PC Makeover

For those of you looking for ways to erase porn off your PC, this post isn't for you. But since you're here, fucking Google it. And good luck.

Now, for those of you looking for the thick-slab meaty meaning of PC makeover, allow me to stop you at the baked potato. It's not as exciting as eating. 

What is exciting is telling the trolls to roll their Politically Correct bullshit in a Confederate flag, then wrap that flag in a Redskin's jersey, and set that dick-pile on fire. PC belongs on the shelf with Global Warming. Let them collect dust together and discuss how their underwear forcefully met the crack of their asses every day because the naysayers misunderstood them and couldn't resist a good ol' fashioned wedgie. (Don't feel too bad because wedgies are a part of our nation's history, so it's okay.) 

Why does Politically Correct sound like decorating your cotillion with floor to wall uppity white people? Of course there's no support for the Confederate Flag or Team Redskin in PCness because everyone's too busy piling dolphin-safe tuna tartar on their plates while sneaking bites to a baby polar bear resting in their Baby Bjorns, and drinking fuck-everything-American clean water. 

Because that's what the term "Politically Correct" has come to mean, right? 

Well I'm on to you, Righty. And I'm taking your 'Politically Correct' and I'm changing it to 'Shut Up and Get one Free', 'All You Can Eat for Freedom', or 'God's Plan'. You decide. 

Or...

How about just plain old 'Empathy'. It's amazing how Empathy, minding its own business, was snatch off its park bench--feeding hungry country and city pigeons--placed in the spin machine, and transformed into entitled socialist, un-American snobbery like Politically Correct. 

From all of us PCers, Empathy, I'm sorry. We're doing what we can, but you don't play a large role in our nation's history so, I'm sad to say, your makeover is going to take a white dick-pile being set on fire. 

Half-assed

Ugh. I'm in no mood to do this today. But I made a promise to myself that I would, so here goes.

...

...

Crickets are all that come to mind.

Surely there's something inside me that wants to come out besides mucous and excrement. All I've done this past week is poop, blow my nose, cough, and sleep. And honestly, that's all I want to do today. (Not that I'm looking forward to spending more than my average time pooping. I'd like my intestines to return to their regularly scheduled duties. Yes, I said doodies.) The end of my nose can easily be mistaken for under-cooked hamburger, and the heat from my eyes is one degree away from shooting a laser into my diseased pile of slimy Kleenex. I'm tempted to include a link to Honey Boo Boo's Thanksgiving feast so I'll not be the only person you find disgusting. 

I don't feel good, and I'm never going to be the kind of person who fakes it. This sickness-riddled rambling is all I have to give today. Next Monday, when this system has moved out of my body, I promise something less half-assed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a tissue. My cough drop just flew out of my mouth when I sneezed and snot is exiting my face like there's been a nose fire.

I can't wait to be a full ass again.

Open Letter: Rush Limbaugh

Dear Fat Piece of Shit,

Let's not pretend I'm going to be civil. Being civil with a guy like you is like tying myself to your car and running alongside in good faith you'll not get on the highway.

It takes a big man to mimic children who are afraid to die from gun violence. Thankfully, your weight class qualifies you. Yeah, I'm taking cheap shots, but calling you Fat Piece of Shit feels so appropriate that every time I call you Fat Piece of Shit, I feel the world's economy get stronger.

Saying shocking shit that 1) makes no logical sense, and 2) you know will rile the feathers of liberals, gets you higher ratings. That's your shtick; I get it. You say something to taunt the other side and when the other side rebuts, your listeners have more reason to tune in because you're the fucking martyr. Poor Fat Piece of Shit, put upon by those lefty fucking idiots.

Well this lefty fucking idiot has an idea. I know you're hesitant to hear it, but I promise it's worth reading on. You'll like it.

You should go on a tour of elementary schools and perform your I'm-a-scared-whiny-child-who-doesn't-want-to-get-shot impression for the children and parents. Put your face where your mouth is and teach these fucking pansy-ass kids something about nutting the fuck up. Walk in with spurs on your Reeboks, a silver belt buckle large enough to hold back your stomach, and say, "Listen up, you lot of fucking softies. The President can't help you. No one can help you but you. So nut up and grow a pair, you pathetic second graders!" Maybe shoot a couple of rounds from a semi-automatic over the children's heads to help desensitize them to the look and sound of guns. Something like that. You can broadcast live from the school so your listeners can bask in the thundering applause you'll get in response to your children-are-fucking-crybabies-who-complain-to-the-President approach.

