TMI Thursday: The Midnight Visitor

Preach it on, Brother Wolverine!

That was sent to me by my friend (who just happens to have red hair) Alaina. I owe her many thanks.

And, hey! This is convenient. You know who else has red hair? My wife does! That leads me into a story I've been meaning to tell for a while.

One night I was feeling mighty randy, and so I did my tried-and-true method of slipping my pajamas off while the wife was in the bathroom for one of her last pee breaks before bedtime. When she came back to bed, she slipped beneath the covers and I started rubbing myself up against her booty.

"OH MY!" she said, as she noticed I had fully hoisted my mizzenmast. I performed the old reach around and massage her tits from behind while rubbing up against her trick, which--much like Colt .45--works every time. Soon, we were both naked and well into the throes of foreplay.

Finally, things came to a head and coitus was undertaken. As we were going at it, we were changing positions to maximize the carnal pleasures in which we were indulging. Eventually, we moved to one of my favorite positions, which is where I stand up at the side of the bed and go at it that way, either missionary- or doggy-style. Bow wow. It just so happened that this time, she was on her back (for maximal breast movement viewing).

I was there, giving her a jolly rogering, when suddenly I felt the bed move...differently. It was not on the same wavelength as our sexy time movements. I paused in my exuberant thrusting; she paused in her exuberant begging for more pounding. And then we heard:

*soft yawn* "Good night, Daddy."

The boy, Tank, had graced us with his presence. And not so much graced us as he had crawled up into the bed on my side, pulled the covers up over his little body, laid his little head down on the pillow, and tucked himself in.

When the kids were younger, we used to leave the bedroom door open at night during sexy time just in case something would happen where we needed to go and tend to their night time whining ailments. This practice has since fallen by the wayside as the children have gotten older. In fact, this may have been one of the last times the door was left open during sexual activities.

Allow me to remind you, I was still inside my wife!

Rather than say anything, my wife made a face like "take care of this" and nodding her head toward the almost-sleeping form of our younger child. Still inside her, I leaned down and whispered in her ear "I'm in no shape to take him back to his room!" I flexed myself inside her in order to drive home my point.

"I'm naked. Just get him and take him to his bed and get back here!" she hissed. She flexed herself to drive me toward returning him to bed.

"I'm naked, too, in case you didn't notice!" I whispered, knowing I had already lost the argument. I extricated myself from between her thighs and then, not feeling that comfortable just running him down the hall whilst I was naked and hard. I couldn't find where I had throw my clothes in the darkened corners of my room, so I went with what I could find:

I pulled a sock over it.

I picked the little boy up and carried him down the hall to his room. I tucked him in bed, kissed him good night, and then returned to find my wife was already asleep.

I kid, I kid. She was still naked. I pulled off the sock, rubbed myself a couple of times to make sure there was no sock fuzz clinging to me, and then I buried me treasure in her once more.

And now, we close the door. Every time. No questions asked.

Oh, and she lived up to her redhead billing.

*fist bumps Wolverine*

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XXXIV

Oh boy! It's finally here! GIJoe, the last of the summer blockbuster movies, is released today. Am I excited? Yup. Do I think it's going to fuckrape a beloved childhood toy and the subsequent memories that go along with it? Yup. Am I still going to go see it? Yup. Well, as long as the Missus lets me right after I eat the dinner the Missus has prepared for me this evening.

Anyway, I loved GIJoe when I was a kid. Despite the fact that no one ever died on the show, I still loved it. Despite the fact that characters would eject from helicoptors to avoid being shot down with missiles, I loved it. Despite the fact that a world-wide terrorist organization was commanded by logic like "hmmm...none of our soldiers die, but we should piss away millions of dollars designing, building and subsequently letting the Joes completely destroy these legions of Battle Android Troopers", I still tuned in every day.

My friend Joel was also a fan of GIJoe. We'd get together in the afternoons and play. That was actually how I got to know Joel. On the first day of fifth grade, I introduced myself to the class and said something about how I loved Transformers and GIJoe. At recess, Joel came up to me and told me how his mom fixed his Airtight using some twine (it didn't sound quite so dirty back then). Awesome. A friendship that lives on today was cast through a fictional anti-terrorist organization.

Still, truth be told, I liked Transformers just a hair more. But that doesn't mean I loved GIJoe any less. Hmmm...maybe I should make sure my kids never find this...

My favorites were Snake Eyes (naturally), and this seldom-seen character named Ripcord, and the military firefighter Barbecue. In fact, I think Barbecue was the first GI Joe figure I ever bought. Of my three favorites, his was the only action figure I ever owned. Sometimes it sucks growing up in a small town.

Since I tied other summer blockbusters--Watchmen, Star Trek, and Transformers--to the Latin lessons, I figured I might as well round the summer out in fashion. Here's an easy one for you that you can use to dazzle fellow nerds douchebags moviegoers at the theatre:

"Io, Iosephus!"
Pronounced: "Yo, Yoh-say-foose!"

Translation in the hovertext, as always!

What? You're still here? That didn't satisfy you? Fine. Well, here. You may find this handy outside of the theatre or in discussions about how fucking terrible righteously awesome the movie is. I encourage you, especially, to try it on Rachel Nichols (and, yes, Red, I know it's a bottle job).

Nisi mecum concubueris, phobistae vicerint
Pronounced: "Nee-see may-coom cone-cyoo-bwair-eese, foe-beest-eye wee-care-eent!"

Still in the hovertext!

I think, in this certain situation, "venustas habes mammas" would also be quite appropriate.

It's Harry Potter Day!!!

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 plants...so, 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.

Happy Fourth of July

I know yesterday that I wished you all a Happy Fourth...in Latin. While that might sound more profound and such, it's just not 'Merican enough for me. So, sit back, tune out the baseball game for a couple of moments, grab a hot dog, tuck into a slice of apple pie, and let's hump this rhino.

It seems as though this time of year, everyone's celebrating their Independence. Just the other day, our Fellows to the North celebrated Canada Day, and I told you about how the Scottish won their freedom 695 years ago. And while we might not have had to win the freedom of our land from flocks of zombie canaries, nor did we have to drive the king into the river and route his forces so badly that they cried, we did stand up and give a big double bird to the King of England and his unfair tax on our tea. And lead and stamps and glass and pretty much anything else that was awesome.

