My Bad Wife

My best friend Ryan had emailed by wife last week and my wife never emailed him back. He sent her a reminder today and she emailed him back apologizing and saying she was a bad wife. I asked, "Why does that make you a bad wife? Shouldn't it just make you a bad person?" In her infinite wisdom, my wife replies, "Well, he's your friend and it was about you. And if I'm a bad wife, then I'm only bad to one person. But if I'm a bad person, then I'm bad to everyone. So I'd much rather be a bad wife then a bad person."

'Til death do us part...dammit!

The Jugs at Jolly Harbor

If you're ever in Antigua, go to the beach at Jolly Harbor (absolutely beautiful). And if you were there on the afternoon of September 20, 2006, you saw my wife's titties. It happened like this:

After performing aerials the likes no one has ever seen...on a wave runner...through jelly fish infested waters (I shit you not!), my wife and I headed back to the beach. I went for a swim and my wife went shell hunting. About 10 minutes after I got in the water, the waves started to increase in size and frequency, crashing with quite a bit of force against the shell cover beach. My wife, too engrossed in the hunt, failed to see a wave that had been hunting her Midwest pastiness. It crashed into her legs, buckled her knees, and took her down to the ground. She got up after being hit by two subsequent waves and calming herself from laughing.

Now, you'd think my wife would have learned her lesson from the first crippling blow...but that's not my wife. After a few minutes a mammoth wave, one of the biggest of the day, came rouring past me, clearly with its sights on my unsuspecting wife. I gave a quick shout of warning...but it was too late. She turned and faced the wave head on, ready for battle. The wave hit my wife with all its might, but she dug her feet in the sand and held her ground...except...she forgot to hold her top and the wave ripped it down, flashing her boobies to everyone on the beach, including a 12-year-old kid (who at that moment had the best family vacation ever). Congradulations sweetheart--you've made it into an adolescent boys spank bank.

Yogurt Love

Over the past year or so I've developed an intense love of yogurt. It may stem from me becoming somewhat of a health nut and because yogurt is sweet and creamy and tastes like it should be a naughty, slap-some-fat-on-my-ass dessert, but it's nutritious and good for you. My favorite is by far Yoplait's Mixed Berry...very scrumptious indeed.

However, I've been having a problem with my Yogurt for some time, a problem very much akin to the most feared male deficiency...premature ejaculation. Or, in my case, what I like to call an "opening yogasm." Every time I shake my yogurt up and peel back the top, a little spurt of yogurt shoots out. It gets all over my hands and sometimes on my clothes. I finally learned to open it facing away from me, but it still gets all over my desk.

Maybe I'm too excited when I know I'm going to get my yogurt and I shake it up too much beforehand. Then, when I know it's time to stick my spoon in, all the longing and built up pressure bursts out at once and I end up with sticky stuff all over my hands and a sense of disappointment that I wasted such good yogurt.

I don't know...maybe I should stop shaking it beforehand and just stick my spoon in and stir it around for awhile.

But sometimes I just can't wait that long.

5 Things I Thought Would Change After Marriage

I've been married for almost two months now, but I've lived with my wife for over two years. Here are a few things I thought would change after marriage.

1. I would be able to keep some of my stuff. (No. I threw out everything down to my last pair of underwear and had to start from scratch.)

2. There would be more sex! (Just kidding...that was over the day I proposed.)

3. Introduction of sex toys. (Yes. My wife bought me a pocket vagina so we wouldn't have to do it any longer. Now jerking off while she sleeps is twice the fun.)

4. Women would find me more attractive because I'm "off limits" and they know I can commit. (This ring around my finder is like a pop-up blocker for women...and my penis.)

5. Life would be greener on the other side. (Yes, for about a foot, then drops off into a bottomless pit of regret and sorrow. If you walk that fine line, it's sunny and green. Cross it just a bit and you can kiss your ass goodbye...as well as that hand-held vagina.)

Alternative Bachelor Parties

I read this article in the Chicago Tribune today about alternative bachelor parties. This guy wrote in with his plan: go to a ball game, dinner at ESPN Zone, and then out to a bar or strip club. Typical bachelor party. However, he wanted advice on alternatives in case they couldn't go to the ball game. Well, the article proceeds to prescribe facials and cooking classes. WHAT!!!

My bachelor party is coming up later this year and if I told my friends I wanted to get a facial and go to a group cooking class here's what would happen.

