Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Down the river

Last night was poker night. It's one of the rare moments my blue collar upbringing gives me the upper hand at the office. The players vary but a few of us are constants. We start with a $10 buy in, then purchase chips off each other when we get short-stacked.

Last night we had Rich, one of the wealthiest of the brokers. The man brings in $3mil a year and sets a raise limit of $2 per raise. Rich doesn't understand the concept of a "poker face." When he doesn't cringe, then raises my bet, I know to fold.

Next was Jeffrey, an up and coming young broker with too much cash and an expensive housewife who's into Gucci. Jeffrey likes to "build the pot". Even when he has jack shit in his hands, he's throwing in the $2 max just to get a bigger pot that he has no chance of winning. He likes to play Black Widow because the pots build quickly.

Monty is our alcoholic. Every month he shows up with Diet Coke, then puts away most of someone else's 12 pack of Miller Lite (fuck you, jack). He hates "pussy games" with wild cards. We play dealer's choice so Monty always goes with 7-card Down the River and usually with a Low Chicago in the Hole.

Tony is another conservative player who spends too much time counting his chips and keeping tally of who's drinking his beer. I've never seen him win a hand. He prefers a game called Mexican Sweat. Monty hates it.

About 9pm the cell phones start going off as their wives begin to hunt them down. That's when the furror begins as people try to recoup their losses in one last hand. Our last game was dealt by Monty, who by this time was so drunk he was throwing in way too many chips on each round and holding when he should have been folding.

Each man got two down and one up and the betting went around. I never look at my face down cards on the first round because I know I'm staying in. The first guy checked. I threw in $1. Rich stayed in, groaning softly. Jeffrey saw my $1 and raised it to $3. A low grumbling went around for such a high bet on the first round. I had a 9 of hearts showing.

The next card was laid out. Monty got the bet with an Ace-Queen high. Drunk, he threw in $4. We made him take $2 back but by the time the bet got around to me it had been raised to $4 anyway.

I now had a 9-5 showing, both hearts. I slide my face down cards off the table and take a peek before tossing in my $4. So far, no one was dropping.

The third face up came around with lots of "uh-ohs" when Monty paired his Ace, Rich paired his King, I got a third Heart, and Tony landed a possible outside straight with a 6-7-8 showing. Jeffrey didn't have shit but that didn't stop that son of a bitch from raising and getting raised again. That round cost me $6 just to stay in.

The last face card came around. Rich was showing two pairs, Kings & tres, Monty had nothing better than the Aces, Tony landed a 4 giving him a 4-6-7-8 and possibly forcing an inside straight which is harder to hit, and Jeffrey finally got a pair of 10's. My last face up card was another 9, giving me 2-5-9-9, the lowest hand showing. I jokingly asked if this was Low Chicago. They laughed, confident they each had a pretty good chance of winning. In the hole I had an Ace and a third 9. The betting went around and I raised with a cavalier, "Fuck it, take it!" they laughed and threw in their chips, raising twice more to hit the 3max limit on raises we'd set.

Down and dirty. The final card went out, face down. I watched them peek, pretty sure Rich boated up since he didn't flinch. Tony tossed his cards all face down, obviously not hitting his straight. Monty never looked, too drunk to care. And I couldn't read Jeffrey. "Kings & tres talk, Rich, what's your bet?"

"All in."

There was a loud roar of laughter as the game suddenly got much more exciting. I pulled my cards off the table and sweat in the most recent hole card. I took a peek....nice.

"I can't let you buy the pot. I'm in," I agreed.

Monty folded. Jeffrey looked at my hand and shrugged. No big deal, he had too much fucking money anyway. "I'll keep you honest. All in."

Rich bet first so he showed his hand first. Sure enough, he boated up, Kings over tres. Jeffrey swore and dropped his cards. Trip tens, good enough to beat Rich's two pair, but not his full house. Now it was my turn. "Sorry man. Your boat won't float against 4 of kind."

I laid my four 9's on the table, scraped in my pot amidst the chaos, and paid Tony for the beer I drank. I kept half and used the other half to buy lunch for the ladies at work here, today. Not a bad night.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Sex Ed 101

"It's not the size of the ship, it's the motion of the ocean."

Yeah, but you can get a lot more people to ride a carrier than you can a canoe.

How about a little Sex Ed 101. Why the fuck not? If you had something better to do you wouldn't be here, now would you?

Lesson #1
Gravity is a motherfucker. It does not like your titties. It does not like my balls. If you make fun of mine, I will make fun of yours.

Lesson #2
Lick them. Don't bite them. I am not afraid to knock you the fuck out.

Lesson #3
A human being has a finite number of orifices. Don't waste them.

Lesson #4
Don't tell me they are real when they are not. I know a ripple when I see one.

Lesson #5
Want guests? Trim the lawn.

Lesson #6
Sex is never free. You either pay your $50, or hand her your balls on a platter along with a $9k ring. You do the math.

Lesson #7
"I said RIM, not RAM!" Now step the fuck back, you nasty motherfucker.

Lesson #8
If you have to ask, "What's that smell?" it's best you move on.

Monday, June 28, 2004

Cancer. Again.

I posted this once already, then deleted it. I'm doing this again from memory because I don't want to pull the letter out again. I'm afraid if I touch it too many times I'll void its value. Stupid, I know.

I just got a phone call from my Dad. His biopsy was positive. Rather than go into the details I'm going to post a copy of the letter I wrote to my mom last year. She died of breast cancer on May 17th, 2003. I know you're waiting for something fun and exciting, but for today I'm going to take it easy. Thanks for indulging me.


June 11, 2003

Remember the time I fell off the bridge trying to show off for the girl next door? I was so sure you were going to whip me when they carried me home I didn't care how much I was bleeding. But you cleaned me up and told me to wear long pants so Dad wouldn't know how stupid I was. I never told you but that was really cool.
And that time when I was 16 and wrecked the car and you brought me to Dad's shop to confess, I heard you call him first and tell him not to kill me. I know he yelled at you, but you took the brunt of it for me. I never thanked you for that. I always meant to.
Dad misses you. I've been showing him how to do things. Can you believe it? I bet you never thought I'd use those lessons on how to load a dishwasher or separate laundry. Em's been helping, too, but you know how Dad is. He'd rather hear it from me.
Katybug turned 1 year old last week. She's stumbling all over the place. She took 11 steps last week. She saw your photograph and said "Meemaw!" Em has been showing her the tape of your last day home so she won't forget you.
Damn I miss you. Sorry for swearing.


Me and my dad, taken on my birthday in April, 2004:

Click here for more information on Prostate Cancer.

Sunday, June 27, 2004

Cavity search? I don' think so

There's nothing like the feel of cold hard steel around your wrists. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's really bad. In my case, it was the latter.

