Yesterday, my wife and I were having a general discussion. I was sitting down, at my desk, in front of a large window. She was standing, leaning against said window. While I was talking, I noticed her lips pursed and veered off to the side. Her eyebrows furrowed. She visibly, loudly exhaled. The sudden changes in her face made me stop talking. She quickly filled the silence I left by saying, "There's something about this light..."
Oh, this light? I thought. Something about this light makes me look positively radiant? beautiful? magnificent? This light makes me shine and reminds you how grateful you are to have me in your life? Yes, there is something about this light, isn't there my heart, my love, my life?
"...that's making your," she paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's making your mustache...I don't know. It's really kickin'."
Hmm.
That's interesting.
What to do. I did the only thing I could think to do: I spoke in a French accent and twirled my mustache between my fingers, which was fun for about ten seconds. Until I realized I was twirling my mustache.
"So, it's come to this, has it?" I asked.
"Yes," my wife replied. She went on to explain that her face doesn't just happen. Apparently, she shaves her mustache once a month. I had no idea.
"Am I going to have to shave my face every day?" I asked nervously.
"No. You can bleach it. Some people bleach it. Or you can grow it out," she replied.
There was a long pause. We looked at each other. And then we laughed. We laughed harder than we did when she needed a handful of times to get the car out of the driveway, but not as hard as we did at the wedding.
Apparently, I've been letting my mustache grow out without even knowing it.
It goes to show you can have the heart of a thirty-year-old all you want, but the hair is coming. It's coming for us all. It won't be denied. It will take over. All you need to worry about is if you want to shave it, bleach it, or grow it out.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Eat Shit
Somebody hold me.
This has to be a joke, right?
As long as I don't know what I'm eating and it tastes good, it's okay by me. I hear statements like this more often than Anthony Weiner sends a sext.
Is that right? Ignorance is bliss, you say? Then, please, allow me to be the first to introduce you to the human shit steak.
Oh yeah. You heard me correctly. Human. Shit. Steak. I wish I was making up stories, spinning yarns, yanking chains, but like the child whose small intestine was sucked out by a pool drain, this shit (pun intended) is real.
In an industry - factory farming - where feeding humans animal feces is acceptable - to those of you who say cheeseburgers are good and you can't taste the shit at all, I ask you, who tastes the bay leaf in a marinara sauce? Doesn't mean it's not there - it comes as no surprise that a way to make us eat our own shit has been discovered.
Reports say the human shit steaks taste like, well, steak. You think!? Who would eat a human shit steak if it tasted like human shit!?
I raise my glass to those who think ignorance is bliss. I'm not going to be the one responsible for shattering the illusion, telling you animals and their shit tastes just as good as the proteins found in your own shit. All I'll say is, Cheers and enjoy.
This has to be a joke, right?
As long as I don't know what I'm eating and it tastes good, it's okay by me. I hear statements like this more often than Anthony Weiner sends a sext.
Is that right? Ignorance is bliss, you say? Then, please, allow me to be the first to introduce you to the human shit steak.
Oh yeah. You heard me correctly. Human. Shit. Steak. I wish I was making up stories, spinning yarns, yanking chains, but like the child whose small intestine was sucked out by a pool drain, this shit (pun intended) is real.
In an industry - factory farming - where feeding humans animal feces is acceptable - to those of you who say cheeseburgers are good and you can't taste the shit at all, I ask you, who tastes the bay leaf in a marinara sauce? Doesn't mean it's not there - it comes as no surprise that a way to make us eat our own shit has been discovered.
Reports say the human shit steaks taste like, well, steak. You think!? Who would eat a human shit steak if it tasted like human shit!?
I raise my glass to those who think ignorance is bliss. I'm not going to be the one responsible for shattering the illusion, telling you animals and their shit tastes just as good as the proteins found in your own shit. All I'll say is, Cheers and enjoy.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Another Weiner Joke
Back to this, are we?
Pardon me while I recover from the gulp! - please - and gasp! - whatever - of another man in a position of power doing something sexually shady with women other than his wife, and lying about it before coming clean.
This narrative is as fresh and exciting as another season of Survivor, as another Hulk movie, as another wiener joke. If political figures were novels, Congressman Anthony Weiner's would be rejected due to a flooded market of similar stories containing dirtier dirt, like pay-offs and prostitutes.
Facebook messages are the equivalent of a pinch on the ass. They pale in comparison.
While Mr. Weiner's apology did lead to tears - poor Anthony. I bet he broke down after he sent each salacious text message, too - the melodrama still wouldn't be enough to garner publication.
You want to make a scandalous splash these days you tap your foot in a bathroom, hire a boy to carry your luggage in an airport after taking a trip together abroad, fall in love with a foreigner, or pay off an entire family. Sexting is child's play, Anthony. You get that woman on all fours, thump your chest, and leave a stain on the dress.
That's a proper scandal, dumbass!
