Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

If I were a better writer, I'd track down what iteration of the Saint Patrick's Day post this is.  I am not that person, however, so I'll just roll with it.  Pretend the Germans just bombed Pearl Harbor.

I've discussed in the past how Patricius (the man who would become Patrick) was a Roman citizen of Brittania who was probably a member of some minor noble family.  He was already a Christian when he was kidnapped and taken to Ireland, where he served as a slave for several years before escaping and making his way to mainland Europe.  After a trip to Rome, he returned to Ireland and drove out the snakes (symbolism for the pagans) and converted the Irish to Catholicism.  He then went on a spree of church building through the British Isles and ended up in Northern Indiana where he founded the greatest Catholic University on the Face of the Planet and Possibly the Universe.  That last part might be apocryphal.

Or he might have been a composite mixture of another Irish saint, Palladius, who also made a lot of churches but isn't nearly as tied in with the weak excuse to drink Guinness and behave like an asshole on the 17th of March.

As far as stouts go, Guinness is a pretty weak one.  Thanks to the craft beer revolution here in America, I can think of at least ten stouts that are far better than Guinness.  Stouts are actually a subset of porters, which are dark brown ales that are made with roasted malts, giving them the darker color.  They're typically stronger than their lighter-toned cousins, and the strongest of porters came to be known as "stout porters" and eventually just "stouts."  Nowadays, stouts are typically just the darkest of beers and the word "stout" has little to do with the actual alcohol content (for instance, Guinness, the "best" stout, weighs in at a paltry 4.3% abv, per the wiki entry).  And here's the real kick in the teeth for those who want to link Guinness (certainly a true Irish brewer) and stouts with Ireland:  Porters were first developed and named in London, England.  The dark color, thicker consistency, and affordability of porters made them popular with--sit down for this--porters (men who carried things).  Since the beer was cheap to make and was somewhat undesirable (philistines), it was shipped to Ireland where it quickly grew in popularity.  To lower costs even more (hooray, free market capitalism!), Guinness began brewing porters in the late 1700's and by 1780 was one of the top producers of this kind of beer.

So, not only is Patrick, the Patron Saint of Ireland from the British mainland, so too is the national beer of Ireland an English import.

Best damned leprechaun ever!

Well, the leprechaun has to be a true Irish symbol, right?  Well, yes and no.  The leprechaun, for all its connotations with being Irish, rarely appears in Irish mythology.  When the leprechaun does pop up, it is typically a mischief-maker, but more commonly is associated with being a loner who moves about the countryside repairing shoes.  A leprechaun is more similar to German sprites and gnomes than it is with any of the pantheon of Irish mythology.  In fact, the leprechaun appears so rarely in Irish stories that it's assumed to be a later addition to Irish lore than more traditional Irish spirits, such as the Banshee or the Tuatha de Danaan (which is a whole wide range of Irish spirits).  There is even confusion with what to do with a leprechaun, should you manage to catch one.  He (they are almost invariably male) will either give you his pot of gold (another property of the leprechaun that seems to be a late addition to the story) or he will grant you three wishes.  Most depictions of leprechauns center around the stereotypes of the Irish, especially in America, and many traditional Irish people look at leprechauns as just a prop for tourism.

Well...if Patrick isn't all that Irish and Guinness is a British import and a leprechaun is just a symbol for anti-Irish propaganda, what about the color green?

Green, White and Orange
has never been sexier!

Finally, we've found something that does seem to be a true symbol of Ireland...ish.  Ireland, of course, is known as the "Emerald Isle" because of the lush, verdant fields and the magnificent greenery that can be viewed in the countryside.  It makes sense, then, that the Irish national color would be green and that they would march into battle or rally behind a green banner, right?  Sure...except the green flag of Ireland is actually younger than the flag of the United States.  The "traditional" Irish flag featured a lot more blue than any other color for most of its history (Ireland, of course, being a loose conglomeration of kingdoms until the British conquests).

It wasn't until the late 1700's (Guinness is actually older than the green flag) that green began to be used as a symbol of Ireland.  Inspired by the French Revolution (and probably a little by the American Revolution), the United Irishmen raised a banner of green with a harp emblazoned on the field (the harp actually is a traditional Irish symbol) sometime around 1790.  Part of the choice of the color green was to stand in opposition to the orange color associated with the Orange Order, which was a symbol of King William of Orange and the Glorious Revolution of 1688.  William of Orange, of course, was an "English" king and was thus a symbol of British rule over the Irish.  After the Irish Rebellion of 1798, the modern Irish flag with the green, white and orange was introduced as a hopeful means of bringing a peaceful end to hostilities between the Catholic majority (the green) and the Protestant minority (the orange) of Ireland, with white being the symbol of peace in between the two groups.

Well, fuck.  It seems as though all the things we naturally associate with the Irish and Saint Patrick's day aren't all that Irish.  Unfortunately, leprechauns, the Irish spirits that most Irish want to disassociate with their Irish heritage, are the most Irish of all these symbols.

Next, you're going to tell me that the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, a school in Northern Indiana with a French name by a priest of Romanian heritage isn't all that Irish either!  The nerve!!!

However you decide to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day, just remember to lay off the brogues and drink responsibly.  Maybe enjoy some basketball and don't make an ass of yourself.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Happy Pi Day!

As a man who has enjoyed a few sugary treats over my forty years of life, I have come to the conclusion that desserts fall into three categories:  cake, ice cream, and pie.  All desserts are just some subset of these three, with pudding being the superfamily over all of them.  See what I did there, Britain?  No angry messages left in the comments.

Bears...always funny.

Each one of these delicious treats has a certain aura and mystique surrounding them.  Cake, for instance, is celebratory.  Marking another successful circuit around the sun on an annual basis after springing forth from your mother's womb?  Have some cake!  Finally shuffling off that employment coil and heading into the sunset of retirement?  Have some cake!  Decided to stick your dick in one vagina for the rest of your life?  Cake me, baby!  Even at bachelor parties, the stripper jumps out of a cake.  Cake is for celebrating.  You're never having sex again?  Let's eat cake! 

Ice cream is fun.  Hot day?  Let's have some ice cream.  Celebrating a birthday?  Well, hell, let's have some ice cream along with that cake (see paragraph 2).  On a date?  Well, we're not quite to the marriage and wedding cake step, so let's have some ice cream!  Even the ice cream man drives around in a fun, festive cart with Pop Goes the Weasel or some other song from your childhood blaring over the loudspeakers while he patrols the neighborhood like some sort of angry, frozen dairy treat bearing predator of the sea.  Sure, he has his victims bound and gagged in the back of his festive refrigerated van, but, man, for a few moments while you're picking out the overpriced, frozen dairy treat from the menu on the side of the truck, the ice cream man sure seems fun!  Who wants a side of chloroform to go with this drumstick knock-off?  Me!!!!!!...zzzZZZzzz...