When the parents, moved to tears, come to you afterwards to shake your hand and thank you for turning their little Sarah, little Sarah who's been a little bitch for all six of her years, into a little Jason Bourne, you can get back on your bus, headed for the next city, and know you're making a difference. A fat piece of shit difference.

Good luck on tour,

Whack-A-Muse

Off to Another Colorful Year

Thanks to chilling temperatures, my wife and I are going on day three without water. While I'm grateful to have electricity, I'm over the empty faucets. And they'll likely remain empty until Wednesday.

Apparently, 2013 wants to see me cry.

I can't wash my hair without my wife's help. Bathing feels old-timey as I crouch in the bathtub and scrub my essentials with a washcloth. I dip a cup into a pot of hot water, fresh off the stove, to rinse. My wife, with her own pot of water, takes my place when I'm finished. It's a sophisticated system.

The dishes, shoved in a cloth bag, came to work with me so they can be washed. Co-workers are kind not to ask what the cookie sheet is for.

I'm not drinking as much water. Food is eaten sparingly. Bathroom "situations" have become...interesting.

What is it about the New Year that likes to hand my ass to me? Remember 2011? Yes, pissing in the bathtub is fun, but the novelty soon wears off, as does the hilarity. I don't need, "We're out of pee water," to replace "I love you," or "What's for dinner," as the most popular saying in 2013 to add color to my life. Really. I don't.

So, 2013, if this is how you want to play it, I've got news for you. It's hard to beat someone who's shameless. I'll keep peeing in the tub. I'll stick to my side of the cookie sheet when my wife and I use it as a plate. I'll even continue driving the dishes around. But you, you're time will run out. Just do me a solid before you go: Don't tell 2014 what I've said.

The Art of Living

Nothing--not Anne Heche's 20/20 interview with Barbara Walters; not being stuck in an elevator with a fat man while I'm holding a sandwich; not even Michele Bachmann living in the White House--scares me more than dying.

You're probably thinking, 'No shit. That's an easy call.' And you'd be right. Dying is terrifying for most of us. But for me, it's not the idea of no longer existing or the idea of facing the unknown that scares me the most: It's what I'll miss.

What if To Kill A Mockingbird or The Night Circus or Geek Love had been written after 2173 and I never cracked their stiff spines only to soften them in a matter of days? What if Anne Hathaway had been born after I died and she didn't get to break my heart in such a gloriously unexpected way in Les Miserable? Don't even get me started on Jessica Chastain, Tina Fey, and Portlandia.

While there are plenty of people who think God has a fabulous library, a state-of-the-art home theater system where he gets the biggest blockbusters before Netflix, and holds a new gallery opening on the second Tuesday of every month in his floating sky-house, I don't prescribe to such comforts. When I'm gone, that's that. And with me, everything I've massively, lovingly appreciated will melt away with the burning of my lifeless body.

I'll not miss the bullshit of people, but goddamn, I'm going to miss the art of living.

Dick Licker of the Year

Competition was fierce this year, but edging out Newt Gingrich, Boy Scouts of America, Octomom, Carnival Cruise Line, and Justice Anthony Scalia for the Dick Licker of the Year award was the Iowa Supreme Court.

Congratulations, gentlemen. By unanimously agreeing with a man who fired his dental assistant because her attractiveness threatened his marriage, well, that's what I call real dickmanship. Seven dicks for seven brothers. Les dickerables.

What happened to holding people personally accountable for their thoughts and feelings? If we set a precedent to blame others--how can we possibly be expected to control ourselves?!--for decisions we're even thinking about making, what hope is there for the future generations of women?

Yeah, I thought it, too, probably the same time you did: designer burkas.

Don't think your name didn't come up during voting, Dr. James Knight. You felt, one day, you were bound to stick your penis in your dental assistant. Your wife thought so too and demanded she be fired.

That makes you a dick-licking motherfucker too.

I could dole out insults all day but I guess I should grow up and get to the heart of the matter.

