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Sometimes Validation Sneaks up on Ya Current mood:grab-ass-y Category: Blogging Wow. Now that I look back, it's been about 6 weeks since my last blog. Damn you, Information Techs (sorry MB) and administrators, for blocking access to my beloved MySpace at work. Because I'm not generally a fan of lengthy exposition (if a movie has to result to exposition to explain the plot, you are sooooooooo screwed. "Star Wars" is the only exception to the rule), I'll just briefly explain that I was unexpectedly given a night off last night. Hence this blog. Last WeekEnd, we packed up the kids and went to "Six Flags" (which shall henceforth be notated as "6F") with my sister and her 2 boys. We do this in October because: 1) - The temperature in October is much more conducive to 6F than any of the summer months. It's the difference between mildly over-warm @ the peak of the day, and sitting nude on the floor in Hell's boiler-room. 2) - It's usually less crowded than in the summer. Although Cissy & Ryan had a 1.25 Hour wait to ride "The Titan", all the other rides were boarded in less than 45 minutes (.75 Hour, if you prefer to be dazzled by my math). 3) - Because it's Ivey's birthday month, we consider this excursion his birthday party. At least I don't have to go to Chuck E. Cheese, or take a bunch of stranger's kids to a movie and pretend to like them, or anything of that nature. 4) - In October, 6F does the park up in Halloween themes. And I do so love Halloween. Since 6F does a Halloween theme, one of the first things Phoebe (my little, and younger, sister) and I do is to purchase passes to the 4 separate "haunted houses". They were generally pretty good.......Lots of spooky props and lighting, atmospherically creepy. The only complaint I had was with the "actors" that staffed the haunted houses. They were mostly high-school drama students (although the dude that portrayed Leatherface [ from the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre"] had to be pushing 6'8") that moved a little awkwardly and over-acted quite a bit (pssssst.....teen aged "Blacula"......here's a little hint. I can see right off the bat that you're wearing spooky contact lenses and fangs. No need really to open your eyes as wide as possible [achieving that Graves' disease look] or keep your lips pulled back in a grimace. Sometimes subtle is spookier). And, as a quick aside, I should know about the acting. In high school I was the darling of the one-act play scene. My drama teacher often told me that with hard work and lots of practice, I could achieve the emotional range of William Shatner. One thing that is a little weird about 6F is the dichotomy of age. Most of the people there were clearly either parents, or teenagers. The teenagers run about engaging in grab-assery that was unheard of in my day (although, to be fair, the grab-assery of 6F is NOTHING compared to the handsy foreplay that kids do at Wet-n-Wild. That's a whole other blog, though). Phoebe and I saw a couple in the pavillion grossly making out. They were so awkward and stiff (no pun intended, heehee) that it was clear that they had met at 6F. It was like thumb wrestling, but with tongues. Cissy and Ryan also observed some high teen melodrama whilst in line for the Titan. By far and away, the best part of 6F (except for maybe the $10.00 sodas, or $20.00 hamburger baskets) was the people watching. It was like tripping on acid while visiting a steroid-pumped county fair. One of my new favorite games to play was "Spot the European on Vacation". Gee, how about the guy with the 80's haircut and weird foreign jeans? Yup. What about the woman in stirrup pants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt? Right again. How 'bout the man in a wearing a fannypack and dark socks with his white sneakers? Hmmmmm.......I don't know......let's eavesdrop for foreign language.....yes! 3-for-3!! I was engaged in an intense bout of people watching when Phoebe casually told me that Mike (her husband) always says that 6F makes him feel way "above average" in every way. You know what? It's true. So what if I'm fat......there's 10 guys over there waaaaaaaay fatter. My hair is curled into a Jewfro? Look over there. Think I'm a creepy bastard? Check out the mutant ManChild to my left. The only danger is looking TOO closely and seeing somebody validating themselves while looking at ME...... All in all it was a good trip (I cannot over-recommend the benefits of valet parking. Yes, I know I usually loathe valet. This is an exception to the rule). Except that Phoebe didn't get any funnel cake. Again. There's always next year, Phoebe.

Sometimes Validation Sneaks up on Ya Current mood:grab-ass-y Category: Blogging Wow. Now that I look back, it's been about 6 weeks since my last blog. Damn you, Information Techs (sorry MB) and administrators, for blocking access to my beloved MySpace at work. Because I'm not generally a fan of lengthy exposition (if a movie has to result to exposition to explain the plot, you are sooooooooo screwed. "Star Wars" is the only exception to the rule), I'll just briefly explain that I was unexpectedly given a night off last night. Hence this blog. Last WeekEnd, we packed up the kids and went to "Six Flags" (which shall henceforth be notated as "6F") with my sister and her 2 boys. We do this in October because: 1) - The temperature in October is much more conducive to 6F than any of the summer months. It's the difference between mildly over-warm @ the peak of the day, and sitting nude on the floor in Hell's boiler-room. 2) - It's usually less crowded than in the summer. Although Cissy & Ryan had a 1.25 Hour wait to ride "The Titan", all the other rides were boarded in less than 45 minutes (.75 Hour, if you prefer to be dazzled by my math). 3) - Because it's Ivey's birthday month, we consider this excursion his birthday party. At least I don't have to go to Chuck E. Cheese, or take a bunch of stranger's kids to a movie and pretend to like them, or anything of that nature. 4) - In October, 6F does the park up in Halloween themes. And I do so love Halloween. Since 6F does a Halloween theme, one of the first things Phoebe (my little, and younger, sister) and I do is to purchase passes to the 4 separate "haunted houses". They were generally pretty good.......Lots of spooky props and lighting, atmospherically creepy. The only complaint I had was with the "actors" that staffed the haunted houses. They were mostly high-school drama students (although the dude that portrayed Leatherface [ from the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre"] had to be pushing 6'8") that moved a little awkwardly and over-acted quite a bit (pssssst.....teen aged "Blacula"......here's a little hint. I can see right off the bat that you're wearing spooky contact lenses and fangs. No need really to open your eyes as wide as possible [achieving that Graves' disease look] or keep your lips pulled back in a grimace. Sometimes subtle is spookier). And, as a quick aside, I should know about the acting. In high school I was the darling of the one-act play scene. My drama teacher often told me that with hard work and lots of practice, I could achieve the emotional range of William Shatner. One thing that is a little weird about 6F is the dichotomy of age. Most of the people there were clearly either parents, or teenagers. The teenagers run about engaging in grab-assery that was unheard of in my day (although, to be fair, the grab-assery of 6F is NOTHING compared to the handsy foreplay that kids do at Wet-n-Wild. That's a whole other blog, though). Phoebe and I saw a couple in the pavillion grossly making out. They were so awkward and stiff (no pun intended, heehee) that it was clear that they had met at 6F. It was like thumb wrestling, but with tongues. Cissy and Ryan also observed some high teen melodrama whilst in line for the Titan. By far and away, the best part of 6F (except for maybe the $10.00 sodas, or $20.00 hamburger baskets) was the people watching. It was like tripping on acid while visiting a steroid-pumped county fair. One of my new favorite games to play was "Spot the European on Vacation". Gee, how about the guy with the 80's haircut and weird foreign jeans? Yup. What about the woman in stirrup pants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt? Right again. How 'bout the man in a wearing a fannypack and dark socks with his white sneakers? Hmmmmm.......I don't know......let's eavesdrop for foreign language.....yes! 3-for-3!! I was engaged in an intense bout of people watching when Phoebe casually told me that Mike (her husband) always says that 6F makes him feel way "above average" in every way. You know what? It's true. So what if I'm fat......there's 10 guys over there waaaaaaaay fatter. My hair is curled into a Jewfro? Look over there. Think I'm a creepy bastard? Check out the mutant ManChild to my left. The only danger is looking TOO closely and seeing somebody validating themselves while looking at ME...... All in all it was a good trip (I cannot over-recommend the benefits of valet parking. Yes, I know I usually loathe valet. This is an exception to the rule). Except that Phoebe didn't get any funnel cake. Again. There's always next year, Phoebe.

