Friday, February 25, 2005
Overwhelmed
Well, let me just say that this new job stuff is going well, even though I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. Defending a case is TOTALLY different than being on the plaintiff's side. It's been a busy week. I really wish I had time to delve into this subject wholeheartedly, but I do not.
When I arrived here, we had a nice 'get acquainted' meeting and all of us paralegals went out to lunch on the firm's dollar. Not bad. However, when we got back from lunch, I was assigned about 53 cases. None of which I know ANYTHING about. I've been kind of feeling my way through them ever since.
Also, this has been a basketball kind of week. Wednesday, Vicki gave me her other floor seat to the Blazer-Lakers game. Very nice. Got some nice pics of Kobe and Damon Stoudamire. Now, if I could just figure out how to get them off my camera phone, I could post them. I'll try to do that over the weekend.
Last night, I took my boys to the Univ. of Portland-Gonzaga game. Lots of fun. Gonzaga won in a rout, but the boys had a blast and that's all that matters.
Tomorrow, I'm going with Ben to the Univ. of Oregon-Stanford game in Eugene. It's the Ducks' last home game of the season. Boo hoo. I may just have to buy season tickets next year.
That's about all from this end. I'll try to post something more substantive on Monday. Until then, have a great weekend!!
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When I arrived here, we had a nice 'get acquainted' meeting and all of us paralegals went out to lunch on the firm's dollar. Not bad. However, when we got back from lunch, I was assigned about 53 cases. None of which I know ANYTHING about. I've been kind of feeling my way through them ever since.
Also, this has been a basketball kind of week. Wednesday, Vicki gave me her other floor seat to the Blazer-Lakers game. Very nice. Got some nice pics of Kobe and Damon Stoudamire. Now, if I could just figure out how to get them off my camera phone, I could post them. I'll try to do that over the weekend.
Last night, I took my boys to the Univ. of Portland-Gonzaga game. Lots of fun. Gonzaga won in a rout, but the boys had a blast and that's all that matters.
Tomorrow, I'm going with Ben to the Univ. of Oregon-Stanford game in Eugene. It's the Ducks' last home game of the season. Boo hoo. I may just have to buy season tickets next year.
That's about all from this end. I'll try to post something more substantive on Monday. Until then, have a great weekend!!
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Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Identity, Work and Cell Phone Rage Part Deux
Last night, after I got home from the gym, drank my whey protein shake and finished watching the train wreck known as “American Idol” (gawd, I fucking hate that show), I moseyed upstairs in search of something other than “House” to watch as I can’t seem to keep a straight face because of all the promos Fox ran during the playoffs (“YOU’RE RISKING A PATIENT’S LIFE!!!”). Anyhow, since I have every station known to man (half of which I never even check to see what’s on them), I hit the HBO channels - all 900 of them. On HBO2 West, “Identity” came on. Now, John Cusack is one of my favorite actors (musta been his great work in “Better Off Dead” and “One Crazy Summer”), so I decide to give it a look-see. What a great fucking movie. Suspenseful, gory, taut and it even had a semi-plausible story when they finally brought it all together at the end of the movie. It also had an all-star cast that did a great job of acting. I mean, along with Cusack there was Amanda Peet (looking hotter than hell), Ray Liotta (always plays a good psycho), Jake Busey (looks like the bastard child of Gary Busey and Anthony Michael Hall), John C. McGinley (miscast in his role of mealy-mouthed step-dad instead of his usual role of playing an asshole), and whoever the dude was that played the psycho was excellent....I mean anyone that can get his eyes to flitter back and forth like he did without coming away with a massive migraine deserves an Oscar. I won’t give away the movie, in case you haven’t seen it. Just suffice it to say that the Hitchcockian twist it takes at the end I didn’t see coming, even if I did figure out who the killer was long before it was revealed. It’s definitely worth watching. Except for you, Jay. Pussy.
Well, my last day here at my current firm is rapidly approaching. I have been pretty diligent in getting work off my desk in an effort to make the transition go smoothly for Vicki and everyone else here. When I left my last firm, I already had this gig lined up and gave them a month’s notice. I forgot how nice it was not to have to look over your shoulder every second of the day. I mean, I adopted the attitude of “What are they gonna do, fire me?” I’ve been getting my work done, but I haven’t been killing myself to do so. It’s also nice to be able to fuck with whomever you want without fear of getting fired. Having a sexual harassment suit brought against me is a totally different story, but getting fired? Pshaw! Too bad it’s back to looking over my shoulder next week at my new firm.
Since this is my last week here, I’ve been skipping my mid-morning workout in favor of going to my favorite lunchtime-type places, since I won’t be in this area for work anymore. Instead, I’ve been going to the gym around 7:30 in the p.m. The gym by my house is smaller and infinitely more crowded than the one by my office. It’s a younger set than the gym I used to belong to, which is pretty cool. The only thing that isn’t cool about it is that the majority of them just loooooooove to talk on their cell phones whilst working out. What the fuck is this all about? Are you there to work out? Or are you there to talk on your cell? Not only do they talk on their cells, they do so while laying on whichever apparatus they’re going to use if/when they ever decide to shut the fuck up and work out. The least they could do is stand off to the side and make their calls. My cell phone goes in my gym bag and gets left in my locker. Sorry, I would like to get my work out in and be home before dawn. Of course, the majority of the people doing this are frickin HUGE, so it’s not like you can say anything to them lest you get pummeled by a dumbbell with a dumbbell. But to all you dolts out there reading this that feel the need to talk on your phone at the gym, DON’T. It’s not only incredibly tacky, but rude and disrespectful to all the people there that are on a schedule. I only have so much time to stretch, lift, do cardio, stretch and get home so I can unwind and fall asleep at a reasonable hour. Just hang up your damn phones and work out. Or talk on them AWAY from the machines. Thanks in advance.