1. Get asked if I was gay by everyone...and start to question it myself.
2. Have my man card permanently revoked.
3. Tell my fiance to find another man--a real man--and move to Tibet and be a eunuch in some Buddhist temple.

FACIALS AND COOKING CLASS...WTF!?!

All bachelor parties don't have to be about alcohol abuse and naked chicks, but let's face it...the best ones are.

As for possible alternatives: go to the batting cages; go to a boxing gym, pad up, and beat the shit out of each other; have a poker tournament; and so on and so on. But whatever you do, don't get a fucking facial...pansy.

If the Right Person Farts...It's Headline News

I watch the news every morning while I eat my breakfast. But today I decided that I wasn't going to watch news on TV anymore. Why? Because the media is ridiculous. All that was on this morning was how the VP Dick Cheney shot a guy while hunting and wasn't releasing any information and how this was a complete outrage to the media. Who cares? This kind of thing happens all the time. When Jim-Bob shot Billy-Bob in the ass earlier this year while squirrel hunting, nobody asked Jim-Bob why he wasn't answering any questions about the state of Billy-Bobs ass. And what about the Olympics! If I hear another word about Kwan and her disappointing withdrawal from the Olympics, I'm going to vomit lots of dirty words in the vicinity of children and old people. Where were the news cameras when I had torn cartilage in my shoulder and couldn't play rugby anymore? Now that would have been good TV--me at the doctor's office asking if I'll ever get to use my arm and make sweet love to Francine again.

Anyway, since the news has been so crappy lately, I've decided that instead of watching the news while eating breakfast. I'd go around the neighborhood and read the paper while defecating in peoples driveways. Then wipe my ass with the newspaper. At least that news is good for something.

Harassment Training Day

I had harassment training today at work. If you work for my company, you take 1-2 hours out of your busy day, go to a meeting, read the same policy every year, watch a video, have a group discussion, sign a paper saying you've read the company policy, and then go back to work. I can see going through this training when you first start at a new company...but every year? I've worked for this company for over 2 years. If I haven't sexually harassed anyone yet, what's the point in going through the training every year?

Actually, I'm waiting for my 5-year anniversary. Then I'm going to start harassing the shit out of everybody. I'm going to start telling the women to dress more sexy, hand out autographed photo copies of my ballsack, ask the gay guys if they want to play a game of grab ass at lunch, and challenge the Asian people to a math off.

And as for advances on yours truly, I get a kick out the mailroom lady checking my ass out every time I walk by and saying, "Mmmm...hmmm!" And asking her how she's doing that day and she says, "I'm fine. How are you?" And I say, "I'm fine." And she says, "You bet your ass you're fine!" Or, when she staight up says, "What's up sexy!"...Classic.

If you feel you need a little harassment training check out this funny harassment video and be a better person.

The Train is Smelly

I'm not a racist person, and definitely don't like to place people into stereotypes. I don't like it when I tell people that I was in a fraternity in college and they automatically assume that I was a cocky, drunk, womanizing asshole all the time. (Actually, it was mostly on the weekends.)

Having inserted this disclaimer about myself, I'd like to now state that not all, but a majority of the Indian people that ride the train with me in the morning...stink.

I get on the train where it starts it's route and there are only a few people in my car. Since it's an express, there are two stops along the way. Now, when I get on the train, it smells like a train (pleather, plastic, metal, etc.) After the Route 59 and Naperville stops the train is packed (usually standing room only), and it smells like curry, moth balls, and dirty clothes. Thankfully, and contrary to popular belief (and when I say popular belief, I'm repeating what an Indian friend of mine said parts of India smell like), it's not a BO or rotting meat smell.

I realize there is a culture gap and that many of these people are from different backgrounds with different beliefs, customs, and smells. To help the smelly people become more acclimated to America, I've constructed the following guide. Since they don't have a BO smell, I'll skip the basics like taking a shower and wearing deodorant (they seem to have that one down). However, I will stress washing your hair more than once a month.

1. Wash hair at least every other day.
2. Wear clothes once, then wash. Blue jeans are the only exception (1-3 uses, then wash).
3. Wash clothes in laundry detergent...not chicken broth (Note: curry is not a fabric softener).
4. Spritz on a little cologne or perfume if laundry detergent is not available.
5. Keep the cooking smell out of your clothes (ie, don't cook dinner in the closet, open a window while cooking, use the vent over the stove, and/or cook naked).
6. Don't use moth balls. They make you smell like shit and are toxic (moth balls contain naphthalene, which is poisonous).

