Penis Envy (Part II)

But when they did finally focus, I've got this huge fleshy "prosthetic" staring me in the face. Now that's not a position I'm too comfortable with normally, but considering the circumstances this was rather amusing. The 10 inch flesh colored prosthetic had a suction cup placed behind the "base" and was stuck to Alabama's bumper. He laughed and said Huckleberry. Apparently it's an ongoing gag between the two. One leaves said prosthetic for the other to find in some unusual place. Then the other tries to top that. I questioned whether it was hers and got the expected runaround.

We both agreed that said prosthetic placed on the back bumper was funny, but inappropriate. Hood ornaments belong on the front of the car. Not the rear bumper. So after correcting her error we concluded that Rolls Royce ought to ditch their winged mascot (The Spirit of Ecstasy).

We had a good laugh. We paused. And then we laughed a little bit more just to cover up the awkwardness of it all. I told him if he got pulled over by the Fuzz to play stupid. Well, he did and, of course, he played stupid right up to the hilt. In a small sleepy town the police have nothing better to do. Nothing better to do than question unusual auto body work. They never seem to question those mud flaps with the naked ladies on 'em. I wonder if there is some lingering homophobia around these parts. That or they've never heard of penis envy.

-FIN-

An Open Letter To A Big Red Girl

Dear Red,

I know you're scared tonight. Hell, I'm scared too. It's been snowing for an hour now. I coulda swore I saw a flake or two stick. It mighta been my cataracts. You're scared for different reasons, though. Going under the knife is pretty risky business. And not in the cool Tom Cruise jumping on couches way, either. I'm talking 'bout the hold your boots and shit your pants kinda risky business.

If I was the type to falsify statistics for dramatic effect, I'd say that I've got a 12% chance of sliding off the icy roads into a telephone poll tonight. You? I'd probably say you've got a one in four chance of sudden respiratory failure. That or a severe allergic reaction to the anesthesia. But I'm not the type to make up bullshit like that, so cheer up. You'll be fine. I'm 85% sure of it.

Obama's inauguration is tomorrow. That's something to get optimistic about. I'm not sure how close you follow politics, but it's important. Some people don't think so. But it is. It affects everyone. Even you. The better the economy does, the more treats we can afford to buy you. Lord knows you love your doggy treats. A lot of churches around here are calling this the End of Days. Don't believe 'em. Even if Obama is the anti-Christ, it'll take him months to organize his army of demons. At worst, this is the End of Months- Years possibly.

Yo Momma's worried about you. She says she hates you, but she's worried. I'm not worried 'cause I know you'll do fine. Havin' a doctors cold steel tool slap against your wiffer can't be too different than Ernies wet fleshy tool. And hopefully the operation will decrease your fragrant girl smell. I'm pretty sure that's what causes Ernie to go so crazy for you. That and your sweet ass. Anyways, I'll see you tomorrow morning when I pick you up.

Love,
Yo Daddy

Penis Envy (Part I)

I got a coworker named Alabama. I call him that to protect his anonymity and, well, because he's from Alabama. Nice guy. Real thick southern accent. He's got a story for everything. If you've seen it, he's seen it bigger and better. If you've done it, he's done it twice and never returned its phone calls.

Huckleberry's a nice gal. She's got a real high-pitched voice and always wears colorful socks. She's kinda an oddball, but has a thing for rednecks. So inevitably her and Alabama hook up. After a few weeks of giggling and sending text messages she invites his homeless hillbilly ass to stay at her place. I like this. He's a swell guy. She's a swell girl. So, this thing that's happened, I like it.

We leave work at the same time last night, Alabama and I. I'm walking him to his car, because I'm parked right beside him. I don't normally walk dudes to their cars. In fact, I'm not sure why I said I "walked him to his car" at all. What I should have said was "we were both traveling towards similar destinations when our paths crossed for a prolonged period of time". A littler wordier, but it makes more sense.

So I finally get to my car and he finally gets to his car. We do this at about the same time. They were parked right beside each other. Alabama starts laughing. I don't know what the hell he's laughing at. So he points it out to me. "Look. You don't see that? On the bumper?" I had to get a little bit closer so my eyes could focus.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part IV)

You’re supposed to socialize your puppy from a young age. To expose them to as many different people, places and animals as possible. Not humanly possible, because I’m a human and I hate society. No, just plain old socialization will be fine. I’d like to think that I was sitting on that bench with Red today for that reason, but I wasn’t. No, I was hoping to run into Gregory. He owns a restaurant on Main Street. I know him on a first name basis because his restaurant is named Gregory’s. I don’t pretend to like him. Actually I do. No one can sauce up some chicken wings like Gregory can. But when I’m by myself there is absolutely no pretension whatsoever. I promise. Because honestly, I can’t stand the guy. Right before the recent election he’s got McCain-Palin signs decked out in all his windows. Now, I’m all for someone having their own beliefs and expressing those beliefs. This is America after all. But in a place of business? And it doesn’t help that those beliefs are in opposition to mine.