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Well, my last day here at my current firm is rapidly approaching. I have been pretty diligent in getting work off my desk in an effort to make the transition go smoothly for Vicki and everyone else here. When I left my last firm, I already had this gig lined up and gave them a month’s notice. I forgot how nice it was not to have to look over your shoulder every second of the day. I mean, I adopted the attitude of “What are they gonna do, fire me?” I’ve been getting my work done, but I haven’t been killing myself to do so. It’s also nice to be able to fuck with whomever you want without fear of getting fired. Having a sexual harassment suit brought against me is a totally different story, but getting fired? Pshaw! Too bad it’s back to looking over my shoulder next week at my new firm.
Since this is my last week here, I’ve been skipping my mid-morning workout in favor of going to my favorite lunchtime-type places, since I won’t be in this area for work anymore. Instead, I’ve been going to the gym around 7:30 in the p.m. The gym by my house is smaller and infinitely more crowded than the one by my office. It’s a younger set than the gym I used to belong to, which is pretty cool. The only thing that isn’t cool about it is that the majority of them just loooooooove to talk on their cell phones whilst working out. What the fuck is this all about? Are you there to work out? Or are you there to talk on your cell? Not only do they talk on their cells, they do so while laying on whichever apparatus they’re going to use if/when they ever decide to shut the fuck up and work out. The least they could do is stand off to the side and make their calls. My cell phone goes in my gym bag and gets left in my locker. Sorry, I would like to get my work out in and be home before dawn. Of course, the majority of the people doing this are frickin HUGE, so it’s not like you can say anything to them lest you get pummeled by a dumbbell with a dumbbell. But to all you dolts out there reading this that feel the need to talk on your phone at the gym, DON’T. It’s not only incredibly tacky, but rude and disrespectful to all the people there that are on a schedule. I only have so much time to stretch, lift, do cardio, stretch and get home so I can unwind and fall asleep at a reasonable hour. Just hang up your damn phones and work out. Or talk on them AWAY from the machines. Thanks in advance.
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Monday, February 14, 2005
Joey
Bicyclist dies in Osceola -- another hurt
The man who died was a volunteer coach for the Osceola High School baseball team.
A volunteer for Osceola High School's baseball team is dead and another man critically injured after they were hit by a car three miles south of St. Cloud on Tuesday evening.
Volunteer coach Jose Santiago, 43, and Gabriel Declet, 22, both of St. Cloud, were bicycling south on Canoe Creek Road near Old Canoe Creek Road when they were struck by a car, said Trooper Kim Miller of the Florida Highway Patrol.
A Chevrolet sedan that was driving in the same direction was found stopped on Santiago's bicycle, Miller said. Investigators are trying to determine if another car was involved in the accident.
The bicyclists did not know each other. Santiago was pronounced dead on the scene. Declet was transported by air to Orlando Regional Medical Center. Neither was wearing a helmet, Miller said.
The driver of the car, Adam Weaver, 18, of St. Cloud, was not injured.
Santiago was one of three volunteers for the Osceola team and spent every day working with team members, Osceola baseball coach Jim Murphy said. He rode his bicycle from his job as a caddy at the Ritz-Carlton Orlando, Grande Lakes, to the high school.
"He was the kind of guy that when you met him, you liked him," Murphy said.
Both bicyclists had their driving privileges revoked because of their driving records, Miller said.
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I got the call from my friend John Saturday. John was my best friend when I lived in Florida. Joey Santiago was his roommate when we all used to hang out together in the mid-1990s. Joey was everything that John wasn't. John is tall (6'3"), Joey was short (5'8"). John carried his 240 pounds great on his frame. Joey didn't carry his 180 pounds well at all. John was handsome. Joey was not. So on and so forth. Joey wanted what John ended up with - a beautiful wife and two gorgeous kids. Joey was a confirmed bachelor. Whenever I visited Florida, there were three "absolutes" - death, taxes and the fact that Joey was single.
However, one thing that Joey was - a great, great friend. He never got upset when we'd joke about his last sexual escapade being in the late 80s (self-gratification did NOT count). He'd always join right in when we were going somewhere like a baseball game, titty bar or out on the town, even though he didn't have as much money as the rest of us. He had a great sense of humor, almost Seinfeld-esque. He loved sports. Another thing you could count on was Joey ALWAYS having the sports section of the Orlando Sentinel tucked neatly underneath his left arm. He'd read box scores of every sport for hours. We used to talk to him about the most outlandish shit while he was reading and he'd give us the polite head nod or the occasional, "yeah, that's great," never knowing he just agreed that he should go out and blow an alien or some shit like that.
Joey fell on hard times recently. He had lost his long time job as a computer analyst and had no luck finding work in that field. He had to take a job as a caddy at a very reputable golf course. He also got pulled over for a DUI a year and a half ago - his second offense - and lost his license and had his car impounded. This is why he was riding his bicycle home from his job last Tuesday night. I honestly hope he didn't see it coming. I also hope he felt nothing as he left this world.
I'll never forget the last time I saw him last April - he was leaving John's house, headed for home on his bicycle (even though I offered to give him a ride). He said, "Thanks, JP, but no thanks. I fucked up and this is my penance. It'll be over soon." We then shook hands, did the manly hug thing and I said I'd see him next year when I came back. I guess I won't.
Joey - I love you like a brother. I'll miss you.
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The man who died was a volunteer coach for the Osceola High School baseball team.
A volunteer for Osceola High School's baseball team is dead and another man critically injured after they were hit by a car three miles south of St. Cloud on Tuesday evening.
