Felix Dies Natalis, Mi Uxor!

Today is my wife's thirtieth birthday.

Happy birthday, my dear wife. I hope you don't...lose your head.


Of course, when I look at this, only one special part of me "turns to stone".

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.

Groundhog's Day Is Finally Here!

Did you know America has only one rodentocentric holiday on the calendar, and it's happening today? Shouldn't there be a Flying Squirrel Day or a Vole Day or something? Seriously, why do the groundhogs get all the glory? Today is also the day you should ask yourself, "Would Chuck chuck wood because we don't call them woodchucks?" God, I'm clever.

See, this is what not watching football does for a person. They get up and make puns about rodents and guys named Charles. Life doesn't get much better than this.

Not only that, but it's Betsy Hagar's 33rd birthday! That's right, all six foot one of the blonde goddess is preparing herself for cake, ice cream, and maybe a luxurious soak in a hot tub. Okay, maybe not in her mind, but in mind, she sure as hell is. Strangely enough, there's also a lot of whipped cream involved in my version. Wonder where that came from...

No, I don't really wonder. I'm a freaking perv.

I digress, but with the bloodflow diverted, these things happen. I mean, it's Betsy Effing Hagar! Funny I should mention her--aside from the fact that it's her birthday and I spent the time between August 1990 and June 1994 locked in a perpetual fantasy about her and her long, smooth brown legs. Crap, am I digressing again? I'd say I'm sorry, but you and I both know that I'm not. Unless "you" happen to be married to me, and then I'm sorry. Very very sorry. Ignore the blonde wig and requests to stand on your tiptoes.

Anyway, since I posted about Betsy's 31st birthday two years ago, Betsy Hagar has been my number one search item as to how people stumbled upon this little corner o'the internet. Awesome, right?

Not so fast, my friend. Turns out, Sammy Hagar--the Red Rocker--is married to a woman named Betsy. So, people mostly come here looking for pictures of that Betsy Hagar. Who am I to slow them down?
Oh, yeah, and today is also St. Cornelius' day. He was converted to Christianity by Simon Peter himself and later went on to become the bishop of Caesarea or Scepsis...no one's certain. He's also the patron saint of corned beef and bad puns.

Anyway, someone go shine a light on Punxitawny Phil's hole, would you? I want another French Toast holiday. And let's go back to thinking about Betsy and crafting clever word games using homonyms of "wood" and the nickname for guys named Charles, shall we?

My Apotheosis

Right after you all get done worshipping the Massive Pork Log, you can bow down to me.

I, of course, require hefty donations to support the church of me. Also, I demand sacrifices or porcine life forms. The recipe is in the previous post. And, of course, ladies, I require that all worship of my Uber Cool Nerd Godliness be done topless at least, naked if you're a true follower. Photographic (heavy on the graphic part, please) proof will be required. Often.

And if not, let the vindictive smiting begin.

And, should you happen to be, I dunno, married to me...I think you just found your Zeus character. And dinner better be on the table when I get home, lest the smiting begin anew.