Lettuce compare bad dates ( NOT the fruit) Current mood:Sylvan Category: Blogging So, before I get started I have 2 important announcements: 1) - Our newest blog friend, Misbehaving ( I assume everybody has met MB and read his blogs? M, I'm talking to you.....don't be shy......he writes good stuff) pointed out that I've totally ignored my tradition of dedicating a blog to the newest kid on the block, so to speak. This blog is dedicated to you, MB (although the "honor" may be a little dubious). 2) - This blog has been blatantly inspired by MB's latest. Ciss kinda went into it in her comments, and I realized that the story has to be told. In all of its ugliness. To really understand how I got into this mess, everybody needs to understand 2 things about me ( side note- Is this "2 things" a recurring theme? I don't know, my friend.....I don't know): I have trouble telling people "no", and I'm waaaaay too nice. I understand your skepticism, but it's true. The "dog-eat-dog" atmosphere of Atlanta High School was so oppressive, that I had gained a reputation as a "really nice guy" (no better way to get laid in high school, right? yeah) by doing nothing more than NOT insulting people to their faces. Apparently I'd also, by my junior year, captured the attention of a senior lass (Her name is ****). Her father and my father were......not good friends, exactly, but......they knew each other really well. Throughout the year I had avoided going to ****'s Halloween party ( She told me "I'll be wearing a toga"), ****'s Thanksgiving party ( "We're gonna play seven minutes in Heaven"....I didn't know what that was, but I didn't like the sound of it), and ****'s Christmas & New Year's parties ( I knew all about the hazards of mistletoe and 12:00). Spring was rolling around fast, though, and so was prom season. At my house, hints were getting dropped that **** wanted to ask me to her prom. This was an actual conversation: Dad: "I saw Jerry ***** today." Me: "Really." Dad: "He said his daughter thinks you're a fine young man, and so does he" Me: "........." Dad: "He thought you might be a good date for her prom. She's cute." Me: "Dad, she's kinda ugly" Dad: "........." (sending out silent, powerful waves of disapproval) The very next day at school, **** cornered me and asked me to the prom. It was a little awkward, because we almost never spoke. I hemmed and hawed, but for every half-excuse I gave, she had a comeback (I cracked under pressure and couldn't think of a iron-clad excuse. Besides, I was trying to give her the opportunity to save some face, but she was having none of it). Finally, she administered the coup-de-grace: "I've already bought the tickets, and there's nobody else to go with...PLEASE?" Prom time. Everybody parked their cars at the high school and boarded a chartered bus to go to the big city of Texarkana. The whole ride down (about 45 mins) was incredibly awkward and silent. I didn't have any friends in the SR. class of 1987, and I didn't know squat about my date. Since it was a chartered bus, the chaperones were not exactly vigilant about screening for alcohol, and everybody was drinking like a fish (except.....somebody forgot to give me the memo. And I could have used a stiff drink). All throughout the night, I fought off a tipsy, dry-humping **** who was trying to kiss my neck. At one point, my date told me "You ought to take off your shirt and just wear your jacket and bowtie".....(WTF?!?). I declined. It was a looooooooong dance. The bus ride back was even worse. It was very dark, and the slobbery sounds of kissing seemed to be preternaturally amplified. I stared straight ahead, thinking how much of a good-night kiss I'd have to pony up to avoid being talked about. At this point, **** takes my arm, puts it around her shoulder, and for good measure, down the front of her dress. So now I've got a handful of boob (Another sidebar....as a commited boob man, that part wasn't so bad. It was just a little unexpected). It was time to man up and take one for the team, so I made out with her. Just for a little while. When the bus arrived back at the high school, **** and I went to my car (unluckily, like MB, it had bench seats. Because I'm a quick, quick learner, I planted my right hand firmly on the steering wheel). **** leaned over and breathlessly wispered "I don't have to be back anytime. My parents trust you....we can do anything you want.....". What I wanted to say was "Ok, then.....we're off to find some hot chicks". Instead, what came out of my mouth was "Er.....It's already a little past my curfew.....I have to go home". I thought that would get my point across. Wrong. **** was incredibly unfazed, saying "....Well, call me tomorrow and we can do something then". Wow.......I didn't call. Every so often for the rest of the year, My dad would ask if I'd seen **** around, or had heard from her. I would just look at him in stony silence. He got the message. Years later, Ciss and I saw **** at the local Super Wal-Mart ( the social nexus of Cass County) going grocery shopping. **** was loading her buggy up with frozen entreees. "Hmmmmm", said Ciss, "Dinner for one, ****?" It was the best and meanest line I had heard in a long time.

Lettuce compare bad dates ( NOT the fruit) Current mood:Sylvan Category: Blogging So, before I get started I have 2 important announcements: 1) - Our newest blog friend, Misbehaving ( I assume everybody has met MB and read his blogs? M, I'm talking to you.....don't be shy......he writes good stuff) pointed out that I've totally ignored my tradition of dedicating a blog to the newest kid on the block, so to speak. This blog is dedicated to you, MB (although the "honor" may be a little dubious). 2) - This blog has been blatantly inspired by MB's latest. Ciss kinda went into it in her comments, and I realized that the story has to be told. In all of its ugliness. To really understand how I got into this mess, everybody needs to understand 2 things about me ( side note- Is this "2 things" a recurring theme? I don't know, my friend.....I don't know): I have trouble telling people "no", and I'm waaaaay too nice. I understand your skepticism, but it's true. The "dog-eat-dog" atmosphere of Atlanta High School was so oppressive, that I had gained a reputation as a "really nice guy" (no better way to get laid in high school, right? yeah) by doing nothing more than NOT insulting people to their faces. Apparently I'd also, by my junior year, captured the attention of a senior lass (Her name is ****). Her father and my father were......not good friends, exactly, but......they knew each other really well. Throughout the year I had avoided going to ****'s Halloween party ( She told me "I'll be wearing a toga"), ****'s Thanksgiving party ( "We're gonna play seven minutes in Heaven"....I didn't know what that was, but I didn't like the sound of it), and ****'s Christmas & New Year's parties ( I knew all about the hazards of mistletoe and 12:00). Spring was rolling around fast, though, and so was prom season. At my house, hints were getting dropped that **** wanted to ask me to her prom. This was an actual conversation: Dad: "I saw Jerry ***** today." Me: "Really." Dad: "He said his daughter thinks you're a fine young man, and so does he" Me: "........." Dad: "He thought you might be a good date for her prom. She's cute." Me: "Dad, she's kinda ugly" Dad: "........." (sending out silent, powerful waves of disapproval) The very next day at school, **** cornered me and asked me to the prom. It was a little awkward, because we almost never spoke. I hemmed and hawed, but for every half-excuse I gave, she had a comeback (I cracked under pressure and couldn't think of a iron-clad excuse. Besides, I was trying to give her the opportunity to save some face, but she was having none of it). Finally, she administered the coup-de-grace: "I've already bought the tickets, and there's nobody else to go with...PLEASE?" Prom time. Everybody parked their cars at the high school and boarded a chartered bus to go to the big city of Texarkana. The whole ride down (about 45 mins) was incredibly awkward and silent. I didn't have any friends in the SR. class of 1987, and I didn't know squat about my date. Since it was a chartered bus, the chaperones were not exactly vigilant about screening for alcohol, and everybody was drinking like a fish (except.....somebody forgot to give me the memo. And I could have used a stiff drink). All throughout the night, I fought off a tipsy, dry-humping **** who was trying to kiss my neck. At one point, my date told me "You ought to take off your shirt and just wear your jacket and bowtie".....(WTF?!?). I declined. It was a looooooooong dance. The bus ride back was even worse. It was very dark, and the slobbery sounds of kissing seemed to be preternaturally amplified. I stared straight ahead, thinking how much of a good-night kiss I'd have to pony up to avoid being talked about. At this point, **** takes my arm, puts it around her shoulder, and for good measure, down the front of her dress. So now I've got a handful of boob (Another sidebar....as a commited boob man, that part wasn't so bad. It was just a little unexpected). It was time to man up and take one for the team, so I made out with her. Just for a little while. When the bus arrived back at the high school, **** and I went to my car (unluckily, like MB, it had bench seats. Because I'm a quick, quick learner, I planted my right hand firmly on the steering wheel). **** leaned over and breathlessly wispered "I don't have to be back anytime. My parents trust you....we can do anything you want.....". What I wanted to say was "Ok, then.....we're off to find some hot chicks". Instead, what came out of my mouth was "Er.....It's already a little past my curfew.....I have to go home". I thought that would get my point across. Wrong. **** was incredibly unfazed, saying "....Well, call me tomorrow and we can do something then". Wow.......I didn't call. Every so often for the rest of the year, My dad would ask if I'd seen **** around, or had heard from her. I would just look at him in stony silence. He got the message. Years later, Ciss and I saw **** at the local Super Wal-Mart ( the social nexus of Cass County) going grocery shopping. **** was loading her buggy up with frozen entreees. "Hmmmmm", said Ciss, "Dinner for one, ****?" It was the best and meanest line I had heard in a long time.

This is not Lifetime! This is, like, a PARODY of Lifetime... Current mood:fallacious Category: Blogging So, I read recently that Ciss and I have a "Lifetime" -esque love story that practically yearns to be shared (Ok, let me first point out that I've actually heard this a lot. Cissy thinks this, and so do the strangers that we meet that she shares our story with (Anybody remember the couple from the Gomez concert?). Secondly, let me point out that my above use of the word "yearns" was intentionally ironic, since "yearns" is very much a Lifetime word.....not so much a Trey word. Thirdly, let me point out this may be my longest use of the parenthesis to date. I've even managed to work in the much-coveted parenthesis-within-a-parenthesis. Impressive, eh?). Well, to be fair, I used to think that too. Upon later reflection, though, I have changed my mind. "But why, Trey....why?" you ask. Good question. What follows below is a list of reasons that refute the Lifetime theory. 1) - I was never an abusive boyfriend that both scared and excited Cissy at the same time. 2) - Cissy's mother never uncovered long-buried dark secrets from my past that would come back to threaten all that I hold dear. 3) - My ex-girlfriend never plotted harm to Cissy in a passionate, yet ill-thought-out plan to win me back. 4) - That scary Wank Wank Wank violin music is not audible when I enter a room with a scowl on my face. 5) - Cissy doesn't have an identitical twin sister that she was seperated at birth from that would later come back into her life to wreak havoc. 6) - Ciss and I never teamed up to investigate the abduction of a local young lady, only to have the trail lead to a white-slavery ring that we broke up using only our bravery and wits. Oh, sure I could on, but I think I've made my point. If anything, our romance is more akin to a Spike- style movie. "Trey....", you may be saying, "You can't spring a theory like that and have no examples to back it up". Well, actually, yes I could, but because you and I have forged a genuine emotional connection, dear reader, I WILL show how The Trey and Cissy Story could totally be made into a spike-tv movie. 1) - I have a cool catchphrase ("What's up, mothafucka?") that I like to spring when nobody expects it. 2) - Ciss is kind of like my "sidekick". We have witty banter. 3) - Although I have the physical size and martial arts prowess (Aikido, mothafuckas......see how I did that? Catchphrase, my friends, catchphrase....) to be a total badass, I am really a friendly, sensitive guy 4) - Three words: Daily car chases 5) - Cissy is one stone-cold hottie in a league waaaaay above me, yet she's clearly devoted to me, mind, body (hehheh) and soul. 6) - We are considering getting a liscense to carry a concealed handgun. Why? Because we can. Again, I could go on and on, but I think I've proven my point. Tune in next time when I may compare my marriage to Starsky and Hutch......or maybe LaVerne and Shirley would be more applicable.........