Volunteer coach Jose Santiago, 43, and Gabriel Declet, 22, both of St. Cloud, were bicycling south on Canoe Creek Road near Old Canoe Creek Road when they were struck by a car, said Trooper Kim Miller of the Florida Highway Patrol.
A Chevrolet sedan that was driving in the same direction was found stopped on Santiago's bicycle, Miller said. Investigators are trying to determine if another car was involved in the accident.
The bicyclists did not know each other. Santiago was pronounced dead on the scene. Declet was transported by air to Orlando Regional Medical Center. Neither was wearing a helmet, Miller said.
The driver of the car, Adam Weaver, 18, of St. Cloud, was not injured.
Santiago was one of three volunteers for the Osceola team and spent every day working with team members, Osceola baseball coach Jim Murphy said. He rode his bicycle from his job as a caddy at the Ritz-Carlton Orlando, Grande Lakes, to the high school.
"He was the kind of guy that when you met him, you liked him," Murphy said.
Both bicyclists had their driving privileges revoked because of their driving records, Miller said.
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I got the call from my friend John Saturday. John was my best friend when I lived in Florida. Joey Santiago was his roommate when we all used to hang out together in the mid-1990s. Joey was everything that John wasn't. John is tall (6'3"), Joey was short (5'8"). John carried his 240 pounds great on his frame. Joey didn't carry his 180 pounds well at all. John was handsome. Joey was not. So on and so forth. Joey wanted what John ended up with - a beautiful wife and two gorgeous kids. Joey was a confirmed bachelor. Whenever I visited Florida, there were three "absolutes" - death, taxes and the fact that Joey was single.
However, one thing that Joey was - a great, great friend. He never got upset when we'd joke about his last sexual escapade being in the late 80s (self-gratification did NOT count). He'd always join right in when we were going somewhere like a baseball game, titty bar or out on the town, even though he didn't have as much money as the rest of us. He had a great sense of humor, almost Seinfeld-esque. He loved sports. Another thing you could count on was Joey ALWAYS having the sports section of the Orlando Sentinel tucked neatly underneath his left arm. He'd read box scores of every sport for hours. We used to talk to him about the most outlandish shit while he was reading and he'd give us the polite head nod or the occasional, "yeah, that's great," never knowing he just agreed that he should go out and blow an alien or some shit like that.
Joey fell on hard times recently. He had lost his long time job as a computer analyst and had no luck finding work in that field. He had to take a job as a caddy at a very reputable golf course. He also got pulled over for a DUI a year and a half ago - his second offense - and lost his license and had his car impounded. This is why he was riding his bicycle home from his job last Tuesday night. I honestly hope he didn't see it coming. I also hope he felt nothing as he left this world.
I'll never forget the last time I saw him last April - he was leaving John's house, headed for home on his bicycle (even though I offered to give him a ride). He said, "Thanks, JP, but no thanks. I fucked up and this is my penance. It'll be over soon." We then shook hands, did the manly hug thing and I said I'd see him next year when I came back. I guess I won't.
Joey - I love you like a brother. I'll miss you.
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Friday, February 11, 2005
The Art Of Crank Calling
I’ve had this one on the shelf for awhile.
So I’m at home alone the other night. I'm supposed to meet up with some people at a show, but I decide to bag it because I'm kinda tired. I leave work at a decent hour to maximize the nightly pleasure, and grab some Thai grub and a sixer on the way home to watch the Mariners game in cock-fondling peace. Some of the women who read this may shudder at the thought of a man at the height of happiness, watching baseball, drinking and fondling himself - trust me when I say this: aside from having two hot models ravage you (at the same time, now), it just doesn't get much better than that.
After watching said game (epic walk-off grand salami), downing said sixer, and fondling said cock (did I mention it was MY cock? Hey, I don't go that way and fuck you for thinking it), I'm feeling pretty fucking idiotic whilst cruising the channels. I hit the home-shopping network and pause for awhile during an advertisement for a "stunning" cubic zirconia bracelet. Ahh ... the memories of me and my old college roommate crank calling those fuckers while two-fisting PBRs and anything alcohol-ish. Good times. So, "what the fuck?" I figure...I’m home alone, I'm drunk, got nothing else to do except go to bed.
I pick up the phone. Dial. Prepare Frog Lick, Arkansas accent.
chick: "Home shopping network. What product are you admiring this evening?"
Me: "Hey, I been watching yer program an I seen that there bracelet y'all got on that there screen, an its muh girlfriend Maxine's birthday uh comin soon, an I been thinkin bout gettin her sumpin reeeeeeel fine like that there bracelet!!"
chick: "Are you talking about item #blah, blah, blah, the stunning 3 carat cubic zirconia bracelet with cabochons?"
Me: "Uhm...yeah...I reckon that is THE one. Say, is that there a diamond? cuz my baybee says she wants a diamond, and she gets reeeeeeeel happy when she gets jeeeeeewlreeee!"
chick: "It's 3 carats of sparkling cubic zirconiums set in stainless steel with dangling cabochons."
Me: Uhm... "Pubic merconeeeyum?"
chick: "Cubic zirconium, sir."
Me: Oh. (pause) "But......Is that a diamond?"
chick: "It's a semi-precious gemstone that's created and cut in a laboratory, sir, but just as beautiful as a real diamond."
Me: "Shee peepers! In a lavertorie? You mean like a scrubbin' room?"
chick: "LabORratory sir." (with emphasis even)
Me: "So it's a plastic thing?"
chick: "No sir, it's a synthetic diamond."
Me: "Synthetic?"
chick: "Yes sir." (You can almost see the steam coming out her ears)
Me: Gol durn. "You mean like a robot?"
chick: "Uhm... well... it is a synthetic diamond, sir."
