
Mom: Your son has something to tell you. Dad: Hey, son! What's up? Me: [Mrs. MJenks} and I got married yesterday! Dad: Huh. So, you, like, eloped then, huh? Me: Yeah, we sure did. Dad: Alright. How's Notre Dame doing?
This is the end, beautiful friends. This is the end, my only friends, the end of our elaborate plans, the end of everything that stands. It's all over. Kaput. Finito. Done. Signed, sealed, delivered. Finished.
This will be the last Friday Morning Latin Lesson post. Fitting that I end on number one hundred, no? Or that someone has decided to end it for me.
I speak, of course, of the doom descending upon us tomorrow. If I may suggest something, let us gather together and sing Track 6 from Document, and no, it is important that you do more than just scream "Leonard Bernstein!"
That's right. May 21st marks the be-all and end-all of our time together, friends. Or so spake Harold Camping, the crackpot who has developed this crazy notion of the world crumbling to an end. Curiously, Camping's vision of the End of Times starts with a massive earthquake. This is eerily similar to the end time in Norse mythology, wherein Loki breaks free from his tethers beneath the Earth, and the surface feels it as a quake.
Camping, however, has the power of math behind him. He's basing all of his calculations on the founding of Israel after World War II. The numbers are clearly there in the Bible. Plus, there's the fact that Jesus clearly stated that 7000 years after the Great Flood of Noah, He would return. And we all know that the Great Flood of Noah took play on May 21st, 4990 BC, right? RIGHT??? I mean, 40 days and 40 nights were crammed into that little span of 24 hours, you know. I mean, math, people! It's all right here in numbers (a book of the Bible, don't forget!).
You know who else had math to support his End of the World thesis, right?
In case you needed a reference, here is the site where I got these sweet facts of Biblical truth: Coming May 21: Apocalypse 2011
Oh, and here's another awesome website (really, no sarcasm) about all the failed predictions of the world coming to an end: A Brief History of the Apocalypse.
Anyway, this shit is old hat to me. When I was about nine years old up through at least my sophomore year of high school, every day during summer break was a living nightmare. I say that because I would get up and, while trying to eat my Aldi-brand cereal, my mother would lecture me on all the prophecies in the Book of Revelations. Every day, I would hear about the second coming of Christ, the Rapture, the Tribulation, the thousand years of peace followed by the Devil breaking free from his chains once more before finally getting tossed in the Lake of Fire.
Every day. All summer long. Until I was fifteen.
This was one of the reasons why I would write passionate confessions and apologies for lustful actions after fantasizing about one of my classmates. I was always terrified that Jesus would be returning to Earth while I was in the middle of a good stroke. You don't want to meet the Lord with your cock in your hand. Shit like that can weigh on a young man's conscience.
Of course, I never thought to question: my mother was telling me these things, and she wouldn't steer me wrong, right? RIGHT? So, essentially, for the first eighteen years of my life, I lived in fear of the imminent return to life of a sanctified demigod and the subsequent culling of souls that he would harvest in the wake of his trumpet blasts.
In light of the imminent demise of the world, what with such "evidence" laid out before us, I think this is the only thing that can be said:
Credo quia absurdum est.
Pronounced: "Cray-doh kwee-ah ab-soor-doom est."
Final translation in the hovertext
I have to work all day on Saturday. Fortunately, the book store has big windows, so I can watch as all the shit goes down. Unfortunately, Monsieur Camping does not provide a time. Hell, it's already May 21st in Australia!!! I'm personally hoping that the college girls are hanging out in the store, because when shit goes down, I'm taking full advantage of the confusion. My go to line? "Well, you're fucked anyway, so..."
The damnedest thing is...May 21st in the Rapture, or the Second Coming of Christ, when He pulls the faithful souls from the Earth. First will come the rising of the Dead who were faithful, and then the living will be harvested. That marks the beginning of the Tribulation, where the entire world will erupt into war and the Anti-Christ will begin assembling his minions.