I went to a dark place again, didn't I?

Pie, however, isn't really celebratory (the stripper doesn't jump out of a giant pie, does she?), nor is it as fun as ice cream (man, this pie just doesn't fit into the sugar cone like I was hoping!).  No, pie is something completely different.

Pie is pure sex.

Pie is a lot of work.  Sex is a lot of work.  When you make pie, you have to make the crust, you have to fill the crust, and then you have to put another crust over the top of the filling.  And the crust?  Yeah, it's so flaky and delicious because it has lots of layers.  There's some sex pun in there, but it's late and I can't be bothered to connect the dots.  When you make cake, you just dump some stuff into a bowl, crack a few eggs, stir, bake, done.  You don't need to frost cake; cake is pretty damned delicious as is.  Frosting is just...well, the icing on the cake!

No, pie is something more, something that is in tune with the deepest seated needs and wants of our psyche.  Eating pie makes us feel good, sure, but it also makes us feel a little naughty after enjoying it.  There's something a little lascivious about enjoying a pie. 

Indeed.

Hell, pie is even used as a euphemism--and I use that term lightly--for sex.  A woman's vagina has been likened to a slice of pie for a long time running.  Maybe it's because the shapes of the two are somewhat similar in appearance.  Maybe it's because they're both delicious.  Maybe it's because your face is a mess when you eat either of them without using your hands.  I'm not sure, but I do know that it does sound a lot nicer to liken a vagina to a pie than it is to describe it as cakey in any way.  When Eugene Levy was encouraging Jason Biggs to shove his dick in a dessert, he didn't tell him to fuck a cake.  No sir.  It was pie!  American Pie!  Yum.  *pukes*

 And, do I really need to mention Warrant and their assault on our early 90's radio experiences?  I didn't think so.  But it tastes so sweet it makes a grown man cry...

I apologize for any and all earworms this spawns.

Even though there's no real relationship between the value pi, which is the ratio of the diameter of a circle to it's circumference, and pie the delicious, salacious treat, we've still come to associate the dessert pie with March 14th, which is 3.14...or the first three digits of pi the mathematical value.  At least in America.  Those silly Europeans write March 14th as 14.3...so they don't celebrate pi day until the 31st of April.

Oh.  Right.

So, join me today in celebrating a unique number, pi, by treating yourself to a lascivious and tasty indulgence, pie the round circle dessert.  Oh, hey!  There's our connection!

Mind.  Blown.  Indeed.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol. CX

Much to do this morning and many things to see, so let's jump right in, shall we?

Today is March 14th.  The significance? you ask.  Well, shame on you for not knowing that today is a holiday--two holidays, in fact, rolled into one.  And, oh my stars and garters, what a beautiful pair of holidays we have--delicious holidays, even.

March 14th, or (as we Americans note it) 3-14, is special because 3.14 is the first three significant figures of the number pi, which is the universal ratio of a circle's circumference (distance around) to its diameter (cross-section).  No matter the size of the circle, no matter the location, pi is the ratio of the circumference to the diameter.  It is an irrational number in that it has no end, so while we may conveniently refer to pi as 3.14, the actual measure of the number is 3.1415926535897...  The ellipses mean that pi continues on forever without any repeating sets of numbers deep within its minuscule fractional world.

Go check out Boomerang's Aussie Pies!

Pi is also a Greek letter, the Ancient Greek equivalent to our "p," which happens to share a pronunciation with our tasty and delicious dessert treat, pie.  Naturally, one wonders if there's a connection between "pi" and "pie" (especially given this blog's predisposition and love of ancient languages).  The answer is...not so much.

However, the word "pie" is, most likely, a derivation of a Latin word pica, which means "magpie."  No, seriously.  I'm not kidding you (this time).  The word magpie itself arrives in the langue from the word pica, coming into English sometime in the late Middle Ages, when magpies were simply "pies".  As magpies tend to be mottled, black-and-white, things that were a mixture of black-and-white were described as "pie" or "pied."  A horse or a dog with large portions of black and then smaller patches of white are described as piebald; a certain Piper from Hamelin probably also got his epithet from this source.

Now, there are two schools of thought as to how "pie" went from meaning "black and white" to "Oh my God, I'm so full but I NEED another slice!"  The connection is made either through the lighter crust of the pie standing as a stark difference to the dark and mottled interior of the pie.  This is feasible, sure.  However, pie used to be less like the delicious dessert we so enjoy nowadays, and more like an entire meal shoved in a crust and baked.  Bits of meat, vegetables, grain and sometimes fruit were all put together and baked within a flaky fold of dough.  It was nutritious, fairly balanced, and, more to the point, fucking delicious.  It might not necessarily have been dark or mottled on the inside.

This whole discussion is even more amusing when you think about pie as being a euphemism for pussy.

Getting back to magpies and their close avian relatives, crows and ravens, these birds are famous for collecting bits of string or brightly colored cloth or other such trinkets.  The notion that lots of little pieces of whatever, coming together, was something that a foodstuff "pie" resembled is not necessarily a stretch.  Think of chick pot pie (something I do on a regular basis...) and you can see the connection.  This could be the link between a raucous, obnoxious bird and a delicious treat made up of lots of smaller bits that come together with delicious consequences.

Thanks to pie (our dessert) and pi (our circumstantial ratio) being homonyms, some of the more mathematically- and gustatorially-enthusiastic decided to link the two on March 14--hence, Pi Day, on which you eat a pie!  Just, be sure to pace yourself...

Non possum credere me totum edisse...
Pronounced:  "Nohn poh-soom cray-day-ray may toh-toom aye-dee-say..."

Get it?  Because it's Hot Pie, from Game of Thrones?!?!? Delicious translation in the hovertext...

As mentioned, pie did not necessarily start out as a delicious, fruit-and-sweet-filled concoction, but instead was more savory, featuring meat, some delicious sauces, and a bit of salt.  Since Pi Day falls on a Friday in 2014, and it's during Lent, Catholics will have to get a special dispensation from the Pope in order to enjoy the more traditional pie filling today.  However, Francis seems to be down with that sort of thing, so I'm sure he'll be more than happy to let you enjoy your meat-filled pies on Pi Day.  So long as you share.