I mean, it's a lot nicer that we could gain our independence with a few pen strokes on a piece of rolled up parchment and not have to sully ourselves with fighting and battling and squaring off against the king.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I guaran-goddamned-tee that things would have gone a lot more swimmingly if we had simply said "You know what, we've got this guy fighting on our side. What are you going to do about it? Now pack up your pricey, overtaxed tea and haul your red-coat wearing limey asses back across the Atlantic, or else he'll roundhouse kick your jaws back onto Piccadilly Circus."
Now, everyone have a happy, safe Fourth of July, or else Chuck is going to come knocking on your door, and you'll have to deal with his beard. And if you're throwing some hotdogs on the grill today, remember I like chili and cheese, and I'll be by around 2:00.

TMI Thursday: One Firth the Money

About three months ago, there was a crew here in merry olde Durham town filming a movie. It's a movie called Main Street. I frankly don't know a damned thing about Main Street, other than the movie stars or will star Orlando Bloom, Amber Tamblyn and Colin Firth. You probably know them better as Legolas, Joan of Arcadia and the dude who inexplicably had a thing for Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones Diary.

Colin Firth got that part due in large part to his portrayal of Fitzwilliam Darcy in the BBC version of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. My wife is a big fan of the book and of the BBC version. As my wife put it in our dating days, "He's just so...dreamy." She's since tried to make it appear like she's cooled toward him, but I've always known that there was still that lingering dreaminess in his demeanor that caught her eye.

So, it was of no great surprise the other night when my wife brought home a copy of the Durham magazine. See, we have a magazine here that is supposed highlight the culture and class of Durham so that we're known for a little more than just Annie Savoy and Cameron Crazies. The thing about this particular Durham magazine is that Colin Firth is on the cover. Oh, dreamy.

Now, before my wife had gone to Indiana for a week to visit her parents, she had been sick for a week, I had been sick for a week, we had her family visiting us for my daughter's First Communion, we had been preparing for said First Communion, and our work schedules had pretty much prevented any intimacy from happening.

The night before she was due to depart for the wilds of north central Indiana, we were spooning and, well, one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, there we were, in the midst of a passionate embrace. Being that it had been about six weeks since I had last sallied forth, I had the stamina of a thirteen-year-old. After a handful of pumps, it was time. Since I'm too fucking lazy to go to the doctor and get vasectomized a good little Catholic boy, I withdrew and fired off like a howitzer shelling the German lines.

Do you know who Horst Schultz is? Don't ask me why I know this, but he holds the world record for the "Greatest Distance Achieved for a Jet of Semen" at 18 feet, 9 inches. Now, I'm not saying that I came close to Herr Schultz's record, however I apparently did explode rather impressively. It might not have been Horstian in achievement, but it was at least a good 6 or 7 feet away that my seed landed. After cleanup, my lovely wife and I then continued on with our bedroom gymnastics, cuddled up and fell asleep.

The next morning, my wife was rolling out of bed when she looked down at her side of the bed and groaned downheartedly. "What?" I asked.

"You got...stuff...on my Colin Firth magazine!"

Yep, that's right. I gave Mr. Darcy a money shot.


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!

An Irish Saint and a Confession

I have already detailed the life and times of St. Patrick (or was it Saint Palladius?), so I won't rehash old posts, merely provide you with the link. However, do remember that today is the feast day of the Patron Saint of Ireland, which means lots of drunken revelry coupled with the phenomenon I like to call "Erin Goes Bra-less" along with countless sad motherfuckers stumbling around bars strapping on fake accents and asking the fair, drunken lasses "Pardon me, dear one, but do ye have any Irish in ye? Would ye care for some more?" God, horny drunks are so creative.

I, however, won't be participating in such activities. Not that I wouldn't mind bedding a fair Irish lass--oh, wait, I already have one...wan, fair complexion, red hair and a filthy mouth all included! No, this whole drinking thing isn't for me, not any more. Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to get all high-and-mighty on your sinners asses, no, not today. The reason for my teetotalism isn't out of some overdevelop sense of higher morals, it's strictly physiological.

It's with a heavy, sober heart that I come before you and admit: I've developed a wicked allergy to hops.

If you know me, you know that I love beer. Not the macro-swill that you pound down at a tailgate in order to be able to stomach the sad state of affairs Bob Davie and Tyrone Willingham have put on the field...no, I love craft brews. I've sampled well over a thousand beers in my day from 37 different states and 17 different countries (if you count Scotland and Wales as their own countries, that is). I even drove way the hell out of my way in order to stop off at a crappy microbrewery in West Virginia so that I could add one more beer and one more state to the list.

That microbrewery trip was the one where I finally had to start facing up to the truth that I had a problem. See, with the merest sip of a beer these days, my throat begins to close, my breathing becomes ragged, and my stomach lurches. The sad thing is, I used to absolutely love my beers with hops. I've had 90 Minute IPA from Dogfish Head shot through Randall the Enamel Animal where the hops was so powerful, it felt like I could pick them from my teeth. I've had a slightly chilled Stone IPA where I thought, "Hmmm...yes, that's about right", despite the fact that Stone's beers are typically offensively hopped (as much as I love hops, some beers are ruined by an overabundance of their oils). Research even says that hops could be good for the heart and most likely they would exhibit positive anti-oxidant levels in your blood (hops are antioxidants for beer, thus their use as preservatives). But none of this is for me. Not any more.

60 Minute IPA is what the Gods themselves drink.
I used to run my own beer blog where I was attempting to review beers, breweries and beer-based books. I even used a picture of a naked woman festooned with strategically-placed hops as the "mascot" of said blog, but as the hop allergy became worse, I had to suspend my work and, with a heavy heart, delete my beloved blog from the blogosphere. Even now, I'm tearing up a little.

So, my friends, while you're out in the bars wearing your plastic green bowlers, pretending to love Guinness and pinching the asses of those ladies who had the bad foresight not to wear green tonight, I ask you to down at least one pint and think of me. I'll be at home sipping on my Diet Dr. Pepper and watching Notre Dame piss away their first-round NIT game.