When I was a young lad, 20-something, I found a bottle of wine in my fridge. Leftover, of course, from a date with a chic I totally struck out with. So here I am, alone, bored, hungry, and completely absent of food. Mind you, the rookie years of a broker are akin to starving. If one does not have a shoulder to lean on (or use until a more attractive one comes along) then the burden falls entirely upon our own shoulders to feed ourselves, pay the rent and the car we must have to pretend we are cool, and whatever the fuck else we think we need that comes above food on the priority list. (Generally, anything relating to pussy comes above food. Man can live off pussy alone...obviously I starved for long periods at a time...) My aunt gave me a giant can of tri-flavored popcorn and I lived off that for 3 weeks around this time.

So the smart thing to do is to have wine for dinner. Why the fuck not? I down a bottle of cheap ass merlot/sauvignon/cabernet - whatever. It's all the same in my book: Red. And then start to feel a buzz. Let me tell you something - I don't care how much tequila, beer or whiskey you put away, wine is a whole 'nother beast. It likes to kick your ass with subtlety and efficiency and proceeds to do so. Especially on a belly of stale, cheese flavored popcorn.

So now I'm inebriated on a Thursday night, hungry, but too horny to notice. My next move?


Only now I'm too fucking stupid and liquored up to think rationally so I jump into my pickup and hit the road, jack. I recall sitting at a stop light, thinking about the good lovin' I was about to get, watching the red light sway back...and forth....back....and forth. Next thing I know my truck is on the shoulder of the street, only feet from the river, with an 8 foot long cement pillar on the hood, windshield shattered, grilled fucked to hell, both front tires blown out, transaxle broken in half! What the fuck...? How did all that shit right there happen?

I run down the street, mind you nobody witnessed my slaughter of an innocent cement pole, and called my buddy from someone's house. He tells me to call a tow truck so I do. I knew he'd have the answer. He'd never let me down.

I go back to my truck which is smoking and wheezing in the night against the beautiful backdrop of the chemical plant across the river. Four minutes later a fucking cop pulls up. Lovely.

Needless to say they found reason to put me through the rigors of a sobriety test. I stood on one foot (the other heel touching the ground because surely they didn't notice) and counted to 30mississippi. Then I'm asked to say my alphabet. No problem, I've been saying that motherfucker since I was 6 years old. So, as quickly as I can, because in my drunkeness I think speed proves sobriety, I begin:


Somehow, that brilliant bitch knew to slap the cuffs onto me and throw my worthless ass into her patrol car. But is this as stupid as I get? Fuck no! I'm way dumber than that. No, no, what would be a really stupid ass move at this point? about take my hands out of the cuffs like I'm fucking David Copperfield? Oh now there's a good idea! Want to piss off a cop? Sit in the back of the patrol car, cuffed for DWI, and take your hands out of the cuffs and TAP THE MOTHERFUCKER ON THE SHOULDER AND SAY, "Excuse me? Can we leave now?" If there had been a strap-on in the car, that bitch would have ass-fucked me on the spot. She was pissed! She had me get out so she could tighten those sons of bitches so tight I had bruises the next day at work.

On the drive to the jail, an amazingly scenic route along a shit littered highway, it occurs to me my accident was in a deserted area of town and the only car to drive by was a cop car that appeared almost as if it were looking just for me. Not possible, you say! So I ask, "How did you know I was out here?"

The bitch snickered. "Your friend called us. He said your truck broke down in a bad part of town and he was worried about your safety."

That fucker!

Saturday, June 26, 2004

Operation Intercourse

Assigment: Get laid
Procedure: Seduction

First, we light candles. It's a total fucking waste of a sulphur match, but chics go for that. Then we set the stage, some moronic romantic comedy combined with liquor. Oh yes, don't forget the alcohol. We choose wine because you ladies think that is sexy. I'd rather have a Miller Lite, but not if it means loving on Big Jay myself when she gets turned off and goes home.

Next, we endure this stupid fucking movie, likely starring Ben Stiller and Jenna Elfman or some other ridiculously hot chic. We laugh when you laugh, that is our cue after all. Then we pull your feet up into our laps and massage them. This is not because we are trying to earn your thankfulness, but because this gets you in a horizontal position on our couches.

The soles of the feet are errogenous, we know this (those of us horny enough to do our homework, that is). We will even use lotion, which we keep around for...other reasons you are not a part of. We will work our way up the legs, but never above the knee. Crossing over onto the thigh puts a woman on the defense. Rule #1, never make a woman defensive. Always make the next move her idea. Otherwise, she'll high-tail her ass out of there faster than you can, "Can I lick your titty?"

We massage, stroking her toes, soles, arches, heels and calves with our warm, rough, slippery palms. Then we gently guide you with, "Want me to do your shoulders? You can leave your shirt on."

Of course she does. But does she leave her shirt on? Of course not. It doesn't come off right away, though. Patience, grasshopper. Nudity takes time. We suggest she lie across our laps, boobs to thighs. And we innocently begin with the shoulders and neck and gently work down the spine, never going below the waist. Again, that puts a woman on the defense. Rule #2, practice restraint. Dead puppies, dead puppies. Yes, we're ready. But when aren't we?

Next move? It's so obvious. Slide your fingers up her spine, slowly, up her neck, then into her hair. Errogenous zone #2, scalp. Gently massage the scalp, never touching anything obvious on her body, ie breasts, crotch, ass, so forth. You know, all the good parts. Swirl her hair all over her head, slowly. It tickles and she likes that.

When it comes to sex, she's the boss. And if you let her be, she'll rock your world. Once she goes in for the kiss, you're 90% there.

Tomorrow's lesson: What to do when the shirt comes off.

Friday, June 25, 2004

Dirty David

A dick is a dick, right? I have one, you have one. Every man out there grabs his dick several times a day. Picture the President holding his tallywacker. He does it. Tony Blair? It's in his hand six times a day (small bladder and all). Osama Bin Laden? Once a day, camel influence. George Washington palmed his organ multiple times a day. Hell, Michael Jackson never puts his away. As human beings we have admired the human form for thousands of years. Sculptors have learned through great effort how to mimic the human form until it represents a likeness that impresses all those who see it. In particular David, by Michaelangelo.

Bear with me. In 1503 a painter and part time sculptor was given a large piece of granite, riddled with cracks, that no other sculptor was willing to attempt. With it he created a massive human form, standing 14 feet tall that took 3 years to complete and he called it David. The poor condition of the marble wasn't Michaelangelo's only hindrance, but also the fact that someone had already tried to use the massive rock and a crack caused a chunk of it to fall off. Michaelangelo shifted David's weight onto his right leg to counter this flaw and managed to finish the sculpture without tragedy.

Initially, the people in his community shunned it for its massive nudity. A fig leaf was placed over his genitals, but still people threw rocks at it and the city had to eventually hide it to protect it from vandals. Finally, enough time passed and society accepted David in the nude and he was brought back out, leafless, to stand in all his glory.

600 years later my city has placed a replica of David at the entrance of a high end socialite mall. And guess what?