Speaking of delicious meat, saltiness and sauces, March 14, as it falls one month after Valentine's Day, is also known as Steak and Blow Job Day.  The logic here is that, since men did so much for their ladies a month prior, it's time for the fellas to recoop some of their losses spent making their women happy.  Hence, Steak and Blow Job Day, which are two things that (most) men dearly love.  Because, you know, I want to eat a steak and get blown only one day a year...

The Romans did not eat a whole lot of beef.  Typically, especially in earlier civilizations, cattle provided a lot more than just tasty hunks of meat.  Milk and cheese were more valuable commodities.  Sure, if a cow got old and could no longer produce milk, then she might get slaughtered and be eaten for dinner; for the most part, cattle were seen as a source of wealth.  Not to back ourselves into a corner here on Steak and Blow Job Day, the Romans did enjoy the sensual pleasures of having a mouth wrapped around their cocks.  The word "fellatio" comes from the Latin word fello, fellare which meant "I suck" and was taken a step further to mean "I suck cock."

I hope you see what I did there in the paragraph previous...

If you're lucky enough to celebrate both holidays today, don't forget to praise your partner:

Quod fellas et aquam potas, nil, femina, peccas!
Pronounced:  "Kwoad fay-lahs et ah-kwahm poh-tahs, nill, fay-mee-nah, pay-kahs!"

More deliciousness in the hovertext!

The actual, word-for-word translation would probably better read "you can do no wrong, woman" or "you do not err, woman," but I went ahead and extrapolated some meaning.

Again, don't forget that it's Friday and it's Lent.  Celebrate the holidays as best you can during this holy time...just don't expect the Pope to give you another dispensation for the second celebration tonight.

Happy Father's Day

My wife and I eloped.

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 why I love you, dad.

Happy Father's day.

Happy Easter!

I just wanted to take a moment and wish everyone a hip-hop-happy Easter. May you find all the creamy goodness inside a chocolatey egg and marshmallow shapes encrusted in sugar that your little heart desires. And can take before it shuts down.


In case candy isn't your style, I hope you find her.

Happy Easter to all, and to all, a Cadbury-riffic night!

Happy Saint Patrick's Day...Again.

Yeah, yeah, I'll get to that soon enough.

But, here, today, right fucking now, it's Saint Patrick's Day! And, in case you missed the other parts of the series, here they are in reverse order? Why? Fuck Clemson, that's why.

Part the Third
Part the Second
Part the First

Patrick kind of got things rolling around here with my modern, tangentally historical interpretations of the hagiography, so at this point it's kind of a let-down if I don't talk about him on Saint Patrick's Day. Right? Right. Let's start drinking.

At this point, though, I've pretty much tired out the legend of Saint Patrick. With that in mind, I'll try and touch on other things linked to Saint Patrick. He was probably the first missionary for the Christian world, bringing the Word of God and Teachings of Christ to the illiterate savages on the edge of the world. That last part is a fancy way of saying "Ireland".

Patrick's work in Ireland was pretty amazing. The Irish went from a people who had very little in the way of what we would think of as civilization: they didn't write many things down, they didn't have vast, sprawling cities, they painted their bodies and were savagely fierce fighters. About the only thing that they did have that we consider "civilized" was an oral language (they were fantastic story tellers) and an organized religion. As luck would have it, three happened to be a rather sacred number in the Celtic religions of the island. A lot of the gods came in threes, or had three aspects or faces. And if this sounds mildly familiar to you, imagine how the Trinity sounded to the Irish.

The Irish are also inexorably linked in with Celtic civilization, and the large numbers of Irish immigrants who showed up in Boston is probably why the Celtics play basketball there. However, the Celts did not originate in Ireland. Their culture came from the middle of Europe, around the areas of southern Germany, Austria, northern Italy and Switzerland. They spread out from there, and they adopted various different names that were somewhat linked. The Greeks called them Keltoi, and had various run-ins with them as they moved down the Balkan peninsula and on into Turkey into an area known as Galatia. Paul's letter to the Galatians is an epistle aimed at the descendants of these Celts.

The Celts also descended into Italy, where they attacked Rome in 353 BC, sacking it and nearly bringing an end to Roman civilization and dominance in the area. However, as I mentioned above, the Celts were a nomadic people by nature and so they didn't stay in Italy long. They eventually moved out and inhabited an area known as Gaul. Of course, Old Blue Eyes, Julius Caesar, exacted revenge for the sacking of Rome when he conquered and subsequently divided Gaul into three parts. Granted, it wasn't revenge that drove JC, but a desire to get some of the better wine-growing lands around the northern Mediterranean.

The Celts also descended into the Iberian peninsula and set up shop in Galicia in Northern Spain and spread out into Lusitania, as well. Lusitania incorporates a lot of central Spain and Portugal. Again, the Romans conquered this area around the time of the Punic Wars and brought them under the umbrella of Republican Rule. This wasn't because of any sort of desire to exact retribution on the people, but more a desire to get their lands and keep out any Carthaginian influence.

Finally, some of the Celts moved on to the islands of Great Britain and Ireland. Once more, Trajan brought the Roman rule to Britannia, chasing the Gauls into Wales and back across the Irish Sea to Ireland. Ireland's position as being at the very edge of the world (in Euro-centric histories) was perfect for the last vestiges of the free Celtic peoples: it was flat, had many navigable rivers, and the weather was pretty mild, as well. The Romans tried, but never could conquer the Emerald Isle, partially because there was no where else for the Celts to flee to so they were forced to savagely defend themselves, and partially because it was so fucking far from Rome.


However, enter in a young slave, a Roman citizen by birth, who was captured from the western coast of Britannia about the time that Rome was exiting the area and who fell in love with these people who captured him. He escaped, made it back to Rome where he converted to Christianity, and then set out to spread the Word of Christ. Being that he loved the Irish people so much, he returned and taught them how to read and write, showed them the three faces of God by allegedly using one of their sacred native plants, and spread Christianity across their island. His name was Patricius.

And, in a way, the Romans finally conquered the last of the Celtic peoples.

Happy St. Valentine's Day!

Today is St. Valentine's Day, who is a saint who may or may not have actually existed, and if he did exist, he could have been one of fourteen different men. We're not even sure if we're celebrating the one guy or everyone named Valentine (a popular name at the time because valens is Latin for "strong, worthy, powerful"). Traditionally, it is said that Valentine was martyred because he would not deny Christ before emperor Claudius II (not to be confused with Cl-cl-claudius, Caligula's uncle and the fourth Roman emperor). Tradition states that Valentine was beheaded on February 14th, 269 AD.

