I Give Up

There are a few things in this life that I really like.  Boobs is one of them...or two of them, since they usually travel in pairs.  Unless you're on Mars.  Wait, did the lady with three boobs make it into the remake of Total Recall?  Damn, she made me wish I had three hands.

I might have digressed, but given the subject material, you probably understand.  I mean, it's boobs.  They're GREAT!  I'm getting off-track again, aren't I?

I also like food.  I mean, who doesn't like food?  Well, I had a room mate in college who, I suspect, didn't like food.  He didn't like what food did to him; his body did strange things with various foods.  They were not exactly allergic reactions, but he would develop nodes on his vocal chords or have gastric issues and such depending on how his diet varied.  He didn't like food.  I kind of understand.  Okay, I lied.  You're talking to someone who drinks beer, even though his throat tightens up when the sweet, delicious nectar of the hops oils hits his adenoids.  I totally don't get not liking food.

My former room mate was forced to give up various foods so that they did not wreak havoc with his innards.  We used to joke that he would eventually just filter feed from the air and wash it down with water.  Drunk, nerdy college kids come up with stuff like filter-feeding as a solution to your problems.  It's a wonder I didn't get laid more in college...

At the beginning of the year, when most people were resolving to lose weight or quit smoking or stop cruising high schools in black vans with ether-soaked rags, I decided to give up ice cream.  Just give it up.  Drop it completely.  No more.  Cold turkey. 

*crickets*

Okay, that may have been a bad pun. 

A couple of years ago, I was pushing 1/6 of a ton (kind of puts it in perspective, doesn't it, when you do the fractional math) and I was miserable.  Everything hurt, I couldn't sleep, really bad apnea, so I took up hobbies that got me more active, lowered my caloric intake, and amazingly I lost around 50 to 60 pounds.  I made it back down to my college weight.  Well...the weight I was when I graduated college.  I was still in college; therefore, it was my college weight.  I've mostly held steady since, though I'd like to drop another thirty pounds or so.  And no, motherfuckers, I'm not cutting bacon out of my diet.  I will cut a bitch if you suggest that.

In order to help achieve this goal, I'm trying to cut back on the calories again, hoping that, when the weather improves, I can get more active outdoors and help make the final push for my high school weight.  But, man, it's hard.  I love ice cream.  I love ice cream almost as much as I love blow jobs (but still below boobs--you people know how awesome boobs are, right?), so giving ice cream up was a real sacrifice.  Sure, I gave it up in January, when it's cold, and ice cream doesn't sound that appealing.

Well, I would never turn down a blow job in January.  So there.  Sacrifice.  No matter how you slice it.

The thing that I found, though, was that I was substituting something else for ice cream.  Oh, here, let's have a cookie or a cupcake, it's fine, you're not eating ice cream.  Have half a pizza!  Those slices are small.  Better yet, here's a tub of Crisco with some chocolate shavings in it.  Have at it, Blubbo.  So, I've given up cookies, too.  I reserve the right to enjoy a canoli from time to time.

What?  Who doesn't love a delicious tube filled with white cream?

The problem is, cookies rank right below ice cream and blowjobs.  So far, I've been pretty good--I've been cookie-free for, like, a week.  Despite the fact that I have been doing Girl Scout cookie booths and selling those sweet, delicious little bastards (and the cookies, too), I have yet to succumb to the pressing cookie urges.  Our friends at McDonald's remembered that it's spring, so they've trotted the Shamrock Shakes back out, just to smear that shit in my face.  Fuckers.

So far, I've been able to withstand the siren song of both the GS cookies and the Shamrock Shakes, but, Lord Jesus, it's hard.  It's so hard.  So.  Damned.  Hard.

Maybe next I'll work on giving up sexual puns.

We Have a Problem Here...

People, you know me. I don't like to bitch about stuff.

But, I'm going to complain about something. I'm probably way out of line, but I can't take it anymore, and I have to say something. I'm throwing myself upon you, the internet, to rectify this problem. Mostly because, you, the internet has allowed this problem to manifest and propagate itself.

Now, there's a certain social networking website out there and, with the lead up to Valentine's Day, it's been, in a word, sickening. I've had to endure a gaggle of stupid, inane, insipid pandering from one partner to another via the electronic media. I'm hoping that, with the passing of St. Valentine's Day, the massacre bloodletting lovey dovey bullshit will end. I'm not holding my breath, though. I know how this shit goes.

The problem is, why do you need a fucking social networking site to make your feelings known to your spouse or partner or lover or the whore you paid fifty bucks to go to Outback with you? And it's not just the "I love you, Pooter" followed up with "I love you, too, Muffincakes". That shit I can handle. It's the "tell the world WHY you love your partner." Oh! I just piddled in my panties a little bit with exhilaration.

It's shit like "I love my husband because he LOVES the Lord!" Or "I love my husband because he makes me smile." "I love my wife because she fluffs the covers before we get into bed." "I love my husband because he has warm hands."

Shut the fuck up, Ned and Maude Flanders!

Okay, look. I'm glad you're in love. I'm glad that you've found someone who makes you happy AND fluffs your blankets for you. But, knock that shit the fuck out already. Thanks to my piss-poor lifestyle choices, I'm probably borderline diabetic, and this shit is enough to put me over the edge. Frankly, I hate needles, so this cute and cuddly happy lovey shit isn't doing me any favors.

The only thing worse here is that I somehow managed to not respond with a bunch of sarcastic, mean-spirited asservations of my own. Shit like:

• I love my wife because she's got some big titties. And small nips.
  
• I love my wife because she knows how to take a cumshot.
• I love my wife because she greets me at the door with a martini and a blowjob. Every. Day.
• I love my wife because she doesn't mind if I refer to her as "Kate Beckinsale" during sexy time.
• I love my wife because she lets me pop it in her pooper every other Thursday night.

No, I kept these declarations of love bottled up, mostly because I don't need an angry phone call from my mother. "You can't write that kind of stuff on the internet!" she'd screech through the receiver. Oh, mama, you should come 'round this joint on Thursdays...

However, I did finally do something that was at least a little bit in the same vein as my twisted sense of humor would allow. When the meme came down that, in honor of Valentine's Day, we should post a picture of ourselves with our significant other, I opted for Brock Samson straddling Molotov Cocktease.

I figured it had it all: I'm blond, built like a Norse god, look great shirtless, need a haircut. My wife is a sultry sexpot with red hair and big tits, and occasionally--especially if she drinks too much of the wine--she gets an exotic accent (Atlantan, I believe).

The nice thing was, I could easily figure out which of my "friends" have good senses of humor and which are...well...the kinds to declare their love for their husbands because "he doesn't make me cook!"

Although...I am thinking maybe I should have gone with my first choice for a picture of me and my significant other. I dunno, you guys make the call.