So I wait. I wait outside of Gregory’s for a man named Gregory to walk out and smoke his afternoon cigar. I could have gone inside to talk to him, but I had a dog with me. Poor planning on my part.

The truth is I pussed out. I had a whole notebook of questions about the GOP, but I pussed out. A scared journalist is like a dead soldier. Neither knew what they were getting themselves into. No Austin. No big doughy titties. No Pill Lady. And no Gregory. Back to the drawing board. Back to the day job, too.

-FIN-

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part III)

“Hey, you got a reel purty dog there. What kind is it?” We were up on Main Street, now. Red slunk down behind my legs like a bashful five year old. She’ll chase cats to Hell and back, but I’m not sure if she knows what to think around strangers. Especially strange old men who wear too much Old Spice.

I looked down at her inquisitively. “I don’t know. I think she might be a cocker spaniel”.

He was crouching down, now. He gave her a few strokes across her brow and scratched her chin. “Boy, I don’t know about no cocker spaniel. Ain’t they normally got long, curly hair? To me she looks like she’s got pitbull in her”.

I regretted having not properly trained her to attack pompous old fats who call men boys. I looked at her and scrunched up my forehead. “I don’t know, mister. I’m pretty sure she’s full bred cocker spaniel. That’s what the papers say at least”.

He looked up at me with a turned up lip. His teeth were off white, but denture-straight. My blank expression left him with no other option than to believe me. Or at least believe that I thought my dog was a cocker spaniel. “Well, whatever she is, she sure is purty”. We said our parting words and continued. I coughed my way out of his Old Spice mushroom cloud and back onto Main Street’s sidewalk.

Whenever I walk down a sidewalk I picture everbody as Shel Silverstein characters. At six foot six and a hundred and thirty pounds I could have easily been a caricature of someone far more handsome. Like Benicio del Toro. Red was pretty goofy, too. She hadn’t grown into her legs, yet. They sprung out like bean stalks with white socks dangling from her toes.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part II)

Pitbulls are supposed to get a lot of exercise. I’m not saying Red’s a pitbull or anything, but if she were she would definatley need a lot of exercise. She acts like a bulldog on occasion. I’m not sure if it’s just her natural temperament or if it’s on account of all the red meat I feed her. That and the neglect. The point is that she loves walks. Walks are great exercise for dogs. So we turn off Cleghorn onto Hill Street. Hill Street goes up at a seventy degree angle. That’s the type of exercise that makes me regret a steady diet of Hot Pockets and Slim Jims. Hill empties out into the back parking lot of the 1st Baptist Church. Before we bought our house, my wife asked the realtor why they called it the 1st Baptist Church. Apparently the town has two Baptist churches and this one was the first one built. Did they call it something else before the 2nd Baptist Church was built? Or did they always envision the town having more than one? I would have come up with a more creative name, but I’m not in the church-naming business. Hell, I’m not even in the soul-saving business. I’m in the dog walking business.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part I)

The wind whips against my door like a slave driver. So I put Red on her leash and let her drag me out into the mud. A gust almost lifts me off the ground. She looks like a kid flying a kite at the beach. Or running down the street with a birthday balloon. I try to rein her in enough to where she can’t jump from the sidewalk to the street. I’m not sure how acute her fear of cars is yet, but I assume it’s minimal.

We took a left down Cleghorn. There’s a little Mexican boy that lives there. I call him Chunk. I call him that because he’s a fat little fucker. I haven’t seen him since the leaves began to fall. He never wore a shirt during the summer, so I assume he doesn’t got one. That would explain why he can’t be found in cold weather.

It’s not a Mexican neighborhood, though. I wish it was. Then I could get a decent chalupa. Austin’s family is across the street from Chunk. I think they might be Irish. I say this on account of Austin’s bright red hair. That and his sister’s big doughy titties. I’m not sure if Irish broads having big doughy titties is an actual stereotype or not, but I’d like to think so. I assume Red’s Irish as well. She doesn’t have tits, but her red coat makes her look like a Hell Hound.

