Thursday, March 31, 2005

The troll

We got a new broker last Friday. It’s a woman. When they placed her in the empty office next door to me I cringed. I’ve got nothing against female brokers or female anything. But this industry is overwhelmingly dominated by men and most women find they can’t make it. The few who do are 10 times more determined than the men, hard-nosed and cut throat. They’re vicious. I suppose it’s our fault they have to be that way. Maybe not us the brokers, but us the money holders.

That’s the biggest battle women in this field face. How does a beautiful 30 year old female get a 58 year old man to see past her perky bosoms and soft lips to appreciate the intelligence beneath? Simple. She doesn’t come equipped with those things. It’s sexist, absolutely, and I’m not condoning it, but the majority of the money out there, not all, just the majority, is in the hands of white male baby boomers. Most married with grandkids and a tidy little nest egg. Sure, there are the young entrepreneurs, those who come to the US and create their own opportunity, and the vast array of techies who made it big in the late 90’s bull market. But we’re talking about majorities. Our books aren’t made up of a compilation of the exceptions to the rule.

Convincing men from another era to see past her gender takes twice the talent for a woman as a broker. Or, she can be the ugliest fucking troll you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And that brings me back to Melissa. Melissa is 4’11” max and somewhere over the age of 45. She walks with a limp, has deep grooves in her face that add a decade to her appearance, bushy red troll hair, and thanks to the wonder of Marlboro, the voice of a Sam Elliot. And she’s a mega producer.

Most brokers when they jump firms run straight into their new offices and spend the next 72 hours straight on the phone with their clients, doing their best to convince as many as possible to follow them to the new firm. They have to do this. Because at the firm they left behind every broker in that office has been given his cut of the book and are doing exactly the same thing. Just like the scene from Jerry Maquire.

But Melissa didn’t do that. She walked in and made the rounds, shaking the hand of every other broker in the office. I’m sure she freaked around 4pm and got down to business, but not at first. Brokers jump firms at 2:45pm on Fridays. That’s the best day, best time. Other brokers leave at the close and have little time to react which minimizes competition for the book. But also allows the leaving broker time to catch his or her clients at the office. Some change their clients’ phone numbers in the system to stall the others, but those risk a temporary restraining order.

This week has been a different story for Melissa. She’s down to business. All week long I’ve been listening to the Marlboro grumbling next door commingled with the occasional hen cackle as she convinced her clients to come over. Our walls are thin as paper and I can hear every word.

This is the first time she’s jumped firms and after working with several other brokers who’ve done the same I thought perhaps I could give her some advice. You know, grace her with my wealth of knowledge. I should charge her for it, but let’s consider it my gift to her because that’s the kind of man that I am. Anything I can do to aid women's plight for equality.

I asked her to lunch today and she accepted. Just a few minutes ago I heard her on the phone with a client who had apparently asked to meet her for lunch. She said, “Let’s meet up tomorrow. I’m having lunch with the young, pretty boy in the office beside me today.”

Fucking troll.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The kids

Unless the sonographer is wrong or Jasmine changes her mind, we each got our first choice of name. Baby Autumn and Baby Benjamin should be here this July.

I'm feeling a testosterone deficiency. I'm banning baby posts the rest of the week. Excuse me while I go deflower a pumpkin.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

What are they?

Monday, March 28, 2005

Wishbones and circles

This past Friday we went down to the OB’s office for the mid-pregnancy ultrasound. I watched the snow on the monitor expectedly, waiting to see a penis the size of a horse’s as it swished across the screen but no such luck. In fact, I didn’t see shit I could decipher whatsoever. When she asked us if we wanted to know the sex Jasmine said no, I said yes.

That’s when she angled the monitor away so Jazz couldn’t see it and told me to walk around. Before she did any genitalia finger pointing she explained to me that I was looking for one of two things: either a white wishbone which indicated a girl, or a round circle which indicated a boy. You mean a round circle with a gargantuan penis attached?

She was not amused.

All right. Let’s do this. Go fish.

The thingy swished and swirled and she clicked the mouse button for a freeze frame. She used the cursor to draw an arrow around a smudge on the screen and notified me that was Twin A's genitalia. Bullshit. That’s a glare.

“Is that your best shot?”

I love it when women roll their eyes at me.