This is not Lifetime! This is, like, a PARODY of Lifetime... Current mood:fallacious Category: Blogging So, I read recently that Ciss and I have a "Lifetime" -esque love story that practically yearns to be shared (Ok, let me first point out that I've actually heard this a lot. Cissy thinks this, and so do the strangers that we meet that she shares our story with (Anybody remember the couple from the Gomez concert?). Secondly, let me point out that my above use of the word "yearns" was intentionally ironic, since "yearns" is very much a Lifetime word.....not so much a Trey word. Thirdly, let me point out this may be my longest use of the parenthesis to date. I've even managed to work in the much-coveted parenthesis-within-a-parenthesis. Impressive, eh?). Well, to be fair, I used to think that too. Upon later reflection, though, I have changed my mind. "But why, Trey....why?" you ask. Good question. What follows below is a list of reasons that refute the Lifetime theory. 1) - I was never an abusive boyfriend that both scared and excited Cissy at the same time. 2) - Cissy's mother never uncovered long-buried dark secrets from my past that would come back to threaten all that I hold dear. 3) - My ex-girlfriend never plotted harm to Cissy in a passionate, yet ill-thought-out plan to win me back. 4) - That scary Wank Wank Wank violin music is not audible when I enter a room with a scowl on my face. 5) - Cissy doesn't have an identitical twin sister that she was seperated at birth from that would later come back into her life to wreak havoc. 6) - Ciss and I never teamed up to investigate the abduction of a local young lady, only to have the trail lead to a white-slavery ring that we broke up using only our bravery and wits. Oh, sure I could on, but I think I've made my point. If anything, our romance is more akin to a Spike- style movie. "Trey....", you may be saying, "You can't spring a theory like that and have no examples to back it up". Well, actually, yes I could, but because you and I have forged a genuine emotional connection, dear reader, I WILL show how The Trey and Cissy Story could totally be made into a spike-tv movie. 1) - I have a cool catchphrase ("What's up, mothafucka?") that I like to spring when nobody expects it. 2) - Ciss is kind of like my "sidekick". We have witty banter. 3) - Although I have the physical size and martial arts prowess (Aikido, mothafuckas......see how I did that? Catchphrase, my friends, catchphrase....) to be a total badass, I am really a friendly, sensitive guy 4) - Three words: Daily car chases 5) - Cissy is one stone-cold hottie in a league waaaaay above me, yet she's clearly devoted to me, mind, body (hehheh) and soul. 6) - We are considering getting a liscense to carry a concealed handgun. Why? Because we can. Again, I could go on and on, but I think I've proven my point. Tune in next time when I may compare my marriage to Starsky and Hutch......or maybe LaVerne and Shirley would be more applicable.........

Dante wrote an instructional manual......for me Current mood:ribald Category: Blogging So.....I know you're probably wondering what has happened to my blog page. When I view it, it seems to be all scrunched up. I don't really know what happened. I changed the text in the title box a little bit, and BAM! It is widely known that I am techno-tarded (or computarded, if you rather...), but I think that this problem is beyond that. I think it may be a divine punishment for the topic I am about to discuss......namely: I recently crossed paths with the ugliest woman ever !! Lest you judge me too harshly, let me 'splain. I am all too aware that very few ladies consider me handsome (At least I have you, Mom......I'm still your special, special boy, right Mom?), so if I mock somebody's appearance, it's all in good fun.....I never make fun maliciously.....so believe me when I say that I met a woman this week that was so unattractive that I found myself silently "cheering" for her. First I will describe her. Keep in mind that this is a real person that is 30-something: 1) She was very short (like Brandi short) but built kinda weird. Huge belly, smallish boobs and smallish butt. Hey, she was built kinda like a Buddha. I didn't make the connection at the time.... 2) She was extremely bald on the crown of her head, but even worse, wore her hair in a female "combover" type of style. Her bald scalp was covered with a puffy, blotchy rash. 3) She had very thick glasses (even thicker than mine, people.....That's saying something) with an odd yellowish tint to the lenses. When she removed the glasses, I noticed she had a lazy eye. 4) Her face had several (each cheek, forehead, and chin) large moles. I mean the huge witch-type moles. 3 of the 4 moles had stubble growing from them, like she had shaved them recently. So....I was facinated with this woman. I told myself that surely she must have something going for her. During the course of my conversation (which was significant......we chatted for probably an hour or so, all totaled) I didn't see that she had much of a sense of humor, or was reasonably bright. I put her to bed and spent the rest of the night bothered that I couldn't find any beauty in her. In the morning, I went in to wake her up at the designated time. When she swung her legs off the bed, she farted. I don't mean one slipped out. This was the fart of somebody that doesn't care. It lasted probably 2 seconds (Do this for me now. Look at a clock and make a "raspberry" sound for 2 continuous seconds. Yeah. That's how it was). What did she say? "Excuse me". I'm sorry, but I'm *not* going to excuse that behavior. When I told Cissy about my experience, the first thing she said was "Well is she married?".......Is she married?!? Hello?!? No she's not married! I doubt that she's ever been to "first base". So there it is. Yes, I'm prolly gonna burn in hell for this blog. But maybe, just maybe I can atone......I think I'm going to get her a copy of "Witty Things that Trey Said" (If you would like a copy of this book, just ask Pam) so she can impress guys with her conversational abilities. Then maybe she'll change my blog page back to normal. PS- after I posted this blog, I found how to fix the page. See? All must be forgiven, eh?

Dante wrote an instructional manual......for me Current mood:ribald Category: Blogging So.....I know you're probably wondering what has happened to my blog page. When I view it, it seems to be all scrunched up. I don't really know what happened. I changed the text in the title box a little bit, and BAM! It is widely known that I am techno-tarded (or computarded, if you rather...), but I think that this problem is beyond that. I think it may be a divine punishment for the topic I am about to discuss......namely: I recently crossed paths with the ugliest woman ever !! Lest you judge me too harshly, let me 'splain. I am all too aware that very few ladies consider me handsome (At least I have you, Mom......I'm still your special, special boy, right Mom?), so if I mock somebody's appearance, it's all in good fun.....I never make fun maliciously.....so believe me when I say that I met a woman this week that was so unattractive that I found myself silently "cheering" for her. First I will describe her. Keep in mind that this is a real person that is 30-something: 1) She was very short (like Brandi short) but built kinda weird. Huge belly, smallish boobs and smallish butt. Hey, she was built kinda like a Buddha. I didn't make the connection at the time.... 2) She was extremely bald on the crown of her head, but even worse, wore her hair in a female "combover" type of style. Her bald scalp was covered with a puffy, blotchy rash. 3) She had very thick glasses (even thicker than mine, people.....That's saying something) with an odd yellowish tint to the lenses. When she removed the glasses, I noticed she had a lazy eye. 4) Her face had several (each cheek, forehead, and chin) large moles. I mean the huge witch-type moles. 3 of the 4 moles had stubble growing from them, like she had shaved them recently. So....I was facinated with this woman. I told myself that surely she must have something going for her. During the course of my conversation (which was significant......we chatted for probably an hour or so, all totaled) I didn't see that she had much of a sense of humor, or was reasonably bright. I put her to bed and spent the rest of the night bothered that I couldn't find any beauty in her. In the morning, I went in to wake her up at the designated time. When she swung her legs off the bed, she farted. I don't mean one slipped out. This was the fart of somebody that doesn't care. It lasted probably 2 seconds (Do this for me now. Look at a clock and make a "raspberry" sound for 2 continuous seconds. Yeah. That's how it was). What did she say? "Excuse me". I'm sorry, but I'm *not* going to excuse that behavior. When I told Cissy about my experience, the first thing she said was "Well is she married?".......Is she married?!? Hello?!? No she's not married! I doubt that she's ever been to "first base". So there it is. Yes, I'm prolly gonna burn in hell for this blog. But maybe, just maybe I can atone......I think I'm going to get her a copy of "Witty Things that Trey Said" (If you would like a copy of this book, just ask Pam) so she can impress guys with her conversational abilities. Then maybe she'll change my blog page back to normal. PS- after I posted this blog, I found how to fix the page. See? All must be forgiven, eh?

I love Paris in the springtime Current mood:enthralled Category: Blogging So, I look up and it's been almost 2 weeks since I last blogged. Damn job. Actually, it's not been crushingly busy....more like steady. I can't complain. Except for the rats. What I seem to be getting lately is an influx of spam in my in-box. It's always a message like "I was bored and looking around MySpace and I saw your page", or "I'm new to MySpace and my page needs help", or "I'm moving to your town soon and don't know anybody". The rest of the message is always the same. The sendee wants me to "holla" at her through AIM or Yahoo chat. The interesting thing is, every message that I'm being sent is from a different MySpace sccount. Different display name.......but the display pic is (mostly) of the same girl. Also, at the end of the text, she (or maybe he.....see how I think outside box? That's how I roll) signs her name....Paris. That's right. She uses different accounts, but signs the same name. That's how I know it's all from the same person (told ya I was sharp....). I used to just delete these things, but just for variety, I've changed my routine. Lately I've been responding back, usually in a non sequitur fashion. Here are some of my random responses: Day-um, that ass sure is fine, yo! Would it be weird if I asked you to spread jelly on my calves and call me "Herman" ? Could we get together and eat potroast sometime? I'd like to introduce you to my mom! You've changed your look. I think the "tranny" fad is awesome. Keep up the good work, Hottie. BTW, you ARE a chick, right? Hun, any chance I could tickle yo ass with a feather? I'm bored too! The local train station has started running off the hobos, so the "hunting" has really dried up as of late. Boring! I guess the whole point of this blog is this: Spammers, please reply back to those that reply to your original spam. It's that personal touch that will persuade somebody to subscribe to your webcam, holla at you, or buy those penis enlargement pills. Come to think of it, maybe I should moonlight as a spammer and put my brilliant people skills to good use.