Me: "Does it change into a building, like them transfermer thingamabobs?"
~Click. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz~
Dammit! Oh well, at least I gave her a good story to go home with.
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So I’m at home alone the other night. I'm supposed to meet up with some people at a show, but I decide to bag it because I'm kinda tired. I leave work at a decent hour to maximize the nightly pleasure, and grab some Thai grub and a sixer on the way home to watch the Mariners game in cock-fondling peace. Some of the women who read this may shudder at the thought of a man at the height of happiness, watching baseball, drinking and fondling himself - trust me when I say this: aside from having two hot models ravage you (at the same time, now), it just doesn't get much better than that.
After watching said game (epic walk-off grand salami), downing said sixer, and fondling said cock (did I mention it was MY cock? Hey, I don't go that way and fuck you for thinking it), I'm feeling pretty fucking idiotic whilst cruising the channels. I hit the home-shopping network and pause for awhile during an advertisement for a "stunning" cubic zirconia bracelet. Ahh ... the memories of me and my old college roommate crank calling those fuckers while two-fisting PBRs and anything alcohol-ish. Good times. So, "what the fuck?" I figure...I’m home alone, I'm drunk, got nothing else to do except go to bed.
I pick up the phone. Dial. Prepare Frog Lick, Arkansas accent.
chick: "Home shopping network. What product are you admiring this evening?"
Me: "Hey, I been watching yer program an I seen that there bracelet y'all got on that there screen, an its muh girlfriend Maxine's birthday uh comin soon, an I been thinkin bout gettin her sumpin reeeeeeel fine like that there bracelet!!"
chick: "Are you talking about item #blah, blah, blah, the stunning 3 carat cubic zirconia bracelet with cabochons?"
Me: "Uhm...yeah...I reckon that is THE one. Say, is that there a diamond? cuz my baybee says she wants a diamond, and she gets reeeeeeeel happy when she gets jeeeeeewlreeee!"
chick: "It's 3 carats of sparkling cubic zirconiums set in stainless steel with dangling cabochons."
Me: Uhm... "Pubic merconeeeyum?"
chick: "Cubic zirconium, sir."
Me: Oh. (pause) "But......Is that a diamond?"
chick: "It's a semi-precious gemstone that's created and cut in a laboratory, sir, but just as beautiful as a real diamond."
Me: "Shee peepers! In a lavertorie? You mean like a scrubbin' room?"
chick: "LabORratory sir." (with emphasis even)
Me: "So it's a plastic thing?"
chick: "No sir, it's a synthetic diamond."
Me: "Synthetic?"
chick: "Yes sir." (You can almost see the steam coming out her ears)
Me: Gol durn. "You mean like a robot?"
chick: "Uhm... well... it is a synthetic diamond, sir."
Me: "Does it change into a building, like them transfermer thingamabobs?"
~Click. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz~
Dammit! Oh well, at least I gave her a good story to go home with.
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Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Wash Your Ass!
Ok, I've been debating for quite some time about whether or not to print this story or not. It is quite gross. However, I think it's pretty funny. It's also 100% true. If you have a strong stomach, read on!!
I ran into one of my old buds a while back hanging out at Gator's Dockside in Kissimmee, Florida.
Dude's name was Todd. We called him Fat Todd back in the day for reasons that you can figure out I'm sure. He had lost quite a bit of weight over the years, so now he was just "Todd" again.
I hadn't seen him for quite some time and we're going along catching up on things that have happenend in our lives the past few years. I asked him how his wife and kids were doing and he tells me that he had gotten a divorce.
I was a little bit shocked over this, since this dude had married his high school sweetheart and they had always seemed to get along pretty well. They were one of "those" couples. You know the ones, so sweet that if you stand too close your teeth start to rot.
I asked him what had happened, expecting an answer like "I caught her in bed fucking my best friend" or "She was a sketched out dope fiend who ran us straight to the poor house with a $200 a day cola habit. You know, something bad. Something that would cause a 25 year marriage to go down the shitter.
What I got was...
Todd: "Dude, I could smell her fucking butthole!"
Me: "Ummmmmmmmmm...ok, so you divorced your wife of 15 years, the mother of your 2 kids because you could smell her fucking butthole?"
Todd: "Yea. I could smell her fucking butthole"
Me: "Ok, are you saying that she would just be walking by, or sitting next to you or something, and you could smell ass...and you knew for sure it was her ass that you were smelling"?
Todd: "No, nothing like that. We were home one Friday night, just kicking it, watched a movie, drank a little, she gets up and gets in the shower. She comes out about 30 minutes later wearing this nice red teddy (Dude's wife had huuuuuuge boobies) and does the Ol' "come hither finger curl" at me. So, I hithered my ass to the bedroom in a hurry.
I get in there and shook all of my clothes off, hopped onto the bed right between her legs and start munching down on her snatch. I get her all nice and juiced up, hop up and start nailing it. We're getting after it pretty good. I roll off the side of the bed, pull her into the doggy style position, slide it back in and...That's when it hit me."
Me: "The butthole smell?" (Where's Beavis and Butt-Head when you need em?)
Todd: "Yea, the butthole smell. I mean fullblown ass starts wafting up and hits me full in the face!"
Me: "Are you sure it was coming from her?"
Todd: "Oh yea, no fucking doubt dude. It was coming right from her butthole. It was fucking reeking bad with that dirty ass smell...you know?...not a shit smell...or a fart smell...it was dirty ass...dirty, nasty butthole...nothing smells like that...it's not overpowering or anything...just dirty ass." (He seems to be an expert, so how can I argue?)