Hey, dumb shits. You know who's a threat to your marriage? You and your wife!

Talk about a lack of trust, respect, and self-esteem. You didn't need to go to court, Dr. Knight. You needed to go to marriage counseling.

And you, Iowa Supreme Court, should never allow the internal insecurities of a marriage to dictate the outcome of a woman's employment. I hope the Dick Licker of the Year award looks as nice as I think it will sitting next to your Smug Fucker participation ribbon. 

c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s.

All right. I've heard enough. There are too many men in too many movies claiming the key to performing fellatio on women is spelling out letters with their tongues. Most recently, I watched a woman tell her boyfriend he's really good at it and he says it's because he wrote a short story. With his tongue.

What a fantastical way to admit he has no fucking idea what he's doing.

And she's lying.

I can imagine how it feels, having a tongue spell out letters in my cookie jar: erratic, unorganized, hit and miss. One second it feels great, right on the spot, and the very next the tongue is off on some unplanned adventure, nowhere near my pleasure cruise. 

I hate to be the barer of bad news, but women aren't typewriters. Our vulvas aren't looking for the next Hemingway to write the next great American story in our business. 

Then again, treating women's sexual needs with this kind of bullshit is the great America story, isn't it?  

I'm not saying this is true across the board. There are plenty of men out there who take pleasuring their women seriously. I like to think alphabet cunnilingus is nothing more than Hollywood urban legend, comparable to lesbians in movies sleeping with men. It's for a laugh. But something tells me, having heard stories from women who don't orgasm until their thirties, it's not a joke. 

Listen up, gods of pleasure. Tongue fatigue sets in quickly when you listen to men who live with their parents or drive BMWs. Cunnilingus doesn't have to be so complicated. Generally speaking, her clitoris prefers pressure on one side or the other, the top, going back and forth, or up and down. And if you feel the need to try this bullshit at the vaginal opening, stick with the letter O. Just stay present and her body will guide you, unlike Hollywood screenwriters.

Here We Go Again

Every time it hurts me. Every time I feel like throwing a monstrous fit. Every time I wish for change.

Checking the "single" box on my medical records is fucking ridiculous. When offered, checking "other" and writing "domestic partnership" on the line provided sounds like my wife and I made an agreement to grow tails, stay off the couch, and pee outside. But my integrity won't let me check the "married" box because, well, it's not true.

I recently conducted a medical review over the phone. Perfectly Pleasant Pam asked me my name. Date of birth. Single or married.

Oh, boy. Here we go. I sighed. "I guess I have to say single, unfortunately."

"Well that's all right," Pam said. I imagined her shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"It's not legal for me to get married," I said. I wanted Pam to know that being denied the right to marry was not "all right" with me.

"Well I've been with my guy for nine, ten years," Pam said. She briefly elaborated, suggesting it was hilarious that being with her guy for so long provided her no pleasure in checking the married box.

Congratulations, Pam. Your relationship is a riot. You and your guy are a couple regular Everybody Loves Raymond types that American's adore. Aren't you fucking special.

Pam seemed relieved to move on to questions concerning my medical history.

I thought Pam and I were done; we'd had our moment and it had passed. We were compadres, working on the same team. Then she asked me for my emergency contact, which I provided with no hesitation. Her name is...Her phone number is...

"Is this your friend?" Pam said.

The phone's for you, Pam. It's 1995 and it wants its "roommate" back.

"She's my WIFE," I responded.

Pam didn't know what to do. Stuck between wanting to seem cool and having a hard time hiding her true self, she stammered and may have accidently shot a staple into her leg.

Fail, Pam. Epic fail.

I'm begging, imploring that people like Pam are soon put out of their misery. She can call me carpet licker, diesel dyke, homo, fag, or anything else her and her guy can come up with behind my back, just as long as there's a word for what I am on my medical records: Married.

Something to Write About

I'm not a fan of bumper stickers. I don't feel the need to let other drivers know things about me. I don't need to plead with strangers to "<Not> blame me because I voted for the American." What difference does it make if strangers know I'm an uninformed, ignorant racist? Unless I'm rolling through Detroit, none.