I love Paris in the springtime Current mood:enthralled Category: Blogging So, I look up and it's been almost 2 weeks since I last blogged. Damn job. Actually, it's not been crushingly busy....more like steady. I can't complain. Except for the rats. What I seem to be getting lately is an influx of spam in my in-box. It's always a message like "I was bored and looking around MySpace and I saw your page", or "I'm new to MySpace and my page needs help", or "I'm moving to your town soon and don't know anybody". The rest of the message is always the same. The sendee wants me to "holla" at her through AIM or Yahoo chat. The interesting thing is, every message that I'm being sent is from a different MySpace sccount. Different display name.......but the display pic is (mostly) of the same girl. Also, at the end of the text, she (or maybe he.....see how I think outside box? That's how I roll) signs her name....Paris. That's right. She uses different accounts, but signs the same name. That's how I know it's all from the same person (told ya I was sharp....). I used to just delete these things, but just for variety, I've changed my routine. Lately I've been responding back, usually in a non sequitur fashion. Here are some of my random responses: Day-um, that ass sure is fine, yo! Would it be weird if I asked you to spread jelly on my calves and call me "Herman" ? Could we get together and eat potroast sometime? I'd like to introduce you to my mom! You've changed your look. I think the "tranny" fad is awesome. Keep up the good work, Hottie. BTW, you ARE a chick, right? Hun, any chance I could tickle yo ass with a feather? I'm bored too! The local train station has started running off the hobos, so the "hunting" has really dried up as of late. Boring! I guess the whole point of this blog is this: Spammers, please reply back to those that reply to your original spam. It's that personal touch that will persuade somebody to subscribe to your webcam, holla at you, or buy those penis enlargement pills. Come to think of it, maybe I should moonlight as a spammer and put my brilliant people skills to good use.

Perhaps I'm "marked", or star-crossed Current mood:dichotomious Category: Blogging So, I was in a MySpace conversation the other night. It is very rare for me to have somebody to talk to, unless I have a student watching over my shoulder (verry rare indeed.....hey, SOMEBODY has to mentor young minds). I was relating to this person a strange little story that had happened when.....out of the blue it struck me.....I realized that really weird things happen to me all the time. Ok, maybe not life-changing, channeling the dead type of weird.....but "Twin Peaks" kind of weird. I decided that this week's blog would be dedicated to some strange things that have recently happened. People engage me in strange conversations. I don't mean friends. I'm talking about nebulous acquaintances, if not full-on strangers. Last week, I was walking into work and fast approaching somebody leaving work. While this person is a familiar face to me, we barely have a "nod" relationship (you know....a slight nod as a greeting when we pass....maybe the occasional "good evening"). Out of the blue, this lady stops and says "Hey (because she doesn't know my name).....Have you ever cooked Tilapia? (As in the fish)". Well.......as a matter of fact.....actually I have. But how did she know? How did she know? So I spend the next 15 mins in the parking lot in a Forrest Gump moment (You can fry tilapia.....you can bake it.....grill it....broil it.....steam it.....carve it into sushi....make fish tacos.....etc.) discussing a flavorful fish. I did not forsee that. Here's another odd little tidbit. People often cross me in line. I don't mean that they cut in front of me. I mean that, if there is a long line stretching in one plane, and people need to cross to get to the other side of the line, then the point in which they will bisect the line will be directly in front of me. I used to be stumped by this. The odds are astronomically against ME being the cross point, but yet it happens 90% of the time. After reading the excellent Freakonomics, however, I looked at this mystery in a different light and have come up with two solutions: 1)- I am a big man, and my personal space requirements are big as well. Therefore, in any given line, I have probably more space between me and the person in front of me. That creates a more attractive crossing point. 2)- People are drawn to my raw, magnetic sexuality like Mark Foley is drawn to male congressional pages. I'm still looking into this. Strangers tend to see me in two polar ways. Either I'm a big, physically intimidating, creepy man, or I am a big goofy "softy" type. Most kids are not scared of me. On the contrary, they like to scale my mountainous belly (to be sure, this can take a couple of hours, which is a testament to its size) and climb onto my shoulders. The parents, however, are not usually so impressed. It was not so long ago that a little girl came into the sleep lab for a test. I explained to the mother that she would have to stay in the room with the girl (I know, I know....but you'd be surprised at how many parents want to drop their children off for some parental free time)and explained that after 2-3 hours of sleep, I would come back in the room and place a medical device on the girl. So, the girl goes to sleep and the time comes for me to go back into the room. As I open the door....*BANG* *CRASH*...the parent had rigged an "alarm" by putting a chair against the door, and putting the trashcan on the chair. So much for not scaring your kid, lady. Sorry that I'm such a creepy bastard that you had to barricade yourself in your hospital room. Next time I'll put my trousers back on, ok? The truth is....I'm actually a big "teddy bear" (by that I mean that I have glass eyes and often sleep with children <------Kidding! What? Too much?)

Perhaps I'm "marked", or star-crossed Current mood:dichotomious Category: Blogging So, I was in a MySpace conversation the other night. It is very rare for me to have somebody to talk to, unless I have a student watching over my shoulder (verry rare indeed.....hey, SOMEBODY has to mentor young minds). I was relating to this person a strange little story that had happened when.....out of the blue it struck me.....I realized that really weird things happen to me all the time. Ok, maybe not life-changing, channeling the dead type of weird.....but "Twin Peaks" kind of weird. I decided that this week's blog would be dedicated to some strange things that have recently happened. People engage me in strange conversations. I don't mean friends. I'm talking about nebulous acquaintances, if not full-on strangers. Last week, I was walking into work and fast approaching somebody leaving work. While this person is a familiar face to me, we barely have a "nod" relationship (you know....a slight nod as a greeting when we pass....maybe the occasional "good evening"). Out of the blue, this lady stops and says "Hey (because she doesn't know my name).....Have you ever cooked Tilapia? (As in the fish)". Well.......as a matter of fact.....actually I have. But how did she know? How did she know? So I spend the next 15 mins in the parking lot in a Forrest Gump moment (You can fry tilapia.....you can bake it.....grill it....broil it.....steam it.....carve it into sushi....make fish tacos.....etc.) discussing a flavorful fish. I did not forsee that. Here's another odd little tidbit. People often cross me in line. I don't mean that they cut in front of me. I mean that, if there is a long line stretching in one plane, and people need to cross to get to the other side of the line, then the point in which they will bisect the line will be directly in front of me. I used to be stumped by this. The odds are astronomically against ME being the cross point, but yet it happens 90% of the time. After reading the excellent Freakonomics, however, I looked at this mystery in a different light and have come up with two solutions: 1)- I am a big man, and my personal space requirements are big as well. Therefore, in any given line, I have probably more space between me and the person in front of me. That creates a more attractive crossing point. 2)- People are drawn to my raw, magnetic sexuality like Mark Foley is drawn to male congressional pages. I'm still looking into this. Strangers tend to see me in two polar ways. Either I'm a big, physically intimidating, creepy man, or I am a big goofy "softy" type. Most kids are not scared of me. On the contrary, they like to scale my mountainous belly (to be sure, this can take a couple of hours, which is a testament to its size) and climb onto my shoulders. The parents, however, are not usually so impressed. It was not so long ago that a little girl came into the sleep lab for a test. I explained to the mother that she would have to stay in the room with the girl (I know, I know....but you'd be surprised at how many parents want to drop their children off for some parental free time)and explained that after 2-3 hours of sleep, I would come back in the room and place a medical device on the girl. So, the girl goes to sleep and the time comes for me to go back into the room. As I open the door....*BANG* *CRASH*...the parent had rigged an "alarm" by putting a chair against the door, and putting the trashcan on the chair. So much for not scaring your kid, lady. Sorry that I'm such a creepy bastard that you had to barricade yourself in your hospital room. Next time I'll put my trousers back on, ok? The truth is....I'm actually a big "teddy bear" (by that I mean that I have glass eyes and often sleep with children <------Kidding! What? Too much?)

Do you like the smell of Blog-pouri? Current mood:mawkish Category: Blogging So, it's become a bit of a tradition for me to write an introductory blog every time I get a new reader. Everybody, meet M-….She is a big fan of The Damnwells music, which puts her street cred as "legit. Too legit to quit". M-, this is everybody. This week's special guest lurker may very well be Mr. Dezen, who recently did me the great honor of subscribing to this blog. I must confess, though, that it makes me a little nervous knowing that somebody that has a real talent for words may be watching. Dezen, if you are reading this, please know that I tried to auction off both my pinky fingers on EBay to attend the premiere of Golden Days and subsequent concert. My wife kept nagging me to throw in a kidney. THAT's how big a fan she is. Anywho, not a whole lot has been happening lately. And I like it that way. So, there is only one thing that I can write about: My Vasectomy. After the birth of my daughter, it was decided that I'd better have a vasectomy. By that I mean that my wife decided that I'd better have a vasectomy. So, I went to see the urologist. Of course, the doc wanted Cissy to come in for the consult. After all the talking was done, the doc (who is probably a full 14 inches shorter than I am) said, "Okay, take off your drawers ('cause we are in the south, after all.) and let's take a look". Now, this brings me to the very essence of this story: What is the protocol for what to do with one's hands while getting his scrotum examined? It didn't seem like I should place them behind my back, like I was listening to a speech. It didn't seem like I should clasp them together behind my head. I damn sure couldn't put them on the doc's head. In the end, I did what I had to do. I placed my hands on my hips, arms akimbo. Awkward, yes. From my vantage point, I couldn't see the doc's face, but Cissy could. She reported that, as I lowered my undies, a look of awe crossed the doc's face. "Why…", the doc stammered, "…Why I can't ethically do any work on this perfect set of testes. I might as well deface the statue of David…". After much begging and pleading from my wife, though, the doc finally relented and agreed to the procedure. After we left the office, Cissy asked "Why did you have your hands on your hips? That looked extremely posed, and more than a little gay". Thanks for the support, Ciss…. Well, the office gave me a printed list of instructions. The night before the procedure, I could either shave the coinpurse, or they would do it for me. Being the go-getter that I am, I decided to tackle the problem head on and start a-shavin'. Unfortunately, I haven't had too much experience. I say that because when I laid back on the table, the nurse took a look and brought out the shaving kit. After calling two more nurses in for some lifting help, I was successfully shorn. After that, the actual procedure was a breeze. But…..I had to have a follow-up semen test to determine that I was, in fact, sterile. Now, for all you non-medical types, let me line it out for ya. They give you a cup with a threaded top and tell you that the sample needs to be provided in a timely manner (that means within 15 mins). Big problem….I live 45 mins away. So, either I get down to business in the car (hopefully with Cissy driving. I mean, I'm a multi-tasker, but….) or I get to get auto-amorous in the clinic bathroom (which is no big deal, except for the wonderful aroma, the potential of getting caught, and the incredibly limited space). In the end, I was able to use my local community hospital for the test, which meant I could "go to town" in the privacy of my own house, watching my collection of Golden Girls DVDs……Cissy refused to "help out". Thanks for the support, Ciss…...