I told you had this shit down pat.
According to Camping, however, the Tribulation only lasts for five months. So, God will then destroy the world on October 21st, 2011...which is one day after my wedding anniversary. So, not only is the world going to Hell in a handbasket, I still have to remember to buy an anniversary present!
Fuck my now-abbreviated life.
And, I don't know about anyone else, but I'm wearing my Notre Dame sweatshirt all day on Saturday. If the Simpsons have taught me anything, it's that Catholic Heaven is so much more awesome to be in than regular old boring Protestant Heaven.
So, it's been fun, friends. We've had some laughs. We've shed some tears. But, you know what they say: "That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds, snakes an aeroplane and Lenny Bruce is not afraid"
An earthquake? Ah, shit, R.E.M. was right, all along.
One day, sometime around my freshman year in high school, while digging around through a box of books that my dad had stored in what we called the "back room", I found this non-descript story about baseball. I thumbed through it, and, not having anything better to read, I decided to read it. The story itself wasn't terribly intriguing; the book was not very well-written. It had a definite Bad News Bears vibe to it: some middle-aged guy, going through a mid-life crisis, decides to coach his son's baseball team or some bullshit like that. The guy who sponsors the team doesn't come through with the money, mostly because he's an old cocksucker, until they reach the (insert shocked face gasp here) championship game, which they, predictably, win.
Like I said, nothing too interesting. Except, the dad, who is having some trouble at home, meets one of the other kid's moms, who is, apparently, quite the milf. He tries to play it off all cool, but he's totally staring at her tits the whole time he's talking to her. Inevitably, he has to take something over to the other kids house, and the mom, who happens to be a smoking hot divorcee, invites him in and then they fuck.
If the book wasn't particularly memorable and terribly well-written, why do I remember it so well? For one, the Milf reminded me of a girl I had a crush on at the time (you know, minus the whole "middle aged single mother" thing). She had blonde hair and blue eyes and--shocker--so did the girl I was crushing on. So, Milfy Divorcee Mom who kept getting naked in the book and doing all sorts of sexual things to the Coach held my attention between her mysteriously still-pert breasts.
The second reason that I remember the book so well is because it was the first time I had ever encountered sex in the written form. And I liked it. I liked it a lot. In fact, I remember dog-earing the first time when they bone because it was sexual in great detail, including Milfy Blonde taking her clothes off and desperately pulling at Coach's zipper until she got his cock out and started sucking it.
I'm 99% sure that the author of the book was a guy.
I'm also 99% sure that this dude never coached a youth team in his life. At least, not one in North Carolina. *glower* Not that I'm bitter or anything...
I dog-eared the page because, sometimes, when I was feeling randy (and, apparently, like writing out my guilt in my Guilt Journal), I would open that page and read the passage and, inevitably, I'd get rock hard. I'd set the book aside, and go to town on myself.
Now, despite the fact that I have my hands down the front of my pants nearly 24/7, I've only ever been caught beating off twice, and one of those didn't really count. I remember, it was a particularly hot summer, and the air conditioning in my hundred year old house didn't work too well upstairs. Neither my brother or I (we shared a room) could sleep. My brother went downstairs to enjoy the cooler air; I turned the fan on myself and suffered. Eventually, I decided that I should rub one out, hoping that the rush of endorphins and such would make me sleepy. So, I turned on my light, read through the passage where the Coach banged his Milf friend, turned the light off and began the deed.
A couple of seconds later, I hear something moving in the room. I look over, and there's my brother. Thankfully, it was dark; I could only see the outline of his form looming near the doorway. He comes over to the bed; I have a sheet pulled up over my rigidity.
"Dude, the Reds got into a huge fight with the Pirates tonight," he reported. "It was massive, all over the field. You want to come see the highlights?"
Well, I do want to cum... I thought. "Nah, I'll catch them in the morning."