Regardless of my personal afflictions, let me wish you all a Happy Saint Patrick's Day! Also, happy birthday to my old drinking buddy Pat, aka Dr. Assy. Hopefully, he got a replacement laptop for the one that was stolen from his apartment and can read this once more.

I Need Someone, Not Just Anyone

Okay, I need some help from you happy folk. I don't care if you're not happy, I still need some help. This is dire and, without your assistance, I might not be able to have sex this weekend. Somewhere, a towel just shed a single tear.

Anyway, let me give you the story here.

My wife works for a bookstore that has an ampersand in the middle of the name (and no S on the end, dipshit). People leave shit there all the time, like harmonicas and lipstick tubes and half drunk lattes and little cars and children. All of these things get chucked into a box (except the children; they get sold to witches in the Black Forest of Germany) cleverly called "Lost and Found". Once a month, or so, they go through the box and shitcan things that have been in there for a while--usually something like three months. If it's something grand and glorious (like, say, a quarter), the employees lay claim to it and if, after the three-month grace period is up, no one claims it, the employee with first dibs on it gets to keep the grand and glorious loot.

Well, a few months ago, some nimrod left his iPod at the store. His 30-gig iPod. I think you can see where I'm going with this, but the public schools have left us all drooling, simpering idiots, so I better spell it out for you, just in case.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca is all woman, trust me. I've inspected. Several times. Thoroughly. However, when she saw this sweet 30-gig iPod in the box, she popped a boner. Right there, in the middle of her shift, in the store. Very awkward, as you can imagine, but that's a story for another day. My wife put her name on the 30-gig iPod that Nimrod had left behind while jetting off for some general douchebag activity, I'm sure. Right after Christmas, the three-month period was up, and my wife came home, happy as a clam at high tide, sporting her treasure. I haven't seen her so happy since the doctor told me I shouldn't have sex for about two weeks after my gall bladder surgery.

I can tell that Nimrod was a douchebag because of his musical selections. Plus, the 30-gig iPod had video capability and photo storage, and yet not one hint of pornography could be found. Not that I checked. Several times. Or anything. Anyway, the point here is that Nimrod's musical tastes are pretty...fucking lousy. Who the hell puts Alan Jackson and Snoop on the same iPod? This poor electronic device needed to be purged of the shit that had been thrust upon it.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca had bought adapters and cords to be able to begin the purging of said iPod. We downloaded the iTunes bullshit. We couldn't clean the thing off. I went and bought a different program that was "guaranteed" to fix everything on my iPod. It doesn't work, either.

I spent a good hour and a half last night trying to clean the iPod off and load all of her CDs and some of my CDs that she likes onto her iPod as a Valentine's Day gift. You know like, "Look, I took the time to do something sweet and romantic and kind for you. Doesn't that moisten you right up?" Or something to that effect. The problem was, despite having charged the iPod and connecting it via the cords she bought, the computer would not recognize the device. I kept getting an error message saying that no iPod could be found, despite using every single trick I knew in order to get the computer to talk with the little bastard machine.

Pay attention; this is where you come in. I beseech you, good folks (see, it sounds more dire with the big, fancy word): Is there a trick that I'm missing here? Or could it be that Nimrod left this thing in the store on purpose because it was fucked up? Also, I've heard that you can exchange an iPod if it breaks or malfunctions or joins al-Qaeda or something; I've heard that they'll even exchange it if it's been soaked in a base bath. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this malicious rumor for me?

And, finally, does anyone have any other advice for how to work this device? Or am I doomed to listen to "Summertime Blues" and "Who Am I?" for the remainder of my days?

I realize that this pretty much ruins the surprise I had in mind, so any thoughts of autolubrication that I had fantasized about once I presented her with an iPod loaded with Barenaked Ladies, Harry Connick, Jr., and Ben Folds is pretty much out the window. Still, any help would be appreciated.

The well-being of my towels are at stake here, people. Help a brother out.

There's Something About Boudicca

So, my mother-in-law was here last weekend for a quick visit. She came in because it was grandparents' day at Tank's school last Thursday. She stuck around until Monday morning and then headed back down to Atlanta. My wife's brother and his wife had their first baby about a week and a half ago, and my mother-in-law is headed down to help out.

Anyway, my daughter had a birthday party on Saturday afternoon that I took her to, and my wife and my mother-in-law and I (along with the kids) decided to meet for dinner Saturday night. Due to the party running a little late and the fact that I don't own a cell phone (a fact of which I'm proud, truth be told), we coasted in late to dinner, my daughter and I, and I slipped into my seat next to my wife.

After chatting for a little bit, explaining why I was late and talking about how we got lost on the way to the party and how I ran over a bum begging for handouts at the exit off I-40 blah blah blah...my wife was sitting there adjusting her hair, running her fingers through her shiny, sleek, and gorgeous red tresses, when she makes the comment that her hair smells like the aftermath of our sexual adventures. This causes me to chuckle aloud.

As you might imagine, when one's mother-in-law is about, the sexual misadventures grind to a halt. There's something about a wife not wanting her mother to hear "harder, harder, harder, oh, God, yes, harder, oh, God, yes, Mike Rowe, you're such a dirty, dirty man!" and "alright, fine, but just keep it out of my eyes" and "seriously, do I have to be Little Bo Peep again???" Oh, sure, we could close the door, but even then, my mother-in-law would suspect something was up when she heard the braying of a zebra.

Have any of you thrown up in your mouth yet?

During the week last week, we were busy cleaning and working and preparing for my mother-in-law's visit, so there was still no time for sexual congress to take place, so by the time Friday night rolled around, I needed an outlet. So, I did the laundry by hand, if you get what I'm saying. And if you don't, you're really stupid and probably should cull yourself from the gene pool right now. Go on. We'll wait. Better? Thanks.

After rubbing one out, things were...messy, to say the least. I went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel to clean up and thought, "Hmmm, I'll just toss this on the floor near these dirty clothes." A logical place, right? The dirtiest of towels on the floor with the dirty clothes? No one picks a towel up off the floor to dry themselves off with, right? I thought so, too.