Do you like the smell of Blog-pouri? Current mood:mawkish Category: Blogging So, it's become a bit of a tradition for me to write an introductory blog every time I get a new reader. Everybody, meet M-….She is a big fan of The Damnwells music, which puts her street cred as "legit. Too legit to quit". M-, this is everybody. This week's special guest lurker may very well be Mr. Dezen, who recently did me the great honor of subscribing to this blog. I must confess, though, that it makes me a little nervous knowing that somebody that has a real talent for words may be watching. Dezen, if you are reading this, please know that I tried to auction off both my pinky fingers on EBay to attend the premiere of Golden Days and subsequent concert. My wife kept nagging me to throw in a kidney. THAT's how big a fan she is. Anywho, not a whole lot has been happening lately. And I like it that way. So, there is only one thing that I can write about: My Vasectomy. After the birth of my daughter, it was decided that I'd better have a vasectomy. By that I mean that my wife decided that I'd better have a vasectomy. So, I went to see the urologist. Of course, the doc wanted Cissy to come in for the consult. After all the talking was done, the doc (who is probably a full 14 inches shorter than I am) said, "Okay, take off your drawers ('cause we are in the south, after all.) and let's take a look". Now, this brings me to the very essence of this story: What is the protocol for what to do with one's hands while getting his scrotum examined? It didn't seem like I should place them behind my back, like I was listening to a speech. It didn't seem like I should clasp them together behind my head. I damn sure couldn't put them on the doc's head. In the end, I did what I had to do. I placed my hands on my hips, arms akimbo. Awkward, yes. From my vantage point, I couldn't see the doc's face, but Cissy could. She reported that, as I lowered my undies, a look of awe crossed the doc's face. "Why…", the doc stammered, "…Why I can't ethically do any work on this perfect set of testes. I might as well deface the statue of David…". After much begging and pleading from my wife, though, the doc finally relented and agreed to the procedure. After we left the office, Cissy asked "Why did you have your hands on your hips? That looked extremely posed, and more than a little gay". Thanks for the support, Ciss…. Well, the office gave me a printed list of instructions. The night before the procedure, I could either shave the coinpurse, or they would do it for me. Being the go-getter that I am, I decided to tackle the problem head on and start a-shavin'. Unfortunately, I haven't had too much experience. I say that because when I laid back on the table, the nurse took a look and brought out the shaving kit. After calling two more nurses in for some lifting help, I was successfully shorn. After that, the actual procedure was a breeze. But…..I had to have a follow-up semen test to determine that I was, in fact, sterile. Now, for all you non-medical types, let me line it out for ya. They give you a cup with a threaded top and tell you that the sample needs to be provided in a timely manner (that means within 15 mins). Big problem….I live 45 mins away. So, either I get down to business in the car (hopefully with Cissy driving. I mean, I'm a multi-tasker, but….) or I get to get auto-amorous in the clinic bathroom (which is no big deal, except for the wonderful aroma, the potential of getting caught, and the incredibly limited space). In the end, I was able to use my local community hospital for the test, which meant I could "go to town" in the privacy of my own house, watching my collection of Golden Girls DVDs……Cissy refused to "help out". Thanks for the support, Ciss…...

Oh I wish I was in de land o' cotton...wait....I am.... Current mood:Truculent Category: Blogging Even though East Texas is growing pretty rapidly (Texarkana and Tyler, I'm talking to you....Queen City, you may be excused), I'm sometimes struck by how rual we still are. For example, there is a lot of confederate flag decor. I started noticing this......really noticing it...... just a little while ago. It led to the formation of my much-touted "Rebel theorem". The Rebel theorem, condensed to just the salient parts for all you non-scientific types, states that the property value of the house is inversely proportional to the amount of confederate stuff on / around it. Thing is, now I've started seeing this stuff on automobiles.....really seeing it.....recently. The other night I was driving in to work when I spotted a truck. Actually it was the truck. The truck of a rebel flag-lovin' mutherfucka. Seriously, there were no less than 8 confederate stickers on the back truck glass (I counted). That's not counting the 2 bumperstickers....Yes, before you ask, one of the bumperstickers was the "They can have my guns when they pry them out of my cold, dead fingers"......Yes, before you ask, the other bumpersticker was "The south shall rise again". As a bit of an aside, let me just interject that I love living in the south. Not too terribly cold, and for the most part the people are friendly. Lots of folks are missing teeth, so my congenital birth defect is not soooo noticable. But....c'mon guys.....did you learn history at all (psssst....I don't wanna spoil it for anybody, but the south lost the civil war) between going "Frog gigging"? Bubba, are you aware that if the south had won the civil war, it would have left America fractured and weak, and we would have been invaded and plundered? Why, if the south had won, we prolly wouldn't be speaking English right now.....we'd be speaking Spanish.....ohwait.......well nevermind that last point..... But back to the subject of the supertruck. There were stickers on the glass that didn't make any sense. Sure, I understand the "Southern born and southern bred...." sticker, but how about the one that said "Cousins are for cornholin'"....WTF?!? There was this one decal that had a lil' confederate Calvin taking a leak on the Ford logo. Huh? Did the southern soldiers really hate Henry Ford, or is the owner of the truck expressing his own opinions? Obviously, the Order of the Confederate Chevy has splintered off from the Fraternal Brotherhood of the Confederate Ford. Astute readers may be wondering "What did the occupants of the supertruck look like"? Sadly, they had his/hers mullets. The lady of the truck was truly dedicated to the theme.....Her hair was red, her skin was white, and the dark circle around her eye was bluish. Ah well, that's what ya gets for being so damn slow with that TV dinner... As the supertruck pulled in to EZ-mart for $ 3.50 worth of gas, I briefly thought about pulling in after them and explaining "Ya know guys, it's always the low socio-economic demographic that feels the need to hyper-express their pride. Is that because pride is all you really have left?" My eye wandered back to that "cornhole" sticker and I decided to keep going.......Hey, I've seen "Pulp Fiction" and I don't have any desire to meet the gimp. I've been re-considering the matching mullets for me and Ciss......

Oh I wish I was in de land o' cotton...wait....I am.... Current mood:Truculent Category: Blogging Even though East Texas is growing pretty rapidly (Texarkana and Tyler, I'm talking to you....Queen City, you may be excused), I'm sometimes struck by how rual we still are. For example, there is a lot of confederate flag decor. I started noticing this......really noticing it...... just a little while ago. It led to the formation of my much-touted "Rebel theorem". The Rebel theorem, condensed to just the salient parts for all you non-scientific types, states that the property value of the house is inversely proportional to the amount of confederate stuff on / around it. Thing is, now I've started seeing this stuff on automobiles.....really seeing it.....recently. The other night I was driving in to work when I spotted a truck. Actually it was the truck. The truck of a rebel flag-lovin' mutherfucka. Seriously, there were no less than 8 confederate stickers on the back truck glass (I counted). That's not counting the 2 bumperstickers....Yes, before you ask, one of the bumperstickers was the "They can have my guns when they pry them out of my cold, dead fingers"......Yes, before you ask, the other bumpersticker was "The south shall rise again". As a bit of an aside, let me just interject that I love living in the south. Not too terribly cold, and for the most part the people are friendly. Lots of folks are missing teeth, so my congenital birth defect is not soooo noticable. But....c'mon guys.....did you learn history at all (psssst....I don't wanna spoil it for anybody, but the south lost the civil war) between going "Frog gigging"? Bubba, are you aware that if the south had won the civil war, it would have left America fractured and weak, and we would have been invaded and plundered? Why, if the south had won, we prolly wouldn't be speaking English right now.....we'd be speaking Spanish.....ohwait.......well nevermind that last point..... But back to the subject of the supertruck. There were stickers on the glass that didn't make any sense. Sure, I understand the "Southern born and southern bred...." sticker, but how about the one that said "Cousins are for cornholin'"....WTF?!? There was this one decal that had a lil' confederate Calvin taking a leak on the Ford logo. Huh? Did the southern soldiers really hate Henry Ford, or is the owner of the truck expressing his own opinions? Obviously, the Order of the Confederate Chevy has splintered off from the Fraternal Brotherhood of the Confederate Ford. Astute readers may be wondering "What did the occupants of the supertruck look like"? Sadly, they had his/hers mullets. The lady of the truck was truly dedicated to the theme.....Her hair was red, her skin was white, and the dark circle around her eye was bluish. Ah well, that's what ya gets for being so damn slow with that TV dinner... As the supertruck pulled in to EZ-mart for $ 3.50 worth of gas, I briefly thought about pulling in after them and explaining "Ya know guys, it's always the low socio-economic demographic that feels the need to hyper-express their pride. Is that because pride is all you really have left?" My eye wandered back to that "cornhole" sticker and I decided to keep going.......Hey, I've seen "Pulp Fiction" and I don't have any desire to meet the gimp. I've been re-considering the matching mullets for me and Ciss......