Follow these six easy steps and you'll be smelling like Joe or Susy America on the train and people will stop calling you the "smelly Indian guy".

Mad-lib

I haven't done a mad-lib in awhile and found one here. Below are my answers and the following story.

Your name: Bobo Snuggles
A neurological disorder: Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome
Any country: Slutland
Adjective: funky
Color: poop
Noun: jock strap
Color: crusty
Animal: liger
Adjective: Guatemalan
Type of transportation: lap rocket
Number: 77
Adjective: pee-stained
City: Herpetown
Drink: Gorilla Fart (shot of Bacardi 151 rum and Wild Turkey 101 bourbon whiskey)
Sise: quadruple extra large
Adejective: hunky
Adjective: rootin' tootin'
Shape: hexagonal
Word ending in -ing: diving
Liquid: lemonade
Number: 0.99991



Bobo Snuggles was one of the top neuroscientists in the world. Whatever it took, Bobo Snuggles would find a cure for Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome. Today, Bobo Snuggles was deep in the jungle of Slutland looking for a funky, poop plant.

Bobo Snuggles picked up the funky, poop plant called the jock strapvitum. As Bobo Snuggles placed the jock strapvitum in a plastic bag, the bushes moved. Out jumped a crusty liger. Frightened, Bobo Snuggles ran through the jungle of Slutland to a Guatemalen lap rocket.

It was a good thing that the lap rocket was fast. Bobo Snuggles made it to the Slutland airport in only 77 minutes. With the jock strapvitum safe in a pee-stained backpack, Bobo Snuggles was headed back to the laboratory in Herpetown. So Bobo Snuggles relaxed and ordered a Gorilla Fart.

Finally, Bobo Snuggles arrived in Herpetown. It was time to get to work. Bobo Snuggles had a quadruple extra large lab at the itchy University of Herpetown. Would the jock strapvitum plant have an effect on nerve cells? Could it be used to treat Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome? Bobo Snuggles was going to find out.

Bobo Snuggles looked through the rootin' tootin' microscope. The hexagonal nerve cells (neurons) in the dish were diving...that was a good sign. After grinding the jock strapvitum and soaking it in lemonade for 0.99991 minutes, Bobo Snuggles added it to the dish. With amazement, Bobo Snuggles saw the neurons grow! Could this be it? Could this be used to help people with Dirty Word Vomit Syndrome?

Best Laid Plans Go to Waste

I decided to do something today I would never have done in the past...make plans for Valentine's Day more than two days beforehand. This is totally unheard of, considering that for some reason I despise this holiday with a heated passion hotter than a 1000 suns. Regardless, I know that my fiance expects me to do something nice.

So I made plans and told my fiance that she needs to pick me up on Valentine's Day at the train station near her work at a certain time. Now, most people would probably be excited about the prospect of a surprise rendezvous point and excursion, and would want to know the destination...but not really because they wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

Not my Kelly.

After sending the mysterious email about picking me up at the train station, she immediately calls me (sounding annoyed) and asks why I need her to pick me up at the train station. "It's a surprise," I said. "Do you want to ruin it?" Kelly replies (like I'm majorly inconveniencing her), "No. I guess not. I'll pick you up."

In light of our conversation, I've decided to change our plans just to piss her off. Instead of the romantic evening I've prepared I'm going to have her drive to the train station and then drive us home (40 min), where I will prepare a dinner of mac & cheese and hotdogs. Then I will sit on the couch, watch TV, and scratch my balls for a couple of hours. After that, I'll excuse myself to the bathroom to rock the kasbah for 2 minutes with a wad of tissue and a titty mag. After that I'll be so tired I'll have to go straight to bed...right after I look at Kelly and say, "What is today? Oh, right. Happy Valentine's Day. (Yaawwwn) Goodnight."

Joke

A couple were invited to a swanky family masked fancy dress Halloween party. The wife got a terrible headache and told her husband to go to the party alone. He, being a devoted husband, protested, but she argued and said she was going to take some aspirin and go to bed and there was no need for his good time to be spoiled by not going. So he took his costume and away he went.

The wife, after sleeping soundly for about an hour, woke without pain and as it was still early, decided to go to the party. As her husband didn't know what her costume was, she thought she would have some fun by watching her husband to see how he acted when she was not with him.