She pointed at it and told me to hello, remember the shapes, Mr. Babies' Daddy. Oh yeah, so round is boy, wishbone is girl. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

I stared.

“Do you see it?”

“Uh…yes. Yes I do.”


“No. Can I buy a vowel?”

“I’ll tell you later. Let’s look at Twin B. There. See it? Right there where I’m circling.”

Uh-huh. Right there. Yeah.

Ah, Jesus. For the love of God, woman, just spit it out! I’m not wearing my secret decoder glasses today. I know it’s a baby. I’ve got that much. I see the head, the hands, the legs, the heart. I got the big organs, all right. But there’s no round circle, white wishbone, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes, green clovers, yellow moons or any other shit up in there.

“Do you see it?” she had to ask.

Bitch, is my ignorance not evident with the deep crease between my brows? Dammit, lady, ‘fess up. “I’m afraid I’m not sure.”

Even Jasmine groaned.

“That’ll be enough out of you.” Woman better recognize.

After the ultrasound Jasmine got dressed and went back to the room she loves so much. The one where they mash her into the table, grope her ass, tweak her nipples and measure the result of it all. I stayed behind to face the sonographer alone.


She flashed me the chart.

I smiled. “I’ll be damned.”

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Nice hose

The service went well this morning. It was a graveside, quiet and small. We all headed over to my uncle’s place a few miles from the cemetery and sat around shooting the shit for a few hours, telling stories. Julie was there with Katy, but The Professor couldn’t make it.

The stories were all flattering at first, then after the beer started to settle in they got a little more interesting. Julie started talking about how good kids have it nowadays. She said when we were kids there was no air conditioner, no heater, Momma would make us play outside regardless of the temperature so she could get some peace of mind and we couldn’t come back into the house for any reason. We had to drink out of the hose and she used to squat behind the shed to pee.

And out of nowhere, it hit me. A memory buried so deep I might have never recalled it had she not said something. I started laughing, covered my face and turned beet red as I remembered what I used to do. They all thought I’d lost my mind.

“Hey, Jules,” she’s gonna fucking kill me, “I never told you this, but you know how you just said Momma wouldn’t let us in the house to get a drink or take a leak?”

I got a very apprehensive and silent stare.

“Well, I used to, uh, you know,” I used my hands to make the motions.

Jasmine figured it out first. “Jay, you didn’t!”

“You know,” I held my hands at my crotch like I was holding something, “in the hose.”

Every fucking one of them started shouting and hollering. My sister just stared at me with her mouth open. Jasmine covered her eyes and apologized to Julie on my behalf.

“You peed in the water hose? The one that I drank out of?!”

Nothing like a death to bring a family together.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Officer and a Gentleman

My old man just called. Officer John Henry passed away tonight. 1917-2005. I'll be out of touch for a few days while we make arrangements for him in our family cemetery out in East Texas.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

The pitts

Has anybody seen my wallet? I know I had it just before I walked past that black vortex known as my wife. In fact, a lot of shit is missing these days.

I broke down and took her to Best Buy to pick out a laptop of her own. I’ve been fucking around with the wireless LAN all night trying to get her hooked up. First the driver wouldn’t work, then the firewall was blocking, then the security code was wrong, then the fucking driver quit working again. I was ready to throw the son of a bitch out the window.

She’s been mooching my personal time on the computer, diddling around with her blog, rearranging all of my icons, bookmarking iVillage and and educating herself on the preposterousness of our society. Take, for instance, the fact that Viagra is covered by Medicare. Yet, very few insurance policies will cover the cost of bone marrow donation. Oh yeah, she tore into me for that. Like I wrote the fucking bill or something. Seventy year old men get to have recreational sex on us, but children are dying from leukemia because the government doesn’t find them equally important.

Now before you Democrats start cheering, she’s still not for socialized welfare. She just thinks, and I loosely quote her here, “If he can’t get it up, then he doesn’t deserve to have it.”

Woah, there, slow the fuck down! That’ll be enough of that crazy talk. I don’t know how far she wants to take that, but if she so much as glances sideways at Big Jay on an off night she and I will fight to the death. You don’t go John Bobbitting somebody’s boy just because he’s a little non-responsive. I mean, let’s be fair about it. Maybe it’s the stimulus. I’m not saying you’re not sexy in your ex-boyfriend’s flannel boxers and giant, stretched out T-shirt that reads “I survived the heat wave of 1980,” but it’s possible Big Jay just needs a little more. Not much more, trust me, but should the day ever come all I’m asking is that he be given the benefit of the doubt.

