Thursday, June 30, 2005

Stupid Sayings Heard Around The Office

As much as I love my job, working in a bigger office means having to work with all kinds of people with all kinds of personalities. There's nothing worse than having to interact with an office full of people that think they're akin to Bill Lumbergh.

Having been here for awhile now, I've figured out who I can talk with before I've had my coffee and who I cannot. Granted, there's only two or three people here that can get under my skin, but that's two or three more than I need.

Here's a list of stupid-ass sayings you'd be apt to hear around my office if you work here for any amount of time. Mind you, I'm the type of person that doesn't give or accept excuses on why something cannot be done. Get it done. It's your job. If you don't like your job, please feel free to go find a new one.

"This square peg doesn't fit in this round hole." I don't care. You make it work. If it's all that we have and we need something to be done with them, just do it and quit yer bitchin. All you're doing is wasting time

"Glass know the rest." Yes, I do know the rest. And if you say it again, we're going to find out if your head is made of glass, dumbass.

When talking about a material possession (like a car, boat, house, etc.) with some of these guys, you get the "mine's better than the one down the street because..." Why the hell does everyone think that theirs is better just because the own it?

"Did you get the memo?" You know what? If I got the fucking memo, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

There's one guy here that uses all of these sayings - "run it up a flag pole"; "pick your brain"; "get your ducks in a row"; "that's neither here nor there."
My gut reaction is to punch this dude straight in the mouth. Good thing I run it up the flag pole while picking my brain before doing so. I really need to get my ducks in a row before I go Jackie Chan on his ass. But that's neither here nor there.

In response to "how's it going?" some dolt here actually tells me every single day "You know, just another day at the salt mine." Dude, you work in a freaking law office. You are wearing a $1,200 Armani suit. I've never met anyone that worked in a salt mine, but I'm pretty sure they don't dress like you.

"It's not my cup of tea." Really? Well FUCK you and FUCK your tea!!

Some dude told me the other day "I'm busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest." I deadpanned, without even hesitating, "1993 just called. They want their joke back." He didn't get it.

"....irregardless of what you say..." Note to dumbass, irregardless IS NOT A WORD. Regardless is. Irrespective is. Irregardless is not.

Any sports metaphor is pretty tired stuff...

"Hit a home run..."
"Go all the way..."
"We're a team..."
"We need you to be an MVP..."

If you need to be motivated by sports cliches, just end it now.

As a matter of fact, if you need anything to motivate your ass, find a job you love doing. Otherwise, you're just stealing money.

If you'll excuse me now, I need to finish my cup of coffee so I can venture out of my office.


Tuesday, June 28, 2005

The Land of the Timeshares

It's a lot like the Land of the Lost, the part where Marshall, Will, and Holly scream while going over the waterfall.

Back when I first moved to Portland, my wife signed up for a contest at a baseball game and we got a call telling us we'd won four free airline tickets. I was hoping for cash and a new long-distance plan, but no such luck.

So anyhoo, we're told we have to attend a 90-minute presentation to get the free airline tickets. I give my wife the "Let me do the talking" look, (because I'm better at thinking up movie lines) and we're seated in a makeshift auditorium inside a non-descript office park.

We're sitting there with a bunch of other nervous suckers, watching Johnny Carson take the axe to the package for the millionth time on an old "Best of Carson" video. The door flies open and a team of lively used car salesmen knock-offs in Hawaiian shirts come in and grab us, one couple at a time, leading us into a giant room full of tables. We're offered free popcorn in a 5 oz bag and a Dixie cup full of soda, both of which I politely decline. A $60.00 Target boombox is blaring pop music, which makes it difficult for me to concentrate on anything other than the Manson Family and the best way to gut a room full of salespeople with a Swiss Army knife.

Our guy is named Derek or Dean or Dudley -- I don't remember which -- and he's wearing a black Men's Warehouse suit and sporting a surfer-spiky hairdo. He's got a silver dollar-sized bald spot budding on his dome, which for some reason I find more interesting than his introductory patter.