So she joined the party and soon spotted her husband in his costume, cavorting around on the dance floor, dancing with every nice "chick" he could and copping a little feel here and a little kiss there. His wife went up to him and being a rather seductive babe herself, he left his new partner high and dry and devoted his time to her. She let him go as far as he wished, naturally, since he was her husband.

After more drinks he finally whispered a little proposition in her ear and she agreed, so off they went to one of the cars and had passionate intercourse in the back seat. Just before unmasking at midnight, she slipped away and went home and put the costume away and got into bed, wondering what kind of explanation he would make up for his outrageous behaviour.

She was sitting up reading when he came in, so she asked what kind of time he had. "Oh, the same old thing. You know I never have a good time when you're not there." Then she asked, "Did you dance much?"

He replied, "I'll tell you, I never even danced one dance. When I got there, I met Pete, Bill Brown and some other guys, so we went into the spare room and played poker all evening." "You must have looked really silly wearing that costume playing poker all night!" she said with unashamed sarcasm. To which the husband replied, GO HERE FOR PUNCHLINE

Punchline

"Actually, I gave my costume to your Dad, apparently he had the time of his life."

Loss for Words

Usually I have something stupid to write about, trying to be funny. But today I'm at a loss for words. Maybe because I've been so busy with work I can't think of anything else. Maybe it's the sterile walls that surround me, except for the piece of paper I have stuck to my bulletin board that says "Danger! Giant Mutant Lizard Seen in Vicinity" and has a picture of Godzilla destroying a passenger airline. (God! I'm such a dork sometimes.) Maybe it's because I haven't seen a sunny day in two weeks. Maybe, just maybe, it's because I shaved my balls the other day and the hair is starting to grow back and it really itches.

Maybe it's because I'm 28 years old, have a house, a fiance, two dogs, two cats, a wedding to plan, my 22-year-old sister is married and is pregnant, my 25-year-old brother just got married, my best friend just got engaged, and my family lives so far away. And for some reason this all scares the shit out of me.

But what I'm really at a loss for words about...is the utter deliciousness of peanut butter.

Pirate Uncle 2--Guns a Blazin'

A few year's ago at my sister's high school graduation party, my uncle Bob attended. My grandparent's were in town from Florida and Bob came over to see his brother, my grandfather.

Now, my grandfather owns a few firearms and for some reason he wanted to bring one of this guns on his trip to Indiana from Florida. However, my grandmother said no, since they weren't sure about gun laws in other states.

Back to the party...we're standing outside talking with my other uncle, Bill, and he says lets go talk to my grandfather and uncle Bob, who were standing around the corner of the garage, away from the rest of the party.

When I walk around the corner I see my uncle Bob pulling a .38 Special out of his pants to show my grandfather. I'm a little skittish around guns to begin with, but especially in the hands of a nipple twisting pirate. What's he going to need a gun for at a graduation party.

"Arrr...what are you staring at potato salad! You'd better watch yourself...or I'll pump your guts full of lead."

1st Annual Boostocky Festival

My fiance's brothers got new cell phones with voice dialing where you said the name of the person you were dialing and the phone would repeat it back to you and then dial the number. They thought is was fun to enter silly names for each other like Douchey McFuckface. One day, when Kelly and her brothers were riding in the car together, the boys were entering stupid things into their cell phones. One of the boys entered "Bukkake".

I'm not going to tell you what bukkake is here. You'll have to read about it here instead. BEWARE!!!

Well, my fiance didn't know what Bukkake was and inquired about its meaning...to much disgust. Her brothers told her that when she gets home she should tell me that her friends invited us to a Bukkake festival. Unfortunately, my fiance was having a hard time remembering the word and it's pronunciation. When she got home she came straight to our office where I was working on the computer. Here's how the conversation went down.

My fiance (with a big shit-eating grin on her face): Hey, how are you?
Me: Fine. What's up?
My fiance: Guess what...my friends invited us to a "Boostocky" festival.
Me: Boostocky festival? What the hell is that?

I was sitting at the computer and decided to Google "Boostocky". After it got zero hits I realized instantly what she was trying to say.

Me: Do you mean Bukkake?
My fiance (laughing hysterically): Ooops...I said it wrong.
Me: What kind of sick fucking friends do you have?
My fiance: I heard it from my brothers.
Me: Oh, well that's OK then.