There is a problem here, though. Claudius II (or Claudius Gothica) has no record of being a great persecutor of Christians. In fact, the rulers prior to Claudius Gothica had been rather tolerant of the Christians; it wouldn't be until Diocletian took control of the empire that Christians would be ostracized and summarily persecuted (about twenty years after Claudius Gothica). Now, most people think that the feats of "St. Valentine" were completely invented by Geoffry Chaucer. There are others who cling to the notion that the Catholic church had to create a holiday to offset the Roman Lupercalia, which was a springtime fertility celebration. You know how those Romans liked a good...or bad...holiday. Or at least you should by now.

Speaking of Romans, let's talk about one of their gods! Cupid is inexorably linked with Valentine's Day (which is kind of funny, if you think about it) as being the bearer of bad news love. Cupid, of course, is the Roman God of love, desire, and lust, and he is the son of Venus (the goddess of love) and Mars (the god of war). Never mind that Venus was married to Vulcan. Oh, those saucy immortals!

Cupid is often--and mostly erroneously--associated with Eros, who was an embodiment of the power of love and sprang forth from the primordial ick known as Chaos. Hesiod, the other Greek poet, tried to backtrack and make Eros a son of Ares and Aphrodite, which would line up with the Romans (he did this prior to Roman influence). Cupid's name comes from the Latin cupido, which means "desire" or "lust" whereas Eros simply means "sexual love" in Greek. Eros, however, gives us the words "erotic" and related terms.

Cupid himself did not make it into too many of the ancient epics. He appears briefly in the Aeneid, wherein he causes Dido some added torment before she sets herself on fire (spoiler alert). The most famous myth in which Cupid appears is Cupid and Psyche. He was, however, widely worshiped as a fertility god and a god of sexuality, which sort of lends a certain delicious irony to him being associated with a Christian feast.

The depiction of him carrying a bow and arrow goes back to ancient times. His arrows, at one point, were only used to incite lustful feelings within one or more people. Eventually, he started carrying two quivers: one filled with golden-headed arrows for the love-making; the other was filled with lead-tipped darts and were used to cause war. This could be another reason why Hesiod rewrote Eros' parentage, so that he had both the power to cause love and to cause war, like his immortal parents. Despite this, he was not considered one of the fifteen twelve Olympian gods.

Of course, these days, if something is fun or "too mainstream", some assholes have to come along and try to ruin it for everyone else. Enter AntiCupid, who I can only assume is blue and needs to be trapped away in a special holding field. AntiCupid is the brainchild of all those people who feel spurned or unloved on Valentine's day. All failed relationships and dating problems are AntiCupid's fault, because, you know, it's not you, loser, it's clearly the work of some nefarious godling. AntiCupid's arrows lead to hours of whiny music, cutting and a predilection toward wearing black clothing. His Greek counterpart is "Emos".

Claudius Gothica would be proud.

Retreads are Fun, Right?

I'm too lazy to actually write a new post, mostly because the bus didn't show up this morning, so I ended up driving the kids to school and then, on my to work, nearly got collected in two different head-on collisions. I love living here.

That will not deter me from celebrating my second favorite holiday on the calendar, not to mention my revisiting of the desire to nestle myself down between the thighs of one Betsy Hagar for a good six weeks of winter slumber. And by winter slumber I mean fucking until I pass out from exhaustion, waking up and going at it again.

I was a horny little cuss in high school. Horny, and guilty. *sighs*

And, apparently, our plucky, portly little pal, Punxatawny Phil did not see his shadow, which means there will not be six more weeks of winter! Huzzah! I'm sure that makes you guys in the northern tier of the nation feel better, right? That two feet of snow? Didn't happen. Flowers should be blooming any moment now.

Wait.

You guys know what today is, right?

Okay, yeah, sure, it's Groundhog Day. It's the day when we celebrate the prescient powers of Marmota monax, which is a mixture of Latin and Greek meaning "lonely fatass ground squirrel". In case you were curious (and I know that you weren't), if it ends in an -x, it's typically a Greek word.

Today is also Candlemas, which is traditionally viewed as the day that Christ was presented at the Temple. Mary also had to go to the Temple in order to perform rites associated with recovering from childbirth, a sort of purification, if you will. It is observed 40 days after Christmas. Hey, only 324 shopping days left, slackass!

Also, Candlemas is supposed to be the very last day that you're supposed to have your Christmas greenery up. If you happen to be my neighbor and reading this then...*hint*hint*

And how are the two related? I'm glad you asked! Now, sit down, shut up, and listen: back in the old countries, the English and Germans and other various northern European peoples used to believe that, on the 2nd of February (which is halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox), bears, badgers, wolves, and weird uncle Lute would emerge from hibernation to inspect the weather and determine if they should go back to sleep or not--which is very curious, considering wolves don't hibernate...

While settling the New World, the tradition was carried over and, apparently, since black bears just didn't cut it, the settlers adopted...the groundhog...as the midwinter mascot. Isn't that...just...awe-inspiring?

In case your awe isn't inspired enough, one of the nicknames for the groundhog is the "whistle pig".

All of this shit is just filler. Most important of all, today is Betsy Hagar's Birthday!!!

Now, I've mentioned Betsy Hagar in the past on here. Several times. And usually it was with one hand in my lap and the other slowly tapping out words like "whipped cream" and "tall blonde goddess" over the keyboard. Hey, one-handed typing is not easy. I see some of you nodding. Don't think I'm not on to you. *mouths the words 'Call me'*

Some of you might not be up on the list of young women I lusted for during my high school days. Betsy Hagar was at the very top of that list. She is the one about whom I would write long, involved, erotic stories and then, being that I was so turned on by my own lustful creativity, I'd crank one out while still fantasizing about Betsy. Upon climax I would breathlessly begin to feel crushing guilt over my carnal tendencies and I'd take the paper on which I wrote the story and I'd burn it, supposedly (in my sick mind) as a way of burning the lust out of my mind for Betsy and all the other women on the list.

And it was quite an extensive list...

But, Betsy was different. As I mentioned here, there was a lot of crushes that came and went during my high school years, but the one constant throughout the time was my seething desire to part Betsy's thighs. Despite how badly I wanted her, my mind invariably forgets about her until Groundhog's Day/her birthday rolls around. She's kind of my portal to the "good old days", when things seemed a lot simpler, and I didn't have so many fucking bills to pay. Yep, less debt and long, sexy, gorgeous legs. That's what thinking of Betsy Hagar reminds me of.

So, Happy Groundhog's Day. Let's hope that lonely little Whistle Pig enjoys his day in the sun. And Happy Birthday, Betsy Hagar: you fill me full to the brim with lust and nostalgia.

The Greatest Christmas Picture Ever?