While it's great to want the Dalia Lama's safe return home and monks to stop being persecuted for their beliefs, announcing I want a "Free Tibet" says I'm political without being political. Who doesn't want a free Tibet? Some Chinese, maybe, but come on. Americans love to rally against bullies who don't allow freedom of reli--what's that now? Our President must say "God bless America" after he gives a speech? Well, you know what I mean. "Free Tibet" is doing nothing more than accentuating the orange-ish hues on my 1984 Volkswagen Jetta's rusty bumper.

Who gives a shit about seeing my family displayed in stick-figure formation? Nothing says I'm thinking about the environment I'm leaving for my six kids, two dogs, and one cat than driving through the Starbucks' drive-thru in my Range Rover. Who cares if our ecological footprint is so big my family, singlehandedly, can one day be blamed for dependence on foreign oil?

Fuck it. I'm important, and I can do what I want.

You got that right. Do what you want all day long. It gives me something to write about.

What Was That?

Something unexpected happened over the weekend. Something I assumed would be quite innocent turned out to be an evening-shattering event. At one point my wife and I looked at each other, each wiping streaming tears from our faces, and wondered aloud what was happening to us. One of us had to keep swallowing, her throat burning, to keep from balls-out bawling. 

It started when Walter chicken-pecked the first few notes—"It's. Time. To..."—on Kermit the Frog's dusty piano.

There was no coming back from it.

If you haven't seen The Muppets, let me tell you, that movie wasn't messing around. It lifted my wife and me over its head, cracked our backs over its knee, and left us to crawl to a payphone to call for help. The Muppets’ studio in ruins?! The Muppets no longer friends?! No longer relevant?! It took everything we valued and loved in our childhoods and set them on fire right in front of our faces. 

And then Kermit and Miss Piggy had to go and sing Rainbow Connection as a duet. You might as well have beaten a basket of puppies before our eyes the way we carried on.

When my wife asked me, “What’s wrong with us?” I tried to say something about our reactions maybe being linked to our youth being over, how we’d never feel that joyfully light again, that we’d never feel so over-the-top connected to anything like the Muppets again, but couldn't without breaking down. 

So I took a minute. 

With tears still rolling down my face, I settled on, "I'm so glad we didn't see that in the theater.”

And that's how we left it: laughing about being the two adult women in the audience who couldn't manage to detach themselves from the fuzzy friends who meant more to them than just entertaining puppets.

Slapping Bitches

It has been awhile since I've had an overwhelming urge to open-hand slap someone across the face. Plenty have been considered--Kim Kardashian after she took the "sanctity of marriage" and poured expensive champagne all over it; Newt Gingrich because, well, he's Newt Gingrich; Donald Trump as he struggles to remain relevant--but it wasn't until last week, when Mitt Romney insulted me by saying I'm looking for gifts from Obama, that I started taking practice swings at pillows.

So you're the candidate who wouldn't make it rain and that's what sunk you.

Sounds like something a little bitch would say.

Let me lay it out for you, Mitt. The only gift I'll receive for not voting for you is not having you referred to as President of the United States for the next four years. Even if you'd offered the gift of extending the Bush tax cuts and I was a millionaire, it still wouldn't be a bigger gift than that. To suggest otherwise is egotistically irresponsible.

It takes a true little bitch to not admit playing a part in his own loss. But a true little bitch tries everything he can to keep his starting quarterback position on a team that wants to make the rules.

Little bitches, man. You just can't get close enough to give them a gift of your own.

Love in One Act

ACT I
SUNDAY MORNING, FALL 2012

The McHeberly kitchen. Standing in the thimble-sized kitchen is Whack-A-Muse, the oldest member of the household. She is finishing up the dishes, when her wife walks down the hallway and stops at the end of the kitchen counter. She has a white and pink electric razor in her hand.

Wife   You want me to shave your mustache?

Whack-A-Muse  (looking at the razor) You didn't just use that on your--

Wife   No!

WAM   Were you embarrassed to be seen with me at the play last night?

Wife   Not at all.

WAM   It's okay if you were. Maybe the way I was standing under the light caught--

Wife   (laughs) No. I just had these out and figured, you know.

WAM  (without hesitation) Sure! But should we get out of the kitchen?

Wife   Yes. Let's go in the living room, in the light.