Is Fort Worth ever on your mind? Current mood: awake Man, Fort Worth was more fun than I thought it would be....For the latter part of winter break, the whole family made a trek to FW. I worked Thursday night, and we got up to go Friday morning. Cissy was going to drive and let me get a little more sleep.....but honestly, I feel a lot better about our chances of making it alive when I'm driving, even on 4 hrs of sleep. This time there was no trick parking, but it was.......you guessed it.....valet. Oh well. After we got settled into the room, Cissy was going to take the kids and go trail riding via horseback, while I would get a couple more hours of sleep in the posh bed. When they left, I thought it an oppertune time to take a big dump. This way, there would be plenty of time for the air to clear out (sometimes, the family complains about the fresh-picked-roses smell) by the time they got back. Post dump (and about 10 lbs lighter, if ya know whut I mean) I had just settled in for my nap and had been asleep for about 15 mins when the whole family rolled back in. Good thing I hadn't rented "All natural titty extravaganza....volume 4" (and I couldn't say for sure, but in the preview there was a woman that looked a LOT like our own B Liles....Hmmmmm) on the pay-per-view or that would have made for some awkward conversation. Well, it turns out that Cissy couldn't find the stables, but DID find a bunch of desserts. Yum.....Donuts..... A little while later, we decided to walk around downtown to find a place to eat. We probably hadn't walked 10 yards when the was a little "screech" sound. We all glanced at the direction of the sound and caught the tail end of a car vs. bicycle accident. "Oh, the lady in the car is having a REALLY bad day" joked Cissy, as the cyclist lay broken and bleeding in the gutter.....Nah, just kidding....the guy was ok. But as he struggled to his feet, we saw that this lady had not hit just any cyclist, but a BICYCLE COP! "Wow, that lady's day just got a whole lot worse" Ciss said, as the cop angrily waved the car to pull over on the side of the street while he had a word with her. Have you ever been to Fort Worth? Downtown, I mean? As we were eating, then later walking around, I was struck by how much of a cowboy town FW really is. Lots of Cowboy hats and boots, and the old Western cut jackets. As a person of Native American heritage, it was just about all I could do not to scalp some old man and shout "Bury my heart at Wounded Knee, mutherfucka!"....or maybe "I will fight no more forever!". And I probably would have, too....except for all the Bicycle cops milling about.

Is Fort Worth ever on your mind? Current mood: awake Man, Fort Worth was more fun than I thought it would be....For the latter part of winter break, the whole family made a trek to FW. I worked Thursday night, and we got up to go Friday morning. Cissy was going to drive and let me get a little more sleep.....but honestly, I feel a lot better about our chances of making it alive when I'm driving, even on 4 hrs of sleep. This time there was no trick parking, but it was.......you guessed it.....valet. Oh well. After we got settled into the room, Cissy was going to take the kids and go trail riding via horseback, while I would get a couple more hours of sleep in the posh bed. When they left, I thought it an oppertune time to take a big dump. This way, there would be plenty of time for the air to clear out (sometimes, the family complains about the fresh-picked-roses smell) by the time they got back. Post dump (and about 10 lbs lighter, if ya know whut I mean) I had just settled in for my nap and had been asleep for about 15 mins when the whole family rolled back in. Good thing I hadn't rented "All natural titty extravaganza....volume 4" (and I couldn't say for sure, but in the preview there was a woman that looked a LOT like our own B Liles....Hmmmmm) on the pay-per-view or that would have made for some awkward conversation. Well, it turns out that Cissy couldn't find the stables, but DID find a bunch of desserts. Yum.....Donuts..... A little while later, we decided to walk around downtown to find a place to eat. We probably hadn't walked 10 yards when the was a little "screech" sound. We all glanced at the direction of the sound and caught the tail end of a car vs. bicycle accident. "Oh, the lady in the car is having a REALLY bad day" joked Cissy, as the cyclist lay broken and bleeding in the gutter.....Nah, just kidding....the guy was ok. But as he struggled to his feet, we saw that this lady had not hit just any cyclist, but a BICYCLE COP! "Wow, that lady's day just got a whole lot worse" Ciss said, as the cop angrily waved the car to pull over on the side of the street while he had a word with her. Have you ever been to Fort Worth? Downtown, I mean? As we were eating, then later walking around, I was struck by how much of a cowboy town FW really is. Lots of Cowboy hats and boots, and the old Western cut jackets. As a person of Native American heritage, it was just about all I could do not to scalp some old man and shout "Bury my heart at Wounded Knee, mutherfucka!"....or maybe "I will fight no more forever!". And I probably would have, too....except for all the Bicycle cops milling about.

It was the best of times, it was the...uh...best of times Current mood: quixotic Category: Blogging Well, last week at our house was winter break. That means everybody (except me) automatically gets 7 days off. It was an awesome week, though. Ciss and I made a roadtrip to Dallas earlier in the week to see Gomez. Traffic was not really that bad, but downtown....the streets are often one way, and there is currently a lot of construction. Put it all together, and it means that I only had to circle the block 5-6 times (Look kids....Big Ben!) before I could dart in to the tiny valet lot. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate valet? I think valet is in the top 3 evil things that Satan has loosed upon the Earth (The other 2 are methadone and Marilynn Manson). We will, unfortunately, further delve into the valet situation later on... The hotel was pretty cool. Very old building that had been re-done, but still had some soul left. Ciss and I wondered what to do first: Have a Starbucks treat? Walk around downtown and see the sights? Have a drink in the ultra-swanky bar? Long story short, we followed the example of some friends and had sex. There, I said it. We actually did all of the above, jackasses.... When it was time to depart for the concert, we decided to take a taxi. I walked over to a cab parked right outside the hotel's front door. The on-duty light thing on the top of the taxi was not turned on, so I was unsure if the guy was on break, or what. "Hey man" I say (because I am the people's champ), "Are you on the job?" The cab dude just looks blankly at me "We need a taxi", I explain "Abu jabba doe. No go diggy die" (in a thick Nigerian accent) I literally can not understand a single word that the guy is saying. So, I do the right thing and just start walking away. This is when Cissy walks up. "Can you take us to the Gypsy Tea Room", Ciss said. "yee-ssssss-uhhhh.....You know add-dresssss" "It's on commerce street, just up a couple of blocks" Cissy manages to direct the cabbie to the Tea Room. As we are exiting the cab, I almost step on some dude's foot. Turns out to be a member of the band Gomez. They appear to be on their way to scoring some dinner. After a short wait, we got in to the Tearoom. Now, if you've never been, I'll just tell ya: It's kind of a dive bar. I guess that's why my wife felt comfy enough to belly up to the bar and order a Chardonnay... WTF?!? (Beer and liquor only, sayeth the barkeep) ...The barkeep must have done his job pretty good, because Ciss was loose enough to make some friends at the concert (I know, I know...what a shocker...Ciss talking to some strangers and sharing our background). One was a kinda creepy couple originally from Colorado. Another was some very young blondie that was about to get married (but man, could she shake that ass!). Another was a goofball college kid with buck teeth (I would get to meet him after the concert, outside at the hotdog cart). Regardless, the concert was awesome. Real fuckin' awesome...The boys from Gomez played for well over 2 hours solid (not much talking between songs, and no breaks). They sounded great, but the crowd was mostly there to see the opening act, Ben Kweller ( He sounded ok, but he was dressed in this weird nautical-type theme. Striped sailor's shirt and captain's hat. I know it sounds bad, and he looked even more gay than my description sounds). After the concert, Ciss and I were hungry, and wanted to catch a quick taxi back to the hotel. I asked a nearby street hotdog vendor "Where is our best chance of catching a taxi?". "Right here", he answered, "Taxis run up and down all night long". While we were waiting, those damn hotdogs started smelling good. Cissy wanted one (This time, no sarcasm....I really WAS shocked that My wife wanted a processed meat product from a street vendor! Go figure....) but I explained that I was saving our cash for the taxi. I guess that was when the homeless guy heard that we wanted a taxi. "Y'all want a taxi?", he asked. "TAXI.....TAXI....." he bellowed, while running into and out of the street (ummm...I can clearly see that there are no taxis coming, crazy homeless dude...). Ciss and I started moving away. After we had waited awhile (Zero taxi sightings, either) we decided to start walking toward the hotel while keeping an eye out for a taxi. It was a little less than a mile, and the temp was nice and cool. As we were walking, though, I eventually noticed that we were discreetely being followed by a guy in a hoodie. He was about a half block back, but keeping pace to slowly overtake us. Of course, Ciss had no idea, and wanted to frequently stop and take pictures, until I explained. The only thing is....every time I told her we were being followed, she would say "Nuh-uh" or some variation thereof, until she spotted him with her own eyes. Finally, we made it back to the hotel. Just in time to miss room service. Well, I can always grab a quick bite.......Oh, wait a minute....That's right....My car is in VALET! I can go nodamnwhere! Cissy finally calls the front desk to ask if any place nearby delivers......Ah! Chinese food delivers! And the front desk hooks us up with the number! A very speedy 25 minutes later the delivery boy shows.....er, I actually should say the deliveryMAN, since he was about 50. And, here comes the unexpected....He spokey very little English! No, seriously! Very little English! The bill comes out to 26.87....all I have is 2 Twenties.....He looks like he has Zero idea of how to proceed, so I tell him "Just give me 3.00, and you keep the rest" (sure it worked out to be about a 40% tip.....That's just how I roll....That's why I'm America's Champion). Finally he got it through his head that I'd left him a pretty good tip, because there was a lot of grinning and nodding, until he backed out through the door. That was when Ciss discovered that we had been shorted one order of fried rice. The nice thing was.....finally I have beaten Brandi's and my record of drunken pizza spending. Forty dollar fried rice is a hands -down winner. You would think that for 40.00 it would be the best friggin' fried rice in the world, with all the amenities.....uh, not really......they forgot to include the eating utinsils. So.....Cissy sat on our expensive hotel bed and ate 40.00 fried rice with her fingers. Nice. So ladylke. Quite luckily, I had discovered the fork just in time for me to chow down. And this outing was only the start! Stay tuned for the 2nd part, or going to Ft. Worth with the family!