The city rebelled against David's massive nudity (actually, he's not THAT massive at all). Old blue-hair's from all over showed up at the city council meeting crying out, "Pornography!" The city council buckled and now we have all been shielded from David's carnal treasures by a foot long plaster fig leaf.

So much for progress.

I should have given those uptight bitches a live example of what porn really is.

Thursday, June 24, 2004


In case you've never noticed, there is a counter at the very bottom of this blog. To the left is the SiteMeter icon because I am an analytical bastard despite my right-brained tendencies, hence my occupation/blogging hobby. About a week ago I noticed I was getting hits from referrals such as, and other major search engines. One individual did a search for "porn+cheetos" and found my blog, the nasty prick. Another did a search for "right-brained adult". Imagine his surprise when he clicked on my blog and found the topic of the day was road rage and how to fuck your fellow driver. MSN lists me as #6, Yahoo as #8 and Google, those sons of bitches, list me under the 19th "o" in Gooooooooooooooooooooooooogle. Fuck Google.

Early this morning I was getting a cup of coffee when someone grazed my ass. Initially assuming Cliff was in before the crack of noon, I whipped around ready for battle only to find Ms. Thang herself with a big grin on her face. Jasmine, by the way, is 5'10" and brunette with green eyes. She also has oranges and an ass that I can't wait to be given free reign with. She said to me, "Meet me on the 3rd floor of the parking garage and I'll fuck you until your eyes roll back into your head."


Now ladies, I knew she was only trying to get a rise out of me, LITERALLY, but that shit is so not fair! I bought 100 shares of AWE for someone today when I should have sold because I was picturing her spine as I had her doubled over the guard rail shouting my name while I released many months of frustration on her ass. But not her ass, you know what I mean. Now I am one worthless sack of shit. I can't think about anything other than taking her in every location I've ever imagined. The cinema, the garage, the supply room, MY OFFICE for damn sure if it weren't for the cameras, an elevator, the men's room, on her desk, in my chair, my house, her apartment, my jacuzzi, her SUV, the kitchen, on that big ass conference room table just begging for a pair of hot ass prints.

See, you women think that shit is funny, to screw with a guy's head that way. That's okay. She'll pay for for that shit and be begging me for mercy.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Fake or real? Who cares?

Cliff went to a nudist resort recently and felt compelled to share his venture with the rest of the male brokers. By the way, ladies, that's what we men do after a trip to a nudist colony, we come back and talk about your bodies. Yes. We're pigs. So anyways (that was just for you NotCuredYet), the topic of boobs came up, because that's what brokers managing your money are really interested in, whether or not the highbeams are on and if they are at the right level. Safety first.

Cliff is all for the fake breast. He doesn't like real breasts because they disappear once he gets her on her back. I told him to do it doggystyle but he paid me no heed. Mike, on the other hand, likes them real because gravity has "loosened them up" and they are more fun to massage. Chewie, a hick from Tennessee who has been transplanted here, says he doesn't care as long as they are big enough to squeeze together for a tiddy-fuck (thank you, greg, for correcting my spelling). Danny likes them small because gravity has less effect on them but does prefer fake ones because they are rounder and don't vanish in the missionary position. Then the women began to pipe in.

Sarah says if she had the money she would definitely get hers done, just to recoup what was lost during childbirth. Eleanor, who is in her 50's, said if she had it to do over she would get them also just to make her nipples point the right direction. Didn't need the old tiddy visual, but I digress... Brenda said hers are natural and anytime the topic comes up she doesn't hesitate to brag. So based on her statement, implants are inferior to the real thing. Based on Cliff's, they are more fun if they are fake. Rhonda, our compliance bitch which I just can not stand, says it makes no difference because men can't tell the difference anyway.

I beg to differ. By the way, how the fuck is the market doing today? Oh, who gives a shit. It's your money, not mine.


Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Cheating bastard

Someone in my office distributed a survey on cheating. One of the rookies whose girlfriend is still in college and doing this for class asked us to take a minute to fill it out. I can only imagine what sort of answers Bianca gave.

The purpose of the survey was to establish the varying definitions for cheating and then to decide which sex/age/marital status cheats more often. I ran a copy before I handed it back to him. Skipping the age/gender/etc. stuff, here are the questions:

By your own definition, what do you consider cheating:
1. Flirting?
2. Cyber/phone sex?
3. Touching intimately?
4. Kissing?
5. Oral sex?
6. Sexual intercourse?
7. Have you ever cheated by your own definition?
8. Have you ever cheated by your partner's definition?
9. Have you cheated more than once?
10. Do you have a child with the person you cheated on?
11. Do you believe your partner would cheat on you?
12. Would you stay with your partner after learning he/she cheated by your definition?

Short answer
13. Why do people cheat?

After I copied these questions into the computer I folded the form in half and dropped it in Jasmine's inbox on the way to the restroom. I wrote, "Still want me?" at the top. I'll let you know what she says.

FYI, Flirting is okay in my book. Cyber/phone sex crosses that fine line and everything else is way over. I don't subscribe to Clinton's definition of "sexual relations with that woman."

Monday, June 21, 2004

Good old fashioned ass whipping

The market sucked ass today. We all have TV's in our offices and ever since they ditched satellite and got cable we've been surfing the other channels after the close. Today Sarah requested I turn it to Dr. Phil and turn it up so she could hear it from her desk. The topic was raising a materialistic child. Personally, it didn't seem like a very complicated issue to me.

I have no children, that I know of, but I had a dog once, almost twice, which qualifies in my own opinion as an expert in the child-rearing arena. Okay, so back to Dr. Phil's patients. A woman has mortgaged her home three times to pay off the credit card debt she has wracked up to keep her 17 year old Paris Hilton wannabe happy. She's bought her three cars, 50 pairs of shoes, and a different outfit for every day of the year, which is only worn once a year. Now the mother is working several jobs and going into debt and has desperately sought out the advice of Dr. Phil on how to stop this downward spiral into bankruptcy. Let Dr. Jay answer that one for you:

Tell the little bitch NO every once in a fucking while! How hard is that? Your kid is spoiled and screams that she hates you every time you tell her you won't buy her something. And you don't know what to do about that shit? I'll tell you one thing right here and now, parent or not, someone tells me she hates me because I won't buy her a Prada purse, that cow won't be getting shit from me for the rest of her life. You want to know my opinion on what's wrong with spoiled, materialistic teenagers nowadays? If not, turn away because here it comes:

Nobody is whipping their asses! Don't give me that, "I put little Timmy into timeout and sometimes that actually works." Bullshit! You drop Timbo's pants and spank that ass until its rosy red and march his blubbering rear end to his bedroom. The rule was in our house, after the whipping, you can sit on your bed and read any book you want. Period. No TV (yeah right, like I had one), no games, no phone, if you're bored then pick up the floor. Otherwise, sit down and read.