He starts off by establishing a "personal" relationship with us. We hear about his wife who left on a vacation and never came back, his custody battle for his daughter, his job at the injun casino, his subsequent gambling problem, his bouts with depression, his mother, who took off on his father, and his old man who could never afford to take him on vacation. This has significance somehow, so I pretend to take notice.

Apparently, he and his dad spent their free time watching haircuts down at the barbershop or the bacon slicing over at the nearby Safeway. Once a year, they'd go down to the river and take Poloroids of the barge traffic. It was all very sad. My wife is a much better actress than I; she lends a solemn look of motherly concern his way. I am busy glancing around looking for the obligatory bottle of Prozac and small metal flask of cheap whiskey he's undoubtedly got hidden somewhere. It was a game to keep me from slapping him, and I was sure as hell not going to leave without finding them.

He notices my attention drifting by the fact that I'm doing a crossword puzzle and humming a Coors Light beer jingle, so he turns on my wife to establish the all-important personal rapport, a tactic that was no doubt drilled into his head during his five days of employee training.

[If anyone is getting tired, grab a pillow and sit back, go 'head and grab that second cup of coffee, I'm almost finished.]

We find out the company is called Bluegreen Vacations, that they own about 30-odd properties, and that to get our airline tickets we have to listen to his presentation. The company sells "points" that can be used at various properties at various times, which doesn't sound half-bad. We tour a makeshift model condo and he reads placards about things we can do -- horseback riding, jet skiing, mini-tobogganing, etc. Most of the properties are in Florida, and he looks puzzled when I ask if the yearly "maintenance fees" include cleaning up properties that are blown out on the Interstate during the annual hurricane season.

We finally get down to brass tacks, and the dream package of 9,000 points is available to us for only $550 a month for the next 60 months. This allows us to stay at a beautiful condo for only $150 a week. After I stop laughing, he calls over his boss, who makes the special trial package available to us for only $200 per month, plus maintenance fees, because we seem like such nice people. Ain't he just swell? He looks like he's ready to bear my children right then and there. It's all got to be done today, signed, sealed, etc., OR we can come back at a later time and pay more if we so desire.

We thank them both for the slick presentation and the free popcorn, declining repeatedly as they add more freebies to the deal. Darren or Dagwood -- whatever, grabs my leg and sits on my shoe as I make my way to the door, and pleads with us to at least give him the names of people he can call on so that he won't get in trouble with the head mounty.

So we give him the names of the biggest freakin' jerkoff neighbors we can think of and go off to collect our airline tickets. They're good anywhere in the USA as long as you stay 10 days in a hotel that costs $300 dollars-per-night.

It was my first experience with timeshare people, and after I checked my wrist to make sure my watch was still there, I drove home with my wife. I grabbed the kids, and with visions of Disney World, Aspen, and Myrtle Beach playing in my head, took them all down to the river to watch the barge traffic.


Friday, June 24, 2005

Theeeee Yankees Suck (Or Is That Jeter?)

The caption for this would be:

Sheff: So, I've seen the T-Shirt and is it true that A-Rod only sucks but you swallow?
Derek: I wanna kish you.

Yes, you may have 26 World Championships but you are the owners of the biggest choke of all time. Nice job with the Devil Rays, by the way. Bwahahahahahaa.


Wednesday, June 22, 2005

I Ain't As Good As I Once Was

That's just the cold, hard truth. I still throw a few back, talk a little smack. When I'm feeling bulletproof.

Ok, thanks to Toby Keith to writing my new anthem. Yes, this suits me to a tee. I'm nowhere near what I was in my 20's physically, mentally or emotionally.

