Thursday, September 30, 2004

What was I thinking?

I am quietly mortified to post this photo in the background for some pretty obvious reasons. This was 8 years ago. And before you start giving me hell, I was going through a phase!! Look long and hard, folks, because I will NEVER post this shit again.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

False advertising

I've always heard they airbrush models in magazines but I never knew to what extent. Think this chic is a hottie? Click and see. And don't forget to check out the blonde, too, on this guy's webpage. Woof.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Too much time to ponder

Someone once told me the human body stops regenerating faster than it degenerates at around age 26. At that point, accelerated aging begins. It’s information like this that I don’t need complicating my life.

After back to back meetings all day long I had a bitch of a headache when I got home. I took off my tie and dress shirt and flopped myself across the bed. I stared up at the ceiling for about twenty minutes absently trying to figure out which tool they used to texture it when I realized I was fingering my own navel.

Of course, I probably wouldn’t have noticed had I not discovered a treasure of some sort. White lint. Cool. But that’s when I saw it. The bastard was growing just beneath my navel, buried in my Happy Trail.

What the fuck…?

I grabbed the insidious gray hair and yanked it. Little bastard was still rooted. I wiped my fingers on my slacks and grabbed it again. Shit. It came out but I think I felt it rip from my ass that motherfucker was rooted so deep.

I unzipped my slacks and lifted the band of my underwear up in case its comrades were within the underbrush. Big Jay, you alone down there? He stared up at me, his eye unblinking. I snapped the waistband back and headed to the vanity mirror, I being vain and all.

And there they were. Why had I not noticed them before? I turned from side to side, just in case the lack of a third dimension was playing tricks on my eyes. But sure enough, the ever so gentle bulge of pre-pubescent love handles was just beginning to overlap the waistband of my slacks.


I bounced up and down and watched them jiggle. Dammit! First a gray hair, now love handles. How are my pores? Are my pores larger? And what is that? That right there, the shadowy area, is that…hair coming out of my ears? No way. I leaned in. Do you have any idea how hard it is to see inside your own ears when you only have one mirror? I looked so much like Chucky I creeped myself out. I gave up on the ears and took a step back to look at the package known as Jay. Even my skin was looser than I remember it being. Which brought to mind, was anything else losing its grip?

I anxiously shifted Big Jay to the side and felt the familiar attachment one expects for this particular appendage. Relief washed over me. Still hanging on tight. I'm not dead yet.

Monday, September 27, 2004

One thing leads to another

My old man had a pretty rough childhood. Rougher than most, that’s for damn sure. It wasn’t obvious at birth, but after seven or eight years the physical differences became apparent. His mother tried to deny it but when a boy is mismatched in every way to his own father, folks start talking. Eventually the truth came out as the unmistakable resemblance appeared between my old man and his mother’s employer.

Not pleased that his wife had cheated or that he’d been snookered into raising another man’s child for eight years already, my grandmother’s husband gave her an ultimatum. Either he goes, or I do.

So she gave my dad away.

My dad spent the next 5 or 6 years with a spinster friend of his mother’s who coincidentally hated children. She whipped him, hard and often. She had a 2x4 piece of wood out in the shed and no part of his body was sacred to her when she was pissed.

In the mid 60’s something or other happened and my grandma and her husband parted ways. The details get fuzzy during that time as my old man doesn’t like to share much and my memory fades a bit now that mom has passed and can’t remind me of them. My dad went back home to live with his mother and half brother again for the first time since 1959. By this time he was a punk, rebellious and less than impressed with scholastic challenges.

The first time he was picked up by the cops he sat in a cell all night because his mother didn’t come home from the honky tonk until morning to find out he needed her to bail him out. The cops knew my dad and the whole town knew his background. The second time he was picked up the cop, a man named John Henry, gave my dad an option, “You either go back to the jail with me, boy, or you join the service as soon as the sun comes up.”

That next day my old man enlisted.

My grandma did her own thing, my old man’s biological father never claimed him and his so-called father washed his hands of him too many years ago to remember. But John Henry stuck around. They kept in touch over the next 30 years as family tends to do. My dad used to take John to the coffee shop every week, send him a check every month, and bring him to our family reunions every year. John has boys of his own but they don’t want to have shit to do with an old man like him. Last year they found it easier to put him in a home than to help him out from time to time.

Yesterday we went to go see John for his 87th birthday. He cried when we walked in and asked of my dad, “Boy, take me home.” Legally, my dad has no say.

It was an exhausting visit and when we headed out we remained silent for most of the four hour drive back home. After about a hundred miles my dad finally broke the silence and asked me, “Would you put me in a place like that when I’m 87?”

I shook my head. “Hell no. They’ll take you at 65.”

He smiled. “Remind me to take you out of my will, boy.”

I grinned. Sure thing, old man.

Friday, September 24, 2004


When I came back from lunch today with one of the other brokers we headed into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Jasmine was in there getting her food out of the microwave wearing what I call her executive pant suit with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“Hi, Gary. Hey, Jay.”