Apparently, when my wife went to dry herself off Saturday morning after her shower, instead of grabbing the towel tossed over the towel bar above the tub or the two hanging over the towel rack on the wall, she went right for the dirty of dirties on the floor, dried herself off, and then wrapped her hair in preparation for drying it.

This, of course, just caused me to laugh and ask why she went for the towel on the floor. She asked why I didn't just wake her up, and I played the loving husband card and said that I thought I'd just let her sleep, since she was so tired and had to get up in the morning and go to work. I'm just that caring.

So, we sat there at our table, whispering and giggling over the scenario and how she smelled my musk throughout the day. I'm sure my mother-in-law could overhear us, or could logic out what we were saying from the giggling and such, but if she did, she was kind enough not to say anything. We continued on, making plans for after my mother-in-law left and me making hair countless hair gel jokes until our food finally showed up.

And then Brett Favre walked into the restaurant.

Don't Laugh at My Shame!

Since it got cold last night...cold enough to counteract the colligative affect imparted by the brine/salt mixture thrown on the roads yesterday...everything froze up nice and solid. Therefore, the roads and such were too hazardous during the usual morning crush and my employer delayed opening by two hours.

Have I mentioned how much I fricking love my job?

It was so effing nice to by able to lay in bed this morning until 8:30 with the sultry breath of a half-naked redhead on the back of my neck. Yes, even when she's sighing at me over a lousy pun or pissed because I ate the last chocolate cookie, it's sultry. Most everything a redhead does is inherently sultry.

Still, when I finally rolled out of the house this morning at 9:15, it was 24 degrees F. And I shivered.

There used to be a time in my life when I would look 24 in the eye, whip my junk out, and wave it tauntingly at Old Man Winter. Six years of living in the South (just the South...not the Deep South) has softened me to marshmallow consistency. Much below 30 and I'm a quivering mass of jelly that doesn't want a thing to do with the outdoors. Unless there's nekkid chicks, but since most of them are marshmallow soft, too, that doesn't happen too often.

The first winter that we were married, back around the turn of the century, my wife and I came down to Charlotte to spend a week with her parents around the Christmas holiday. We had just left behind 48 inches of snow in South Bend from the blizzard that had hit us about two weeks prior (I think the blizzard dumped 24-28 inches on us, but that particular December had seen 48 inches of snow) and while it was cold in Charlotte, it wasn't as cold as it was in South Bend.

One day during the break, we went to one of the malls in Charlotte, and I was decked out in my winter attire. However, that day it got up to almost 40, and I was dying. I finally stripped down to just a t-shirt and my jeans and was finally comfortable. I remember steam coming off my head when I took my sock-cap off. It was sweet relief. Besides that, a steaming head is badass.

Now, the thought of a t-shirt in 40 degree weather sends chills throughout my body. I think my feet got colder just thinking about it.

That, however, was not the least I've ever worn on a winter's day. When I was in my first semester at ND, I was living alone in an apartment about two miles from campus. It was pleasant enough, though my neighbors were rather...sketchy...to say the least. One night, though, I decided I was going to do some laundry, so I spent the afternoon carting my stuff back and forth from my place to the community laundry room. It was mildly annoying, but I figured the walking was good for me. As I was putting my last load of clothes in, the washer wasn't completely full, so I figured I'd man-worn my jeans enough and stripped them off right there and tossed them in the wash. I gathered up my stuff and walked back to my apartment to find that I had thrown the lock on the way out.

With my keys still in the apartment.

And my pants in the wash.

I tried my best to kick or bash the door in but--remember the neighborhood was sketchy--the lock was pretty strong. While I felt safer that I wasn't going to be murdered in my sleep anytime soon, I was not looking forward to weathering the night on the floor in front of my door until the maintenance guys came to work the next morning. It was $20 if you had to call them after hours to let you in. I had no cash in my wallet, which was also inside the apartment.

I realized that there was one thing I would have to do. Some of my friends were having a little dinner party at a friend's apartment near campus. I opted for laundry and watching the Indiana/Ohio State game that night instead of the party, but I was planning on showing up for movie time. However, I knew that my only hope now rested in crashing the party.

I did have my shoes on, which was a damned good thing since there was 8 inches of snow on the ground. So, I set down my laundry basket (which was full of towels and other non-pants items) and, in my underwear, started walking to campus. From time to time, I would get cold enough that I would start running, but running in the cold night air when you're an asthmatic is not conducive to breathing. I would run as far as I could until I had to stop and walk. My lungs burned with inflammation; my skin burned with the cold; my humility just burned.

Now, I've never had a problem with being less than fully-clad, we'll say, much to the chagrin of most everyone in the world. However, I do take issue with being in just my undies while it's somewhere around 15-20 degrees.

I learned that night that South Bend cops could give a fuck less about your needs when they have their sights set on Nick's Patio, the local greasy spoon. What, stop and help the guy who is running in his underwear and waving his arms and gesticulating madly for me to help him, when there's biscuits and gravy that I could be shoving in my gob? You're on your own, fatboy. You could probably use the exercise, anyway.
So, I showed up at the party in my underwear and a t-shirt. I'll just toss in here that the dinner party-goers...all women. Except for my friend Jeff, one of the few Red Sox fans not named Karp that I can stand.

Here's my soliloquy that I gave when I got to the door, somewhat sweaty and panting:

"I locked myself out while doing laundry." *pant pant* "Don't ask." *pant pant* "Can I borrow $20 from someone?" *pant pant wheeze* "I'll pay you back." *pant pant wheeze wheeze* "If you're not watching anything, can I watch the Indiana game?" *wheeze*

Priorities.

Fortunately, after they ate and before we started the movie, Jeff lent me the cash and drove my sorry ass back to my apartment and hung out while I waited for the maintenance guy to show up...who lived in the next apartment building over. Fuck him. Having secured some pants and a warmer shirt, I returned to the party and watched Office Space. A couple of the ladies felt sorry for me and huddled/cuddled up to me to keep me warm.

That was the night I triumphed over Old Man Winter, not only successfully braving the cold and snow, but also I got cuddled on by a couple of reasonably attractive ladies to help "warm me up."