Case in point, I remember being 23 and playing in a softball tournament in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The tournament started on a Friday night. I believe our first game was at 9:00 p.m. and it was still 96° with 90% humidity out. We played that game, 4 on Saturday in 97° weather and 3 on Sunday in the same conditions. I don't remember being tired for the 12-hour drive home. As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember getting home around 2:00 a.m. Sunday night and getting up at 6:00 a.m. and going to work on Monday. Then I had a game Monday night. If I ever did that now, I'd need a minimum of a month to recover.

The thing that's frustrating to me is the fact that I can be as good as I ever was, but only for short periods of time. I wish I could put my finger on what happens to trigger these periods of short-lived youthfulness. I mean, in order for me to perform at my former youthful level, does the moon have to be held in Venus or some shit like that? Is it the exact combination of Advil, Neurontin and Vicodin? Maybe it's chasing quaaludes with beer. I'm not quite certain, but I'd be willing to sell one of my testicles to find out (hey, it's not like I use them anyhow).

Drinking like I did in my youth is a thing of the past too. I used to be able to drink enough alcohol to incapacitate an obese hippo and still go to work on 3 hours of sleep the next day. Now, if I drink enough to make a kitten slightly tipsy, I need a minimum of a day to recover. Note to you PETA freaks out there, I have never gotten either a hippo or a kitten drunk. Well, that's not entirely true. But the kitten thing was purely an accident. Let's just say I mixed up my "beer" hand with my "water" hand and leave it at that.

It's just not fair for life to throw this crap in your backseat. There should be some kind of warning for those of us that are getting older. Yes, I have gray hairs and no, I didn't consider that fair warning.

Personally, I'm waiting for the medical industry to come up with a pill to halt or even reverse the aging process. Hell, if they can invent a pill that gives a 95 year old man rock hard wood for 3 straight days, they should be able to invent something that enables me to run around like a teenager for 5 hours at a time, don't you think?


Thursday, June 16, 2005

People That Need To Be Punched In The Face

Vicki made the comment to me that I want to punch everyone in the face. This is not true. To show you this is not true, I have compiled a list of people that I would like to clock in the grill.

1. Anyone who goes food shopping, pays with a check, and doesn't start filling in any part of the check until the whole bill is tallied up. You knew damned well where you were shopping, what store you're in, what day it is and how to sign your could've easily filled at least THOSE facts in while the cashier was ringing up your $200 grocery tab!

2. Senior citizens who insist on driving as though EVERY day is a good day for a "Sunday drive." For the love of God, drive the damned speed limit and stop hitting your brakes as you APPROACH a light or flea market or yard sale or VFW lodge!

3. Senior citizens who feel that their age or veteran status somehow makes them exempt from traffic regulations, especially in parking lots.

4. Jackasses that can't manage to use a cell phone while driving. I'm coming home last night and in the center lane of a very busy street the dickhead in front of me is going 30 mph while yakking away on his phone. Dude needed to be jacked up.

5. The lady in starbucks that is always in front of you and can't make up her mind. Lady, it's 6:30 a.m. and you're making me late for work, get a frickin' cup of coffee or get the hell out of the way.

6. Anyone driving on a HIGHWAY that insists on driving no faster than the the maximum limit in the fast lane, yet doesn't get out of the way of the cars that wish to go faster. I'd love to dot their eye.

7. Anyone who actually still pays for and/or still wants to watch Mike Tyson fight.

8. Anyone who doesn't use a turn signal.

9. Pedestrians who just mosey on across the crosswalk when they see cars are waiting.

10. Every Oregon DOT planner/worker who plans/performs road work at 5pm on a Friday afternoon.

11. Assholes who think they deserve a refund after renting a movie they thought sucked. I was at a Blockbuster last week and some guy made a scene with the girl at the counter making $7/hr because he didn't enjoy "Life Aquatic". She ended up calling upon the manager to talk to the guy, and he said something like, "We can't be held responsible for your displeasure of the movie". I would have drilled him in the teeth and called it even.