I have read more shit in my lifetime. And the books my parents gave us weren't some purple dinosaur or queer teletubbies. Hell no. I read Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Dream, The Grapes of Wrath, Bridge to Teribithia, Raisin in the Sun, The Yellow Wallpaper, Kilimanjaro, Brave New World. Shit no kid wanted to read. That was worse than the ass whipping at the time.

My old man was a fucking genius.

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Drop the uterus!

Blinkers are for pussies. You don't warn somebody before you fuck up their view. You take that spot. That's how it works in this city. We expect it, we respect it. Out-of-towners aren't prepared for it until they experience it. If we see a blinker light up we gun it to close off the space so the naive motherfucker who gave us forewarning will have to pull in behind us instead. It's not rude. It's hometown sport.

Posted speed limits? The minimum. Your average driver will usually hit 20 mph or so above that. You can do 85 mph on the highway and simply blend. If you want to pass someone, you better have the sack to hit 100 or take your place behind the SUV who just cut you off.

Ahh, the SUV. There's another hometown trait. We don't have hills. Our city doesn't stack to the clouds like NYC or Chicago, it squishes out for miles and miles of flat ass terrain. So what does every rich oil housewife out there drive? That's right. A $60k SUV. A motherfucking Hummer getting 8 miles to the gallon and equipped with 4 wheel drive and a set of Mickey T's that would spit on Everest.

Own a gun? Bring that son of a bitch along! There's no better place for a weapon than on the interstate. I have witnessed a man driving down the highway, 70 mph, head sticking out the driver side window, steering with his right hand and firing off a glock with his left hand. Happy New Year! Now you got 6 seconds to get the fuck out of the way before that bullet comes back down and kills your ass because you put your damn blinker on right before it happened and he sped up and made you take your rightful place behind him.

When I drive to other cities I can't help but feel bewildered. It's like shooting ducks in a barrel. There's no sense of accomplishment when you try to cut someone off and they politely change lanes to let you have it. What, no fight? Pussy. There is far too much testosterone on the roads here and hot damn I love it. Things don't get fucked up until some timid bitch in a Yukon comes to a complete stop on the acceleration ramp, left blinker just a ticking, calmly waiting for the motherfucking Red Sea to part for her pampered ass and let her in. Bitch, go! If I get rear-ended while parked behind you on this ramp I will not hesitate to get out and kick your ever loving ass! Now let go of your uterus and hit the damn gas!

Road rage. Love it. Some people pay amusement parks to give them the kind of ride I get every day on the drive.

On a gentler note, it's time to lay off Jazz for awhile. We've become a bit more acquainted since my last post and out of respect for her privacy I have to stop now, else something more will happen and everyone will know exactly the moment because I'll suddenly stop sharing.

Dinner with a side of chickenshit

Jasmine's ass was on my island. I'll never place another pile of crap in the spot again. I had the foresight to call in advance for the theater tickets and they were sold out. No problem, I had a backup plan. I cooked her dinner here at my house.

Oh, I know, I rock. But the night isn't through yet.

So back to Jazz's ass, I spent 40 minutes trying to look like I'd just thrown on the nearest Old Navy threads. She called from the liquor store down the street and asked what kind of wine I wanted. I don't drink that shit. I told her the kind called scotch. No use pretending to be something I'm not. And there are so many things that I am not why add more to the list?

Focus! Jazz's ass! Anyway, she showed up with a bottle of Laguvalin and just looked amazing. She smelled amazing. Oh shit, man did I ever want to know if the sense of taste would follow the others. She sat on the kitchen island while I put the dinner together and kept sampling the ingredients and licking her fingers. With Jasmine, though, I don't think she's playing games. She's very blunt and makes direct eye contact without blinking. That's my impression at least. Maybe she's playing me right now.

As a general rule, I have no general rules. I won't lie, there's no invisible barrier I won't cross on a first date. But the more I like a girl for her personality the less likely I am to push for anything physical early on. Usually because she's some ugly bitch my friends forced me to go out with.

I made one move on her all night, and that was while she was sitting on my island. I stepped up between her legs and grabbed her by the belt loops of her jeans to slide her forward. Oh damn she smelled great and she was smiling, looking dead at me with those green eyes of hers. I leaned in so close I felt her nose touch my cheek and then I fucking stepped back!

I stepped back without kissing her! What the fuck is wrong with me? Why did I do that? Dammit, I had her. I was there, right there. Between her thighs, my hands on her hips, her crotch against my belly and I fucking stepped back! She laughed and jumped down but that was that, like it never happened. The rest of the night was very casual and relaxed but I never got that close again. Even when she left, I was sitting on the floor and she walked back in from the bathroom, bent and kissed the top of my head like I was a damn dog or something, and said she'd call me.

Did I blow it? I think I blew it. She thinks I'm gay, doesn't she?

Friday, June 18, 2004

Stupid is as stupid does

Stupid comes in all shapes and sizes. When I drove past the synagogue I could see a white car flipped upside down like a turtle on its back. Around it stood 5 rail thin teenage boys in the rain wearing baggy shorts and wet, clingy shirts staring at it like it was going to take a breath and say, "You got me!" and flip back over. Somehow, the Einstein of the bunch found a way to combine a flat, wet parking lot and the phenomena of hydroplaning to produce the inverted spectacle we were all being treated to. But what he failed to factor into the equation was the ass whipping his daddy was going to give him once the results of this little scientific experiment were disclosed. So here they stood, 5 hairless boys whose balls hadn't even dropped yet, scratching their chests and praying for a miracle. Here's how it played out:

Jay: Anybody hurt?
Group: No.
Jay: How long you been out here in the rain staring at that car?
Driver: 'Bout an hour.
Jay: Have you called for help?
Driver: No, we figured we might just roll it back over.
(pause, as i pretend to believe they're not morons)
Jay: So what are you waiting for?
Driver: It's too heavy.
Jay: What is this, a Neon?
Driver: Yeah, it's my mom's.
Jay: So what are you going to do?
Driver: The synagogue is right there. We were kinda hoping for a miracle from God before my dad finds out.
Jay: Are you Jewish?
Group: Nah.

At which point I wanted to say, "Jesus H. Christ, call a fucking tow truck you idiots!" In the end, I wound up with 5 hairless teenagers, a big tow truck operator named Eugene, and another sucker who just happened to be driving by rolling a Dodge Neon back onto all fours in a damn thunderstorm. I should have beat the kid's ass myself.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Landscaping the genitalia

If you're flopping your tiddies out in the corporate breakroom, don't get pissed off when I screech to a stop and take three steps backwards to get a second glance. That's why God gave me eyes, to look at tiddies in the breakroom. I don't want to hear that "respect in the workplace" bullshit. If it's that sacred to you, flop them out in the supply room or the little conference room only rookies like The Dave ever use. Ladies, you don't see me standing in the breakroom with my johnson in my hand, do you? I don't use my pecker to press the buttons on the microwave or turn the faucet off and on. I can. But I don't.