We both smiled and nodded and said our ‘How do you do’s’ as we watched her casually pick up her food and walk out the other side. That’s when Gary turned to me.

“That’s one class act right there.”

I recalled how she not so silently passed gas in her sleep this morning and chuckled softly.

“That's just what I was thinking.”

We've been duped

How many people are bloggers today because they stumbled across TJ's Place? What if "Kevin Hall" is actually a persona created by the Blogspot people as a marketing gimmick to attract new bloggers? I feel compelled to admit my own persona is a gimmick, too, in order to attract lots of women willing to send me pictures of nipplage and hiney, but then...that's been my gimmick for 30 years.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Crimson Red by L'Oreal

I sat first in line at a red light early this morning watching the cross traffic go by when I saw, then heard, the impact. She was following the flow of traffic when the pick up in front of her slowed down. It was a squeal of rubber followed by a crunching pop. The hood buckled up the same time the windshield shattered, but unless the airbags were faulty she wasn’t going fast enough to set them off.

I jumped out, leaving my truck at the light since the road was blocked by the accident anyway. When I bent down to ask her if she was okay she nodded but didn’t look at me. The driver of the pick up she hit got out and asked her the same thing. The steel bumper on the back of his truck was as good as new but her little Japanese import looked like it had been dropped from the sky onto its nose.

“Ma’am, can you drive it to the Chevron?”

She was a young brunette, maybe early twenties, with a nice rack she didn't mind showing off, God bless her. Her mouth was open and she was staring straight ahead at the spider web of cracks sprayed across her windshield. “I can’t believe he stopped in the middle of the freaking intersection!”

Well, fuck, the car in front of him stopped first. What did she think, the son of a bitch just drove around and spontaneously threw it in park wherever and whenever the hell he pleased? I wasn’t about to get into it with her before the police arrived.

“Ma’am,” I said again, “You need to pull into that parking lot. You’re blocking traffic.”

She still hadn’t gotten out of the car yet, but she did finally turn toward me. “Did you see how he stopped like that?”

“Look, you need to – holyshit! Are you okay? You’re mouth is bleeding!” She must have hit the steering wheel, I thought.

Her fingers went to her lips before she examined them. “Oh, no that’s not blood.” She waved the tube at me that she’d been holding this whole time. “I was putting on my lipstick when it happened.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Let's be illogical

Some shit just doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. Like Rhode Island. Why the fuck is Rhode Island a state? Can’t you just nail it up against Massachusetts and be done with it? Bam bam, all done. Rhodechusetts. That frees up a star on the flag, does away with the hassle of yet another seat in Congress and giving that strip of dirt 4 electoral votes is a fucking joke anyway. If Rhode Island gets 4, I want 108 for Texas, 19 just for Houston.

There’s another thing I don’t understand, and trust me this list is a mile long but I’ll stop after just the first few. Michael Jacks-Sons. A 45 year old man has no business sleeping in a bed with other people’s little boys. And holy mother of Christ what I would like to do to these parents who pimp their young sons out like their very own little whores to the Prince of Punching. Jacking off 13 year old boys is bullshit. A 13 year old boy can jack himself off. TRUST ME. He doesn’t need your freak help. Somebody put a red dot on his back and alert the NRA he’s coming their way.

Lastly on the agenda today: morons who pay good money for a fucking dog. When you have to call your broker to make a sell in your investment account to finance an animal with snowballs of fur around her ankles and pink toenails you ought to be the one sleeping in the cage. Let that new bitch sleep in the bed where she deserves to be for snookering your ass into dropping a cool G on her worthless ass. You want a pet that will love you, you save one’s ass from death row. He’ll love you forever. A dog’s a dog. It eats, it shits, it barks (unless you buy them fucked up ones with no vocal cords), and it sleeps. And I don’t care how much you pay for it, it won’t do any of those things any fancier than it did before. Go get you one with a blind eye, no hind leg, a crooked tail and so fucking old you’re afraid he’ll die in the car on the way back to the house. The Cocker Spaniel does not need you. But Lucky will love you for the rest of his short, hard life.

I lied, lastly again, women who get mad when men look at their titties. Well what the fuck do you want me to look at? I know you're wearing a black turleneck and a parka, but goddammit, they're still there aren't they? You just made it harder for me to do the covert glance & turn maneuver is all. Now I've gotta stare a while and see if the nipplage is pointing through, beckoning to me to appreciate them whilst in a state of seclusion. It's how I'm wired. Don't Help me. Wear something low cut and flimsy without a bra. I'll get my fill within a nanosecond and neither of us will be embarassed or angry after I'm caught staring well beyond the 2 second rule.

The world would be a far different place if everyone shared my logic.