These days, though, I'll just take the ladies.

Somebody Needs a Birthday Spanking

In case you didn't know, today is Kari Byron's birthday.



Yep, that pretty much says it all...

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume III

I'm liking where this is going. So far, we've delved into the seedy underworld of bananas stuck in auricular orifices and the arrogant world of literary criticism. This week, we're going more practical. We're going to analyze a phrase that can be used while out on the town in the bar scene. Or, hell, this might even be utile the next time you're at the forum and especially if you're rocking out at Delta House, smashing guitars, doing it a little bit softer now with Otis Day and the Knights, fooling around with the Dean's wife, or banging thirteen year olds.

And look! This feature has become so popular, I've got a celebrity guest to provide the translation for this week's phrase. Everybody, please welcome the fabulously gorgeous Amy Adams! Ladies, this one is for you:

"Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?"

Pronounced "Est-nay woe-loo-men in toe-gah, an sow-loom tee-bee lee-bet may vee-dare-ay?"

*Once again, translation in the hovertext...try to focus on the words, pervy*

Fashion Post Fallout

Remember last week when I asked, nay, begged for fashion advice for my friend who was going on the blind date with someone who apparently should be titled a "Culinary Wasteland"? Remember how a lot of you talked about how she should wear the right shoes, and then one of you went and made a whole new blogpost about this, rife with comments and not one but two snazzy surveys? Twelve shades of awesome, that.

Anyway, remember what a lot of you were discussing? The fuck-me boots? Yeah, I see that spark of recollection in your eyes. Naughty, naughty. And by "naughty naughty" I mean "The doors at Casa del Jenks are always open for you!"

Also, remember way back when I talked about my anniversary? How I bought my wife a gift card to the shoe store because it's something she'd like? And how awesome I am for getting her something practical, rather than the traditional "bronze and pottery" gift (or better, Bronze Age pottery)?

And, did you guys know my wife reads my blog? Faithfully? And, better yet, she reads the comments that you people make? Oh, I can tell by the look of fear and worry in your eyes that you didn't know that. Hey, it's okay, though. Nothing to fear. If anything had happened, I'd be up in Naperville now, driving up and down the road in a John Deere Green car trying to get someone's attention.

Daydreams and blogcentric fantasies aside, the other day my wife took the kids to school and hung out in Raleigh for the day. Ever the savvy one, she took her gift cards with her and she found just what she was looking for. Making the purchase, she came home and left her booty (heh) on the dining room table. Later, she had to go to work or something like that, and she was like, "Oh hey, I used your gift card today. I left my purchase on the table!" as she was ducking out the front door. I waved good-bye and everything and then went to see what she had picked up.

There, on the table, still in the box resting in the bag, was, you guessed it, a pair of fuck-me boots.

Awww.
Fucking.
Yeah.

Now...if you'll excuse me, I've got to go limber up.

Table for Homina?

I was standing at Target the other day, and I had that ethical dilemma of "do I stare at the woman in front of me while she purchases her many items, or should I cast my eyes around the store in an attempt to look like I'm not staring daggers at her for arguing over the price of a see-through plastic tote?". I decided to do the latter--in between telling my children they could not have a piece of candy, because, hey, Halloween is in a few days--when my eyes should fall upon the following:
After pushing my goggling eyes back into my head, rolling my tongue back up and putting it in my mouth, and taking a hit off my asthma inhaler to try and curb the panting, I wondered, "Who is Amy Adams?" Not wanting to waste my lustful exuberance, which I had previously reserved for Tiffani, the dark-haired beauty running the check out, I did not pick the magazine up to thumb through it in a quest to sate my libidinous curiosity. Instead, much like if I wanted to find out information about Ron Paul or That Blue Yak, I googled my query. The innernets did not let me down.

Instead, quickly, they caused me to sit in my chair (I had to sit down because the blood rushed elsewhere) and utter "homina homina homina homina..." over and over again. I discovered that Amy Adams was the woman who played the real life princess in Enchanted, and I also quickly rued the fact that I had not taken my daughter to see it when it was on the big screen, thus depriving myself of twenty-foot tall slabs of pure sex appeal and gorgeousness. I mean, here is a woman with red hair, shapely hips, beautiful eyes, gorgeous voice and big, round luscious breasts, and I didn't know about her??? Moreover, you sonsabitches didn't tell me about her. Curse you all. Douche bags.

This has caused a bit of friction at home. I asked my wife--yet another red head with shapely hips, beautiful eyes and big, round luscious breasts--to sing True Love's Kiss rather than our normal sexalicious song, The Theme from Shaft (can you dig it?). While not amused, she accommodated me because she's just that awesome. I mean, it was bad enough when I told her we needed a bigger bed so that Leelee wouldn't be upset by being relegated to the couch. Now this. The Mrs, however, took it all in stride. What a trooper. Unlike Leelee, who went out and tried to make me jealous right away by being pictured with other fellaz. I guess that whole woman scorned thing has a merit of truth to it, eh?

Oh well. Now that we're all done worrying about red states and blue states, we can get back to the real important things: women with red hair. I think both sides of the aisle can appreciate that that is truly change we can all believe in.

Ruby Vroom

Sorry for the delay. It's been a bit hectic around here of late. Currently, a full half of the household is afflicted with some bronchial/pneumonic/allergy plague (that would be the younger half) and I'm going mad with the constant, continuous coughing [1]. It sounds like a fricking sanitorium around here.

I was also, you know, remiss to remove the picture of the lovely Leelee Sobieski off the top page of my blog. Plus, after Lisa-tastrophies suggested casting Leelee as Princess Leia, I about passed out thinking about Leelee in a Slave Girl Outfit. Tasty. Then it suddenly hit me: gratuitous Leelee Sobieski pictures![2] Not to mention, I'm still really just in absolute love with the idea of Kevin Smith directing remakes of Star Wars. I don't even care if Yoda spouts out "Snoochie booches!" instead of "Concentrate!" when he's on Luke's back while giving Luke his Jedi training during The Empire Strikes Back. Seriously, Harvey Weinstein, get this done.