Me: "What about the shower? I thought she had just taken a shower?"
Todd: "That's pretty much what did me in. I knew she didn't wash her ass, you know some water had at least trickled down there and if it smelled like that fresh out of the shower, it would have really been rocking underneath those jeans while I was sitting next to her."
Me: "Damn. What did you do? You know, right then while you were fucking her?"
Todd: "Well, I instantly lost my boner. Told her something like I had to pee or some shit like that. Walked in the bathroom. I was staring in the mirror and I had a little bit of the dirty butthole residue floating up into my face. I made my desicion. I walked out of the bathroom and told her I wanted a divorce, right then, right there."
Of course she wanted to know why, so I told her - it's your butthole. it smells dirty. I could never fuck you again without thinking about it having that smell. She couldn't believe it, started freaking out and yelling that I was fucking someone else. I told her that was not it at all. It boiled right down to her butthole. Six months later we were divorced. Been divorced a couple of years now."
I didn't believe Ol' Todd at first...but...he's told a few other people the exact same story. Pretty wild shit...literally!
I don't know if I would divorce the wife over the dirty butthole smell...but damn...it would throw a freaking kink in there.
So, everyone reading this, in the future, please wash your ass. The relationship you save may be your own.
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I ran into one of my old buds a while back hanging out at Gator's Dockside in Kissimmee, Florida.
Dude's name was Todd. We called him Fat Todd back in the day for reasons that you can figure out I'm sure. He had lost quite a bit of weight over the years, so now he was just "Todd" again.
I hadn't seen him for quite some time and we're going along catching up on things that have happenend in our lives the past few years. I asked him how his wife and kids were doing and he tells me that he had gotten a divorce.
I was a little bit shocked over this, since this dude had married his high school sweetheart and they had always seemed to get along pretty well. They were one of "those" couples. You know the ones, so sweet that if you stand too close your teeth start to rot.
I asked him what had happened, expecting an answer like "I caught her in bed fucking my best friend" or "She was a sketched out dope fiend who ran us straight to the poor house with a $200 a day cola habit. You know, something bad. Something that would cause a 25 year marriage to go down the shitter.
What I got was...
Todd: "Dude, I could smell her fucking butthole!"
Me: "Ummmmmmmmmm...ok, so you divorced your wife of 15 years, the mother of your 2 kids because you could smell her fucking butthole?"
Todd: "Yea. I could smell her fucking butthole"
Me: "Ok, are you saying that she would just be walking by, or sitting next to you or something, and you could smell ass...and you knew for sure it was her ass that you were smelling"?
Todd: "No, nothing like that. We were home one Friday night, just kicking it, watched a movie, drank a little, she gets up and gets in the shower. She comes out about 30 minutes later wearing this nice red teddy (Dude's wife had huuuuuuge boobies) and does the Ol' "come hither finger curl" at me. So, I hithered my ass to the bedroom in a hurry.
I get in there and shook all of my clothes off, hopped onto the bed right between her legs and start munching down on her snatch. I get her all nice and juiced up, hop up and start nailing it. We're getting after it pretty good. I roll off the side of the bed, pull her into the doggy style position, slide it back in and...That's when it hit me."
Me: "The butthole smell?" (Where's Beavis and Butt-Head when you need em?)
Todd: "Yea, the butthole smell. I mean fullblown ass starts wafting up and hits me full in the face!"
Me: "Are you sure it was coming from her?"
Todd: "Oh yea, no fucking doubt dude. It was coming right from her butthole. It was fucking reeking bad with that dirty ass smell...you know?...not a shit smell...or a fart smell...it was dirty ass...dirty, nasty butthole...nothing smells like that...it's not overpowering or anything...just dirty ass." (He seems to be an expert, so how can I argue?)
Me: "What about the shower? I thought she had just taken a shower?"
Todd: "That's pretty much what did me in. I knew she didn't wash her ass, you know some water had at least trickled down there and if it smelled like that fresh out of the shower, it would have really been rocking underneath those jeans while I was sitting next to her."
Me: "Damn. What did you do? You know, right then while you were fucking her?"
Todd: "Well, I instantly lost my boner. Told her something like I had to pee or some shit like that. Walked in the bathroom. I was staring in the mirror and I had a little bit of the dirty butthole residue floating up into my face. I made my desicion. I walked out of the bathroom and told her I wanted a divorce, right then, right there."
Of course she wanted to know why, so I told her - it's your butthole. it smells dirty. I could never fuck you again without thinking about it having that smell. She couldn't believe it, started freaking out and yelling that I was fucking someone else. I told her that was not it at all. It boiled right down to her butthole. Six months later we were divorced. Been divorced a couple of years now."
I didn't believe Ol' Todd at first...but...he's told a few other people the exact same story. Pretty wild shit...literally!
I don't know if I would divorce the wife over the dirty butthole smell...but damn...it would throw a freaking kink in there.
So, everyone reading this, in the future, please wash your ass. The relationship you save may be your own.
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Monday, February 07, 2005
How To Piss Off An Entire Office In Less Than 5 Minutes
Ok, since I found a new job, I figured I'd send out a joke e-mail to my fellow co-workers to try to elicit a chuckle or two from them. I thought that I had a pretty good handle on the collective sense of humor of the people that worked here, but found out I was wrong. I couple people laughed, but I offended the rest of them. It's weird because I've seen e-mails a hell of a lot worse than this one come down the pipe here. Guess some people just can't take a joke. I've changed the names to protect the innocent.