Further up the street there lives the Pill Lady. She looks just like a sweet old lady. You walk by her house and she’ll be standing there on her porch waving and smiling. She’ll say something sweet like “Hey, what a pretty dog you got”. And then when you’re all comforted by this grandmotherly figure, she asks if you’re holding any pain killers. So, yeah, I was kinda looking forward to turning her down for the umpteenth time, but she wasn’t there. Either I’m the only one stupid enough in this town to walk against this wind or Pill Lady and Chunk are out shopping - for shirts and pills respectively.

Big Black and Nasty

"We can't change the world unless we change ourselves"
-Christopher Wallace

Clearly this years the Passion of the Christ, the major motion picture release Notorious will leave Mel Gibson not only doubting his faith, but his choice in films as well. Critics have already drawn many parallels between the two films. Both have troubled protagonists who were cut down before their time. Both are strong morality tales concerning the sins of mankind. And both have totally kick-ass soundtracks. Let us hope that it was just the film's tagline that the director butchered (crucified?) and not the film itself.

Gettin' High For Jesus by Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs

Holly Golightly has released 14 albums since her debut in 1995. Her touring is as prolific as her recording with an almost unstoppable momentum propelling her across the globe. Her 2008 release Dirt Don't Hurt has earned her much critical acclaim and for good reason. Holly's blend of traditional American styles with a punk/garage rock grit has easily won the hearts of fans everywhere. For more information, visit her website at HollyGolightly.com.

Retro-Active

This post was inspired by Mr. Peter Varvel over at Plastic Bubble World. Thank you for the inspiration, Peter.

1. When I was 1 I slept in a wooden crib that my grandfather built for me.
2. When I was 2 my parents had sex for the second time and my sister was born.
3. I was being bathed once when I was 3 and managed to pee FROM the bathtub INTO the toilet that was across the room.
4. I slept in a wooded bed that I built for myself when I was 4.
5. When I was 5 my grandmother took a whole roll of film of just me eating vanilla yogurt. (She developed them in our basement/dark room)
6. When I was 6 my parents, believing married couples should have intercourse more than twice, decided to divorce and go their seperate ways.
7. I read alot of Shel Silverstein when I was 7 and was inspired to create the "Bridge to Nowhere" book series. Sadly, no publisher would take it up and I was forced to sell it to Sarah Palin.
8. At 8 years old I probably picked my nose alot.
9. When I was 9 I discovered my penis. We've been friends ever since.
10. I decided to turn 10 because I was sick of single digits.
11. When I was 11 I discovered cigarettes and pornography. (Thanks to my mother and father, respectively)
12. When I was 12 I discovered marijuana was easier to come by than alcohol.
13. By the time I was 13 I was peddling H to middle schoolers. Once they got hooked and strung out, I'd convince them to start hooking.
14. When I was 14 I kissed a girl for the first time.
15. During my freshman year of highschool, I took a creative writing class. I met my future wife in this class (I was 15).
16. I got my driver's license and started working when I was 16.
17. When I was 17, it was a very good year.
18. Graduated when I was 18.
19. I started working on a crabbing boat when I was 19.
20. After a successful day at work, Bekki made the joke that I had "got crabs". I immediately quit the crab boat.
21. I married my highschool sweetheart at 21.
22. When I was 22 my grandfather passed away.
23. Bekki and I moved up to North Carolina when I was 23.
24. When I was 24 I started writing again and discovered the wonderful world of blogging.
25. Who knows what 25 will bring. Children? Possibly.

Three Dogs Walk Into My Living Room. . .

The nails on my left hand are black right now. No, I didn't paint them black in a self-conscious attempt at becoming "emo" or "emo-like". And, no, I didn't accidentally crush my fingers with a hammer. Although, that wouldn't hurt to solidify my masculine persona. No, the cause of this androgynous stunt is purely coincidental. It seems one of my beloved pooches decided to steal a pen from the coffee table and disembowel it. I suppose a small amount of regret was felt, because the animal in question then decided that the pen deserved a proper burial- especially considering the horrific death it endured. The grave? Between the cushion of my favorite chair.

So I pull my hand up to see it covered in black ink. Then I pull the cushion up to see that it, too, is covered in black ink. The culprit, I concluded, might also be covered in black ink. My conclusions were right. I give each dog a solid inspection. Dixie? Clean. Ernie? Also clean. Red? Caught, well, red handed.