I don't know what the fuck was going on in there, but the hipocrisy hit me like a...well like a pair of 52 year old tiddies in the face. Cut that shit out! We know you're old, we know you sag, we know this stuff. That's why we avoid you, but when you throw them out there just the motion of them plummeting to your waistline is enough to catch any man's eye and like a bloody ass train wreck there's just no looking away. I don't care what the reason was, there's no excuse to scar a man's retinas that way. I could never get away with that shit. "Hey Cliff, is this a pimple on my dick?"

And to add insult to optical injury, the bitch complained to management that I oggled her! Fortunately, our BM is a prick and told her to go fuck herself in his own politically correct way. What do you think he would have done had the tables been reversed? That's right! I would have been arrested for sexually harrassing her in the privacy of the office breakroom and then the my new boyfriend, Big Bubba, would ravage my carnal treasures in the group shower. My ass is clenched just thinking about it.

That brings up another topic.... Perhaps another night.

By the way, I've been smoothly treating various assistants to lunch this week. Tomorrow is Jasmine's turn. I think I'll trim the garden just in case she gets wild on me and wants more than a salad. Take that as a lesson to all of you gents, don't make your woman pause to spit out a hair. It really throws off the rhythm.

Yeah. Still dreaming.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Big Jay goes with me

Apparently I have sprout ovaries. There is no other explanation for why I am sitting here on my sometimes-porn night watching Crossing Jordan on A&E. A rerun, at that. Something the rest of America, or those willing to sacrifice a precious hour of their time, has already seen. I think the medical examiner, Jordan, is hot. Hopefully that redeems my manhood. If not I'll pat myself and pretend it's porn.

The worst part is how I got involved watching it. I turned it on just as a transvestite with prostate cancer asked the medical examiner to remove his willy for him post-mortem. That way he could complete his transition from male to female. In case anyone cares, I don't give a damn what the circumstances are, Big Jay goes down with me. If I drown, Big Jay drowns. If I fall off a cliff, unless Big Jay can grab hold of the mountain on our way down he comes with me. If I get burned, good heavens please spare him, but if we must go down in flames, we'll do it together. If a snake eats me, well let's just hope the son of a bitch chokes midway down... In which case, Big Jay just might survive me.

In the end, the ME cut off the wanker. Maybe he put it in a jar for the his/her kids to admire when they're grown. Now that I think about it, perhaps I should have mine bronzed. Surely Ripley's would want to make a wax mold of it at the least to display in their museum.

Sorry, it was a slow day and you're paying the price. I'll keep my johnson stories to a minimum.

Help me, Haloscan

Sorry to waste a post on this, but it's important to me: I've noticed my comments section doesn't automatically have a link for your homepages. I want that link there. For 1) because I want to be able to read your blogs when you've had the courtesy to comment on mine, and for 2) I want to leave nasty comments on your blog when you've had the courtesy to do the same on mine. I would also like for everyone else to be able to read other's blogs and that homepage link is important.

Am I using the wrong template? Someone please guide me in my simplemindedness. I'd ask The Dave, but I don't want him to know he's smarter than I am.

Little fucker lied to me

This morning I awoke to the smell of tartar and ass, or what the civilized might call "dog breath." Squat was parked beside my bed, staring at me. I knew it before I looked, I could feel him boring holes through my eyelids. The panting and foul breath didn't help to conceal him either. Not even my alarm clock was awake yet, it was just too damn early to go for a walk.

"Where is your mother?"

He licked his chops and sneezed in that little, hairy dog way of his, projecting his breath I'd swear straight into my nostrils. I grabbed the eye drops from my nightstand and threw them out the door. "Fetch!" Squat glanced over his left shoulder but he was not amused. Nor was he giving up his quest for whatever the fuck little, hairy dogs quest for at 5 am.

I ended up letting him outside before he soaked my carpet. I don't even own a vacuum cleaner, a shampooer is certainly never going to happen. Squat speaks English, which I find damn impressive. He even cusses which impresses me more. After just a few days he's learned the meaning of, "Go shit in their yard, not mine." I'll probably get a letter from the HOA this week.

So anyway, Squat sits calmly while I shower, watching me through the glass. I think he's sizing me up. That's ok. I have thumbs. I win. Afterwards he follows me from room to room to the point that I find myself being more efficient so as to avoid excessive backtracking. Whenever I leave the house, Squat knows its coming and he curls up on a pillow I've thrown by the front door for him. He'll do his little 360, then drop his chin onto his paws and half a head of hair will rise with his eyebrows as he looks at me. I had decided to buy him a dog bed on the way home. But that was before I drove past the firehouse on my way to work.

As you'll recall, I found Squat near the firehouse, walking across the front lawn into a neighbor's yard. Posted there on the stop sign was a photo of him with the words Lost Dog above it. Turns out Squat's name is Freeway and he is a Shi-Tzu. Guess that's why he understood the word "shit."

So I turned around and gave the number a call while I headed back to my house. The woman who answered practically started crying, said he disappeared last Thursday. Coincidentally, that is the night I found him.

I walked in my front door and Squat's head shot up, not trusting whether I was home to stay or not. I said to him, "Freeway?" He jumped to his feet and his tail started wagging. "You little son of a bitch, you had a home all along." He barked, manipulative bastard.

The woman showed up, maybe 12.5 seconds later. I carried little Mr. Free Ride Freeway to the door and when I opened it I felt his heart nearly explode while he whipped the shit out of me with his tail. She took him and he rubbed that foul tongue all over her face. (By the way, nita, I think she definitely french's her dog.) She asked me where I found him, but I was struggling with my wounded pride at seeing how quickly I was forgotten and I couldn't recall the name of the street. She said, "I'll just tell you where we live. We live next door to the firehouse."

At that moment, I swear to you, Squat turned and looked at me. And I knew damn well why. Son of bitch. He wasn't trucking it for the busy intersection when I found him, he was trying to run home. I dognapped the little motherfucker right out of his front yard.

So much for my noble rescue.

(Goodnight, Squat.)

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Lily white ass

In high school my best friend and I were known as "The J's," Jason & Jay. We had the same interests, same background and both loved sports. I preferred golf, but got lucky on occasion in baseball and would knock one out of the park. He preferred baseball, but saw his share of eagles. We were attached at the hip as kids, loyal to a fault. I would have gladly gone to jail for him and vice versa and nearly did.

Graduation night our buddies dared me to streak through the Walmart. We all knew a cop sat outside the Walmart after hours. I didn't want to look like a puss and Jason knew it. He volunteered to do it with me so together we stripped down, hid in the back of a pick up while our buddies pulled up to the front door, then we jumped out and dashed into the store. With our johnsons wagging in the wind, we made a dash for sporting goods, cut through electronics, ran past women's clothing and right by customer service. Our escape vehicle was waiting outside and we barely made it into the bed before we went squealing out of there, rubber all over the pavement, a sea of open jaws and one pissed cop in our wake.