12. Any bluehair/"pilot whale in a whitetrash mother of 7 disguise" who disputes the validity of their $0.25 coupon with the cashier while the line has grown to Star Wars geek proportions.

13. Parasites, otherwise known as lazy assed bums. You know the ones that get their rent paid for by the government. They get $500 worth of food stamps, money for school, etc. All they do is sit on their ass, spit out kids and smoke crack. Jab to the nose.

14. The asshole who is in such a hurry to make it to their destination 8 minutes faster. He weaves in and out of traffic, riding everyones ass all while never using a turn signal. Congrats dickweed you made it there 8 minutes faster. Overhand left to the temple, bitch.

15. Any guy wearing those prefaded jeans that cost $90 with a pink shirt and a seashell necklace. Not to mention the gallon of dried up population paste in their hair. Rabbit punch bitch.

16. People who act all friendly to you only to start talking smack the second you walk away. Hook to the ear.

17. I'd like to give a solid right hand to the bridge of the nose to Starbucks, The Coffee People and any other chain that would actually serve the dregs of a pot of coffee that has cooked down for a half hour and is now stronger than 12 molar Hydrochloric Acid. If you work there an wouldn't drink that swill for free, why in the fuck do you think I want to pay $2 for it? Jesus, you make 570 jugs of fucking coffee per day, I think you've got a pretty good idea that the last two cups taste like you put a handful of I-84 Gresham asphalt in August into a juicer and called it a beverage. How about pouring it down the drain instead of trying to pass it off to me in the drive-thru because you know I'm on my way to work and won't turn around after I taste it.

18. The Jury in the Jackson Trial

19. Dickheads who think the world is their ashtray. Kick square in the package.

20. Those people with stick figures on their rear window that represents their family.

I mean, seriously, when you see one of these:

don't you want to crush their skull with a right hook?

Or is it just me?


Tuesday, June 14, 2005

This Just In

Apparently, it's ok to teach kids to cheat.

A little background first, however. Over the weekend, my boys played in a Little League tournament. Actually, it wasn't a real tournament, it was just two games against teams they haven't played before. First game was scheduled for Friday night at 6. At 5:58, the skies opened up. At 6:02, the field was completely under water. Game canceled. Rescheduled for Sunday at 4. But there was a game to be played Saturday at 2.

We get to the field at 1:15, and the game before ours was rained out. They're all busy working to get the field in shape for the 2:00 game. They get it playable. I'm watching the other team warm up and thinking "Oh, we'll beat this team easily." They couldn't catch or throw. Our kids can do that. Well, we're the home team, so they come up to bat first. All of a sudden, they put 5 runs on us in the first inning. One of which was a kid who launched a bomb over Reese's head in Centerfield. Totally didn't see that coming at all.

Our kids were sleepwalking, so we went 1-2-3 in the bottom of the first. Next inning, same thing, they put 5 runs on us. 10-0 after 1 1/2 innings. We came back and scored 2 runs, thanks to Garrett's RBI double and Reese's RBI single.

The top of the third rolls around and they went 1-2-3. I was thinking that it was just the bottom of their lineup. However, they stopped hitting for the rest of the game. They were done. Not even 1 hit from the 2nd inning on. They were striking out or hitting easy ground balls back to the pitcher or first baseman. Incredible. It was the weirdest turn of events I'd ever seen. I've never seen a team that was so hot to start a game stop hitting so quickly in all my life.

Well, our kids rallied and made it close, but ended up losing 10-8. It was fun to watch them battle. They never gave up. We were pround of them.

So, Sunday morning rolls around and my wife said to me, "So, what did you think about the umpire throwing the other team's illegal bat out of the game yesterday?"

*blank stare*

"You mean you didn't know they were using a softball bat the first 2 innnings of the game?"

*blank stare, complete with blinking*

"Yeah, the umpire threw the bat out of the game in the bottom of the 2nd. He didn't tell you?"