Monday, September 20, 2004

100% 'Oh, Jay' from concentrate

I don’t fabricate or fantasize or pretend my life is something it isn’t. I’m not secretly a 50-ish overweight bastard with no hair, a little dick, a long scrotum, three ex-wives, and a dog with one limp ear. I’m exactly what I say I am, good and bad. So when people politely say I should write novels, I’m not being rude when I brush them off. I’m simply admitting a truth. I don’t have any idea how to. I struggle to quote people so I get my retelling as accurate as possible. And when I can’t, I summarize for fear of misquoting someone who will likely never see what I’ve written in the first place. When I choose an event to retell, the only creative direction I impose is in the form of perspective and grammar. If I could write a kick ass story like Jack I would throw one up here. Instead, you’ll have to settle for my life as and when it happens. Perhaps I’m not truly right-brained. Maybe I’m middle-brained.

I’m driven to entertain. I like when people laugh. I think laughter, which releases hormones I can’t recall the names of, is responsible for longevity and happiness beyond medical understanding. My ego wants to be a part of that. I do stupid shit. I think we all do. And maybe if I show how I can laugh at my own stupid mistakes, other folks might laugh at theirs, too.

I’ve met many great people and believe most people are great not despite surface flaws but because of them. Seeing as how I prefer to take on the role of the entertainer, I appreciate those who represent other roles. I enjoy depth in people. I enjoy opposing sides. I like to know what others think before formulating my opinion. Maybe I’m wrong. It’s entirely likely. If so, I’m open to hear it.

I can’t weave you a tale of lore and adventure, lust and passion, but I can throw as much color and flare as possible into how I rolled a pick-up once or opened my front door to find a longhorn standing on the porch. So when you stop by my place and take a peek at my thoughts just know what you’re getting is 100% me in all my naked glory. So, in case I haven't said it in a while...thanks for stopping by.

Now close the door, there’s a draft.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Two boobs, one ass, no brain

Are you fucking kidding me with this Miss America bullshit? Of course they dropped the talent competition. When some bimbo from Iowa drives a tractor as her talent while South Dakota’s finest brings pride and honor to her family by jumping on a trampoline as her skill, what choice did they have?

Scholarship pageant, my delectable ass. If it were about education why does the quiz portion of the scoring account for 5% of the overall score while evening gown, casual wear, string bikini and titty authenticity account for the remaining 95%?

Now don’t get me wrong, I like ogling a nice pair of cheeks and globes as much as the next guy. I’m just saying call a spade a spade for Christ’s sake. If nearly the entire score is based on whether it jiggles when you walk in a Speedo, then don’t try to convince me it’s about getting a college education. I've got one already and I’m not falling for your "world peace" horseshit.

What amazes me is how hard women have worked for suffrage, equality, independence and freedom and yet this 84 year old tradition from the dark ages continues in full force. Where are the hairy legged, bushy armpit feminists when this shit is going on?

Please. Scholarship pageant. Don’t lie to me. It’s a beauty contest. Now put on your makeup, go cook my dinner and get ready to suck my dick like the Stepford Wife you are.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Special Jay loving

I like to wrestle with Jasmine. She’s a sturdy girl and though her upper body is typical, she’s got some power in those thighs that keeps it interesting. As long as I can keep her from getting her knees high enough to put her feet against my belly I can usually pin her down. But damn the hormones, when she pulls her knees up and I find myself in between I get distracted and next thing I know I’m across the room clutching my ribs as the footprints fade from my obliques.

Tonight I had her. I fucking had her. Her legs were together, shielding me from her Kryptonite, and pressed to the side while her shoulders were flat on the floor. She tried to give me the eyes but no way, this predator was focused.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not until you say it.”

She started squirming but I had her. I never hold her down by her wrists because I don’t want to bruise her, so instead I hold her fists. I had my body weight keeping her hips in place and one leg pinning both of hers down. It was a terrible position for her to allow herself to get into considering how she defends herself. I think I’ve done this to every girlfriend I’ve ever had, partially to help them learn how to escape an attacker, but partially because it leads to great sex. Can’t be all work and no play, right?

“Say ‘You're the man.’”

After a few choice words from her I decided to turn up the heat. I began to talk into her neck so the vibration would wear her down.

“Jay’s the man, Jay’s the man. Say it, Jazz. Say it. I’m the man. La la la la la laaaaaaaaa!”

But instead of giving me the reward I earned she shouted out, “Danety, get him!”

I couldn’t get off her fast enough. “No!” 120 lbs. of Marmaduke slammed me onto my back and fucking straddled me, planting her ass on my chest and shoving her huge muzzle in my face. I turned my head side to side trying to zerbert out the dog slobber before it seeped in any deeper and commingled with my DNA, creating some kind of freakish dog ass/human slobber bacteria no one had ever heard of.

By the time I freed myself, no help from Jasmine, the mood had passed. “Just for that, no special Jay loving for you tonight.”