But somehow, things happened as they always do, and Jason and I lost touch. He'd graduated at the top of his class and won a full scholarship to college. My blue collar dad did what he could to help with my tuition back home. Jason was seeing the world while I was struggling to find my way. We spoke on the phone, but both being college kids it wasn't reasonable to run up the phone bill and email wasn't an option just yet. Eventually, we lost touch.

I heard he graduated Cum Laude again, no surprise. After that, I kept in touch with him simply by watching baseball. The San Francisco Giants picked him up in the 1993 draft. I later learned that he married the prom queen from a couple of years below us and she gladly spent her days following him around from city to city. In 2000 he was traded to the Minnesota Twins. We ran into each other back home at my high school reunion and he was starting to grow restless with the road. They wanted kids and a bus was no place to raise one.

Life kicked into high gear for me at that time, busy scratching my ass and all, and once again I lost touch with Jason. Someone told me a few months back that he retired from the Twins and baseball all together in 2003 and settled down just a few blocks from where I live. He and his wife had a son the year he left the Twins and now he coaches ball for little league and donates his time and image to various children's charities.

This aftertoon I made a run to the grocery store for water, beer, bananas and nuts, the true staples of every bachelor. As I was standing in the checkout line, discreetly reading the article on J Lo's wedding to that Anthony guy and looking for a pic of her ass, I heard someone say, "Jay?"


In a burst of laughter and shouting over one another we hugged and hugged again, both thrilled to see each other. He looked the same, a little heavier which is good. He's bulked up now, little punk bitch. He had his kid with him, Mini-Me. I told him I'd been following his career until a few years ago. He said he loved the game, but loved being retired too because the memories were just as good. I asked him what his best memory was.

He said, "Shit, man, I don't need ball for that. Best memory ever: Your lilly white ass two feet in front of me as we ran butt-ass naked through the Walmart!"

That's true friendship, right there, I don't care who you are.

Saturday, June 12, 2004

Less than handy

"If you build it, he will come." Best damn man-movie of all time. I remember watching it in the theaters. Something about that doctor stepping out of the field of dreams to save that girl and give up on baseball forever, every man in the theater was shifting uncomfortably and clearing his throat. At one time or another we've all given up a dream and I think that's why that scene hits us all so hard.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a mechanic like my old man. He could fix anything. From the time I was old enough to understand Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey I tinkered with shit, grease on my face, oil on my jeans, chalk on my elbows. I disassembled my sister's alarm clock. Didn't know to unplug the motherfucker first and nearly blew my nuts off when it zapped the shit out of me. My old man was a mechanic, not an electrician. I was winging it.

I had a Camaro when I was a 16. Bought it used and somewhat crippled. I was confident I could make it like new. When I brought it home my dad stood up from under the hood of his pick up, tossed a greasy rag over his shoulder, and watched it sputter up the driveway, rumbling like a 747. My head must have been three feet in diameter, engorged with pride, when I got out of the car. My old man squinted at it, his hands on his hips, and said to me, "Boy, you held your ankles on that one."

He was right. I got screwed. No mechanic in the world could have saved that thing. And I was certainly no mechanic. My mom made me park it in the street because of the oil leak I couldn't seem to fix. The tach didn't work below 30 mph so I fixed it...then it quit completely. It only took two engine fires for me to learn to keep a fire extinguisher under the seat. The transmission cracked, spilling oil anytime I parked at an angle. I patched that with caulk. Not the smartest idea I've ever had. I had a lose screw in the driver's side door that rattled whenever I'd shut it. No problem. I took that bastard apart and lo and behold I found the screw. Then I couldn't get the door back together so from that point forward I just had the open metal frame hugging my left hip. I made the best of it though, that's where I stored a blanket so when I hooked up with the honeys we could go parking at the lake. That was probably the smartest thing I ever did with that car since I used the blanket three put out electrical fires in the dash.

After two years my dad said to me, "Boy, have you considered college?"

That's when I became a broker.

Friday, June 11, 2004


The market is closed today in honor of Reagan. I didn't even bother going into work. Sarah has my cell, she puts my calls through when she deems them necessary.

Last night on the way home I drove past the firehouse and saw a black & white dog walking across the lawn. I slowed down and watched him wandering by into the neighbor's lawn. He was three houses from a very busy intersection and a main thruway. I hit my hazards and got out to check his collar. No tags. Just perfect. I spun him around, turning his ass away from the traffic and sent him on his way. By the time I got back in my car he was dead center in the middle of the road, trucking it to the intersection with Kevorkian determination to end it all.

I have no pets. I like it that way. Nobody to feel guilty about because I'm a pig and don't have time to have time. Or something like that. But I damn well couldn't let the little bastard commit suicide that way. "Dammit! Get your ass over here!" He stopped, looked over his shoulder, straddling the yellow stripe, and blinked. He's a little thing with a lot of hair. When he blinks half a head of hair moves with the motion.


My agenda for the day consisted of washing/waxing my car, studying the Buy list my firm put out for stocks, and playing golf with a friend. Instead, I spent it cutting the burrs out of Dog's ass and face hair, bathing the stinky son of a bitch, dropping $40 at Petsmart for the supplies to do it all with, and right now I'm getting the toe-licking of a life time. And how much money have I made today?


Squat doesn't pay the mortgage. Squat doesn't pay my car note. Actually, "Squat" doesn't appear to do anything but lick his nuts and give me the googly eyes. Even after a bath he stinks to high heaven. I de-flea'ed him like the 17 year old at Petsmart told me to do and gave him a milk bone for his breath. So far, it hasn't helped.

I need to make some FOUND! signs to post around the 'hood or this little bastard might never leave. Why is he staring at me like that?

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Cheetos and porn

Last night I meditated while watching a bad porn and eating cheetos. This is my usual Wednesday night. Also my Thursday and Tuesday sometimes, but only on if I'm bored. But it occured to me last night that I've lost the inspiration I once found in watching porn. Rather than getting off to it, I analyze it. Would a woman really bathe outdoors with her eyes closed, humping the water jets with a big smile and say to the first rustling sound to come along, "Jimmy, is that you? I'm so horny, Jimmy. Come lick my coochie." And then Billy, who's pretending to be Jimmy only because there is a naked, wet, DDD cup writhing before him begging to be ravaged, takes his pleasure with the erotic, eyes-closed, vixen. Ten years ago I would have sworn to you that was possible. If I could just get into the right parties I'd discover a whole world of horny, hot women writhing in the sun with their eyes closed mistaking me for their hung boyfriends and begging me to show them the world. I, of course, not only would deliver, but I'd leave them, 17 seconds later, panting for more.

Now I watch porn and the pimple on the blonde's ass creeps me out so much I have to look away. Makeup! Can we get someone over here from makeup to touch up this woman's ass, please?