WAM follows Wife into the living room. Wife turns, takes WAM by the shoulders and positions her just so in a block of sunshine. Wife turns on the electric lady razor and raises it to WAM's upper lip. WAM stretches her mouth to make it easier on Wife, and to ensure the tiny black hairs are erased.

Wife   (satisfied, Wife turns off the razor) There.

WAM   How's my eyebrows look? The ones that grow into my hair?

Wife turns the razor back on and starts shaving the side of WAM's forehead.

Once Wife is finished, WAM uses her pointer finger and rubs between her eyebrows. Without a word, Wife turns the razor back on.

WAM  I don't know if I trust you shaving between my eyebrows.

Wife   I know, but trust me. It'll be okay.

WAM   You can't shave straight down. You gotta angle it. I don't want you to shave off half my eyebrows like you--

Wife   (firmly) I know. It'll be fine.

Wife, again, raises the razor and delicately shaves between WAM's eyebrows.

WAM   Better?

Wife   Yes.

They kiss.

Big Fucking Deal

On the eve of the election, I'm feeling all kinds of, well, feelings. My belief system aligns more with President Obama’s, but truthfully, nothing in my daily life changes, regardless of who is steering the ship. But, this year, things feel different. For the first time in our nation's history, the sitting President, Barack Obama, thinks I have the right to get married. And that feels like a Big Fucking Deal.

When I excitedly asked a family member if she'd heard the President’s announcement, all she had to say was, "Well yeah! He wants those votes!"

Right. Votes. Forget that it took 223 years for the President of the United States to “want” a gay's vote. Forget that no president before Obama has ever supported gay marriage. Forget that the family member’s daughter is one of those.

My own mother reducing Obama's support of gay marriage as an attempt to garner more votes blatantly shows how easily the love I have for my wife can be dismissed.

And I'm fucking over it.

Legalizing gay marriage makes our love recognizable, something people can understand and wrap their heads around. Yes, it is just like The Bachelorette but the Bachelorette chooses a woman instead of a man. That’s a Big Fucking Deal.

So thank you, Mr. President, for telling our nation that, yes, love is love. Thank you for being the voice of profound change in my life. And thank you for being the only man I want (in the White House).

Because, like it or not, my life is a Big Fucking Deal.

A Casual Rapency

I'll admit I sometimes picture myself aiming a fleshy wand at the toilet. I can’t help wonder what it would feel like to have my genitalia on the outside...until I see a man vomit, roll around on the ground, and turn an unnatural shade of red after getting kicked in the dick. Then I don't wonder so much.

I wonder if Richard Mourdock ever pictures himself needing to sit down to pee, calmly tinkling the need to aim away. I wonder if he ever thinks about how it feels to walk down a street, alone, always on high alert. I wonder if he ever thinks about all his might being overpowered. About having a knife held to his throat. Foreign saliva dripping on his face. Having his body forcibly split, opened. I wonder if he ever thinks about being so scared he wishes for death to come.

I wonder if Richard ever thinks about how looking down at a swollen belly is a trigger. How a body splitting apart, again, pushing out God’s Good Will Baby, is a constant reminder of violence and fear.

I wonder if he thinks the way he talks about rape seems callously casual.

I wonder if he thinks at all.

Urban Legend: The Scissoring Lesbians

Everyone knows that lesbian intimacy revolves around fluffy pillows, Laura Ashley wallpaper, white cotton panties, vanilla scented candles, and rubbing our smooth private Barbie parts together, also known as scissoring. That's why sewing rooms--the lesbian equivalent to gay men's bath houses--are so popular in the Pacific Northwest.

The act of scissoring can be traced back to the late 1700s in Ireland. Fiona McDonnell couldn't fit on the bed on account of her family's kindness. After neighboring family, the O'Learys, lost their home in an unexpected fire, the McDonnells opened their home to the family of five. But bedtime posed a challenge. There were eight children but room for only seven on the bed. It was the eldest O'Leary son, Eoin, who suggested Fiona and his sister Shannon open their legs, just so, in order to fit in such a way that two bodies take up only one space. He said they could save even more space by taking off their nightgowns but failed to make a strong case to back his logic.

You couldn't blame him for trying. 