She laughed. I think she misunderstood.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Almost out of the closet

Jasmine slipped up today. It was fucking great! She works with a broker two offices down from me so her desk is two desks away from Sarah’s whose is directly in front of my door. Therefore, I pretty much hear her voice all day long. Our phones are tied together so anytime one of us gets a call it shows up on all of the our phones at the same time. Sometimes I call her on an outside line so nobody knows it’s me and I talk shit to her because I can hear her, in stereo, trying to answer my questions truthfully while not blowing her cover.

Me: You know what I want to do to you?
Jazz: No, sir, I don’t believe I have that information.
Me: I want to back you against the wall and nibble your neck until you squirm.
Jazz: Well I can certainly do that for you, sir. Do you need to speak with Rich now?

Sting is playing at the Pavilion this weekend and one of the brokers was given a pair of comp tickets by a wholesaler. Under the table, of course, since the SEC supposedly outlawed that shit. He was walking around the office today asking people if they wanted to buy them from him, cheap prick. This is what I heard:

Prick: Jasmine, would you like to buy a ticket to see Sting?
Jazz: I wouldn’t care to go alone.
Prick: I have two. Take your boyfriend.
Jazz: He doesn’t like Sting.

DAMN! I looked up the same time Sarah did and saw her whip around to stare open-mouthed at Jasmine. Oh, shit, Jazz is in for it now! She’s been telling people she didn’t have a boyfriend so they wouldn’t hound her for details she’d have to lie about. I wanted to laugh my ass off. The broker talking to her didn’t know any better and just walked off. But that’s when Sarah got up and moved in.

I grabbed the phone quickly and called Jazz from an outside line. Just as the phone rang I heard Sarah say, “So Jazz…hiding a boyfriend from us, huh?”

Jazz picked up the phone before answering. “Thank you for calling Big Financial Firm. This is Jasmine, how may I help you?”

“Tell her you lied to shut him up.”

“Oh thank you, sir. I appreciate you getting back with me so quickly.”

“You owe me a kiss.”

“I’ll have Rich send you one.”

Two seconds later I heard my words in Jasmine’s ever professional tone followed by the disappointed, “Aw! I thought you had some juicy news,” from Sarah.

I think I’ll have her give the kiss to Big Jay. Hot damn I’m one lucky bastard!

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Breakfast blend drive-by

I stopped at Starbucks this evening to get a coffee and instead got a bunch of bullshit I didn’t know what to do with. I’m recalling the conversation from memory here so if I misquote something, well, fuck it. Like you’ll ever know the difference.

Me: I need a grande latte.
Punk: Would you like a muffin with that delicious latte, sir?
Me: No.
Punk: What about some aromatic beans? Would you like some beans?
Me: What the hell would I want beans for?
Punk: Well, sir, it’s cheaper to buy the beans and make the coffee yourself.
Me: I don’t want to make it myself.
Punk: It’s not hard to do, sir.
Me: I didn’t say it was. I don’t have a bean grinder.
Punk: I can grind them for you, sir, the aromatic beans.
Me: Just get me the latte.
Punk: We have fresh pound cake this fine day, sir. Would you like to try our fresh pound cake?
Me: Is my coffee ready?
Punk: I have a 10 lb. bag of beans.
Me: That must be uncomfortable. Hand me my damn coffee.
Punk: Fine, sir. You don’t buy beans, I don’t smile. Good day.

As I walked off he threw a bag of coffee beans at me. Threw it at me. It was the first time I’d ever been involved in a drive-by beaning. What the hell kind of marketing plan is that, to pelt your customer with the product when he refuses to buy it?

I picked up the coffee and carried it back to him. His eyes got huge but he stood there ready to take it like a man. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $10 and dropped it on the counter.

“I like your unique approach. But do it again and I’ll drag your ever loving ass outside and shove those beans up it one fistful at a time.” I left them on the counter.

When I reached the door he actually shouted out, “Thank you, sir. Come again!”

See. That's why you shouldn't smoke crack while pregnant.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Geeks R Us

My buddy Jason works at HP. I figure there are 15,000 employees. You won’t find him. He and three other people interviewed prospective candidates last week for a position on campus. He said they overnighted an offer to the lucky bastard worth the dough and the ball was in his court to accept, deny or play a friendly game of hardball. I asked him how they narrowed it down to one from the dozen they spoke with. Besides qualifications, one of the things he mentioned was “presentation.” He said the group liked the polished professionalism the young graduate displayed. I asked if he was hiring in the PR department and he said no. Then why the fuck did you pick the suit?


I think people put too much value on the link between personal appearance and ability to do a job. If it were up to me, I’d use an entirely different system. I’d assemble a team of misfits. Bring me your tired, your weary, your geeks. Make them nerdy and hard up. Give them an overbite, glasses, acne, and a fucked up hair cut. Mismatch their clothing, lace their teeth with braces and throw a crack into their voices. Put a snort in their laugh, a fidget in their stance, and a remove all traces of rhythm when they dance. Do all of these things and I’ll show you a group of men and women who have had nothing to do but surf the net, write HTML, hack into systems, and develop a loyalty to one another no group of suits will ever understand.