"Okay," he whispered back. He then turned and left.
Relieved, I returned to the task at hand (heh) and finished. I fell asleep and rose refreshed in the morning. And, he was right: that brawl was massive.
The second time, or the true time, I once again turned to my faithful tome and read through my favorite passages. I wish I had some idea as to the title of the book, or the author, or the names of any of the characters. Anyway, fully aroused, I pulled down my pants and began going at it, hoping like hell that I would finish ere one of my family members came up the stairs. Besides, I thought, I could hear them on the steps. It was an old house and most of the steps creaked.
"Having fun?" my brother asked, and, mortified, I looked over at him standing in the doorway. Stammering for something to say, I pulled my pants up and panicked. It had been just a few months earlier that this dude, Danny LaFollette, had been caught jacking off in the bathrooms at school. It had ruined what little social life he had. And this other guy, Donny Rousch, had done the same thing a week later. And his social life had fallen further. Oh dear God, what if my brother told everyone at school?
I'll never know. My brother told no one. It never got out that I had been pounding putz that fateful Saturday evening. He could have told any number of people, and yet he didn't.
And that's when I knew that blood was truly thicker than semen water.
So, on Monday, I told you about how I sucked it up and started coaching my little boy's soccer team. For most of the year, only nine of the ten kids on the team have shown up to play. The tenth happens to be a classmate of my son's, so I knew that he was in Nicaragua. I thought they were there for missionary work (and they might have been), but it turns out that the kid's mom is doing research on various strains of rotavirus, and there's something unique about the population in Nicaragua that makes the work interesting.
Because nothing screams "interest" like little kids shitting themselves days and nights.
I learned all this on the first night that they were back and at soccer practice. After practice was over, this guy kept talking and talking and talking and talking to me. I just wanted to get to Wendy's so I could buy the kids (and, perhaps, myself) a Frosty. Finally...an hour after practice was over...I was on my quest for the Frostys.
Since the Easter holiday fell in the middle of the soccer schedule, they did not have any games that weekend but resumed the following weekend. However, there was an event at the school where the fields are, and so the Saturday games got moved to Sunday, and some of the older kids' leagues were played on Friday night. Stick with me here; this is backstory.
Unfortunately, since I'm the coach, my phone number is listed as the contact. This means that any of the parents can call me. So, Sunday morning before the game, I'm slumbering away. My wife was out of town, so I had stayed up late the night before...reading...and...not...playing video games.
The phone rings, and it's this guy from the soccer team, who spent half the season in Nicaragua. Worse, it's not even 9:00 yet! You can imagine my frame of mind at the time when my daughter brought me the phone.
The guy was calling me to tell me that his son wouldn't be at the game that day. The game that wasn't being played until 1:00 in the afternoon. Color me unamused, dude; this is news that could have waited until at least eleven o'clock. The reason why his son wouldn't be playing? The little guy broke his arm.
I reacted appropriately. "Oh no! That's terrible! I hope he's going to be alright! Is he feeling okay?"
Now, at this point, right here, they guy should have said "Yeah, he's good. He's a little trooper. He'll soldier on through." Things would have been cool.
Instead, this guy proceeds to tell me the story of how his son broke his arm. Turns out, his older daughter had a game on Friday night, so while she was playing, this guy and his son were messing around on one of the other practice fields. His son was playing goalie, and his was kicking the ball at him.
I think you can see where this is going.
Apparently, this guy drilled kicked the ball so hard so that it hit his son with the force of a meteor striking the Earth in such a manner that he just happened to break two bones in his wrist.
Buh?
And then the guy laughed. Like, "Heh heh. Isn't that just the darnedest thing?"
I'm still like Buh? Maybe I didn't hear this correctly. I've had...a few hours sleep...since I was up late...reading...and...not...playing video games...and my head is a little foggy. Did this guy just call me up and tell me that he broke his son's arm by kicking a soccer ball at him? And then try to laugh it off?
