Best friends

"..........I'll give ya a dragon!"

Meat for the win.....

I received a box of meat for my birthday. At first glance the enterprising humorists among you may possible be thinking, “OOOH, what’s his name?” However, the fatal flaw with this quip is two-folded; 1) I am not female and 2) the before mentioned gift was in fact a moderately sized box of various animal based edibles.

While I am surely appreciative of the spirit and intent behind the gifted reindeer, buffalo and venison sausages, teriyaki sticks, assorted jerky and bottles of mustard (apparently on long trips through the mail meat must be chaperoned by large squeezable bottles of spiced yellow mustard....WTF) i’m curious as to the actual thought process that takes place as one selects meat as a gift.

I was so confused when I opened the moderately sized cardboard box of meat that I peered nervously over my lap at my shoes half expecting to find large shiny buckles. “Whew!” Relieved to see my favorite Snoopy slippers I looked up and into Girlfriend’s beautiful and questioning eyes and asked, “Honey, do I look like a pilgrim?” She giggled and shook her head negative. Sloshing her milk and cookies.

So after opening the first moderately sized box of meat and learning that my Dearones apparently feel that a box of meat best expresses they’re feelings on the day that memorializes my entrance into life; I turned my attentions to the second package. And again, I was rewarded with a moderately sized box of meat. Girlfriend’s mascara is now smeared with tears from a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Not wanting to ruin the festive mood I venture, “Well, um.....guess we’ll be well stocked for the annual winter meat shortage.” Girlfriend desperately tried to save her milk as she fell out of her chair and began gasping for breath between fits of laughter.

Now, the interesting thing about receiving two moderately sized boxes of meat for your birthday isn’t really the meat. The real delight are the heart felt birthday cards that accompanies each coffer-o-flesh. Apparently a (complimentary?) custom mass produced generic card is included with each tasty box of meat. All the sender need do is convey the appropriate message and the lucky coffer-o-flesh recipient will find his/her birthday card tucked snugly between smoky reindeer logs and zesty buffalo sticks. Mmmm....yum.

Of course if you are lucky enough to be gifted two moderately sized boxes of meat then you also have the good fortune of receiving two (complimentary?) custom mass produced generic cards. The only problem with that is if the first card isn’t suffering from (you guessed it) severe spelling errors then the second card is sure to be full of them. Amplifying how truly impersonal the experience of receiving meat can be (glory-holes and prostitution notwithstanding).

So, on this, my twenty-ninth birthday, I would like to thank Dearones for making Girlfriend fall out of her chair and blow milk from both of her lovely nostrils. (Snotty milk and cookies are always fun.) And for showing me that after all these years you still care enough to have a complete stranger misspell my name (and yours) and send me two moderately sized boxes of meat.

Poop for peace: a Girlfriend inspired political theorem

Why does Girlfriend run screaming from the bathroom when I slip down my trousers and settle firmly on the porcelain throne? It’s a part of nature and after all, we all do it. I know guys would like to think that all those hot chickies out there don't squat and plop, but trust me guys, they do. The real secret is that sometimes it's uglier than yours.

So why does Girlfriend race out of the throne room caterwauling about nasty, smelly boys? It's not like I'm asking her to hold the camera. And I Know for a fact that my rump is large enough to form a nice tight seal so there’s no chance she can actually SEE the process. Come to think about it I don’t think I’ve ever actually SEEN the process, but i digress. Maybe it's the special FX of the process. But hey, noises and smells can’t be helped. And guys, let’s be honest....... the noises and smells are kinda funny.

Also, it doesn't take long (not like we're doing our hair). It’s a simple and relatively quick routine, most of the time.

1) Locate appropriate reading material

2) Sit

3) Evacuate

4) Flush (sometimes this may be optional)

The hardest part is usually trying to get your pants unfastened. Whoever decided pants required more than one button ought to be administered a swirly in a twice used bowl.

To answer my original query though; I think perhaps it may be just another social barricade that we as men and women need to breach. Think of what would be possible if we as a society came to the negotiating table with our knickers ‘round our ankles astride the porcelain god/goddess (there’s no room for sexism in the revolution friends) and squatted as equals on the bowl of freedom. We could use this approach in the realm of global politics as well. Imagine sharing TP with Osama and the rest of the Al Qaeda boys. It’d be hard to argue and point fingers over the vibrating roar of butt-trumpets.

Now realize that I am just a humble man simply trying to understand the intricacies of intimate lavatory movements. But if we can all appreciate the hilarity of a well executed “barking spider” than maybe a few sessions of “Poop for Peace” are in order.

My response to my gay friend's posted threat to commit suicide after being stood up.