The Last Will And Testament Of JP
I, JP, being of (semi-) sound mind and (rock hard) body and not being under the influence of (m)any (hard) drugs, do hereby bequeath the following things to the following individuals:
To (an attorney that is in his late 40's and is about to have his first kid, he also hibernates in his office. We'll go weeks without seeing him) - I start with you because you and I started here on the same day and, if I were a gamblin’ man, I would have wagered a year’s worth of my salary that you didn’t work here for longer than a year and a half, since I hadn’t seen you in about nine months until last week when I was on my way to the bathroom upstairs. Wow, thank God I got sidetracked by that woman (hooker) on my way to place that bet down in Vegas. Be that as it may, I bequeath to you my superb parenting skills. I just sincerely hope you don’t have to use them nearly as much as I do. Good luck!!
To (the only attorney here that voted for Dubuya) - You, my friend, get my hatred of President Bush and everything President Bush-like. Honestly, you should try bashing him for awhile, it’s quite fun. Also, all the snickering behind your back will stop.
To (the secretary in her late 40's that dresses and talks slutty. She's also Chip the computer geek's mom) - I’m going to give you my underwear since you have mentioned on a couple of occasions that you weren’t wearing any of your own. I was going to give you my left knee (she injured her's about a year ago "playing basketball"), but with my right one aching all the damn time, I don’t think I’d be able to play basketball without at least one good knee.
To (my boss' partner who is taller than I am) - I’m going to give you two feet of my height. I do this because I think it would be pretty freakin’ cool to see people’s reactions when an 8 ½’ attorney entered the courtroom. Of course, you’d probably get kidnaped by Ringling Brothers, but it would be fun to witness while you were still around.
To (the secretary that is a devout Mormon and was a virgin until she got married last year at 32) - You know, I’m afraid to give you anything that isn’t pure as the driven snow mainly because I have a sneaking suspicion that if I did, I’d be slated for the next handbasket headed due south immediately thereafter. Since I have nothing that is pure, you’re out of luck kiddo.
To (the "old timer" attorney of the group. He's in his late 60's and just got remarried) - I’ve got something special in store for you. I have already set the wheels in motion wherein I score some prescription Levitra through my doctor’s office. I did this with you in mind. When I do secure the prescription, I’ll fill it and I’ll give it to you, since you’re a newlywed and have an infinitely better chance of, uhhh, using it in the next month than I do.
To (Chip, the IT geek) - I am leaving you my role as the Notebook Nazi. If you rule these notebooks with the same iron fist that you rule the firm computers with, people will be hard-pressed to get anything notebook-related out the door on time.
To (our receptionist. Her daughter is very cute) - You are one lucky woman. You get my second born, Reese. It seems that Reese thinks that Mimi is his girlfriend. He keeps telling me that his girlfriend is “that girl from the party that we saw Santa Claus at.” And, when pressed, he told me that she’s “the girl that came with (your receptionist).” So there you go. You get Reese. I hope you have better luck with him than I have over the years.
To (the attorney that is very short and a little whipped at home) - I was going to leave you 6" of my height so you can stop wearing those clogs in the summer, but since I gave 2' to (the attorney upstairs), I don’t think I could part with any more of it. So, in the alternative, I’m leaving you my ability to watch South Park and any other smut-filled show at home that I wish. You can thank me later.
To (my fellow Cowboy and Oregon Duck fan attorney) - I’m leaving you my love of the Cowboys so you can eclipse Vicki’s love for the Eagles. Lord knows you’re going to need it, especially if the Eagles win the Super Bowl this weekend. I’d leave you my love for the Ducks, but I’m afraid it would combine with yours and cause your head to explode.
To Vicki - Ah, my roomie. I am leaving you with lower blood pressure and a full bottle of Valium. I’m sure that you can have my desk chair, if you beat our receptionist in a steel cage death match for it. Also, I leave you the right to yell at any guy here any time you want, as I will no longer be here to assume that role.
To (my boss) - What do you give the man who has everything? The only thing I can give to you is the full-time use of your Cayenne. No more people needing to use it to "go meet a client" (read: drag race unassuming Z28s and bang hot chicks in the backseat). The Carrera, however, is still fair game. I’ll be over every other Sunday to make sure it gets driven appropriately.
All of you, except (the Mormon), will get these things at 5:00 p.m. Friday, February 18, 2005. That’s it. That’s all I got. So, in the immortal words of Tony Soprano, “you are all dead to me.”
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The Last Will And Testament Of JP
I, JP, being of (semi-) sound mind and (rock hard) body and not being under the influence of (m)any (hard) drugs, do hereby bequeath the following things to the following individuals:
To (an attorney that is in his late 40's and is about to have his first kid, he also hibernates in his office. We'll go weeks without seeing him) - I start with you because you and I started here on the same day and, if I were a gamblin’ man, I would have wagered a year’s worth of my salary that you didn’t work here for longer than a year and a half, since I hadn’t seen you in about nine months until last week when I was on my way to the bathroom upstairs. Wow, thank God I got sidetracked by that woman (hooker) on my way to place that bet down in Vegas. Be that as it may, I bequeath to you my superb parenting skills. I just sincerely hope you don’t have to use them nearly as much as I do. Good luck!!
To (the only attorney here that voted for Dubuya) - You, my friend, get my hatred of President Bush and everything President Bush-like. Honestly, you should try bashing him for awhile, it’s quite fun. Also, all the snickering behind your back will stop.
To (the secretary in her late 40's that dresses and talks slutty. She's also Chip the computer geek's mom) - I’m going to give you my underwear since you have mentioned on a couple of occasions that you weren’t wearing any of your own. I was going to give you my left knee (she injured her's about a year ago "playing basketball"), but with my right one aching all the damn time, I don’t think I’d be able to play basketball without at least one good knee.