Why, yes. Yes, he did.
Now, I played goalie. I've had the ball drilled at me where I'm pretty sure a sonic boom accompanied the shot. I've had the ball hit me so hard it hurt and I wanted to fall on the ground like the pansy-ass that I am, and bawl my eyes out. Never, however, have I ever broken a fucking bone in my wrist, arm, ribcage or anywhere else from a soccer ball hitting me. Those things have give to them! How the hell hard do you have to kick a ball--at your own six-year-old son--to break not just one but two fucking bones in his wrist?
That's not the best part of it, though. Apparently, when the ball connected with the son's arm, the son fell to the ground screaming in agony. And what does his dad do? Picks him up, ignores the kid's cries of pain, and watches the rest of his daughter's game. The whole time--according to the story--the kid is whimpering in pain. They go home. They eat dinner. They go to bed. Finally, the next day, after the kid gets up and complains about the wrist still hurting, they go to Urgent Care for x-rays.
Jesus Christ, dude, at least Darth Vader tossed Palpatine down the shaft after a couple of seconds of the blue lightning. You let your kid suffer for twelve hours or so.
And this guy just chuckles about it. Heh heh. Well, what do you know?
At this point, I've kind of tuned him out. I really don't want to listen to this guy chat me up. So, after giving me the rundown of his son's injury, he then begins to talk soccer strategy with me, since hr won't be at the game. Because, you know, I haven't handled the team for the first six weeks of the year.
Insert annoyed eyeroll here...
There are two kids on the team, David and Michael, who are very, very good players. Michael even has slide tackling down almost perfectly, but this guy wanted me to stop him from doing that. He shouldn't be doing that in this league, Mr. Smasher of Wrists tells me. My response was, "The kid has a talent. I'm not going to tell him not to use it."
He then went and lectured me on not letting David and Michael play in the game together at the same time. So, at this point, I was already confused, pissed off and a little bit perplexed by this conversation. And I was thinking, "Wait, you want me to not use my two best players in order to...you know...win the games?" As he was rambling on, I was thinking about anything else. Finally, there was a pause and I finished the conversation with "Well, I should get the kids their breakfast. Sorry about your son's arm. Don't worry about bringing him to practice for a couple of weeks. Bye."
Sweet Jesus. The only good thing, though, was that I suddenly didn't feel so bad about yelling at my kids to clean their rooms. I might get annoyed and frustrated with them, but I've never broken any bones in their arms. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
Perhaps I might just win that Father of the Year trophy yet!
Avert your eyes, space travelers, because we're going to get this explosions going early and you are going to swear off your intended mode of travel in about thirteen seconds. Behold the mighty spectacle of your GPS not working quite so well as it could:
Now that, my good people, is what blowing shit up is all about! *pauses for a second* Let's completely forget about the amount of money that went up in one incendiary flash of rocket-fuel and liquid oxygen. Did you totally see how that shit was raining down from above? All fire and brimstone and you'd think Loki had picked his flaming sword back up and was going all Sodom and/or Gomorrah on the Cape! Destruction of that magnitude is the most exhausting thing anyone can engage in, aside from soccer.
Think about this for a moment: you're an average Joe rocket scientist. The world to you is all force vectors and Greek letters and silly shit like that. You drive to work, minding your own business, proud of the fact that you're going to put a new GPS satellite into space so that fathers driving their families on vacations don't have to stop and ask for directions when--WHAMMO!--you've been knocked on your ass by a concussive shock wave tearing through the sky five times the speed of sound. Your ears are bleeding from the force of the noise that just ripped through your skull like a bullet through wet tissue paper. The sky is on fire, and it's headed toward you. You're dazed. You're confused. And every year, they stay the same age!