Speaking of movies...did you guys (and fine ladies) know that there's a live-action G.I.Joe movie in the works? Makes sense after Transformers (which I still haven't seen, more on principle than anything else) and all, since for some reason the two are inexorably linked (at least in my mind). Anyway, I found out after coming across the following picture while reading one of my favorite new blogs, Pfangirl:
As Pfangirl put it: Wow, a hot girl in a leather cat suit. No one has thought that up before! (I paraphrase).

After a bit of due-diligence (read: reading blogs), I discovered that said hot girl is named Rachel Nichols, who apparently is a popular blonde actress from the tv show Alias and some other movies which I've never seen. At first, I was confused. I mistook her for ESPN's sultry slice of NFL coverage, who actually has red hair. You can imagine my confusion. Also, didn't Scarlett wear an outfit that was much more yellow and much less black? And just where the hell is she supposed to keep extra bolts for her crossbow? On second thought, maybe I don't want to know.

Rachel Nichols...

...and more Rachel Nichols.

One final update, we won't be putting the house up for sale this spring. The realtor came out and looked at the house and basically said the following: "The interior looks awesome, the yard and the landscaping look great, the exterior of the house looks like shit." Again, I paraphrase. So, I'll be busy here in the next few months scraping and repainting trim, replacing rotting wood, replacing damaged siding, reglazing exterior windows and touching up parts of the paint where it has peeled away from the house (I have a bad feeling I'll be painting the whole damned thing in the fall). If I can get a weekend where it doesn't rain and/or drop below 40 degrees, I'll be able to get a bulk of that stuff done.

Oh, and major announcement coming later in the week.

[1]: I loves me some alliteration.
[2]: If you think it's easy to find a picture of Leelee Sobieski that won't trip the porn filter at your work, think again. Oh, and, yes, I am encouraging goofing off on my blog while at work. Deal (hi, Amanda).
[3]: I didn't put a three, but see if you can catch the obscure pop culture reference from the title and how it fits into this entry. No fair using Wikipedia.

Happy Valentine's Day

Things have been plenty negative around here the past few posts, so why not offer something a little more positive.

Today is St. Valentine's Day. Being Catholic, I feel the need to cram my religious beliefs down your throat educate folks as to the meaning behind today's festivities.

There are two Catholic feast days held today, one for St. Valentine of Rome and the other for St. Valentine of Terni. Both men are said to have been martyrs for Christianity and thusly were rewarded with sainthood. There is, allegedly, a third Valentine who was martyred somewhere in Africa, but the Encyclopaedia Catholica doesn't give any further explanation. At one point, there were 11 Valentines who were attributed to the feast day celebrated on February 14th.

The first linkage of "love" to St. Valentine's day was done by Middle English guru and poet extraordinaire Geoffry Chaucer (as an aside, it is widely accepted--at least according to the excerpt about him that I read in the Intellectual Devotional--that, if it wasn't for Chaucer, English would never have caught on as a literary language...either French or Latin would have been used instead of what was becoming the English language). In the poem, Parliament of Fools, written in honor of King Richard II's engagement, Chaucer linked St. Valentine's Day with the time that birds began seeking mates.

So there you have it.

The legend has grown around St. Valentine of Rome (or Valentine of Terni...or perhaps they were the same person...difficult to say at this point) as being the first man to link love to his day. According to the most popular legend, Valentine was persecuted by Emperor Claudius for holding secret weddings of young, single men. Claudius felt that married men did not make good soldiers, and thus decreed that young men could not be married, thusly he would have an army of soldiers who didn't worry about their lady loves back home and would therefore become more savage in their ferocity on the battlefield. Or they would be savagely horny and would therefore take out their sexless frustrations on the enemy. Anyway, Valentine was tossed in prison and sentenced to death. The night before he was to die, he sent a note to his lover/mistress/gal...whatever...who happened to be his jailer's daughter (whom, in another arm of the legend, he had healed from blindness). The note was signed "From your Valentine."

So, there you have it. I prefer the horny bird explanation, myself.

There is another tradition that says that St. Valentine spent an exorbinant amount of money on chocolates (which at that time were not as sweet, but yet still thought of as an aphrodisiac) and roses in hopes of getting laid. Instead, his jailer's daughter just wanted to cuddle on the couch in front of the fire. This caused Valentine to become a priest and swear a vow of celibacy. The jailer's daughter ate the chocolates anyway.

I hope you are having a lovely Valentine's Day, nonetheless. In the Jenks household, we are sworn Godiva chocolate fans, and so my wife and I each got each other small samplers of Godiva truffles. Oh em effing gee, they're good. Or they were. I already polished mine off. On my way to work after dropping my daughter off at school, I swung in to Target, seizing the day and buying a bag of those chalky, tiny hearts with the messages on them. I love those things. Of course, I eat so many of them, I make myself sick. *opens drawer of desk and pours out another handful* Oh look, a green one saying "Mad 4 U". Damn, now I'm thinking about Paul Reiser...

The saddest part about Valentine's Day...ESPNews will no longer be running the Pajamagrams commercial. I should have recorded that one, sent it to my friend Chris, and had him prepare an entire four hour tape where that thing just runs on endless loop. The best part about it is that the pajamagram comes with a little sign that says "Do Not Disturb." I can see that actually being hung around the recipient's neck after she puts the pajamas on. Heh.

Welcome!

Wow. I haven't blogged in almost a week. Okay, so maybe it's not that shocking, but I looked at the date of the last one (which I put up with minimal effort...I'll admit) and I was a little shocked. For a while I was cranking one, maybe two blogs a day. Ah, laziness has dragged me into her clutches once again.

In case you were wondering, laziness has beautiful red hair, so it's not much of a struggle to escape her wily clutches.

I digress. What else is new? Certainly not my tangental musings.

Why roll the welcome mat out?

Ah, that's something entirely new. It's because I've been threatened with new readers. Now, I've come to know my readers (one of them in particular rather intimately) and I'm pretty much on a first name basis with all seven of them (it helps that my readers are largely my friends). Now, however, I might have to learn a whole NEW cast of characters.