So from here I began to ponder sexual attraction from the start. I believe men are obsessed with protruding body parts. Initially, it's our own bodies we are obsessed with. Any man out there who tries to tell you he doesn't cup his genitals periodically during the day, just to make sure they didn't fall off after he took a shit, is a damn liar. Once we're adults we don't play with them the same, but we're still obsessed with them. As a kid I used to grab mine by the head and stretch it out just to see how far it would stretch before it became uncomfortable. Then I'd snap it back and rotate my hips to watch it swing around. "Wee!" As a teenager I did that to make it longer. I was sure if I tugged on it enough I could stretch it and they'd call me Dirk Diggler. Okay, that was last year, but I've grown since then.

Our johnsons are so special to us we name them. It's like going to a party with another person. "Come on, Big Jay, let's get you hooked up tonight."

That protrusion factor explains our obsession with breasts, A.K.A. tits, tiddies, knockers, hooters, melons, breasticles, rack, the girls, the twins, puppies, chi chis, jugs, the jiggly ones. I can't tell you how satisfying it is to grab a tit in each hand and just shove my face between them and go, "brrbrrbrrbrr!" Ever had one of those stress balls filled with goo? That's how I think of tiddies. I want to just methodically squeeze and massage them while chanting, "Ahmmmmmm, ahmmmmmm."

I honestly believe Buddhists are two tiddies away from finding enlightenment.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Eat the rich

What a fucking drama. I have one client who set up an UTMA account for her children years ago. This is an account that transfers ownership to the minor it was established for at the age of 21 (in my state). Then she proceeded to pack it year after year because of the tax loophole. I warned her it would come back to bite her, but what the fuck, I'm just her advisor. Now her kids have reached the age of maturity and the money is ALL THEIRS. Twin boys, 21, away at college, just made some bank. She's desperate to keep the money out of their hands, but dammit, how many times have I told her not to use an UTMA for college money?

I don't feel sorry for her. Problem is, her accounts are several million. If I piss her off she'll leave me and there goes about $9k per year of my paycheck. So what do I do? Lie to her.

"Mrs. Moron, I understand completely where you're coming from. I want to do everything I can to make you happy." So now I'm spending my valuable time sitting around trying to figure out how to preserve a quarter million dollars PER BOY to keep her happy. In the end, Sarah, did I mention she's phenomenol in this business?, suggested converting the accounts to joint accounts rather than individual so that Mrs. Moron can make her sons THINK she still has partial control over them. Of course, she does not, but if you're mom gave you a quarter mil and told you she'd take it all away if you went mad with it wouldn't you believe her? They're college students, what the hell do they know about the law?

On a good note - I brought in a $2 million dollar account from Merrill. Sorry broker dude, he liked me better. Converted it to a managed account with PCM and next month I'll line my pockets with the fruits of my labor.

I haven't been laid in months. Not that you care, but damn I'm sick of it. Ladies - you're soft, warm, smell nice, and have all the right pockets for me to put things in. Damn you.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Don't trust a broker. We're tainted

Our weekly sales meeting was yesterday. Fifteen minutes after the close, just like always. Yesterday's topic was a new closed-end fund coming out by Calamos. Calamos is a great company in my opinion, but I really hate the manager forcing it down our throats because he gets a bigger bonus based on our sales. I think that's bullshit. Fuck the client's needs. Give me my damn check.

Last year, managed accounts were all the rage. You see, upper management, I'm talking about UPPER, dudes so high up some day I hope to see the soles of their shoes, well they decide how much of a bonus each branch manager will get based on the total number of sales in his branch. I don't care how prestigious your investment firm is, this is a business and those guys are here to collect your money. So now the BM (it's such an appropriate acronym) has his quota and he starts pushing the advisors. "Come on, guys. This isn't Schwab. We don't do day trading. We want our clients in managed accounts. I want to see each of you open up 5 new managed accounts this month or you're a fucking loser and I'll fire your asses. Let's move, folks!"

Forty men drag their asses out of the conference room, convince their clients the best thing for them is to convert their commission accounts to managed accounts regardless of trading patterns, and get their monthly pat on the back. Next month, everyone needs an IPO! (Initial Public Offering - the first time a company offers shares of either a stock or mutual fund.) Take note, when your advisor calls you with something that just came out that is perfect for you - just remember he's only doing it because his manager is trying to collect that bonus and your brokers's ass is on the line. A true advisor will call you for no reason, just to be sure nothing dramatic has changed in your financial status.

So far I've been under the radar. The BM is a bastard. He tells people they suck because to him, that's motivating. One of these days I'll go off on him. You know, when I don't need a job anymore.

Mike isn't here today. I'm wondering if the DEA picked him up. I bet Sarah would know.

Monday, June 07, 2004

A broker in my office just made the biggest fucking error I've ever seen in my life! See, when you get a confirmation slip that your account has been liquidated and lists what you got for everything you sold, that means it's all gone. So, realizing the mistake, you call your broker and say "Hey, man, you must have messed up. Put it back the way it was." Then 3 business days later everything is fine and returned and your cost basis info is all back. Here's how that magic happens:

Client sends in a request to liquidate his IRA and roll it into his son's 529 (this is an after-tax a/c used for college). You write his account number on the top, because as usual your client failed to do so. Most clients don't even know their account numbers anyway. You give it to your assistant and tell her to liquidate. She eyes it and asks you if you're sure. You say yes. She asks if the client is aware of the penalties and back-end sales charges (these are commissions tacked onto the sale of B class mutual fund shares sold before they "mature"). You say yes. She tells you that doesn't make sense for a man to liquidate his entire IRA and put it into his 10 year old son's college account. You tell her to shutup and do it. Meddlesome bitch is always second-guessing you.

Your assistant sells off everything your client has been accumulating for the last 18 years and waits until settlement date to move it into his son's 529. But on the date of move, the bitch again second guesses you and calls the client directly to confirm he understands he's paying a 10% penalty for the premature distribution for his IRA, income tax as well as capital gains tax on the entire balance, plus the back-end sales charges for selling B shares before they matured into A shares. The client, horrified, says he told his broker "No such thing!" Your assistant, fully aware that you are an idiot to begin with, then transfers the client directly to you for the ass chewing of a lifetime.

Your mistake? Though your client failed to distinguish between his IRA's, he MEANT for you to liquidate the $700 after-tax ROTH account that was sitting in cash and suffers no penalties or taxes when taken out. You, on the other hand, grabbed his monstrous Traditional IRA and demanded your nincumpoop assistant liquidate the entire thing without first confirming which IRA your client was referring to.

So now what do you do? Buy it all back in the house error account. Your branch, at it's own expense, buys back everything it sold, then puts it back into the client's account and your assistant goes back and enters the original purchase information so the cash and equity value are exactly as they should be (to the finite penny), after spending several hours gathering it all since some of it was transferred in from another firm. But since the market has gone for a run since you sold it, the prices are higher and your branch had to pay an average of $3 more PER SHARE for everything that was sold. We can't charge the client for this, it wasn't the client's mistake. So who do we charge?