Well, damn, you think. Chalk one more up to combustion kicking the living hell out of potential energy today. I guess it's back to the drawing board! This is, of course, after you've jammed wadded-up kleenex in your ears to stem the flow of blood and pulled your eyes out of your hippocampus where the force of the blast wedged them. Firmly.
I think I'll just go to lunch and we can sweep this thing up and start anew, you continue thinking, gathering the charred remains of your briefcase. You blow out one piece of paper which is still, comically, aflame. You pull on the tattered remnants of your blazer and you head out to the parking lot where you climb into your car only to realize that the wheels are melted to the ground. And Steve Martin is riding shotgun.
"Hello, Bob," you say, after dialing your cell phone and becoming mildly peeved that you're getting less than ideal reception, tiny pieces of GPS satellite slowly spiraling around you, "yeah, I'm going to need you to come out to the parking lot of my place of employment. I think I've totaled my car. Yeah, see you soon. Buh-bye."
And this is just, to quote the dispatcher, "an anomaly of the Delta II launch vehicle." Imagine if a real meddlesome headscratcher had occurred.
Granted, this can be turned amusing based on no one getting injured, which is fucking amazing. In case you missed the cause of the explosion, they determined a seventeen-inch long crack in one of the boosters caused some fuel to leak, a flame to get in, some oxygen to comingle up in that bidness, and then BOOM HEAD SHOT!
I wrote some time ago about how I'm working two jobs to help pay down bills and pay for extravagances, like washing machines from Craigslist and groceries. I'm still working the two jobs, and it is just about as much fun as you can imagine. I'm also, you might remember, trying to write another book, publish one of the ones I've finished and "fix" a couple of others that I want to publish. Oh, and I'm teaching myself Latin. You know, easy shit. Plus, I've been trying to lead the glorious Roman armies into Egypt and conquer them, but that's been slowed a bit by Egypt's development of atomic weapons. Civilization is very much historically accurate, why do you ask?
But, because I've had so much free time on my hands, I decided I should coach my son's soccer team. Because nothing says "I've got WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS" like directing a bunch of 7- and 6-year old kids to run around like fools on a field of grass every Saturday.
I had originally signed up to be the coach in the beginning of the season, but someone screwed up (probably me, but I'll never take the blame!) and had me set for Wednesday night practices. This, at the time, was impossible because I had to work at the book store on Wednesday nights, pretty much every week. When I told the people in the league this, they said fine, found someone else, and then, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, rescheduled my son to be on a team that practiced Thursday nights.
Oh, and they made me assistant coach. Without letting me know.
So, the first Thursday rolls around, and I'm not there (because I'm working two jobs) and my wife is fielding a thousand angry phone calls from people wondering why the fuck no coach has shown up to teach their kid how to kick a ball. Because, let's be honest, Under-8 Youth Soccer is not exactly the UEFA cup; kicking is about all they do.
I wrote to the league commissioner, wondering what the fuck was up, and he said that, since I had expressed interest in coaching before, he thought I would positively love being an assistant.
Now, I positively love tits. I positively love blow jobs. And I positively love rum. Coaching soccer? Not so much my thing.
Oh, sure, I played soccer. I was good at soccer. But, when I was playing, I was a goalie. I went through goalie drills. I didn't go through all the drills for midfielders and forwards and defensemen. Yes, I knew what they were, but I couldn't really teach them.
So, the commish took me off being an assistant coach. There was much rejoicing.
And then...the coach quit. You could also read this as "And then...the universe decided to have itself (another) good laugh at my expense (once more)."
Reluctantly, I kind of took over the coaching of the team. I mean, someone had to think of the children, right? For once? Since I had been through the "coaches clinic" (three hours of my life which I will never get back and for which I was not nearly drunk enough), I figured I could step up and help out. It was...almost...fun. Some of the kids actually showed up to practice. Some of them came to games, too. It was...actually...nice. I made friends with some of the other coaches on other teams. I actually got along with the referees--mostly because they were high school kids who were volunteering their time. Also, they were pretty cool and they weren't douchebags with the calls.