Do yourself, your family and the rest of us a favor, end it now. No, I'm not talking about the unoriginal, self deprecating, dull narrative of your sorry life that you've so thoughtfully submitted via your tear stained keyboard. I'm referring to your existence. Yes dear friend and enjoyer of the less lubricated sex; suicide is YOUR better part of valor. Perhaps sleeping pills or a quick drop from a nearby over pass followed by a sudden stop on asphalt and a bit of rush hour traffic would be a good way to end the bleating of your inner sheep’s broken heart. I wish you no ill will or pain in this, your life's last endeavor, and I pray only that you are successful in fully achieving your own death so that we may all be sparred from any further writings of such contrite, sheepish and decidedly hang-dogged origins. May god have mercy on your moronic and inconsolable soul.

A message to America: inspired by Britney Spears, O.J. Simpson and that poor little twitt from South Carolina.

You're joking right? Do we as a culture actually waste our time thinking about things like this? I'm wondering if Americans can find the motivation to rise up out of the malaise of pop culture and actually express themselves in a semi-coherent fashion. Is this really important to our nation? Let's pull our collective head out of the oozing sphincter of the over magnified, self-inflated entertainment sphere and jump back into reality. While we constantly dribble on about half-baked and mostly fried pompous media-crats we are missing one of the most important and exciting decades in recent human history. Let's use the newspaper for more than just a ganja wrapper America. Jack into the net and surf past the media-web's entangling grasp and check out the real action! From genocidal Darfur in Africa to Venezuelan oil subsidies for Alaskan villages. History is being made. Get involved and take part. We don't want to be left holding the WTF bag do we?

An exercise in propaganda....do I have what it takes?

The United States of America is the last super-power in the world. We have by covert and overt military, economic and political action liquidated every nation that has dared face us on the field of battle. The brush fire wars that we are engaged in now are the insignificant spasms of a dying epoch. The United States of America is the strongest nation in the history of human existence. We are technologically superior, militarily superior and our abundant resources and manufacturing capabilities are coveted by every independent state on the planet. Like our fore fathers before us we must be strong in our resolve, direct in our actions and confident in our MANIFEST DESTINY.

I extend a most serious challenge to the American people: Lay down your implements of cultivation and embrace the machines of war. We will march our awesome experiment of freedom across the face of this planet. Just as the freedom of expression is our right; so too is the realization of our great nations fullest potential. We will annex, conquer, appropriate and occupy any region that does not yield to the inherent power of our flag. America, a new day has dawned. We are now the fore fathers of freedom and ascendency.

God bless us in this holy quest of purification. We will rid the globe of fear and bury deep the torch of liberty in every color of soil on every continent. And to those who would defy us I say this; the terror we shall bestow upon our enemies will be the compounded and righteous anger of a nation that is tired of being afraid. Our enemies will know fear when we march across their borders and stamp out the light of their lives. America, the blood of our enemies will fuel our war machine deep into the light of history.

The awakening of our great nation's destiny is at hand.

Girlfriend is eating my socks.........

I think Girlfirend is eating my socks. Twice a week I do the laundry. Once a month I have to replenish the ranks of my sock drawer. This is a ratio far beyond normal.

At first I thought nothing of the mysterious disappearance of my warm and much loved footsie wrappers. We all lose socks now and again. Dryer Monster certainly takes his fair share and you can bet that Dog and Cat agree on a cessation of hostilities long enough to terrorize a stray pair of rolled up socks. Like the desert bandits attacking defenseless pilgrims in the days of the crusaders I am almost certain that Dog and Cat descend upon lone, rolled socks, far from the safety of their drawer. Bent on flipping, clawing, drooling and shredding until said socks are delivered into the arms of whatever merciful deity awaits to welcome the soft fabrics of our comfy pieces of wardrobe.

Actually, just last week I boldly rescued a forgotten pilgrim from Cat’s scimitar like claws. After a game of round the couch goes Boyfriend I finally managed to latch onto my poor (and now holy) sock. I wrestled it from the clutches of the feline tormentor. The battle apparently was not over though. Cat, feeling extra frisky, rode the sock to eye level before sheathing it’s scimitars and scurrying back to it’s lair. Admittedly these minor skirmishes are inevitable. Indeed, when defending one’s kingdom one must expect battles.

However, a most peculiar thing occurred not long ago which led me to believe that the disappearances of my cherished and favorite under garment may have a much more sinister under tone. While doing the laundry, Girlfriend reached into the clean, freshly dried and still warm pile of clothes and plucked a single sock (from a pile containing a plethora of various garments). While holding the sock gently, as if it were some kind of delicate morsel, she raised it to her nose and breathed deeply. With her eyes closed, she smiled and exhaled breathily, “I love the smell of fresh laundry.” I eyed her suspiciously and continued to fold my khaki’s.

I believe her behavior in the laundry room to be a careless slip up. It is my belief that while overwhelmed by the intoxicating aroma of her favorite snack she inadvertently let slip her sinister secret. Who knows what she may be capable of? She could be in league with those savage marauders of innocent apparel, Cat and Dog. I am currently investigating any link between Dog, Cat and Girlfriend. One can not be too careful when defending the kingdom.....