Was I saying something before? Ah, the wireless LAN. I finally got her going, if you know what I mean, and told her to knock herself out. She sat down, clicked all of 9 times, then got up and went to bed with barely a thank you. That’s it? All that fucking hassle for her to click, click, click and go to bed? Well, fuck me running. I walked around, switched off the lamp, and glanced at her screen before closing the lid.

“I’ll be damned.”

She fucking put Brad Pitt up as her wallpaper.

That’s it. Let her ass rub up against some old fucker with a 36 hour erection for a little action. I’m officially holding out.

Monday, March 21, 2005

Good girl

I spoke with Jasmine about allowing the blog friends she didn’t know she had to throw her a baby shower. She answered just the way I expected her to, but I gave her a few days to think about it. I knew she’d come around and I knew she’d do just what she did. Damn, I’m good. So this is what she has decided.

Understandably, we both do not want people buying us gifts we can easily afford on our own and probably don’t need anyway. If you ask me, most of this shit is all commercial hype anyway. Except for disposable diapers. Those are genius.

So we would prefer anybody wishing to participate in Jazz’s Cyber Shower instead to purchase a gift for herself, or “himself” if you’re that into baby showers, and if you are, dude, why are you reading my blog? Snap a photo of your gift once it arrives, email it to Jasmine, and she’ll create a photo album with all of the “baby shower” photos in it on her blog. Feel free to make it a photo of yourself wearing it or holding it, even better. If it’s a bikini, panty or bra those photos are to be mailed to me instead. Unless, again, you are a man in which case don’t even fucking dare or I will post that shit online in a nanosecond. I’m serious, Jack.

But there’s a catch. Sucks, huh?

Just as with any registry, you don’t get to pick the store. Your purchases must be made from this store. Is my wife sneaky, or what? Set your own price, I don’t give a damn. It’s your gift. You get presents, St. Jude Children’s Hospital gets donations, and my wife gets a warm fuzzy feeling every time she looks at my sweet, perky ass and knows I fathered her children. Talk about a win/win/win situation. It’s a damn good thing they broke the mold after me.

She didn’t offer a date yet for her virtual shower, but I figure the kids aren’t here yet so you got time. Maybe she’ll set something later on. It's not a requirement. She's not taking names. Just an idea for those who have specifically asked for something to do.

In a totally different direction, this weekend we went to Galveston since it was so pleasant outside. As we were walking out of The Aquarium there was a 9 year old girl standing at the turnstile, crying. Shit, kids cry, I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I glanced at the kid and opened my mouth, but she panicked and started to run away. Jasmine called out to her, asking if she knew where her mother was and the damn kid nearly fell to pieces.

Jasmine hugged her and held her up against the wall o'belly while she asked her some questions. She told the girl they would stand right there while I looked for her mom. I was sent back into the maze of massive fish/shark/seal tanks to find a redhead named Mary in a green shirt with a baby stroller and an infant son named Jacob with blonde hair. Kid was a regular fountain of information. I found Mom sitting on a bench, oblivious to the whereabouts of her oldest offspring.

I confirmed who she was then told her to wait there and I’d be back. When I got back Jasmine and the young girl were chatting about the 3-D Shark movie playing at the IMAX next door. We all walked back to the mom who gave her once-lost-now-found daughter an unhappy glare and completely disregarded us.

I choose to keep my opinion to myself on Mom. But to little Marissa, who stood stationery near the exit and then ran when a strange (yet dashingly handsome) man tried to talk to her – good girl.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Do you smell that?

I don’t deserve her.

She makes me nervous. Even though I know I’m the one she’ll come home to, when I look at her I get nervous, like she’ll change her mind. Maybe that’s a leftover from the several years I spent wishing. Yeah, she’s gorgeous. Physically, she’s always been mind blowing. But mentally, and emotionally, she’s tough as nails and that’s what I like.

I doubted things back in December. She cried at the drop of a hat and I wondered, ‘Is she who I thought she was?’ Pretty shallow, I know, but fuck you and me both. Me for doubting, you for telling me it’s normal. I wasn’t public about it, but I quietly fell apart back then. Shit, it's been 5 months since I learned of the babies and I still can't get to sleep. She was perfect and that was her biggest flaw. Nobody’s perfect. Something had to be wrong with her and the scary part was that I knew I’d figure it out after the ‘till death do we part’ stuff. And then we'd both be screwed.