When the fiery redheaded Shannon suggested Eoin do the same with Thomas McDonnell, Eoin shook his head. He claimed it would look "too faggy." So it came to pass that Fiona and Shannon scissored night after night so neither had to sleep on the floor. 

Scissoring didn't become a lesbian sex act until the 1970s, after straight men decided it was a hot way for straight women to make "lesbian" porn together.

When my wife and get a hankering to scissor, we remember that scissoring is a straight person's idea of what lesbian sex is and stop before our legs go to sleep under the weight of the other person, an ankle gets rolled, or our hammies start cramping. Instead, we reach for our pillows and hit each other until one of them explodes and then we roll around in the feathers until we orgasm. To think we actually scissor each other is ridiculous.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do not use this for any legitimate purpose as it is historically inaccurate. 

It is true that scissoring is a straight man's fantasy but, in all fairness, there might be lesbians who actually do scissor each other, though I don't know of any. 

Open Letter: Boy Scouts of America

Dear Boy Scouts of America:

Bravo, gents. Bravo. You sure showed that self-assured eighteen-year-old a thing or two. Who does he think he is, anyway? Flaunting his highlights when it's understood only natural roots are rewarded. He knew the risks. He knew there was no tolerance for the Gay and yet he chose to pursue his Eagle Scout award in spite of your caveman mentality. The nerve of some people.

But you, BSOA, you've got the nerve of an 80's movie Russian terrorist! I pity the fool who refuses to acknowledge you are one tough nut. You never sweat, never break rank, never give in, and, most impressively, you bitch-slap motherfuckers back down to size when they least deserve expect it.

Pardon my French. I'm sure it's against the sash to use such colorful language. I'm excitable; I can't help it. You just don't know how much it thrills me to watch a group of adults nana nana boo boo the fuck out of a teenager. Fred Phelps couldn't do it better. Actually, he could. He could make signs, "reason" gay Eagle Scouts are why American soldiers are dying in Afghanistan.

Come to think of it, you might want to step it up a bit.

I'm sure the world rests easy knowing there's a group of adults out there who never shy away from putting a teenager in his gay place.

From one adult to another, go stick your head in doo doo.

Gaily yours,

Whack-A-Muse

How to Family Plan Under Romney Rule

I haven't lost all hope, but given President Obama's abysmal performance in last week's debate I've started making what little internal peace I can by picturing Mitt Romney in the White House. Mitt sitting in the Oval Office, signing bills into law; Mitt repeatedly pointing out that his cup of coffee starts being a cup of coffee at the grinding of beans but refusing to drink it until it's been brewed in the coffee machine. If President Romney comes to pass, family planning could look a lot different. So, I'm here to offer solutions.

When your local Planned Parenthood is defunded and closes, cutting you off to affordable contraception, make sure there is plenty of aspirin in the bedside table drawer. Falling asleep with an aspirin between your knees is easy, but come morning, when that rascally aspirin is lost in the sheets and your boyfriend or husband wants to stick his penis in you, you tell him you have a headache and take two aspirin. You'll find plenty in the bedside table.

If that doesn't work, tell him, "Sex is for procreation only." That's what republicans tell gays and lesbians when we say we want to get married. (Republicans can pretend we haven't figured out their sophisticated coding system all they want, but it doesn't take a lefty socialist to figure out when they say marriage they mean sex.) The rule applies here. Wear a goddamn Snuggy--America's version of a burqa--and your oversized, stretched-out period panties 24/7 if you have to.

Go gay. Only until you're reproductively ready, that is. It's a choice so it shouldn't be too hard. Two sockets bumping into each other cannot a child make.

But if you and your man-candy find yourselves in a moment of uncontrollable passion, and I can't stress this enough, make sure you always have illegitimate sex. (I don't need to spell this out, do I?)

Or you could simply vote for the other guy.

Tales from the Treadmill

It's that time of year again. The time of year that when the alarm clock sounds it is can't-see-shit dark outside. My wife and I fumble in pitch black when making the bed, misjudge and kiss chins and earlobes, trip over babies on the way to the light switch. The overhead bedroom light is too hostile that early in the morning, so we turn on the stairwell light. Once there's a light source, we go our separate ways. One of us heads upstairs with the babies, the other stays put to run on the treadmill. I go upstairs, turn off the light behind me.