It was the best of times, it was the...uh...best of times Current mood: quixotic Category: Blogging Well, last week at our house was winter break. That means everybody (except me) automatically gets 7 days off. It was an awesome week, though. Ciss and I made a roadtrip to Dallas earlier in the week to see Gomez. Traffic was not really that bad, but downtown....the streets are often one way, and there is currently a lot of construction. Put it all together, and it means that I only had to circle the block 5-6 times (Look kids....Big Ben!) before I could dart in to the tiny valet lot. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate valet? I think valet is in the top 3 evil things that Satan has loosed upon the Earth (The other 2 are methadone and Marilynn Manson). We will, unfortunately, further delve into the valet situation later on... The hotel was pretty cool. Very old building that had been re-done, but still had some soul left. Ciss and I wondered what to do first: Have a Starbucks treat? Walk around downtown and see the sights? Have a drink in the ultra-swanky bar? Long story short, we followed the example of some friends and had sex. There, I said it. We actually did all of the above, jackasses.... When it was time to depart for the concert, we decided to take a taxi. I walked over to a cab parked right outside the hotel's front door. The on-duty light thing on the top of the taxi was not turned on, so I was unsure if the guy was on break, or what. "Hey man" I say (because I am the people's champ), "Are you on the job?" The cab dude just looks blankly at me "We need a taxi", I explain "Abu jabba doe. No go diggy die" (in a thick Nigerian accent) I literally can not understand a single word that the guy is saying. So, I do the right thing and just start walking away. This is when Cissy walks up. "Can you take us to the Gypsy Tea Room", Ciss said. "yee-ssssss-uhhhh.....You know add-dresssss" "It's on commerce street, just up a couple of blocks" Cissy manages to direct the cabbie to the Tea Room. As we are exiting the cab, I almost step on some dude's foot. Turns out to be a member of the band Gomez. They appear to be on their way to scoring some dinner. After a short wait, we got in to the Tearoom. Now, if you've never been, I'll just tell ya: It's kind of a dive bar. I guess that's why my wife felt comfy enough to belly up to the bar and order a Chardonnay... WTF?!? (Beer and liquor only, sayeth the barkeep) ...The barkeep must have done his job pretty good, because Ciss was loose enough to make some friends at the concert (I know, I know...what a shocker...Ciss talking to some strangers and sharing our background). One was a kinda creepy couple originally from Colorado. Another was some very young blondie that was about to get married (but man, could she shake that ass!). Another was a goofball college kid with buck teeth (I would get to meet him after the concert, outside at the hotdog cart). Regardless, the concert was awesome. Real fuckin' awesome...The boys from Gomez played for well over 2 hours solid (not much talking between songs, and no breaks). They sounded great, but the crowd was mostly there to see the opening act, Ben Kweller ( He sounded ok, but he was dressed in this weird nautical-type theme. Striped sailor's shirt and captain's hat. I know it sounds bad, and he looked even more gay than my description sounds). After the concert, Ciss and I were hungry, and wanted to catch a quick taxi back to the hotel. I asked a nearby street hotdog vendor "Where is our best chance of catching a taxi?". "Right here", he answered, "Taxis run up and down all night long". While we were waiting, those damn hotdogs started smelling good. Cissy wanted one (This time, no sarcasm....I really WAS shocked that My wife wanted a processed meat product from a street vendor! Go figure....) but I explained that I was saving our cash for the taxi. I guess that was when the homeless guy heard that we wanted a taxi. "Y'all want a taxi?", he asked. "TAXI.....TAXI....." he bellowed, while running into and out of the street (ummm...I can clearly see that there are no taxis coming, crazy homeless dude...). Ciss and I started moving away. After we had waited awhile (Zero taxi sightings, either) we decided to start walking toward the hotel while keeping an eye out for a taxi. It was a little less than a mile, and the temp was nice and cool. As we were walking, though, I eventually noticed that we were discreetely being followed by a guy in a hoodie. He was about a half block back, but keeping pace to slowly overtake us. Of course, Ciss had no idea, and wanted to frequently stop and take pictures, until I explained. The only thing is....every time I told her we were being followed, she would say "Nuh-uh" or some variation thereof, until she spotted him with her own eyes. Finally, we made it back to the hotel. Just in time to miss room service. Well, I can always grab a quick bite.......Oh, wait a minute....That's right....My car is in VALET! I can go nodamnwhere! Cissy finally calls the front desk to ask if any place nearby delivers......Ah! Chinese food delivers! And the front desk hooks us up with the number! A very speedy 25 minutes later the delivery boy shows.....er, I actually should say the deliveryMAN, since he was about 50. And, here comes the unexpected....He spokey very little English! No, seriously! Very little English! The bill comes out to 26.87....all I have is 2 Twenties.....He looks like he has Zero idea of how to proceed, so I tell him "Just give me 3.00, and you keep the rest" (sure it worked out to be about a 40% tip.....That's just how I roll....That's why I'm America's Champion). Finally he got it through his head that I'd left him a pretty good tip, because there was a lot of grinning and nodding, until he backed out through the door. That was when Ciss discovered that we had been shorted one order of fried rice. The nice thing was.....finally I have beaten Brandi's and my record of drunken pizza spending. Forty dollar fried rice is a hands -down winner. You would think that for 40.00 it would be the best friggin' fried rice in the world, with all the amenities.....uh, not really......they forgot to include the eating utinsils. So.....Cissy sat on our expensive hotel bed and ate 40.00 fried rice with her fingers. Nice. So ladylke. Quite luckily, I had discovered the fork just in time for me to chow down. And this outing was only the start! Stay tuned for the 2nd part, or going to Ft. Worth with the family!

Red is traditionally the color of love....also the color of satan Current mood:smitten Category: Blogging So...It's almost St. Valentine's day. For the most part, I dislike this holiday. The hype has become an unmanageable monster (for proof, I offer The Vermont Teddy Bear commercial....that commercial is creepy on many, many levels. Next time you see me in person I'll tell ya all about it). Now, I like to think that Ciss knows how much I love her.....(Not that I believe in soul-mates. Let's face it....B and I are 2 beers away from "doin' it" at any given moment. It's just that sexuality oozes from me like sap out of a maple tree. And like that tree, I have a tube sticking out of my chest from which a small wooden bucket hangs. Supplicants come from near and far, just to dip their unworthy fingers in the bucket and dab some of my sexual power behind their ears.....Um, where the hell was I going with all this? Oh, right...) and I think that if I have to get some cheesy something to impress her on a "special day", then I'm not doing my job very well. Of course, it could just be that I'm a cheap, curmudgeonly bastard. Or it could be something else entirely. Do y'all give any credence to the theory that past stresses can psychologically cripple a person in some areas? When I was much much younger (around 3rd grade or so) I used to love the school Valentine party. Sugary goodies (yes, I was a portly child) everywhere, culminating with the exchange of cheap V-day cards and message hearts. How painstakingly I used to scrutinize the wording of each card and heart......I didn't want to send the wrong message, you know....but the cards and hearts I always recieved were....a little strange. Like, I recieved a beautiful Scooby-Doo themed card once from my crush du jour. But on the inside it said "You'll never find love. Just like Velma"....weird, right? And sometimes I'd get candy hearts that had, imprinted on them, little phrases like "Eat all you want, fatty....but you can't fill the void with food". Huh? Later on, I found out that those gifts were from my teacher. She recognized potential when she saw it... Flash forward to high school. One year, for a fund-raiser, the student council sold paper hearts that you could get delivered to your valentine while they were in class. The then-school secretary announced the big event over the P.A. and urged us to part with a dollar so we could "walk around with a big heart on". Yup, she actually said it....One year, for a fund-raiser, the student council sold computer dating slips that you could fill out and get results of who was most compatable for you. One of my top choices was Cissy (almost 100% compatability, as I remember).....but when I asked her to the Jr/Sr Banquet, I was blown off (.....um, not like that....I meant that Ciss turned me down...seems she'd rather go with her bitter chubby Mormon friend.....kiss my ass, compu-match!) So, apparently, I have quite a history with Feb. 14th. In an effort to break the curse, this year I have a very romantic gift for Ciss. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but I will divulge this: A Donkey Punch will be involved. PS- B, Ches has something very similar planned for you. Something about "Cleveland", maybe?!? So, happy V-day to all of you. May you each recieve your well-deserved Valentine's gift (Even if it's one of those creepy Vermont Teddies....)