The reason for this sudden influx is simple: I did a guestblogging stint for a friend's blog where I wrote about what it was like being 24. 24 was not one of my best years (though I did meet my wife, the comely and buxom Boudicca, at that age), but when telling a story, no one wants to read happy tales. They want romance, tragedy and war. 24 pretty much provided all of those things for me. So, I wrote a short summary of the things that went wrong that year and how they were different from how I had envisioned my life unfolding. If you want to read it, you can find it here.

Being the nosy type that I am, I read the comments attached to the guestblogging post. Wow. Was I ever humbled! To anyone who wanders over here from Ex's blog...thank you very much for the kind words. I try to remain humble, but with you people propping up my ego, well, it's tough to not let my opinion of myself suddenly run away. Again, though, thank you all for your very kind words.

Now that I've thanked you, let me warn you: I often don't put in the same amount of thought to my posts here that I did to my post I submitted for the guestblogging. In fact, I recently went on a rant about a particular basketball game where someone criticized the post as being poorly written. It most likely was (note: it is horribly written), but it was more of a visceral reaction to a game rather than anything else.

Another warning: my posts here tend to be more profanity-laced than the one on Ex's site. I fancy myself to be like Kevin Smith, except without the success, money, good looks, man-crush on Affleck and little dick. Okay, so pretty much the only thing I share in common with Kevin Smith is a proclivity toward using the f-word and a hot wife.

So, if you have moseyed on over from Ex's site, I invite you to stay, look around, kick the tires, read up on my life, have at it as you will, and don't get too offended by anything that I say or write. If things seem a bit too empassioned, chances are I was writing more from the gut rather than from the cerebrum.

And, above all, have a good fucking day.

Shut Up, Already!!!

I have another beef with the idiots on the sports talk radio station(s) down here (mmmm...beef...). Well, I have several, but this one has finally irked me to the point that I must rant to the interwebs and the ebays and the blagosphere.

Remember me bitching about Chris Clark here? In there I mentioned that Clark would soon be joined by local ACC shill David Glenn. While I haven't heard that one trick pony talk about how ESPN was beating down the ACC's door for that coveted Thursday night football game (please...) yet, his other oft-repeated, ad nauseum phrase has finally got me to the breaking point. It used to merely irritate me, but now I'm ready to beat someone in the head with a shillelagh (remember, I did go to Notre Dame and scored "Irish" on the European quiz).

Now, I appreciate someone trying to make an extra buck. Honest. Hell, I'm all about trying to make an extra buck or two for my damned self. This David Glenn guy, in addition to being a lawyer and having his own radio show, also does commercials for a jewelry store called Diamonds Direct. I guess they're local, I don't really give two squirts, I'll never shop there. What has me irked is David Glenn's constant reference to his wife in the commercials he does for the joint. It'd be one thing if he just said "My wife has a ring from there, it's pretty". No, instead he includes this epithet for her, not just on the commercial (and it's every commercial, mind), but any time he mentions her when he's on his show, or a spot on another show, or just sitting in for someone else. Always, whenever he opens his mouth, out roll the words "The lovely and talented Maria".

Okay, fine. You love your wife. Bully for you. And, you find your wife attractive and talented. I don't even want to think about what her talents are. I'm sure they involve brass poles. But, Christ, say it once, maybe twice...in your lifetime. There comes a point where even the cutesy crap you try to pull to gain points with your wife become as annoying as an itchy rectum. For this guy, it's about five seconds after opening your mouth.

I wonder if that's what he yells out while they make love. Never mind. I don't really wonder that. In fact, I'm thinking of going all Oedipus on myself now for thinking that. *shudder*

I think, however, that I'm going to start doing the same for my wife. She reads this blog, so why not try to score some points with her? Maybe it'll pay off in the sack. Who knows? Maybe she'll make me a cake for when I get home. Mmmm...cake. Or maybe she'll kick me in the nuts. That's a chance I'll have to take. But, from now on, my wife shall heretofore be known as "The buxom and comely Boudica." I've provided a link so that you can read up on Boudica and, perhaps, understand why I chose that name (in the interest of interweb anonymity, I thought I'd provide the buxom and comely Boudica a little bit of privacy).

Now...I'll just sit back and wait for that cake to appear.

I'd Like a Little Irish in Me

My good friend, Will, over at City of Tiny Lights, posted the results to this little "who's your inner European?". He got Irish, which is expected...after all, there's many a Shannon on the Emerald Isle. And Will embodies the "spirited and boisterous" descriptor, especially after a few rounds of ale (and don't get him started on politics).

In honor of the only man I've ever known who knew the monarchs of England in order and got all of the dates of their rule within a +/- 2 year error set, I felt the need to take the quiz, too.

Your Inner European is Irish!

Sprited and boisterous!You drink everyone under the table.

Who's" Your Inner European?

Here's to you, my fellow inner Mick. Now let's get the mattresses out and start wrestling in the hallway once more...right after drinking another bottle of Whisky.

Please...don't turn your head all funny trying to look up the Irish lass' skirt.

Happy Free Comic Book Day!!!

Today was Free Comic Book Day. I guess in order to help with their lagging sales (and don't forget the negative stigma that everyone who reads comics is an overweight bearded geek with glasses who sits in front of his computer and blogs and has an unhealthy fascination with fantasy worlds and the sciences...oh wait) the comic book companies put together a bunch of free books for mass distribution. Half on a whim, I stopped by the local comic shop to see what they had. I also wanted to try and find Aquaman 50, since a personal writing hero, Tad Williams, is now writing for the book. It's no small task, taking over a book with a guy who talks with fish and who now basically hangs out with Spongebob and making it into a "hot title". If anyone can shuffle off the mantle of pop-culture punching bag that is Aquaman, it's Tad Williams.

I was also searching for another two books by Williams, but I couldn't find them. My quest continues. I should have bought them while I had the chance.