Don't worry. I've called Japan and let them know that it's now called "Boostocky".

The Pirate Uncle

Everyone has that one relative that seems just a little stranger than all the rest. That one relative for me is uncle Bob.

Bob is my dad's uncle. He's lived in California my whole life. Apparently I met him when I was very young but don't remember.

A few years ago my family, along with my girlfriend at the time, went to a party at my aunt Dorothy's house (Bob's sister), and Bob was in town for a visit. As we got out of the car and walked toward the house I could here my uncle's boistrous voice resonating from inside. We entered the house and Bob greated us at the door with a hearty "Avast ye mateys and shiver me timbers!"

Bob gave my dad a big hug and my dad introduced me to Bob. "Bob, this is Jason," said my dad.

"Ah, Jason, I be Bob... says me, says I," said Bob. "I haven't seen you since you were a little tyke."

"It's nice to meet you," I said, wereupon Bob reached forward, grasped my shirt, twisted, and proceeded to give me t-shirt nipples.

Arrrrr... how embarrassing.

Spawn of Satan

I'm normally a big fan of animals.

Animals are normally a big fan of me.

I've had several occasions where I've met someone's dog or cat and they say, "Wiffles isn't very fond of other people." Then the animal comes right to me and I hear, "Wow, they never do that. You must be special."

Yes...yes I am.

Then there is Spawn of Satan aka Chance aka Chancer, my soon-to-be in-laws' cat. This fucking cat hates my guts. He looks like a cute, tubby, lovable housecat on the outside. Wash away the facade and what appears is an insanely vicious killer that would waste your whole family given the right moment. Never in my life have I heard a cat hiss or snarl with such venom. And that's just when I walk through the front door. When I speak the cat snarls so much it chokes on its own rage.

I've tried to be friends, but he won't let me come within 10 paces. It used to be two or three paces until I tried the fly swatter experiment. I figured since I can't get close enough to pet him with my hand, I'll try using some type of extension. The closest thing was a fly swatter. I think I got two good pets with the fly swatter before he attached it with the ferocity and strength of a 100 lions.

We played this game for a few more visits until I noticed that Spawn of Satan was no longer watching the fly swatter but was carefully calculating the movements of my hand holding the swatter. Since that day it's been 10 paces for fear of losing something vital to my health.

The other day I tried to make up: "Can't we let bygones be bygones. I want to start over Chance...my sweet, sweet Chancer. I love you Chancer."

Spawn of Satan's response: "Rrrrrrr...rrrrrrrrr...fsst, fsst (hiccup)...mmMMRROOWWWRrr (hiccup)...rrrrrr!!!"

Reunited and It Feels So Good

This morning in the shower I decided to name my left hand Francine.

Francine and I used to be great friends from when I was about 12 to 18 years old. Throughout college up until my late 20's I only saw her periodically and we started to grow apart because of all the other girls I was dating.

After I moved in with my girlfriend and later proposed, and she stopped having sex, Francine and I quickly became best friends again. Now we make love about once a day, usually in the shower or while looking up porn together on the Internet.

You're the best Francine. You always know what I like.

The Boys

The Boys are my dogs, Ozzie and Carl. Now, I can't really call them our dogs because they really don't listen to my fiance and they mostly chew up her shit. So they are definitly my dogs.

Case in point: I went away for the weekend for a bachelor party and left Kelly at home with the Boys. When I got home on Sunday evening she looked like hell--tired and irritable. When I called her earlier that morning to see how she was doing the first thing she said was, "I'm exhausted. The Boys won't sleep and won't listen to a word I say! They won't sit, lay down. They're out of control."

Apparently, the Boys didn't go to sleep that weekend, perhaps because I wasn't home and they thought I would be coming home and decided to stay up and wait for me. How sweet!

Here's what I really think. They stayed up all night keeping Kelly awake just to fuck with her. They don't listen to her, at least when I'm not around. When I'm around and she tells them to do something, they usually do it. However, when I'm gone, forget it. You'd have better luck telling a rock to sit, lay down, and roll over.

And the best part is, that evening when I got home the dogs were all hyper, running around and fighting, knocking shit over, just being downright rowdy ... and these are two 80 lb Rottweilers.

They were very happy to see me and were very excited, but I walked them into the family room where Kelly was on the couch in a daze and told them to lay down. They immediately layed down on the floor and stayed there the rest of the evening.

They're such good dogs.

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