To say I was flabbergasted is a gross understatement. Shocked isn't adequate either. No, the umpire didn't alert us to the fact that they were using an illegal bat. No fucking wonder they hit the shit out of the ball for 2 innings. A softball bat has a larger barrel and bigger sweet spot than a baseball bat, especially at their age.

Anywho, I decided to give that team the benefit of the doubt and decided that maybe the coach didn't know any better. When we got to the field Sunday, I bumped into the umpire and had a little chat with him about the incident.

Turns out that this "coach" has had that bat thrown out of no less than 3 games. He fucking KNOWS it's an illegal bat. He just doesn't care. I asked the umpire why he didn't inform us and he gave me some bullshit excuse that he thought our team would come back and win anyhow. Whatever. They were the host team. Can't have them embarrassed on their home turf. That's the real reason.

So far, my calls to the Mt. Hood Little League "headquarters" leaving messages to have this coach banned from coaching ever again has fallen on deaf ears. I mean, honestly, is it necessary to cheat in a 6-8 year old baseball game that doesn't mean dick? What's that teach the kids? That it's ok to cheat if you don't get in trouble? There's no repercussions for your actions? That's not the message I want our young people to get. I swear, if I ever see that coach, I'll fight him. Punch him dead in the face. Dumbass.

We won the game on Sunday 16-5. And you bet your sweet ass I personally checked ever one of the bats that their kids were using.


Friday, June 10, 2005

The Joys Of Working Downtown

So, there I was...tied up to her bed. I had motor oil smeared all over my body. She came in with a set of jumper cables in one hand and a saddle in the other.

Ok, do I have your attention? That top paragraph is all bullshit. Anyone that knows me realizes that I'd never let anyone smear motor oil on my body. Ever. Not ever. Not even if Angelina Jolie and Elisha Cuthbert were wanting to tag-team me with it. Ok, I'm getting off track here. You people are so distracting.

We have a big trial going on here and I have been placed in charge of the computer aspect (i.e. PowerPoint presentations, legal software, getting it all to the courtroom and hooked up, etc.). Well, somehow I've also been put in charge of lugging shit back and forth from here to the courtroom and vice versa. On Wednesday, I got a call from the attorney in charge telling me to come get the TV/VCR combo that I took over to the courtroom earlier in the day. I oblige.

Now, in order to do this, I have to take our huge push cart, go down the freight elevator and head off to the courthouse, which is a block and a half away. Me and the cart make our way to the crosswalk and start to cross the street. We get halfway across when the person in front of me suddenly turns around and screams "YOU'VE BEEN FOLLOWING ME ALL DAY, BACK THE FUCK OFF!!"

Now, to say I was a little taken aback is an understatement. Not scared. Not worried. Just surprised. Then I got to looking at this "guy." It was obvious there was something amiss with him. The skirt gave it away. Yes, dude was wearing a skirt (with unshaven legs), blouse top and a jean jacket. All of which had seen better days.

What do you do in that situation? I have no idea. However, I can tell you that laughing right out loud doesn't help the situation. Neither does offering to give him a ride on the push cart. He was not amused. Not even a little bit.

Now, I really didn't intend to laugh at him, but the whole absurdity of the situation was too much for my cynical mind to take. He kept yelling incoherently at me, which caused me to laugh even harder at this guy. In order to diffuse the situation (since a crowd was gathering), I offered him a ride on the cart. Well, that did the exact opposite. Now, he was threatening to kick my ass. Guess what that did. Yep. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. As I was laughing, this guy takes an aggressive, boxing-like stance and starts hiking up his skirt. Honestly, I really couldn't stop laughing. I was trying.

At that point, I thought the best thing for me to do was to continue my trek to the courthouse. As I turned to walk away, the dude yelled at me "Come back here, you pussy!" Sadly, I didn't take the bait.

I've been wondering ever since what would have happened if I had. Ah, I probably would have gotten my ass kicked by some dude in mini-skirt. Either that or I would have gotten my ass kicked by some passer-by that thought I was beating up a hairy woman.