I've already switched my Facebook profile picture to reflect my esteemed opinion of this photo. I don't know how they could make this better or more Christmas Card worthy. Maybe put a Santa Hat on the walrus? A Christmas tree in the background? Mistletoe over his head?

I don't know, but I applaud the people who did this. It's comedy gold. It works on so many levels. It's genius.

Okay, it's a walrus eating the hell out of some cake in the shape of a Christmas tree. I think it's made funnier by a) it being a walrus, an animal with a name just as silly as its appearance and b) the fact that the walrus has no thumbs, and therefore must dive face-first into his snack.

How I long to be the walrus...

If I had time, I'd print this out and slap a Merry Christmas on it and send it out as a Christmas card. At the very least, it's a helluva lot better than a cartoon drawing of a puma fist pumping his excitement over my birthday.

Screw the snowy chapel picture, Saint Joe. Next year, I want funny walrus pictures in my electronic in-box.

Or, better yet, funny walrus movies...

Tradition!

The holiday times are upon us once more, and that means it's time to crank up the old family traditions. You know, those things that you don't really want to do, but you do them anyway because you'd feel guilty if you didn't do them? Right. Those things. The holidays are steeped in them.

Growing up, we had a tradition of going to my grandparents' houses on Christmas Eve. Early in the afternoon it was my paternal grandmother's house, and then it was my maternal grandfather's house for the evening. I enjoyed grandpa's house more, mostly because it was bigger and he had a larger, nicer tree. My grandmother's tree was small and white. It felt more holiday-ish at my grandfather's house. Also, my grandmother was a woman who was a bit more prim and proper and so you couldn't hike up on one ass cheek and let fly with a ripe, juicy fart. It just wasn't done. My grandfather would actually applaud you if it was a good one.

High brow lot, my family.

There was also the chance that a game of Trivial Pursuit would break out, which would eventually devolve into a lot of swearing, and when you're a kid, hearing your elders cursing over their lack of trivial knowledge is damned funny. The adults would play the game, the kids would play with our toys or watch the marathon of shitty stop-action animation holiday specials that was broadcast on Channel 55 for the three days prior to and including Christmas Day. It was bliss.

As I got older and my grandparents died, we would just gather at each other's houses for a meal on Christmas Eve, more games and swearing, and more shitty television. The gatherings would just rotate between my mom and her two sister's houses. Now, however, our families are so far-flung (North Carolina, Oregon, Indianapolis, Fort Wayne) that a holiday get-together isn't practical.

Plus, I'm married. Which means that I have a whole new set of traditions to absorb and work into my holiday repertoire. For instance, one tradition my wife and I have is that we don't have the sex for the last three months out of the year. Of course, this doesn't really differ from the other nine months, but now it's more festive because I can hide inopportune boners under Santa hats.

Love ya, puddin'!

The other major holiday tradition that she brings to the table is a heaping, steaming helping of holiday guilt. Traditionally, her parents start layering it on really good and solid starting in about July. It goes something like this:

"I know that it would be inconvenient to you, but we really want you to load up all your family into the car, drive seven hours to a small, cramped house that's not heated and doesn't have cable and has insufficient beds for everyone and uncomfortable furniture and two showers and nowhere for the kids to play. Leave your kids' Christmas presents at home and, even though your husband has nothing in common with the rest of your family, that sonuvabitch better not bring a book or a video game or anything like that to entertain himself with. That fat bastard is going to sit on those uncomfortable couches in that cramped house and be forced to watch marathons of 'Keeping up with the Kardashians' until he wants to go Oedipus Rex on himself with a pair of hat pins or--if he can't find those--corn cob holders, and he's going to like it or else we'll have an intervention where we try to talk you into divorcing him. We don't care if you have to work. We don't care if you don't have vacation. We don't care if your children would rather stay home and play with their new toys. We don't care if you don't want to be here. You will be here or else you'll be further ostracized from the family."

Or something to that effect. Every year. Starting in the summer. Usually, the guilt starts being applied in the hopes that we pick up and drive somewhere for Thanksgiving but then it really gets ramped up to eleven for Christmas. Because nothing says "Praise the birth of our Lord and Savior" like being surrounding by people drinking shitty beer, playing Hearts, sitting on crappy couches in a cold house with no television to watch. God was made flesh to enhance our misery, right? Right.

Fortunately, we now have an ace in the hole: my wife has been promoted to manager, and so she has to be at the store during the holidays. Yahtzee! No driving to Atlanta for us! Ka-loo, Ka-lay!

Granted, this misery could all be alleviated if I simply rented a hotel room whenever we showed up for holiday family functions. That shit's expensive, though. Yet, if I was a rich man...

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XCI

Oh, dearest Ceres...sign me up for the third circle of Hell. *pats sides of voluminous potbelly* I certainly put the celebration in the harvest celebration this year.

If my non-American friends will excuse me for just a moment...yesterday was Thanksgiving, of course, and I'm feeling a bit lethargic. Is there a holiday that's any more American than Thanksgiving? I mean, where else would you celebrate the largess of the fields to the extreme like here in America? Oh sure, Fourth of July with it's mayonnaise-based fare and explosions is theoretically more American than Thanksgiving, but we're a people who love to eat. By God, yesterday was the pinnacle of the celebrating-by-eating holiday.

You know who else enjoyed celebrating holidays by eating too much? Yep, the Romans. And the Greeks. And the Egyptians, the Assyrians, the Ethiopians and...well...pretty much every civilization that's ever thought twice about setting aside days on the calendar for purpose of a party. In fact, civilization itself might have begun because people liked getting together and eating. Either that or folks were just fucking tired of wandering around all over the place and said "Here! I'm building a city here!"

I hope you all had good holidays. All four of us got involved in the cooking this year for the Thanksgiving holiday. We had ham and turkey, mashed potatoes, cheese peas, deviled eggs, cranberry salad/relish, dressing, crescent rolls, a dish from Emeril involving bacon, apples and squash and Guy Fieri's sweet potatoes. Oh, fuck, it was good. And then there was butterscotch pie, lemon chess pie, and my wife made me one fucking awesome pumpkin pie. Smooth and creamy and my my my, was it delicious. Every year, I promise myself I'm not going to make an ass of myself when it comes time to eat. Last year, that was not a problem. This year, the fare was much better and, well, holy wow, did I spend the afternoon in a bloated state of lethargy that brought a broad smile and a touch of indigestion to my lips. It was a Bacchanalian orgy of carbohydrates, fats and deliciousness.