There is one guy, though, who is an A-Prime cocksucker. He's bald and I'd wager 2-1 that he's got a dick like a sparrow poking out from between his thighs. He also only calls handballs on the kids wearing the green jerseys, despite the fact that one time I actually saw a midfielder grab a ball and spike it to the ground like a fucking volleyball and play on. Since we were up several goals, I was able to contain my rage and not get asked to leave the sidelines.
I still mentally insulted several generations of his ancestry, convincing myself that they were all tiny-dicked, bald cocksuckers. Apples don't fall far from trees, you know.
I was worried that the kids would kind of suck, like not skills-wise, but be little assholes. Because I'm crotchety like that. Get off my lawn and all that.
Pleasantly, the kids are all pretty nice; it's the parents that I can't stand. They talk about "Soccer Moms" and "NASCAR dads" in political circles, but I haven't seen any of those. Mostly I've had to deal with Douchebag Dads and Methlab Moms.
One of the first practices, I had the kids trying to pass the ball back and forth to each other, about five yards apart. I looked over, and one of the dads was on the sidelines...doing push-ups. Uh...you see...he was...bored...I guess...and...yeah.
He's since stopped with the upper-body exercises to pass time; instead, he sits on the sidelines dicking around with his iphone throughout practice. Fine. Whatever. Just keep your douchery away from me, sir.
Overall, it's been fun. And, this past weekend, my kid almost scored a goal. He even started having fun and said that he wishes soccer season would never end. Ha, little scamp...I see someone has been getting into daddy's rum supplies.
And now my daughter thinks that she might give soccer another go. Joyous.
I just wish that the parents would remember to bring snacks for the coach, too. It's a little embarrassing to be standing there with my mouth watering over the rice crispy treats and Capri suns. Cherry is my favorite flavor (hint hint).
If only I had a second source of income where I could purchase such luxuries as marshmallow and puffed-rice snack treats along with foil envelopes of flavored juice drinks...
Today is May the Fourth, which is Star Wars day. It's also the day the Catholic Church has opted to celebrate the life of a man whose name was Florianus, which as far as I can decipher, means "flowery butt".
Florian was alive during the times of the Roman Emperor, Darth Diocletian, who was enemy Numerus Unus as far as the early Christian sects were concerned. Florian served in the Roman imperial army stationed in Noricum (modern day Austria and Hungary, see map above), where he commanded the legion. He was also in charge of training the men as firefighters within the division.
Now, Darth Diocletian is known for a lot of good things, but he was also a real prick when it came to persecuting Christians in the empire. In fact, recent archaeological discoveries point toward Diocletian secretly building a powerful weapon that he could use to wipe out the Christians in a single, all-powerful stoke.
As he couldn't make the trip himself, Diocletian sent one of his apprentices, Darth Aquilinus, to Noricum to help...advise...the soldiery there on how better they could improve themselves. Upon his arrival, Aquilinus told the Roman legion that they better start killing some Christians, or else.
Florian refused. This did not sit well with Aquilinus, and so he commanded the troops to turn on Florian. Florian took the abuse as the Roman soldiers punched, kicked and beat him soundly with staves. Seeing that this wasn't doing enough, they tortured him with fire. And then, to be really efficient, they tied a big ass stone around his neck and tossed him in the Enns river, where he drowned.
Death, however, could not hold Florian. He returned in a vision, telling a young woman to go to the Dagobah system, and that he didn't like having his body left on the bottom of a river. He was eventually dredged up and buried near his childhood home, which is now called Sankt Florian. Sorry, I don't know what it was originally called, but we'll just say it was "Tatooine".
Florian is the patron saint of Upper Austria. More importantly, he is the patron saint of firefighters, chimney sweeps, and soap boilers. He is depicted as a Roman soldier, usually with a pitcher of water, pouring water over a fire. His name is invoked to stave off fire, protect against drowning, and making improbable shots down tiny holes in an enormous megastructure without using your targeting computer.