Wednesday, June 08, 2005

He's Baaaaaaaack

Well, I guess I'm done with whatever affliction befell me on Saturday and Sunday. Played the last 2 nights and went 4-4 with a walk, sac, double, triple and 2 HRs. Handled 8 or 9 ground balls without an error. Had fun, which is the most important thing that was missing from my game.

On another note, I bought a new bat on Monday, but it hasn't arrived yet.

If this bat's as good as my current bat,

I'll be one happy camper come October when we win a national tournament.

It feels great to be me again when I step out on a ballfield. I think the weekend really served as a reminder that confidence can be fleeting. You have to work to keep it up. Wait, was that confidence or an erection? Hell, at my age, it's both.


Monday, June 06, 2005


Today, on a very special episode of The World According to JP, we focus on JP's dwindling self esteem. Where did it go? Will he ever get it back? What is that smell? Stay tuned. No, really, what IS that smell?

Of all the people that know me, I don't think anyone would ever classify me as not being confident. Actually, those that know me would call me very confident. Not over confident. Not arrogant. Not conceited. Not far from any of those, but I'm usually a very confident person. Further, if there's one place I'm more confident than anywhere, it's the softball diamond. I've never been intimidated on a ball field. As a matter of fact, in most circumstances I honestly believe that I'm the best player on the field. However, my streak of confidence was shattered this weekend, and I can't put my finger on why that is.

The tournament started out like it always does. We won the first two games pretty handily and I was doing my thing, both offensively and defensively. No errors, a couple spectacular plays and was 6-7 at the plate with 4 home runs. Maybe slightly above average for me. I was even doing my thing in the third game, until the 4th inning. Then, out of nowhere, the wheels not only fell off, but high-tailed it for the border without me.

It was a routine play. One I've made a million times. One I've made sober, drunk, asleep, eyes at half mast, while ogling half-nekkid strippers, etc. I mean a routine fucking ground ball. One that I didn't have to move for. A fucking one hopper that I gloved flawlessly and promptly threw about 10' wide of first base. Not even close. Ok, now I've made errors before. As a matter of fact, I probably make one or two a tournament but never, EVER, on a ground ball like that. The next guy came up and hit me another routine ground ball, which I promptly kicked into left field. WHAT THE FUCK?!? The other team proceeded to score 8 runs that inning, taking the lead. The next inning, same thing, routine ground ball, JP picks it up and promptly fires it wide of first. Ground ball to 2nd baseman, he flips it to JP for one out, and JP promptly fires the ball 10' wide of first again. Ok, now this is 4 errors in a row. It's seriously fucking with my head. We manage to get out of the inning with minimal damage. I'm up 4th this inning. First girl walks, next guy gets a hit, next girl walks, bringing me to the plate with bases loaded and nobody out. A fly ball is all I really need in this situation, although there's no outs, so I can try to hit a line drive. Well, the first pitch is my pitch, out over the plate and about cock high. I normally absolutely t-off on that ball. I took my swing and promptly popped it up to the 3rd baseman. No runs score. We manage 1 run out of all that. Ok, now not only am I giving the other team runs left and right, but I'm not driving in any either? Confidence gone. Just like that. Pop goes the weasel.

We lost that game thanks to me. I had no more hits and managed another error in the 7th inning. We had no business losing to that team ever, they sucked. The 4th and 5th games of the day were pretty much the same. If you hit it to me, you were pretty much on base. I think I made 9 errors in a row at one point. I have never been on a field praying that the ball wasn't hit to me, until Saturday. At least we battled through and won those games. My hitting went due south as well. After starting 6-7, I went 5-11, ending up at 11-18 for Saturday. Not good. Not good at all.