And, of course, when it was done, I uttered this mouthful of happiness:

Non possum credere me totum edisse...
Pronounced: "Nohn poh-soom cray-day-ray may toh-toom aye-dee-say..."

Bloated translation in the hovertext

The other nice thing about this Thanksgiving is that I'm not going out to fight the crowds for "deals" on Friday morning, nor am I driving back from any extended family members' houses after the holiday. I'm home, where I can lay on my couch, rethink all the bad decisions I made yesterday (Oh, yes, I'll have some more!) and be the worthless lump of humanity that I am.

That's what long weekends are for, right?

Happy Thanksgivin, Y'all!!!

As my wife and I are preparing a genuine (pronounced "Jen-yew-WINE!") southern Thanksgiving (read: Everything fried), I'm taking time out from surfing Thanksgiving porn...and wow, did Squanto ever show those Puritans the proper way to "bury a fish for fertility" getting last minute candied yam ideas just to wish you, my friends, family and complete strangers from the internet, a Happy Thanksgiving.


Let us celebrate the fertility of the land...and the loins of a gobbler and hen turkey...with a festive feast, good cheer, family togetherness, and pie. Lots of goddamned pie.

Now, please, for the love of God, would somebody lock Al Roker away in a vault somewhere and throw away the key?

Happy Hyacinth of Poland Day!!!

Today is my best friend Joe's birthday. Joe attended Virginia Tech, thus the picture of the leggy blond wearing the Tech sweatshirt. I remember it's Joe's birthday--at least, in the time before Facebook reminding me--because today is also my brother's birthday.

My brother didn't attend college, which is unfortunate because I can't post any nearly nekkid chicks sporting his college's colors. He did, however, once get really drunk at a kegger at my undergrad and tried to bang this girl named Linda...which was apparently a Jenks-boy tradition (the trying part, not the banging...mores the pity).

In lieu of scantily-clad whores, I'll give you a charming story starring me, myself, I and my brother. There will be special guest appearances by our cousins, as well.

This takes place during the Christmas of (I think) 1996. We had all gathered at my cousin Napoleon's house for Christmas Eve. Napoleon's older brother (for continuity's sake, heretofore nicknamed Kip) was also there, along with his (second) wife and their little girls. Also in attendance was my cousin Scott (whose last name is vastly different from mine, so I don't feel the need to hide his identity nearly as much) and his parents.

There was also an eight hundred pound gorilla sitting in the corner that went by the name of "Kip and his (second) wife and my aunt and uncle really aren't getting along and the marriage is about to dissolve any second now--Happy Holidays!!!" attending the holiday festivities that year, too.

After the present exchange and before the meal, the tension was growing between Kip, his wife, my aunt and uncle. Because my mother was in attendance, she was also in a bad mood. My father and my uncles did what they did best--slept in front of the television. My cousins Napoleon and Scott and my brother and I sat around staring at one another feeling really uncomfortable with every snarky, snappy comment made between any of the "adults" who were still conscious.

"We should go bowling," someone stated--I'll credit my brother since it was a brilliant idea and it is his birthday, after all.

The plan was made quickly. Napoleon would drive. The other three of us would ride with him. We would bowl, we would escape the house, and we would...uh...not have to put up with the bullshit anymore.

The one snag, however, was going to be asking my mother for permission to leave. Since someone had pried her off the couch at home, she was miserable, therefore everyone else would also have to be made miserable. I knew asking her for permission would be painful.

So did my brother. Which is why he left the house via Napoleon's window. Opened it, raised the screen, bailed, and was already headed toward the car. In fairness to my brother, Napoleon had already done the same.

Scott had been granted permission, but true-to-form, my mother said absolutely not. Fortunately, my aunts convinced her that "the boys don't get to see each other much anymore, since they've graduated". My mother, pissed that she was outnumbered in this, finally relented. I bolted, not even feeling a pang of guilt.

Of we went, down the road, to the sprawling metropolis of Huntington. Being as how my brother was banned from the bowling alley on the north side of town (I'll admit, I'm only telling you that to flash my family's white-trash street cred), we were forced to go to the one on the south side of the city.

Aside from the owner, we were the only derelicts in the bowling alley that fateful Christmas Eve.

We each bowled three games and had quite a good time doing it. I don't know who won--my paltry 111 average doesn't garner me much in the limelight of bowling alley fame--but that's not the point. We escaped the house, we had a good time, and we didn't have to be around the snarling cur that was Kip's (second) wife.

As good things are wont to do, our time at the bowling alley ended. We turned in our shoes, loaded ourselves back into Napoleon's car, and headed back east for home. Now comes the time for the set-up: it was December in Indiana, which means that we had had some snow, but not a lot. There was a bit of a crust of snow along the edges of the road and some snow hidden in the folds between the high clumps of grass along the edges of the fields.

As we were returning, Napoleon was driving the speed limit--not because we were obsessed with being safe (the main roads were quite clear), but because none of us wanted to return to the simmering tension pot that we called "Christmas Eve" that year.

I voiced that opinion aloud: "Wow, I am in no rush to return to that any time soon."

My brother seconded my opinion: "Yeah, we should take a drive through the country."

Napoleon, hearing this, decided it was an excellent time to turn off onto a country road...without slowing down.

A country road that wasn't paved.

A country road that retained some of the ice from earlier winter storms.

A country road with a very steep drop-off past the shoulder.

A country road with a very steep drop-off past the shoulder without a guard rail that wasn't paved and was still retaining some ice from the earlier winter storms.

Tragedy Comedy was about to ensue.

This is the greatest "Oh Fuck" moment of my life, when the brown sedges and grasses came hurtling up toward the passenger side window, when the car was dangerously close to rolling, when we were--most certainly--hurtling toward death.

I felt kind of like Steve Martin to Napoleon's John Candy:

Needless to say, we survived. Unfortunately, we were at the bottom of a very steep "hill" surrounded by woods. We got out to assess the situation.

"I think we can push him out," I offered. "Napoleon, you just need to gun it."

So, Napoleon gets back into the car. My brother, Cousin Scott and I, get behind the car.

"Put it in neutral first" I hollered. We pushed on the car and found that we could move it quite easily. "Put it in drive and see what happens."


Napoleon put it in drive. He started moving, but the ice and snow that was hidden down in the bottom of this hollow did not make for good footing or traction. He threw a lot of mud, but the car was moving some.

"Alright..." I said, seeing the situation was going to call for us to put our legs and backs into it. "Scott, you take the middle. Brother and I will take the sides behind the wheels."

They stared at me with questioning looks upon their faces.