Anyway, I was shocked to see the amount of people trying to get free comic books. I guess the recent successes of movie adaptations for Spider-Man and the X-Men (I've heard not so good things about Fantastic Four, bad things about Daredevil, and really, really, really awful things about Ghost Rider) as well as Super Man Returns, Bat Man Begins and V for Vendetta (supposedly, the guy who made 300 is working on an adaptation of the Watchmen) have helped reawaken interest in comics. I'm not sure what it is, but there were lots of people there. And, surprisingly, there were lots of free titles. Two of the ones I picked up were print prequels to Spider-Man 3 and the Transformers movie due out later this summer (Spidey opened this weekend and dropped some hurt on Pirates of the Carribbean's record for opening day). I have yet to read them, but they both look interesting, at the least.

Now, I mentioned earlier about how my kids haven't seen much in the way of Star Wars, yet. But, they have seen Justice League Unlimited on Cartoon Network (which was pulled before it's time and filled with craptacular kiddie anime) as well as Teen Titans. After tutoring today, I decided to go to the other comic shops as they had this promotion going: if you visit all three area shops, you can get your name put in for a drawing for a $100 shopping spree in the store as well as get a "real" free book from off the shelves. So, after tutoring today, my wife swapped the kids with me and she went to work and went off to geek it up. I hit the other two stores, and the second store said that we could take three free books since there were three of us (me, the girl and the boy). So, I grabbed a futuristic Justice League story and shoved it into my daughter's hands so I wouldn't feel guilty about getting three books for me.

Well, we went out to the car and she sat down in her seat and, as we were driving off to the final store, she read the comic. Like, cover to cover. She's turned into quite the voracious reader recently, but I doubt that anyone (especially my in-laws) would think this a good idea. I didn't ask her if she enjoyed it, but her attention couldn't even be swayed from the book for the fleet of Punch Buggies that we passed on the drive home. I fear I'm creating a monster; she asked me for a gameboy the other day...

Anyway, one of the better books that I did pick up (for free) was something called "How to Draw", a series featuring lessons in drawing comic book style (and I add, not Manga style) produced by the writers and editors of Wizard magazine. Being that I enjoy drawing and I've talked about producing an indy comic to take place after all the events unfold in the Hundred Kings Saga, I thought this would be quite valuable. So, that means I'm one step closer to developing that (it's called 'Chivalry'), but, I promise, I'll finish my other projects first (more on that tomorrow). Plus, the chick on the front reminds me of my wife, if she was rendered into comic book form. And had glasses that weren't twisted and mangled by a certain, unnamed 2-year-old.

So, happy Free Comic Book Day. And Happy Cinco de Mayo. I hope you went out, got a free comic book, and drank a Corona *shudder* while you read it.

My Son, the Jedi

Not a lot of things make me feel especially studly. Sure, bedding my buxom, redheaded wife is one of them, but one of the few others is either doing something that improves the house or fixing an appliance/machine that needs it. And, for the latter, get it to run as good as new.


That was just the scenario I was faced with this weekend. Last week, the drive belt that links the axle on which the lawnmower blade turns to the self-propulsion mechanism of the front wheels got chewed up by the blade. Fortunately, I had a spare lawnmower that I stupidly forgot to change the oil in last summer and thus pretty much seized everything up within. Nicely done. A very unstudly moment, to be sure. However, I was able to pull parts off of this old mower and figure out how the belt mechanism worked. I couldn't get the belt off, but I figured Lowes would have the correct replacement. After a 30 minute wait to talk to the guy to make sure the belt I picked up was the right one (and then 30 seconds to confirm...if that), I hustled home and began to fix the mower.


I was cleverly able to loop the belt around the blade so that I didn't have to take the blade off. After this, it was just another quick stretch and pull to get the belt through the opening in the housing for the blade to the pulley for the self-propulsion mechanism. A few twists and a flick to make sure it was tight, and I was back in business. I felt like many a bekilted Scotsman taunting the English after the battle of Stirling Bridge. As an end note, the mower runs as good as new. This was studly moment number one.


Sudly moment number two came on Saturday, when I decided I had had enough of watching Brady Quinn getting screwed and his falling stock, so instead I took my anger out on a light fixture above our kitchen sink that has largely been useless since we bought the house. It was an old (and I do mean old) fluorescent light that had no earthly use. Plus, the bulb was burnt out, and I just plain didn't like it. So, it had to come down. I bought some track lighting to replace it. However, I quickly discovered that the people who owned the house before us, or their contractors, or someone, are complete dolts. Instead of installing a box for the line to come through above the sink, they just had the electrical wires (and the insulation) sticking through a hole drilled in the ceiling. Class act, these folk. So, I wrestled and swore and swore some more and then finally got everything to fit the way I wanted it (if my son hadn't been asleep, I would have gone to get the box to fix it properly, which might be this weekend's project). I got the lights hung just in time before my wife came home, so it was a nice surprise. She, in fact, really liked it. Now, I can leave a light on for her at night when she is working that isn't the one over the stove, which burns out about every ten days. No lie.


So, because I was lazy, I took the old light fixture and laid it on the table in the dining room. I didn't think anything of it, but I did, later, take out the light fixture and such, but I left the bulb there. We'll fast-forward back to Sunday now. As I was preparing the kids' lunches, I was standing at the fridge getting some water from the filter so that I could microwave some macaroni and cheese (modern conveniences are even more wonderful when you've got kids to feed) when here comes my little boy (who is two and a half) into the kitchen, wielding the fluorescent bulb. He came in holding it in front of him and then, when he made sure that I could see him, he stopped, spread his feet shoulder-width apart and then held the bulb up over his head. At the same time, he made this face where he was gritting his teeth and scowling, as if he was trying to frighten off his enemies. In all, he looked quite the young Jedi standing there, ready to face off against Darth Vader.


The funny thing is, this must be a genetic thing because he's never seen a Star Wars-related thing before. My daughter has watched the Clone Wars cartoons with me, but other than that, there's not been too much Star Wars watching with my kids around. Clearly this is a case of genetic nerdiness fandom. As amused as I was, fluorescent bulbs are notoriously fragile and, with the glass being so thin, they tend to form razor-sharp shards when they shatter. Neither of these scenarios is exactly copacetic when it comes to two year olds. I was able to get him to hand me the bulb and I quickly disposed of it properly.


Oh, by the way, if you've had a really bad day working at the book store or something, the sound of long fluorescent bulbs shattering against the back of a steel dumpster is very, very rejuvenating. Or so I've heard.