Yesterday was a little better, I only made 1 error in 2 games, but my hitting was still all jacked up. I went 2-7 in the 2 games, with no HRs. They were both singles. We won the tournament, but it cost me my confidence for the time being. I tried everything, getting down on myself, remaining upbeat, cracking jokes, isolation, a quick hand job in the bathroom (ok, not really but would have considered it), and nothing worked. Nothing at all.

I have another game tonight (assuming it doesn't rain). Am I washed up at 36? Can I still play? Who the hell knows, because, at this point, it sure as shit isn't me.


Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Screwing Mom? Yes. Hurting Mom? No. This Time

I really hate to post two news stories in a row, but this is just too good to pass up.


Official: Son Mistakes Parents' Sex For Domestic Abuse Boy, 16, Charged With Assault With Deadly Weapon

HOUSTON -- A 16-year-old boy was charged with shooting his father in their southwest Harris County home Friday, Local 2 reported. The shooting was originally reported as a case of domestic abuse, but deputies said the boy apparently witnessed a sexual act between his parents and thought the father was abusing the mother.

Sheriff's deputies charged the boy with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, a first-degree felony.

Detectives told Local 2 the mother and father were engaged in consensual sex when the shooting occurred at about 3:30 a.m. inside the family's home on Mira Monte near Corta.

Investigators said the couple's 11-year-old son woke up to his mother making loud noises.

"During the course of love making, the wife was evidently being somewhat loud … loud enough to where it woke the children up," Harris County Sheriff's Department Sgt. Mike Smith told Local 2.

The boy woke his brother, who then walked into his parent's bedroom and told his father, 43-year-old Jacob Hughes, to leave his mother alone.

Officials said that is when the teen shot his father in the arm.

Detectives originally told Local 2 that the son said he fired the gun as a way of defending his mother during an argument he thought she was having with his father.

"The children interpreted the noise as their mother being in danger," Smith said. "The 11-year-old went into the room, forcibly went into the room, to protect his mother. (The child) observed his parents making love and got the 16-year-old. The 16-year-old came back in and fired the shot."

After investigating previous problems at the home, officials said there have been previous reports of abuse in the family and that father had been charged and convicted of domestic violence.

Officials said the children feared their mother was being hurt due to their father's previous convictions for abuse and that is the reason the oldest son shot his father.

Authorities said they have not determined whether the mother was screaming for help.

"That is a very important question. I can see why you are asking that. We are trying to work that out right now. We are trying to decide if it was a passionate scream or was it a cry for help," Smith said.

Hughes was transported to a hospital to be treated for his injuries. He was released late Friday morning.

Officials said the couple has been married for 20 years.


First of all, shouldn't a 16 year old kid know what sex is? Isn't the pervert gene installed into the male brain (or somewhere in the vicinity) in the womb? When I was 16, not only did I know what sex was, I couldn't get that shit out of my head. If the average teenage boy thinks about sex once every 35 seconds, I'd say I was way above average back then.

The second thing that bothers me is that the kid gave his old man a warning to cease and desist. I know you're getting your swerve on, but I think your kid holding a gun to your grill takes precedence over getting a nut. But that's just me.

Also, the dad has prior convictions for abusing the mother. Now, I can see how the kids would be a little fearful, but why didn't the mother speak up "yea or nay" like? Seriously. I mean, I know it would be hard not to notice my two boys standing in my bedroom (especially if they entered "forcibly" for God's sake)if I was in the act with their mom (or anyone else for that matter - make that ESPECIALLY anyone else). Mom and dad couldn't have been so into it that they failed to recognize the two rather large spectators in their room, could they?

I guess, all in all, daddy's lucky all he took was a slug to the arm. It could have been a lot worse. And let this be a lesson to all you loud screwers out there - if your kids wake up, stop (or at least think to lock the door and put the "do not disturb" sign on the doorknob). I don't see how you can keep pounding away with them watching anyhow.

And believe me, my two boys will know what sex is come their teenage years. I'll just do for them what my mom did for me - buy them porn. I'll be the coolest dad EVER!!


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