"Brother and I can go home and change pants; Cousin Scott can't," I explained. It was one of the most brilliant things I had ever thought through. Because, you know, if we came back muddy from having pushed the car out of the ditch, my parents would have killed my brother and I for surviving a wreck on Christmas Eve.

More importantly, we would never be allowed to escape family gatherings ever again.

And so we took our positions. I signaled Napoleon, who gunned it. We pushed. The car heaved forward. He gunned it more. We pushed it more. The car found traction and climbed the least steep part of the hill and found purchase on the gravel of the road once more.

I looked down at my pants. They were coated in a layer of mud at least half an inch thick. Brother's was the same.

That's when we started laughing, because when you go through a harrowing experience and don't die, shit gets a lot funnier. We laughed so hard we doubled over. We finally climbed into Napoleon's car and were off, all four of us laughing until tears streamed down our faces.

Napoleon drove brother and I home, where we quickly changed pants. As Napoleon lived only about three blocks away from our house, we weren't late in returning to the Christmas Eve emotional bloodbath. We finally stopped laughing in Napoleon's driveway, put our game faces on, and re-entered the house in time for the meal.

Awesome.

To this day, I'm still amazed that we somehow were able to pull that shit off without even the barest hint of suspicion out of any of our parents.

So, happy birthday to my little brother. I'm glad we made it through the best--and worst--Christmas Eve ever.

Happy Memorial Day!

Happy Saint Patrick's Day (Part the Third)

In case you missed the previous two parts in this scintillating series, here is Part the First and Part the Second.

Saints and begorrah! Is it Saint Patrick's Day already? Hard to believe that this is the first time I've dipped into the hagiography this year, but maybe it just means that I'm actually putting thought and foresight into my posts and not just "Let's see what obscure Catholic saint I can poke fun at today". I might as well confess (see what I did there?): The Saints post are to me what Jay and Silent Bob are to Kevin Smith.

However, I would argue that, after Jesus' parents, Saint Patrick is the most famous Saint "recognized" in America. And he's only recognized because he's a convenient excuse to drink, which is silly because Saint Arnold is considered the patron saint of brewers (his patronage is on July 8, just so you know). Saint Martin (feast day November 11) is considered the Patron Saint of "drunks", in that he's the Saint you invoke in an attempt to sober your friends up.

Let's not let facts get in the way of a little celebration! We're here to talk about Patrick!

As I mentioned Monday, Saint Patrick was born in the province of Brittania, some time around A.D. 387. This would make him a Roman citizen. He grew up on the western shores of Great Britain, probably in the modern county of Cumbria. Around sixteen, he was captured by those nefarious raiding neighbors to the west, the Irish (or, the Hibernii, as they would have been called in Roman lands). This started his life as a slave.

One of the major occurrences that happened prior to Patrick being born was Emperor Constantine's edict that Christians were no longer to be lion food in any of the great hippodromes around the empire. This began making Christianity not only tolerable in the empire, but also a bit of a fad. If it's good for the Emperor, it's good for us, too. Constantine himself didn't convert to Christianity until he was lying on his deathbed, which would have been sometime in spring of 337--putting it off, it seems, to maximize that whole "one baptism for the forgiveness of sins" deal.

This is important because the citizenry of the empire were, for the most part, Christian by the time Patricius (his given, Roman name) was born, whereas the dastardly Hibernians still worships the Badb and the Dagda. So, while Patricius was tending his captors' flocks as a shepherd, he prayed, because if you're a slave sitting alone on the hillside with a bunch of sheep, might as well talk to God. Am I right, folks?

After six or seven years as a slave, Patricius decided it was enough of this sterco and ran away. Somehow, he talked his way onto a merchant ship bound for the mainland (some say it was divine intervention) and then went to Rouen (which was known as Rotomagus under Roman rule, or roughly "magic turn"), which had a monastery. Here, Patrick studied the Gospel before returning home to his family in western Britain.

However, when he got home, he didn't feel at home. Bah, kids! So, he decided to go back to Ireland in order to spread the Word of God. As you might have heard, he did just that, making him, possibly, one of the very first Christian missionaries in the world. At the time, there wasn't much call for the people of the church to go out and try and convert the pagans...probably because the pagans were more interested in destroying what was left of the Roman Empire, raping and pillaging along the way.

So, what drove Patrick to return to the island where he was a slave for so many years, where one would think he would not want to be? We might be able to figure out just why he went back to Ireland, if we read his Confession (or Confessio): women.

Saints be praised! Patricius had him a soft spot (or a hard one) for the fine lasses of Ireland. We know this because, in his Confession, Patrick references the beauty of several of the women that he baptizes...which we can also assume was done by means of full immersion. Oh, Patrick, you devil! And while there's no record that Patrick ever took a wife (aside from his writings--saved by the Irish while they were rescuing civilization!--there's really not much record of Patrick at all), there's no reason why he couldn't have been married. From what we can tease out of his writings, Patrick had quite an eye for the ladies.

Now, this cat T.F. O'Rahilly postulated back in the 40s that Patrick was really another saint, Saint Palladius, who was the first bishop of Ireland. Palladius might have been the first bishop of Ireland, but in order for there to be Christians there, someone would have had to have brought the word of Christ to the Irish. As most bishops and priests were more worried about lying upon their horde of gold stashed in the back of their churches, this someone was most likely Patrick.

Eventually, all good things must end, and as such, so did Patrick. He died, reportedly, on March 17th (hey! that's today!) in 460 A.D., though some accounts have him dying as late as 533. This, you might deduce, was probably a different Patrick, or maybe a different saint altogether.

Therefore, while you're out enjoying your green beer today, think of Ireland's most famous Patron Saint, who wasn't Irish at all (unlike Brigid and Comcille, who are both Patron Saints of Ireland and who were actually Irish). This makes complete sense, as most people who celebrate St Patrick's Day aren't Irish, either!

So, let's tip our glasses to St. Patrick today as we don our green, head out to the bars, and wait for that first drunk asshole to stumble up to us and, in his worst, sloppy drunken accent ask "Pardon me, lass, but do you have any Irish in you?" And then, before you can answer, he screams "Would you like some?"

Also...I can't drink beer anymore. So, please, if you're headed out to the bar tonight, drink one down for your old buddy Jenks, who is there with you in spirit. And, if you really want to feel like I'm out drinking with you, grope yourself clumsily and then offer up apologies for the rest of the evening.

Saints and begorrah, indeed.

A Tale of Love and Desire

I wanted you the moment I first laid eyes on you.

When I saw you across the bar, the way the light shone off you sleek, curving lines, I knew I had to have you. I would stop at nothing to get my hands on you, to feel you against my lips, to have you near me, to taste you, to smell you, to be everything to you.