To (my boss' partner who is taller than I am) - I’m going to give you two feet of my height. I do this because I think it would be pretty freakin’ cool to see people’s reactions when an 8 ½’ attorney entered the courtroom. Of course, you’d probably get kidnaped by Ringling Brothers, but it would be fun to witness while you were still around.
To (the secretary that is a devout Mormon and was a virgin until she got married last year at 32) - You know, I’m afraid to give you anything that isn’t pure as the driven snow mainly because I have a sneaking suspicion that if I did, I’d be slated for the next handbasket headed due south immediately thereafter. Since I have nothing that is pure, you’re out of luck kiddo.
To (the "old timer" attorney of the group. He's in his late 60's and just got remarried) - I’ve got something special in store for you. I have already set the wheels in motion wherein I score some prescription Levitra through my doctor’s office. I did this with you in mind. When I do secure the prescription, I’ll fill it and I’ll give it to you, since you’re a newlywed and have an infinitely better chance of, uhhh, using it in the next month than I do.
To (Chip, the IT geek) - I am leaving you my role as the Notebook Nazi. If you rule these notebooks with the same iron fist that you rule the firm computers with, people will be hard-pressed to get anything notebook-related out the door on time.
To (our receptionist. Her daughter is very cute) - You are one lucky woman. You get my second born, Reese. It seems that Reese thinks that Mimi is his girlfriend. He keeps telling me that his girlfriend is “that girl from the party that we saw Santa Claus at.” And, when pressed, he told me that she’s “the girl that came with (your receptionist).” So there you go. You get Reese. I hope you have better luck with him than I have over the years.
To (the attorney that is very short and a little whipped at home) - I was going to leave you 6" of my height so you can stop wearing those clogs in the summer, but since I gave 2' to (the attorney upstairs), I don’t think I could part with any more of it. So, in the alternative, I’m leaving you my ability to watch South Park and any other smut-filled show at home that I wish. You can thank me later.
To (my fellow Cowboy and Oregon Duck fan attorney) - I’m leaving you my love of the Cowboys so you can eclipse Vicki’s love for the Eagles. Lord knows you’re going to need it, especially if the Eagles win the Super Bowl this weekend. I’d leave you my love for the Ducks, but I’m afraid it would combine with yours and cause your head to explode.
To Vicki - Ah, my roomie. I am leaving you with lower blood pressure and a full bottle of Valium. I’m sure that you can have my desk chair, if you beat our receptionist in a steel cage death match for it. Also, I leave you the right to yell at any guy here any time you want, as I will no longer be here to assume that role.
To (my boss) - What do you give the man who has everything? The only thing I can give to you is the full-time use of your Cayenne. No more people needing to use it to "go meet a client" (read: drag race unassuming Z28s and bang hot chicks in the backseat). The Carrera, however, is still fair game. I’ll be over every other Sunday to make sure it gets driven appropriately.
All of you, except (the Mormon), will get these things at 5:00 p.m. Friday, February 18, 2005. That’s it. That’s all I got. So, in the immortal words of Tony Soprano, “you are all dead to me.”
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Friday, February 04, 2005
Is It Over?
The downward spiral I mean. I had an interview yesterday with a pretty good sized law firm downtown and was pretty much offered the job on the spot. It seems like it would be a good fit for me. It’s laid back, I can still pretty much set my own hours, as long as my work is getting done, nobody will be breathing down my neck and I will have my own office. Not a cubby like I have now, a real honest to goodness office. Complete with a door and my name stenciled on the window. Plus, the best part is that it’s going to be a pretty substantial pay raise. They asked me how much I wanted, I pulled a number out of my ass that I thought was waaaaaay too high and they didn’t bat an eyelash. They said, “We can do that. Plus, you’ll get a bonus in September along with your annual raise.” I think if they would have told me I get my own secretary, I may have creamed myself right then and there. Thank God I have to do my own typing because that would have been fucking embarrassing.
There will be trade-offs, however. It is more “corporate” of an atmosphere, so wearing jeans everyday is out. I will be making a pilgrimage to the Gap Outlet this weekend to buy three more pairs of khakis, along with some dress socks. My usual rotation of my R/L jeans, Gap jeans and Tommy jeans will have to be modified somewhat. Also, they actually keep track of vacation time. Since I moved here, both firms I worked for didn’t care how much time you took off as long as your work was done. At the new place, I get 18 vacation days a year, plus 8 holidays and 1 “floating” holiday per year. What this means, however, is that my little ‘Disney’ vacation that I had planned is probably out, since I won’t have enough time built up. I do get comp time, so if I work an extra Saturday, I can take a day off during the week. I may do that to take my vacation. If not, I’ll take the boys to Seattle for a weekend to watch the Mariners play a game or three. Also, I’m not quite sure how my internet usage will pan out. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get into a rhythm wherein I can blog in the morning and at lunch.
One of the bright points of leaving my current firm is that they are letting me take my laptop with me. When I came aboard in October 2002, they bought me the king-shit of laptops. I e-mailed the partners and told them I’d like to take it with me. They have agreed to that. I feel that I earned it while I was here. However, that was very nice. Very nice indeed.
So, my friends, all my self-indulgent whining, moaning and bitching was all for naught. But it’s my blog and I can whine, moan and bitch if I want to.
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There will be trade-offs, however. It is more “corporate” of an atmosphere, so wearing jeans everyday is out. I will be making a pilgrimage to the Gap Outlet this weekend to buy three more pairs of khakis, along with some dress socks. My usual rotation of my R/L jeans, Gap jeans and Tommy jeans will have to be modified somewhat. Also, they actually keep track of vacation time. Since I moved here, both firms I worked for didn’t care how much time you took off as long as your work was done. At the new place, I get 18 vacation days a year, plus 8 holidays and 1 “floating” holiday per year. What this means, however, is that my little ‘Disney’ vacation that I had planned is probably out, since I won’t have enough time built up. I do get comp time, so if I work an extra Saturday, I can take a day off during the week. I may do that to take my vacation. If not, I’ll take the boys to Seattle for a weekend to watch the Mariners play a game or three. Also, I’m not quite sure how my internet usage will pan out. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get into a rhythm wherein I can blog in the morning and at lunch.