Red is traditionally the color of love....also the color of satan Current mood:smitten Category: Blogging So...It's almost St. Valentine's day. For the most part, I dislike this holiday. The hype has become an unmanageable monster (for proof, I offer The Vermont Teddy Bear commercial....that commercial is creepy on many, many levels. Next time you see me in person I'll tell ya all about it). Now, I like to think that Ciss knows how much I love her.....(Not that I believe in soul-mates. Let's face it....B and I are 2 beers away from "doin' it" at any given moment. It's just that sexuality oozes from me like sap out of a maple tree. And like that tree, I have a tube sticking out of my chest from which a small wooden bucket hangs. Supplicants come from near and far, just to dip their unworthy fingers in the bucket and dab some of my sexual power behind their ears.....Um, where the hell was I going with all this? Oh, right...) and I think that if I have to get some cheesy something to impress her on a "special day", then I'm not doing my job very well. Of course, it could just be that I'm a cheap, curmudgeonly bastard. Or it could be something else entirely. Do y'all give any credence to the theory that past stresses can psychologically cripple a person in some areas? When I was much much younger (around 3rd grade or so) I used to love the school Valentine party. Sugary goodies (yes, I was a portly child) everywhere, culminating with the exchange of cheap V-day cards and message hearts. How painstakingly I used to scrutinize the wording of each card and heart......I didn't want to send the wrong message, you know....but the cards and hearts I always recieved were....a little strange. Like, I recieved a beautiful Scooby-Doo themed card once from my crush du jour. But on the inside it said "You'll never find love. Just like Velma"....weird, right? And sometimes I'd get candy hearts that had, imprinted on them, little phrases like "Eat all you want, fatty....but you can't fill the void with food". Huh? Later on, I found out that those gifts were from my teacher. She recognized potential when she saw it... Flash forward to high school. One year, for a fund-raiser, the student council sold paper hearts that you could get delivered to your valentine while they were in class. The then-school secretary announced the big event over the P.A. and urged us to part with a dollar so we could "walk around with a big heart on". Yup, she actually said it....One year, for a fund-raiser, the student council sold computer dating slips that you could fill out and get results of who was most compatable for you. One of my top choices was Cissy (almost 100% compatability, as I remember).....but when I asked her to the Jr/Sr Banquet, I was blown off (.....um, not like that....I meant that Ciss turned me down...seems she'd rather go with her bitter chubby Mormon friend.....kiss my ass, compu-match!) So, apparently, I have quite a history with Feb. 14th. In an effort to break the curse, this year I have a very romantic gift for Ciss. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but I will divulge this: A Donkey Punch will be involved. PS- B, Ches has something very similar planned for you. Something about "Cleveland", maybe?!? So, happy V-day to all of you. May you each recieve your well-deserved Valentine's gift (Even if it's one of those creepy Vermont Teddies....)

Sorry, this blog will prolly suck.... Current mood:hidebound Category: Blogging Why? Because I'm getting sick. Yes, I can feel, as I type this, my temperature slowly starting to rise (not in a metaphorical sense, either). Pre-driving to work, as I'm helping prepare dinner, I kinda have a coughing fit. "Oh no", says Cissy "You're getting sick!". "Nonsense", I firmly exclaim, "This is only sinus drainage". Well......fast forward roughly 6-7 hrs, and I'm hooking up my patient (a kid, but more on this later on).....I start to get the tell-tale feeling of an impending illness. Well, great...apparently, my wife has a spooky Nostrodomus-like gift for seeing the future. Next time, hon, could you use your powers for something a little more useful? Like foretelling the lottery numbers, or whether that hooker will press charges? Usually, I'm not so bitter about getting sick, but I thought I was gonna get to come home early from work. I mean, it was snowing and sleeting pretty hard in Douglassville and the ENTIRE drive to Texarkana. My patient (an older pre-adolescent of the age that Cissy may very well teach) and his mother were from a small town in Arkansas. Arkansas had supposedly been getting more precipitation than even Texarkana. Thus, by the associative property of geometry.....They'll surely re-schedule! I'll get to leave early! Um.....not so much....The snow was so bad in Arkansas that they left EARLY to get here. Nice.....Anywho, the kid is really nice. But he suffers from what I like to call "O.F.I.".......For you uninformed, that stands for "Overly Feminine Influence"...That is to say his parents are divorced and apparently doesn't spend much time with his dad. Just the mom. Here's how I know: On his first visit, this kid left his personal-blanket-afgan-shaw type thingy here at the lab. Well, cause I have a sainted heart o' gold, I placed it in a bag and held it for him in case he returned (yes, buttholes, I DID try to call them). On this visit, when I presented him with the blanket (which is known as "boogie-boo", or something...) his mom said excitedly "Oh! You'd better hug his neck!".... And the kid started to lean in for it !!!! She quickly rectified her faux-pas with..."You'd better shake his hand!" (which I did). Look, I know it was a heartfelt, sweet moment. But think of this poor poor kid. He's got to learn how to handle these social situations in a masculine way. This boy is on the fast-track to sitting on the toilet when he has to pee! And if things get to that point, then the only further instructions to give would be: "son, when you sit down to pee at school, be sure and brace yourself, because an ass-beating of epic proportion is certain to follow" Ok, As I look back on this blog, this was not even what I wanted to write about. I was gonna tell an amusing little story about working in a local community hospital located in Cass County....Oh well.....maybe it's the fever talking...

Sorry, this blog will prolly suck.... Current mood:hidebound Category: Blogging Why? Because I'm getting sick. Yes, I can feel, as I type this, my temperature slowly starting to rise (not in a metaphorical sense, either). Pre-driving to work, as I'm helping prepare dinner, I kinda have a coughing fit. "Oh no", says Cissy "You're getting sick!". "Nonsense", I firmly exclaim, "This is only sinus drainage". Well......fast forward roughly 6-7 hrs, and I'm hooking up my patient (a kid, but more on this later on).....I start to get the tell-tale feeling of an impending illness. Well, great...apparently, my wife has a spooky Nostrodomus-like gift for seeing the future. Next time, hon, could you use your powers for something a little more useful? Like foretelling the lottery numbers, or whether that hooker will press charges? Usually, I'm not so bitter about getting sick, but I thought I was gonna get to come home early from work. I mean, it was snowing and sleeting pretty hard in Douglassville and the ENTIRE drive to Texarkana. My patient (an older pre-adolescent of the age that Cissy may very well teach) and his mother were from a small town in Arkansas. Arkansas had supposedly been getting more precipitation than even Texarkana. Thus, by the associative property of geometry.....They'll surely re-schedule! I'll get to leave early! Um.....not so much....The snow was so bad in Arkansas that they left EARLY to get here. Nice.....Anywho, the kid is really nice. But he suffers from what I like to call "O.F.I.".......For you uninformed, that stands for "Overly Feminine Influence"...That is to say his parents are divorced and apparently doesn't spend much time with his dad. Just the mom. Here's how I know: On his first visit, this kid left his personal-blanket-afgan-shaw type thingy here at the lab. Well, cause I have a sainted heart o' gold, I placed it in a bag and held it for him in case he returned (yes, buttholes, I DID try to call them). On this visit, when I presented him with the blanket (which is known as "boogie-boo", or something...) his mom said excitedly "Oh! You'd better hug his neck!".... And the kid started to lean in for it !!!! She quickly rectified her faux-pas with..."You'd better shake his hand!" (which I did). Look, I know it was a heartfelt, sweet moment. But think of this poor poor kid. He's got to learn how to handle these social situations in a masculine way. This boy is on the fast-track to sitting on the toilet when he has to pee! And if things get to that point, then the only further instructions to give would be: "son, when you sit down to pee at school, be sure and brace yourself, because an ass-beating of epic proportion is certain to follow" Ok, As I look back on this blog, this was not even what I wanted to write about. I was gonna tell an amusing little story about working in a local community hospital located in Cass County....Oh well.....maybe it's the fever talking...

An enigma revealed Current mood:august Category: Blogging Well hello there, guys. Did anybody catch The Tonight Show last night? If not, y'all missed a bizarre, rambling stand-up comedy set by a drunken Phyllis Diller. She said that she was about to turn 90, so.........have a beer for me, Phyllis. In case you are not the rabid Scooby Doo fan that I am, you may not be aware that Phyllis Diller actually starred in a Scooby episode. As I recall, she was smoking almost constantly in that episode. Way to be a Role Model for the youth of the 70's, Phyll.....Anywho, If you didn't catch her stand-up set, well.....don't despair. I've got a little joke for ya: Me: Knock Knock...... You: Who's there? Me: Nutbag Pedophile.... You: Nutbag pedophile who? Me: The Nutbag pedophile that tried to pass himself off as a 12 yr-old boy by shaving off his body hair and wearing makeup. I enrolled in 7th grade. Later, it was discovered that I was really a 29 yr-old man! Surprise! So.....y'all did hear about this, right? I'm sure that you (like most people) are wondering how in the world this freakjob could have passed for 12. I wondered that myself, until the afternoon that I had to accompany my oldest son (astute readers may know him as "sexy bitch"....y, eh?) to a local JP's office to pay for some speeding tickets that he had. On the ticket it states that a juvenile must be escorted by a parent. Into the office we went, and sauntered up to the receptionist's desk. I quickly explained that we were there to see the JP. The receptionist told us that the JP was not in, but took the ticket (I guess to calculate how much "the sexy bitch" owed). After reading the ticket, here is a true and accurate account of the conversation:* Receptionist: "Now which of you is this ticket for?" Ryan: "Me" Receptionist: "A minor has to bring in a parent with him" Trey: "Yes Ma'am....That's why I'm here" Receptionist: "What? You're his parent?" Trey: "Yes Ma'am...I'm his dad" Receptionist: (blushing) "Oh...I'm not going to say how old I thought you were" Trey: (awarkwardly shifting his large girth from foot to foot) "oh...Haha" Ryan: (daydreaming about the ladies)".........." Receptionist: "I thought you were his brother, or friend, or something" Trey: (wondering if this is being filmed for a hidden-camera show) "Well....no" This was a little strange for me. Older women usually don't hit on me in such a transparent ploy (Big Girls and Black Girls, sure, but not Old Ladies). I kinda think it's because my aggressive, surly sexuality must be a little threatening to them. But here was this older lady, dishing out compliments and pressing her cleavage together....yeah, ok, maybe I was looking.....what?.....Anywho, that's when it hit me. There are people in this world that CANNOT estimate age accurately. And that, my friends, is how a 29 yr-old man got enrolled in the 7th grade. BTW, As I write this, I'm considering trying to get back in the 10th grade. I'll let y'all know how it goes in a latter blog. * Ryan can vouch for the truthfulness of said conversation. Names have been left out for the sake of basic human decency.