I remember the tumult of curly blond goodness cascading from your head, how your curves stood enticingly beneath them, the darkness of your body. It was enough to take my breath away.

Boldly, I crossed the bar, wrapping my hands around you. You were cool to the touch at first, but then you warmed ever so slightly. Your essence danced beneath me; I breathed deeply, inhaling the very aroma of your soul. I needed you then.

Without hesitation, I laid my lips next to that gorgeous blond head of yours. You backed away slowly, cautiously at first. Seconds later, you flowed into me, meeting my lips with your own aggression. My eyes were closed; I reacted on instinct alone. You were so great, so wonderful, I needed more. Time and time again I returned, needing the feeling of you pressed against my lips. You filled me like no other had before, and I was left breathless.

And then, you were gone.

Where you had been before was now just an empty space. My heart broke. I looked about for you, searched desperately all around. You were nowhere to be found. Dejected, I returned to the bar.

And that's when I found your sister.

Her curves were every bit as enticing as yours. Her blond head tossed about in the same desirous manner. And she came to my lips without hesitation, practically pulling me into her. Quickly, you were forgotten while I returned to my table with your sister accompanying me.

With her, I took my time, got her to warm to me, so that I could experience everything she had to offer. And she gave it gladly. She filled me in ways that you didn't or couldn't.

As the night grew late, I sat back in my booth, my eyes focused on her. They say you never forget your first, and while I will never forget you, I will always remember your sister, too. She might not have been my first, but she was as good. We finished and, sated, I said my good-byes to her.

But, I knew that I would be back. And your sister would always be there, calling to me, luring me in to her bold and earthy clutches.

It's true what they say: You never forget your first Guinness.

TMI Thursday: A Valentine's Story

This is a story not for the faint-of-heart. Thanks to GregoryJ, the Puking Pumpkin should warn those of you with weak constitutions to stay away. For the rest of us, feel free to enjoy the following story. And, if you want more awesome tales of debauchery, check out Lilu's home and read other awesomely bad TMI Thursdays!

I'm not one to hate Valentine's Day. I mean, yeah, there's no proof that any Saint Valentine was in the Roman dungeons marrying Christians (turns out, there were maybe a dozen different dudes named Valentine who could have fit the bill), and I've told you before how St. Valentine's Day was linked to love based pretty much solely on the fact that Valentine's Day and the time when birds started mating coincided. Horny birds, for the win.

But, I like Valentine's Day, a little. Mostly because I can buy chocolate. And then eat it. Well, I can do that any day, but this is a nice excuse.

Plus, I enjoy the sex.

See, my lady is one of those types who, if you ply her with just the right amount of chocolates, coffee, cards with monkeys on them AND gift cards to her favorite stores, will open her thighs just enough for me to have a romping good time for three minutes before the crying and sobbing begins.

This was how I intended to spend my Valentine's Day.

Everything started off just dutchy. The children let me sleep in, my wife made coffee AND cranberry scones (heart-shaped, even), and after breakfast, my wife and I curled up together in bed.

Oh boy I thought, rubbing my hands together mentally, let the sexy time commence!

However, instead of sexy time, we fell into a blissful, exciting "nappy time". And not the kind of nappy that got Don Imus fired, but the kind that, as a parent, you relish whenever you can manage to steal a few minutes here or there.

I felt the mattress shaking, rousting me from my blissful dreams. It was my wife, going to the bathroom.

Huzzah! I told myself, dastardly twirling the ends of a mental handlebar mustache with a finger, she'll come back with no panties on and the sexy time shall commence!

My wife indeed did return to the bed. As she slipped beneath the covers, fully taking advantage of my body heat, she whispered in my ear. As her breath fell upon my flesh, my thighs quivered.

"You'll be happy to know," she said, softly, "that my period started during my nap."

I could almost hear that flushing sound effect played on the Price is Right when someone overbids on a product as the meaning of her words sank through my thick and healthy skull.

I sighed.

But then I brightened.

Hmmmm... I thought, pulling a mental cloak up over my features, hunching to the side and exiting stage right, perhaps this can be salvaged. Yes, perhaps there will be hand jobs, and blow jobs. Oh, and perhaps there will even be some naughty videos watched. Oh, yes, there is still potential. Sexy time has not yet been scuppered. Oh no, it has not!

We continued through the day, going to the library, grocery shopping, even delivering some Girl Scout cookies. All was well. We came home. Dinner was being prepared. And, oh, it was delicious. A nice little pasta dish with some diced chicken breast, some chopped up tomatoes, and some pesto sauce. Oh, it was a culinary delight!

And then, as dinner wound down, my bowels started winding up.

A look of terror struck my face as I felt something drop into my lower intestine, which was followed quickly by the gurgling sounds of a drain pulling a vortex of water into its gaping maw. Excusing myself, I went and sat upon my throne, ruling over the world I saw. I felt the pressure, but nothing was produced. I stood, and suddenly, with the weight of my viscera pressing down upon my bowels, things began to move. I sat back down and delivered a plug as solid and dense as concrete into the bottom of the bowl. I cleaned up, thought nothing more of it, and went about my business.

I went to the other bathroom, used primarily by the children, and began running a bath for my son. As I was shutting off the water, I felt a build-up, as if gas were trying to release itself from my nether regions. As my son was getting into the tub, I eased my backside a bit, thinking to release the tiniest of farts.

Immediately, I knew product was behind the pressure.

I threw myself upon the stool in the bathroom and proceeded to fountain liquid shit from my backside. The sound was one that I can only describe as a ripe watermelon being tossed into a wood chipper. As I finished up the first salvo, I leaned over to rinse my son's hair, breaking the seal my ass had on the bowl, and releasing some of the foulest, nastiest stink I've ever had the misfortune to experience into the atmosphere. Tears came to my eye, and I quickly replaced my ass on the seat to try and keep the stench held within.

I remained thus, occasionally depositing more liquid shit into the bowl, until my son was finished with his bath. I handed him the towel and helped him dry off. I sent him to his room to find some pajamas.

I quickly cleaned myself up and flushed away my shame.

I knew now that my plans had been dashed not only upon the rocky shores of Monthly Menstruation, but also upon the plains of Persistent Diarrhea Stench. Putting my kids to bed, I kissed their foreheads, wished them sweet dreams, and returned to my own room. I immediately stripped and showered, the hot water cleansing both my body and spirit. Finished, smelling remarkably better, I dressed for the night and crawled into bed, a beaten, sexually frustrated man.

The next day, when people asked me how my Valentine's Day went, I told them, with utmost honesty:

"Shitty".