The picture of you on the sofa with a cat beside you where you so "cleverly" announce you're with your pussy...laaaaaame. Next time put your dick on a cutting board, pack vegetables - small vegetables, like baby carrots; you don't want competition - around it, and announce dinner is ready.
If you're going to get busted, and it's only a matter of time before you do, make the reason you lose your job count. Do something deliciously naughty. Put a belt around your neck. Take a picture with a finger up your ass. Release a sex tape where you're giving it to Michele Bachmann. Or actually meet your conquests. Do something that doesn't reduce you to another Weiner joke.
Pardon me while I recover from the gulp! - please - and gasp! - whatever - of another man in a position of power doing something sexually shady with women other than his wife, and lying about it before coming clean.
This narrative is as fresh and exciting as another season of Survivor, as another Hulk movie, as another wiener joke. If political figures were novels, Congressman Anthony Weiner's would be rejected due to a flooded market of similar stories containing dirtier dirt, like pay-offs and prostitutes.
Facebook messages are the equivalent of a pinch on the ass. They pale in comparison.
While Mr. Weiner's apology did lead to tears - poor Anthony. I bet he broke down after he sent each salacious text message, too - the melodrama still wouldn't be enough to garner publication.
You want to make a scandalous splash these days you tap your foot in a bathroom, hire a boy to carry your luggage in an airport after taking a trip together abroad, fall in love with a foreigner, or pay off an entire family. Sexting is child's play, Anthony. You get that woman on all fours, thump your chest, and leave a stain on the dress.
That's a proper scandal, dumbass!
The picture of you on the sofa with a cat beside you where you so "cleverly" announce you're with your pussy...laaaaaame. Next time put your dick on a cutting board, pack vegetables - small vegetables, like baby carrots; you don't want competition - around it, and announce dinner is ready.
If you're going to get busted, and it's only a matter of time before you do, make the reason you lose your job count. Do something deliciously naughty. Put a belt around your neck. Take a picture with a finger up your ass. Release a sex tape where you're giving it to Michele Bachmann. Or actually meet your conquests. Do something that doesn't reduce you to another Weiner joke.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: Sarah Palin
History will show
Her bus tour was a warning
Russians were coming.
The last time I checked,
Million dollar home owners
Weren't average folk.
Go ahead, Sarah;
Tell the United Nations,
"Doggone, you betcha."
Her bus tour was a warning
Russians were coming.
The last time I checked,
Million dollar home owners
Weren't average folk.
Go ahead, Sarah;
Tell the United Nations,
"Doggone, you betcha."
Friday, June 3, 2011
Pure Panic
Last night, as the last of the sun was setting, I got sleepy. Twenty more minutes and I would be heading off to bed.
I rounded up the babies (dogs), let them out, brushed my teeth, flossed, and headed downstairs to the cool offerings of the bedroom. With both babies tucked in, the wife kissed, the cat on standby, I slid into the sheets, pulled the comforter up to my chin, and prepared myself for sleep. I was tired; it was sure to come quickly.
BING!
My eyes popped open. I could feel my heart beating in my head (that can't be right, can it?). The cavity of my chest filled with a playground full of screaming children.
Here we go, I thought. It's been awhile. Time to think about my imminent death.
Why does it always happen when it's dark and quiet? Why can't it happen when I'm sitting in the sun? Or watching 30 Rock? Or "doing it" with my wife? Oh no. It has to hit me when it's creepy and eerie and dark and scary with nowhere for me to hide.
What will it feel like, the moment right before my brains stops working? Where will I be? Is my wife there? Has she died before me? Oh-my-god this is really going to happen! It went on and on and on.
I finally thought, It's not happening now. Calm the fuck down.
Calming the fuck down did help.
Still...
I'm exhausted this morning. The sun is out, I'm watching 30 Rock, and "doing it" with my wife. Life is good. I think that's my problem.
I rounded up the babies (dogs), let them out, brushed my teeth, flossed, and headed downstairs to the cool offerings of the bedroom. With both babies tucked in, the wife kissed, the cat on standby, I slid into the sheets, pulled the comforter up to my chin, and prepared myself for sleep. I was tired; it was sure to come quickly.
BING!
My eyes popped open. I could feel my heart beating in my head (that can't be right, can it?). The cavity of my chest filled with a playground full of screaming children.
Here we go, I thought. It's been awhile. Time to think about my imminent death.
Why does it always happen when it's dark and quiet? Why can't it happen when I'm sitting in the sun? Or watching 30 Rock? Or "doing it" with my wife? Oh no. It has to hit me when it's creepy and eerie and dark and scary with nowhere for me to hide.
What will it feel like, the moment right before my brains stops working? Where will I be? Is my wife there? Has she died before me? Oh-my-god this is really going to happen! It went on and on and on.
I finally thought, It's not happening now. Calm the fuck down.
Calming the fuck down did help.
Still...
I'm exhausted this morning. The sun is out, I'm watching 30 Rock, and "doing it" with my wife. Life is good. I think that's my problem.
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