I'm upstairs, in the loft. The babies are settling as I'm rounding out my first set of weights. I can hear the belt of the treadmill whirling, my wife's feet pad, pad, padding along. Suddenly, the belt is whirling alone. I'm not all that concerned. She steps off sometimes to do whatever it is she does. So I continue to focus on the weights in my hand, lifting them up and down, working my biceps.

Metal, falling to the ground. A dull thud followed by several other dull thuds. Unaccounted for sounds scream up to me from downstairs.

"Honey?" She doesn't answer. Oh god. My feet stutter down the steep loft steps as fast as they will go, dodge tail wagging babies through the living room, and take the more leveled set of steps down into the basement more quickly.

I'm in the bedroom. The treadmill belt is still whirling. My wife, however, is gone. As I make my way around the bed, I see the top of her head, then her body. She starts to stand. Her running tights, on one side, expose half her butt. The other side of her running tights are covered in dog hair.

"Are you all right?! What happened?" I say.

She's running in the dark. Decides it's too dark. (No shit.) Steps off the treadmill to turn on the bathroom light. Going from darkness to light, she's blinded. She means to step onto the side of the treadmill and instead steps onto the belt...which is moving 6.2 miles per hour.

It's mayhem from there.

As her foot sweeps out from under her, she has just enough time to grab onto the treadmill's side handle. So, she's lying there, on the treadmill, right? The belt is slowly pulling down her pants, taking some skin with it, as she takes her time deciding the best course of action. Don't call out to your wife to come turn the treadmill off. That's ridiculous. Instead, decide the best option is to let go, fly off the end, and let the belt's propulsion throw your body into the bed. Yeah, do that. And that's what she does; hence, one side of her running tights being covered in dog hair.

Running is dangerous business. Treadmills are no joke. But, I swear to Christ, I'm still laughing.

Three Minute Matters

A fifteen minute walk outside my front door leads to a trailhead. The trailhead dumps out on to a wide dirt road where other trails offshoot. I like walking the road. I like the crunch, crunch, crunch under my feet. I like to watch the babies go off roading and return to me with their adventures dripping off their panting tongues, sticking in their fur, dirtying their paws. The babies and I have been walking this way for eight years.

It took me eight years to lose the basset.

The basset headed left, down a ravine; I headed right, towards the water. I wasn't worried. I knew she'd catch up. She always does.

I glanced behind me, waiting to see the tip of her white tail, listening for the jingle of her tags. Nothing. The mutt and I headed down the ravine, the last place I saw her. She wasn't there.

Weirdly, my wife texted me to see if I was okay. I told her I couldn't find the basset.

According to text time, I held my shit together for three minutes. In three minutes I transformed from a rational human being into Something Wasn't Right. Did she fall into a hole so dark and deep I'd never find her? Was her harness caught on a branch? Was she hurt? Bleeding? Was she snatched by a mountain lion? Did someone take her? Where did this someone come from?

My wife told me to go back to the place I lost her. I started walking back up the ravine when I heard barking. Frantic, nervous barking. As my head crested over the top of the ravine, there the basset sat, barking at me like I disappeared on her.

My wife knew all along the basset wasn't lost. I, on the other hand, lost everything in three minutes.

What's in a Name?

I told myself I would write a post every Monday. A fine idea until Monday rolls around and I need to find something interesting to say. What if I don't feel like being interesting? If my name was Paris Kardashian, my namesake would automatically make me interesting. I could be as dull as a butterknife yet Gawker would print my name thirty-seven times in one week. Snoop Dog would invite me to his barbecues.

And I'd go.

Not that securing invites to celebrity barbecues has ever been my aim. Although watching Jay Z throw Justin Bieber in the pool would be hilarious. And using the bathroom after Mariah Carey to find she doesn't wash her hands might be worth ten thousand dollars to TMZ.

Not that selling dirt on celebrities is my aim, either. Although ten thousand dollars grants a lot of my wishes. And once wishes are granted, doesn't it make it easier to kick open the immoral door to secretly take photos of Jennifer Aniston wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms--I imagine Snoop Dog's barbecues get intensely wild--for millions?

You bet it does.

If only I had a more interesting name.