That's right.

For the next 4 months, (brokers are only paid once a month) that poor arrogant bastard will see a $4,200 DEBIT taken out of his paycheck. That sorry motherfucker won't get paid again until October of this year. Hope he's loving that new house he bought for his unemployed housewife last month and all of her Louis Vuitton purses.

Do you feel sorry for him?

Me, neither.

Sarah migh gossip non-stop, but on a professional level that lady keeps my business in order and I know it. David is too stupid to appreciate his assistant that way.

Sunday, June 06, 2004


I'm tired. My sister came over today with her 2 year old. Adorable kid, but OH MY GOD! Why can't she sit still for just 5 minutes? "I want Barney. I want Barney. I want Barney." Not in a whiney voice, but in a repetitive, freshly informative way so that each time she said it it was like the first time. I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog's Day. We tried to go to the Saltgrass, a nice steakhouse. After 10 minutes of constantly grabbing my neice by the seat of her pants and pulling her back before she went head first over the top of the booth seat we finally gave up and had the waitress box our steaks to go.

Last night was cool. It began with a shot of tequila. Afterwards I glanced at Jasmine. She was laughing with Chris, the new office stud who just hired in straight out of college. Let him enjoy the night. This business will chew him up and spit him out. Oddly, that thought made me feel better about seeing them laugh together. Am I obsessed?

No, but I'll cop to a crush. Secretly, that is.

My neice just giggled. Man. Is it possible I've already forgotten what a pain in the ass she was all day today?

She has her mom's blue eyes.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Another notch in the belt

Tonight is the quarterly office party at the local watering hole. The tap will run for hours before our branch manager will realize we've once again taken advantage of him. He deserves it. None of us can stand him. He's never been a broker in his life, yet he proceeds to tell us how to run our businesses. Besides the fact that he's a jerk, his good qualities include being a kiss-ass, vindictive, and narrow-minded. Only the very unlucky get to view his bad qualities. He's been banging his assistant for a year now and thinks we don't know it. Her name is Bianca and she's part of the School of Sharks.

If this party goes like the others, Bianca will show up in a skirt similar to those she wears to the office. Sarah said it's 14 inches long. Sarah doesn't like Bianca, either, but Bianca will gossip with her so once a week they go to lunch together and then I have to listen to all of the shit Sarah has learned, hence the reason I know of the affair. Mrs. Branch Manager will be there, blitzed out of her mind on vodka tonics, and Bianca will take his right in his wife's absence. Jasmine will show up wearing something so unbelievably sexy and classy at the same time that I'll pretend for the first hour I don't even see her. A few beers will vanish as Mike builds up his courage to once again ask Jasmine if she's ever swung. Cliff will excuse himself to the restroom, then come back with his head in the stratosphere and a big smile. Cliff never drinks, remember. Alcohol is bad for you.

By 10pm, Jones, which is his last name since we have 3 John's at our branch, will have slipped his business card into the waitress's pocket and offered her the world. Jones has had a run of bad luck. He found out last year that his wife has been banging her boss for a year, since right after the birth of their son. Seems to be a lot of that going around. The waitress will see the $1,000 suit and brand new H2 parked outside and think he's rolling in it and fuck him. Jones will sober up and in that good-ole-boy charm of his he'll explain that he's still in love with his ex-wife, shower, and move on to the next easy target.

I usually go business casual to these things, but I think I will just go casual this time. I wonder if Jazz will wear her hair up again.

Friday, June 04, 2004

Ring around the penis

Ahh, the sweet smell of Jasmine in the mornings. Why this woman is single, I will never know. She's got a mouth like a sailor once you get her warmed up, but it takes a while. There are only a few of us, all men, at the office that she feels comfortable enough to talk to. Can't blame her there. Just this morning my assistant, Sarah, felt compelled to inform me Jasmine appeared to have shown up to work "panty-free." Hell, my dick sprang straight up. What did she expect? She called me a pig and waddled back out to her desk, ignoring me the rest of the day.

When I returned to the office after lunch today I found Jazz reapplying her lipstick at her desk. I asked her if she was getting dolled up. She said, "Nope, just getting ready to leave a ring." Just like that, her eyes never left the little mirror she was holding. Once the shock dissipated I laughed and as usual there wasn't a damn person nearby to hear it. She's cool like that. Someday when I get married, I want my wife to be like Jazz. For now though, I don't have the balls to ask her out. But when I do, she will adore me and I'll wear her lipstick rings to work every day.

Keep dreaming, Jay.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

The dark side of gossip

Women don't work well together. Let me say that again, women do NOT work well together. Everyday there is some sort of melodrama unfolding outside my office. I often wonder what would be more detrimental to my assistant if she were abducted and gagged: being kidnapped and fearing death or not being able to gossip? It's amazing what the women here will do to bad mouth the others.

This one assistant is pretty hot and tends to keep to herself. They hate her. They think she's a bitch because she doesn't mingle with them while they dismember the daily victim, whomever that pour soul may be. They are like sharks, their bodies swerving back and forth as they swim around, eyeing her. Her name is the same as a flower, Jasmine. The others have shortened her name to "Jazz" and I regularly hear the phrase, "All that Jazz" anytime Jasmine is being discussed with disdain. This, of course, always happens behind her back.

To all the women out there, remember one thing: It's impossible to gossip alone; therefore, at least one other person will always know how catty you are.

I'll talk more on Jasmine tomorrow. She's worth hearing about.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004


The safe failed! Cliff was pissed today. He strolled in at the crack of noon, bitching and swearing about his theiving spawn. Turns out the little hoods not only figured out his combination, which was probably his birthdate knowing him, but they smoked all his dope and took all his cash and left behind a note that said "thanks, dad." And the worst part was that he couldn't even talk about it. The broker in the office adjacent to his, Michael, has been on the DEA's list of potential employees for a year. Mike has an 8 hour polygraph this Thursday, part of the job interview with the DEA. In the last one he was asked if he knew of anyone using illegal drugs. As a matter of fact, yes he does! Mike was ticked off for months after that first poly. It just made him look bad to have to disclose that he knew someone who is a regular user. Cliff is small time and even the DEA has said it isn't interested in him, but with his need to gossip and share knowledge, Cliff is an easy informant. They'll be contacting him later on.

Mike's situation is at the complete opposite end of the scale to Cliff. Mike desperately wants to clean up the world and make it a better place for him and his girls. Or at least, in respect to illegal drugs and the crime it creates. Mike is also a swinger. He and his wife go banging once a month. They like to invite at least one other person into the mix but their down with groups of couples, too. I guess the DEA doesn't ask questions about swinging on their polygraphs. When Mike and I chat online I have to use an encrypted line. His paranoia is out of the park. He's invited me to swing with them in the past. I've seen his wife. She's no prize.