One of the bright points of leaving my current firm is that they are letting me take my laptop with me. When I came aboard in October 2002, they bought me the king-shit of laptops. I e-mailed the partners and told them I’d like to take it with me. They have agreed to that. I feel that I earned it while I was here. However, that was very nice. Very nice indeed.
So, my friends, all my self-indulgent whining, moaning and bitching was all for naught. But it’s my blog and I can whine, moan and bitch if I want to.
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Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Natural Selection
Ok, I don’t know how many of you guys outside of Oregon have heard about this, but apparently, some chromosome-deficient, mullet-wearing, inbred hillbilly decided that it would be a great idea to storm the Oregon Capitol Building in Salem and take himself hostage.
Let me say that again - take HIMSELF hostage.
Yep, this genius held himself at knife point and demanded to see the governor. Dude didn’t even use a gun. He used a knife. A KNIFE!
Ok, that has to be the most ill-fated hostage situation I’ve ever heard of. But, apparently, the humanitarians down at the Capitol Building freaked the fuck out over this, citing security concerns and the fact that this dumbass was shouting obscenities at everyone. Yes, I can see the concerns that some stupid hick smuggled what looked to be a 9" hunting knife into the building without being searched. That would concern me too. However, to worry about this guy after he started shouting obscenities and taking himself hostage? Sorry, he then ceases to be a problem and becomes a punchline.
First of all, I have no desire to pay for this guy to be taken to some mental institution and poked, prodded, tested and eeg’d to see why his elevator skips a few floors. No desire at all. Just because this dude thinks he’s entitled to see the governor when he holds himself at knife point doesn’t necessarily make him crazy. Dumb as a bag of hammers? Absolutely. Crazy? No.
Good thing I wasn’t at the Capitol Building that day. I would have been yelling stuff back at him like, “Have at it pal. We’ll clean up the mess. Hey Tommy, bring me a mop and some wet wipes, will you?.” Or, “I’ve never seen anyone flop around after they’ve sliced their jugular clean in half. That kind of shit only happens in the movies. Can you do that for me LIVE, please?” In fact, I'm surprised the people dealing with this so-called crisis didn't bust out laughing instead of lock down the building and have a hissy-fit, yelling, "You shithead, that the best you can do?!?"
See, where I come from (as well as in my twisted, sick little mind), it’s called natural selection. The crazies and the weak weed themselves out. No muss, no fuss. No spending taxpayer dollars to figure out why they’re crazy and/or weak. I don’t fucking care why they’re crazy and/or weak. They were crazy and/or weak when they came into this world and they’ll be crazy and/or weak when they leave it, no matter how much money we throw at a mental institution to figure it out.
Bottom line is this - yes, it’s a huge concern that a weapon was smuggled into the building. Fix that problem and that problem only. I’m tired of living in a state where we rehabilitate. Dude’s crazy, period. Let him kill himself if he wants to. I mean, as long as he’s not taking anyone with him when he goes, why the fuck should we care?
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Let me say that again - take HIMSELF hostage.
Yep, this genius held himself at knife point and demanded to see the governor. Dude didn’t even use a gun. He used a knife. A KNIFE!
Ok, that has to be the most ill-fated hostage situation I’ve ever heard of. But, apparently, the humanitarians down at the Capitol Building freaked the fuck out over this, citing security concerns and the fact that this dumbass was shouting obscenities at everyone. Yes, I can see the concerns that some stupid hick smuggled what looked to be a 9" hunting knife into the building without being searched. That would concern me too. However, to worry about this guy after he started shouting obscenities and taking himself hostage? Sorry, he then ceases to be a problem and becomes a punchline.
First of all, I have no desire to pay for this guy to be taken to some mental institution and poked, prodded, tested and eeg’d to see why his elevator skips a few floors. No desire at all. Just because this dude thinks he’s entitled to see the governor when he holds himself at knife point doesn’t necessarily make him crazy. Dumb as a bag of hammers? Absolutely. Crazy? No.
Good thing I wasn’t at the Capitol Building that day. I would have been yelling stuff back at him like, “Have at it pal. We’ll clean up the mess. Hey Tommy, bring me a mop and some wet wipes, will you?.” Or, “I’ve never seen anyone flop around after they’ve sliced their jugular clean in half. That kind of shit only happens in the movies. Can you do that for me LIVE, please?” In fact, I'm surprised the people dealing with this so-called crisis didn't bust out laughing instead of lock down the building and have a hissy-fit, yelling, "You shithead, that the best you can do?!?"
See, where I come from (as well as in my twisted, sick little mind), it’s called natural selection. The crazies and the weak weed themselves out. No muss, no fuss. No spending taxpayer dollars to figure out why they’re crazy and/or weak. I don’t fucking care why they’re crazy and/or weak. They were crazy and/or weak when they came into this world and they’ll be crazy and/or weak when they leave it, no matter how much money we throw at a mental institution to figure it out.
Bottom line is this - yes, it’s a huge concern that a weapon was smuggled into the building. Fix that problem and that problem only. I’m tired of living in a state where we rehabilitate. Dude’s crazy, period. Let him kill himself if he wants to. I mean, as long as he’s not taking anyone with him when he goes, why the fuck should we care?
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