These people know they won’t get anywhere unless they earn it. No low cut blouses, no ass kissing empty promises to be quickly forgiven with a few hollow compliments. No back biting, no shark pools, no superficial bitches gossiping. Just a group of geeks with heart and determination. I would call them the Geek Squad and I would be proud of them. We’ll have code names for each other like Scooby, Zephyr, Darkness, and Disco Duck, like in a club because they understand clubs. They understand loyalty. And they will understand how appreciated they are.

They will be compensated on merit and when funds are in short supply we’ll make up our own form of compensation, such as a day at the Laser Tag park or Dave & Busters arcade. They will get together socially for morale parties. They will work together in large open rooms, no cubicles. Casual conversation and playfulness will be encouraged to keep the mood light and the productivity high. Paper ball fights will be a weekly event.

If I were a manager at the company known for Innovation, I’d have the happiest, most productive team on campus. But then, nobody’s asking for my fucking opinion.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Ah, shit. Another one?

I have decided to change my template every time I watch a porn. Hang onto your asses, this could be one hell of a ride.

Saturday, September 11, 2004

9/11 Tribute

If you are looking for the 9/11 tribute, it is being mirrored on my other site.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

It's a jungle out there

Poker night has been cancelled twice now because I play with a bunch of pussies. One guy said he had hemorrhoids. Bring your doughnut pillow, you sissy. We won’t laugh for very long. Another one said he had to go home and get a piece of ass. Funny how his wife only puts out on poker nights.

So rather than boating up in 7 card down the river and raking in the massive nickel-dime-quarter pot, I found myself alone at home…on the internet…exploring my cyber backyard. It was by complete accident that I ended up looking at ladies lingerie by Dolce & Gabbana. Before you overestimate my experience, take a look at this picture. If you’re anything like me you will click on the zebra print thong and zoom in on the coochie shot. Go ahead, give it a try. I’ll wait.

Now tell me, what the fuck is wrong with that nasty whore? Who in her right mind shows up for a lingerie shoot with D&G and forgets to mow the lawn? Jesus Christ, you repugnant hoochie! Do you think you’re so fucking hot in a thong nobody will notice the ingrown hairs and 5 o’clock shadow creeping out the side? I know it's zebra print but, damn, ain't nobody asking to see your National Geographic up in there. Give the monkey a buzz next time before saying "Cheese!"

I was so disgusted I almost chose not to check out her nipples peeking through the transparent zebra striped shirt in the lower right corner. Fortunately, my fortitude carried me through this trying ordeal.

What do you think of the template? I’m test driving it. Another 9 miles and a blow job in the back seat and I should know whether or not I like it.

One last thing, Friday night at 11pm Central time I will take this blog offline to post a 9/11 tribute that will remain up until Sunday morning. There will be no comments section during that time.

Better speak now or forever hold your peace.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Should have pissed in the bushes

My family reunion was this past Sunday. That was a humbling experience. Jasmine had to be coerced into going. She was certain she would stand out. I agreed that she would, but told her she stands out everywhere she goes. Why not at my family reunion? She made me promise not to let anything embarrassing happen to her. I did, grudgingly.

After 3 hours of driving, we found the correct dirt road in the middle of BFE (that's "bum fucked egypt" for you post 80's crowd) and drove into the woods at an excitingly swift pace down a single lane dirt road up and down hills, around curves and through bends. Jazz looked like a cat being pushed into a toilet, her arms and legs were spread wide trying to hang on and she had a death grip on the Oh Jesus bar above her head.

We hung a left and drove another couple of miles into the bowels of the Earth. At the base we found a creek and a whole slew of folks I have the good fortune to share a bloodline with. She reminded me of my promise not to embarrass her as we stepped out for the first round of introductions.

Jasmine was quickly swept away, a new doll for the hillbillies to play with. Since the reunion is a covered dish luncheon, I grabbed my contributory bag of Fritos and can of bean dip and got to mingling. Roughly twenty minutes had passed when Jazz came back to me and whispered in my ear that she needed to use the restroom.

“I suggest you choose a tree off in that direction, away from the poison oak.” She cocked her head to the side and gave me "the look." I sighed. “There’s a Johnny on the Spot over behind that truck if you can handle the tight space.” Jasmine is claustrophic, but apparently pissing on her ankles was not a better option.

About ten minutes later Jasmine was still missing, which surprised me because I couldn’t imagine her taking a shit in a portable can. Another ten minutes went by and I started to worry. Surely she should be done by now. I gave her a few more minutes and then decided something had to be wrong. I walked across the grounds to the Johnny and got within a few feet when I heard her crying.

“Oh, shit! Jazz, are you ok?” I knocked on the door, but she didn’t respond. “Jasmine, answer me!” I heard her sniff.


I jerked on the handle but the door was locked. “Open the door, dammit. Are you hurt?” Was she angry that I brought her here? Did something bite her? Did she pee on herself by mistake? What the fuck?!