So, Happy Saint Florian Day, y'all! And vis vobiscum!
To add insult to injury (and to completely break with the underlying theme), the Catholic Church does not recognize any Saint Guilder. So much for love, true love.
Since Lilu decided to dispense with the whole TMI Thursday hosting, we haven't heard a whole lot about my junk, what I've been doing with it, or many of my bodily functions of late. I've decided to pick that back up since they were some of my more popular posts. Plus, why deprive the world of these miserable marvelous life experiences? I shouldn't be the only who suffers through is blessed to enjoy these foibles of my body.
I'm not a big fan of spring. About the only thing I like about spring is the storms, and I like those only because I haven't been injured in any of them, had any property destroyed (despite parking various shitty cars under trees hoping the wind brings those tall pines down *angry glower*), or the like. I guess I also enjoy the fact that the college girls dress extra slutty in these days leading up to summer break. Yes. Yes, I like that very much. *taps tips of fingers together*
The spring brings the return of mowing my grass, it gets hot, and the atmosphere is suffused with pollen. This hasn't affected me too badly since I've moved South, but the rest of my family suffers from allergies, which makes me miserable. Because I commiserate with others so well.
Now, long before I was the svelte, dapper motherfucker you see before you, I've had a problem that springs to life round this time of year. I tend to suffer from a lot of stickage.
You know, stickage.
Don't tell me you're unfamiliar.
Okay, so "stickage" is when my scroat adheres itself to the silky smooth flesh of my inner thigh. Alone, or even with the love of my life (television), this is not a problem. I reach a hand down there, fish around for a bit, fumble away, and peel the soft, velvety skin away from the inside of my groin. However, when the children are present, it's unseemly for daddy dearest to have it hands down his pants, no matter how surreptitiously I'm peeling one layer of dermis away from another.
And, besides, I'm only home and awake for a few hours of the day.
Let's think about this for a moment. I work in a lab, one that prides itself on safety (Our motto: "Everyone has ten fingers!"), we're required to wear lab coats when working in the lab. This is to go with regular work attire. While the labs are fairly well ventilated (Noxious fumes? Send them outside!), they air-handlers have issues cooling the air as it gets turned over so much. This results in winters being chilly (not a problem; I have a lab coat!), but spring, summer and fall are uncomfortably warm.
As the level of uncomfortable warmth rises, so does the occurrence of stickage. And, when I'm at work, people really from on you sticking your hand down your pants and fumbling your nuts away from the inside of your thigh.
And here's the curious thing: about 90% of the time, the stickage is on the right side of my sack. I don't know what the deal is, but this is the side of my body where my Balzac is most likely to meld with my leg. There's nothing abnormal about that side; my right nut hangs lower than my left (apparently, that's common, since I'm a righty). That's the only thing I can find that's different about the right side of my manhammer; believe me, I've investigated. At length.
When the stickage happens at work, it's most unpleasant because I can't manually extract myself from myself--though I am typically wearing gloves, so at least I have the correct protective equipment. I'll be standing there, working on the next wonderdrug, when suddenly I'll feel that unwelcome tug on the inside of my shorts. I then spend the next five minutes gyrating and hopping from one leg to the other, trying to part my thighs far enough that my coinpurse peels itself off the inner portions of my leg.
Annoying hardly
Thusly, spring is not the time of rebirth for me. Spring is the time to invest in yet some more talcum powder. Because, you know, it's always good to be caught with a large amount of an unknown, white, powdery substance...
Oh, the things I'll do to avoid my nutsack from annealing itself to my inner thighs.
But, dammit, Winter is almost upon us, with its long nights, chilly days and randomly designated holidays commemorating the births of demigods--try as you might, you're not going to find a damned bit of blasphemy in those words. It's time for things to start looking up.