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. Open the damn door. What’s wrong?”

“It’s stuck!”

For a moment I stood confused. What’s stuck, the door or…nature? It was awkward for about three seconds when she must have known I needed more info. “The door lock is rusted and won’t open!”

“How did you lock it in the first place?”


I quickly covered my mouth. Good God, if she heard me laugh at her now she’d leave me forever. “Hang on, baby, I’ll get some help.”

“NO! You do it!”

“Jazz, I don’t have a screwdriver in my back pocket.” Could she hear the smile on my face?

“Figure it out, Jay, I’m serious! And quit laughing!”

“I can’t help it. You’re locked in the can!” I knew to her the Johnny was an impossibly small space but it was vented and lit and she really had nothing to do but wait.

I ended up pushing up and toward the hinges on the door so that Jasmine was able to wiggle the latch back across. When the door finally flew open she was sweaty and red-faced with mascara on her cheeks from crying and her hair was moist and sticking up all over. She threw her arms over my shoulders and started crying all over again while I laughed uncontrollably into her neck. It was the first time I’d ever seen Jasmine not have game. She was scared and silly and real.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

I felt it want to jump out, but I reigned it back in long enough for me to assess whether I wanted to be that honest, then noticed her spikey, wet eyelashes and decided I did.

“Because I love you.”

I think she got snot on me when she kissed me.

Monday, September 06, 2004

Hello. Have we fucked before?

Had a sex dream about a blogger last night. I’ve written this post several times over, not sure how to approach it. I’m torn between laughing about the juicy, imaginary details with everyone else or possibly making a real life person uncomfortable by telling all of our little blogger community how I made her scream my name on top of the baby grand piano in a room filled with candles.

Perhaps I’ll just leave it at that. I’ve never shared the details of a private moment with any woman, real or not, with anyone. The underwear I was sleeping in have been washed and returned to their rightful place on the shelf in the closet. The two page word document I have written detailing the hottest dream sequence foreplay of my life will be deleted. But the actual sex which I hope to remember for many a porn night will continue to replay vividly in my mind alone.

I wonder though…if she was on my mind Saturday night, was I on hers? Perhaps we had sex together after all.

For entertainment purposes, I copy/pasted this single paragraph from the original retelling I wrote a few hours after I woke Sunday morning:

There was no conversation, no explanation as to why she was there. She just was. Even though she wasn’t speaking I knew she wanted to argue every damn word that had the potential of coming out of my mouth. She was trying to hate me and that had the adverse effect of igniting me instead. Her obstinance provoked me to push her buttons, invert her passion and force her to show me what she was capable of. Despite herself, she would enjoy what I was about to do to her as much I would enjoy doing it.

Friday, September 03, 2004


Who the fuck are these people in Florida rushing out to buy plywood for their windows? Holyshit, asswipe, is this the first goddamn hurricane the state has ever had? What the fuck did you do with the lumber from the last hurricane nine hours ago? "Honey, I'm'll gonna throw this here wood away now that it's sunny outside and all. Don't reckon we'll be needin' tuh block out the sunlite, rite?"

Those people should have a "Oh Shit Here Comes Another One" corner in their attics piled high with crap like lumber, flashlights, duct tape - because we all know if you can't duct it, fuck it - bottled water and whatever the hell they bought last time and threw out just to have to replace it today! And for the love of Christ, if your house has 18 fucking wheels beneath it then you deserve to die for being stupid enough to drive that shit to Florida in the first place. Drown, motherfucker, drown!

What if Continental Airlines did that shit? "Thanks for traveling Continental Flight 1879 non-stop into Houston. Please be sure to gather all of your belongings as this plane will be demolished now that we've arrived." Why the fuck, not? Flight's over, right?

Shit! Who do we have in Florida? Kat? Kat, answer me! Are you surprised to hear there's a hurricane in the Atlantic?

And another thing while I'm good and irate about the shit. Why the fuck do people who can't get around without a walker and 40 minutes to spare between the living room and the kitchen move to a freaking state that evacuates it's residents six times a year? Answer me! "What's up paw paw? Your knees hurt and you can't get around anymore? Why don't you move to that hurricane penis hanging off the east coast and find ya a nice condo right on the Intercoastal? Yee haw! Git'er done!"

Can I get a "Hell, yeah!"?


I got a kick out of these when I got them. Reminded me of a certain someone and his juvenile antics. Thank God I'm more mature than that fart knocker. I wonder if he turned the ones on the floor face down so they stuck to the dude's shoes as he walked through.

Thursday, September 02, 2004

A Dastardly Happy Birthday Wish

I voted to say "Dude. It's your birthday. Cool." But the women overruled me. So here goes our first blogger community post. Have a good one.

A wonderful blogger, The Dastard, is having a birthday today. According to his profile, there will be 104 candles on his cake. Wow...someone call the fire dept. and have them on standby, ok?

What can we say about the Dastard?
This evasive creature, Limulus Polyphemus & Bean Town boy, will not allow his visage to be published on-line. He is quick, shifty, and likes to tease. I guess that's why he's the Dastard. Some speculate that he is just shy. The ladies are convinced, however, that the real reason is that he is so damned handsome. That has to be it...He won't show us his picture because he knows that all of the ladies in his cyber-harem would fall desperately in love with him (well, that is, those who aren't already)!

A big part of the reasons why we love the Dastard so much is the funny and clever things he says in comments - our comments and his own.

"The eyes follow you everywhere because the body they are attached to follows you everywhere. uh….that sounded a lot more creepy than sexy, huh? Sorry."

"The beer in the fridge it's yours...except the PBR, that's mine. And put back what ever you find in my sock/porn drawer."

"Sowing discord where ever I go. That's the Dastard way."
"I am wearing sparkly no-pantz right now!"

"I am I can't say it, but I did try so I still win."

"What's all this then? Oh, (large lapelled shirt open to my navel) it's time for The Dastard to kiss and make love to a certain special lady or ladies tonight, maybe followed by a little light sloth-tossing."

"Sorry. some of the below is witless prattle and may be boooorrrringgg!!!
I like saying "witless prattle." Did I just dis myself. Doh!"

"Me fail English, that's unpossible!!!"

"WUTTHEFUCKAREYOUEVENTALKINGABOUT?!!!!" "Better have my money now. I'm The Dastard, bitch!"

"Your mamma has an afro with a chin-strap"

"The picture you have up now is Hi-larry-us! I can't believe someone
actually made a conscious decision to leave the house looking like a

"Thanks for the big 'ol man-hug. Sorry I forgot to put deodorant on."

"Have you read all the way to the bottom and no dirty stuff or political rhetoric? Don't be mad, here's your reward: pener, hoo-ha, boobie, heiney, doin'-it, president."

" like to eat....never mind. BAD DASTARD!!"

"I don't have 2 pussies but I do have a man-gina."

"You don't want to be to harsh with the kitty. It's much better to be even handed. Maybe you should start gently and then add more discipline as needed, depending on the behavior of the kitty. Try this strategy: "nice kitty, nice kitty, nice, nice kitty, nice...bad kitty! bad kitty, bad, bad kitty....nice kitty, very nice kitty. ....and I do like the bad kitties."

"I am your Bare and Unbalanced news source."

"I would never burst your bubbles, only gently caress and massage them."

"I like a girl who can guffaw at wrong things."

"Or maybe I'll just mount and then stuff you. Oh, you heard right"

"Hullo Random Gentle Sleepy Peach. Wakey-wakey. Poke-poke."

"The REdasTard had struck again"

"Remember to always probe your meatballs."

"I am wearing paper pantz"

"My mom made me those pants!! Shut up!!!"

"Great, now everybody knows what my ass looks like. Thanks a lot
Fleece. That camera phone is dangerous."

"Actually that is not me. I would never wear a red thong with pink tite-pantz."

"I cloned headless babies."

"I'm the only boob here."

"Did you really stay up until 1am last night like a big loser waiting
for blogger to come back? Huh? How do I know it was back up at 1? Ummmmmm......I, ah....shutup Fleece"

"It's Don Juan Dastardo to you!"

"I am not trying to be a tease, unless your name is Michael or Gooch and have a tub of ass-wax. Damn, am I typing it instead of only thinking it again?"

"why does everyone think they are the boss of me. "Dastard get haloscan. Dastard put up a new post. Dastard stop dating my mom.""

"I did everything exactly like you said...but after I asked this one guy to smell it, well, that's the last I remember until I woke up in a hotel room somewhere in Thailand, wearing nothing but a leopard print banana-hamock."


Critics Agree...
"Dastard, even though I crush on you, you don't pick on me about it.
Everything is fair game, and I love that. Happy Birthday Shmoopee!" - Lovisa

I think he is great, he shows a side you don't often see in the real world and that's refreshing. - Nord

"Dastard, Cheri, you know that I think you are simply the cat's pajamas. You are sensitive, intelligent, mysterious, obnoxious, freaking hilarious, thoughtful, and oh so sexy - everything I love in a man. Happy Birthday! *104 WHAPS and matching giggle smooches!* - Celti

What I like about El Dastardo.. he's witty, not afraid to make fun of himself, insightful and not afraid to admit (gasp) he has feelings and is sometimes confused and angry about life. He's remarkably upfront about what others may see as "geeky science stuff." I think he has a true passion for it and doesn't give a rats ass what anyone thinks. Did I mention he's a real hoot? And even though we've never seen his face, he truly has a sexy personality. I hope he's willing to meet me when I got to Boston later this Fall. What he said to me today in comments really did cause intense passion to flood my loins, which was no more than "I'll make you come... up here." LOL!!! He has such a way about him that you can't help but think of him sitting at his computer, biting his lip with a wicked, wicked grin on his face as he spars with the bloggers. He's a diamond in the rough. - Inanna

That Dern Dastard! There was this time that I thought Dastard was trying to steal my identity. He signed off as Cooter Pie on Sloth's website... and I felt oh-so violated. After all, I'm the sweetest Cooter there is... and if he was closer to the midwest, I'd eat him right up! Cootersnap likey Cooter Pie... - Ang

The Dastard is a good man deep inside. i used my x-ray vision of doom and i saw the truth. inside the spiky metal armor beats a great big heart with real feelings inside it. -el sid

He's my Distardly boy -- even though he often commits fashion faux pas
that I document on my blog (hello! red crisscrossy pants!). I love
this guy for his quirkiness, insight and fearlessness to question
everything that challenges him. Happy Birthday, Dastard! Fleecely hugs and love.
- Fleece

Top Ten Reasons I love the Dastard:
1. He's funny
2. He's smart
3. He has pretty eyes
4. He always says the right things: "Aimee: you are as sweet as a Krispy Kreme. I will think about you the next time I eat one but I will be thinking something nasty too."
5. Waaay back, before we even knew about the moth flies in the men's bathroom, he told us about his love of crotch-less wetsuits, the funny-name lists he makes, and his missing asparagus-pee enzyme. When I commented, his reply was, "Aimee: Consider yourself Mrs. Dastard", so I do.
6. When I get sick & have pulled muscles, he says, "My favorite Goofhead: Aww..blisters and pulled muskles. You need some tender dastardly luv.
7. When I flirt with guys, he chastises me in the nicest way (and makes me blush), "FLIRTED WITH A GUY?!! Let me at 'im! Seriously, that's good pour vous. But we already knew you were a great flirt."
8. Even though he's in love with Lovisa (aka: Lovie Poppet), see #5 above. (heehee!)
9. He and Sloth are friends, and Sloth is a good, good woman.
10. He had the good sense to be born a Virgo.
Happy Birthday, Dastard. Love you. - Aimee

Dear Dastard, because it is your birthday and ONLY because it is your birthday, I will, for one day only..............................let you be the boss of me. - Sloth

Dude, I love you! Not really. But maybe. - Jay

And Now...a little musical dedication to our Dastard:

  • "Dastard of Blogging"

  • Click the Title to Hear the Tune - Sung by Michael to the music of "Master of
    Puppets" by Metallica.

    Who the hell is that
    In the Krispy Kreme hat
    Elusive just to scoff you
    His references you heed
    Books that you should read
    Vonnegut and Nabakov, too. Aliens, Guns & Boobs by Lovisa

    I will read your site
    ’Cause you’re erudite
    The pics you volunteer
    Are in your scuba gear

    Come scrawling faster
    The blog of Dastard
    His comments blast ya
    The blog of Dastard

    Dastard of blogging he’s funny as hell
    Bein’ a wise-ass, but bein’ himself
    Blinded by wit you can’t see his face
    That or ‘cause his hand’s in the way
    Sometimes he’s "Dangsta" but I’m gonna say

    We love you Dastard. Have a very, very happy birthday!

    Wednesday, September 01, 2004

    Yeah? Well, duck you!

    Don’t underestimate the learning opportunities farm animals offer an impressionable young child. My dad had brought home three guineas once, one for each of us kids even though Katy had long since passed away. He always brought home three of everything. Unfortunately, we failed to clip the guineas’ wings in time and the three of them flew off. So my dad went out and got us something else: mallards.

    When he dumped the burlap sack three ducks came waddling out. Two mottled brown ducks and one fine specimen of a foul with handsome green and white rings around his neck. I immediately called shotgun to the striped mallard. My sister balked but my dad told her the ugly brown one was best for her because she was a stupid head, not in those exact words but when he winked at me I knew that was what he meant.

    I loved my duck. He was the man and I named him Juan. He made the pond his own and he ruled the chicken yard. The other two ducks obeyed him when he quacked, his authority felt by all. Life was great for a while after that, until the unthinkable happened. I walked outside and out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. “Juan, no!

    I raced back into the house, “Momma! Momma! Juan is killing Julie’s duck!” My mother burst from the back door and came running to meet me halfway. With tears streaming down my face I heaved and cried and pointed. “He’s eating it!”

    I could see the distress in my mother’s face as she looked around to find Juan. Why wasn't she moving faster? Is nature truly this cruel?!

    And then she laughed. I was flabbergasted. “Jay, honey, he’s not killing it. He’s mating.” Obviously I still looked confused so she clarified. “Honey, he’s making babies with her.”

    I gasped in horror and looked back just in time to see Juan stand up from his crouched position on the other duck’s back and stagger off toward the duck pond, spent and satiated. “My duck and Julie’s duck? Ewwwww, grodie!!!!!!!!” I never forgave Juan for his perversion.

    Moral of the story: Clip your guineas before a duck fucks your sister.