Well, I found her flaw tonight. She’s not only imperfect, she’s way below par in one particular arena. I was devastated.

It’s her feet.

Jasmine has the stinkiest feet I have ever smelled in my life. Yeah, she’s got the face of an angel, the body of a goddess, the mind of a genius and the heart of a saint. But holy god damn she’s also got the feet of a Sasquatch wearing last year’s sneakers.

She stank up my desk area when she blogged, then she sat down next to me on the sofa and complained about cramps in her feet. A foot massage? Oh, hell no! And risk staining my skin with your foulness? Uh uh. You need to take your stank ass, rotting feet into the bathroom and scrub those sons of bitches with Dial anti-bacterial soap and battery acid before I pass out from the fumes. And don't come back in here without a can of country fresh Lysol in your hand.

I was right. I don’t deserve her. I ain’t been bad enough in my life to be sentenced to that odor.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

S&M nightmares

Today was the day for people to crawl up my ass and irritate my colon. Sarah dyed her brown. I could care less what color her hair is, but for the love of Christ does everyone in the office have to stop in front of my door and shriek the same thing? “Oh my god, you dyed your hair!” Shut the fuck up. The shit grows out of her head that color. It’s not exactly a skillset.

Hang on, right turn – I am hornier than a motherfucker right now. And for no good reason. I should be fine, satiated. But no. I’m sitting here with a hard-on watching a movie with Rosie O’Donnell in it. You would think it would be humanly impossible to maintain it under such circumstances, but here it is. Staring at me. Poking me in the chin. Shut up, you don’t know.

Well, Jasmine tried on about a half dozen different blogs and finally found one she likes. I helped her insert a photo since it required html, but other than that she did it all on her own. I’m not sure what she’ll talk about, but once she gets comfortable with it I’ll ask if she wants me to publish her URL.

For the handful of folks who have emailed this week about sending gifts to Jazzy, I’ll come up with something. To be honest, I don’t want anyone spending money on us. Especially those of you with $600,000 houses smaller than my first apartment. But you folks in Texas where the cost of living is actually decent, you bitches need to pony up with the double stroller/car seat/carrier combos. Stingy bastards. Save a brutha a buck.

Oh god, no! I just saw Rosie O’Donnell in a black leather S&M outfit. My hard-on's returning in full force. This is getting gross. I gotta go find my Lubriderm before I take an eye out.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Babies are marketing gimmicks

The office is throwing Jasmine a baby shower which means we had to go together to register. That’s exactly how I wanted to spend my time after work. Yes, dear, those most certainly are the cutest little socks I’ve ever seen. Oh my god, you’re right, we absolutely do need the Eddie Bauer faux leather trimmed car seats. Isn’t faux leather one of the safest materials known to mankind? I think so! There’s a reason the word “retardant” is written on the box and it has nothing to do with flames.

I grumbled, moaned, balked, sighed and exhaled loudly in case she missed everything before it. I was willing to fake severe abdominal pains with a side of constipation when she backed me up against an end cap of baby blankets and shoved the zapper in my hand. You mean…I get to do it? Hot damn! Hang onto your ass, honey. I’m driving this bad boy now.

Zap. Zap. “Hey, honey, you see this? It’s one of those tiddy suckers for when your milk comes in. Moo.” Zap.

“Oh, snap, check it out! They’re nipple bumpers so it doesn’t hurt when the kids start gnawing on your boobages there. You need these.” Zap.

“Baby monitor with a video camera. Need it.” Zap. “Potty chair.” Zap. “Baby luggage. Need two.” Zap, zap. “Hey, honey, you want me to hook you up with this tiny hinny cream, you know for rashes and shit…and shitty rashes?” Zap. Just in case.

“Daaaamn! What’s that?” It was circular like a chair for babies but with shit attached all over it like a playground for the immobile. “Just because I love you, I’ll hook you up with two.” Zap, zap. “And this miniature bed swing.” Zap. “Plus these clothes. Socks. Bibs. Diapers, lots of diapers. Sony headphones. Mini DVD player. New laptop. Faux leather belt in a 32” to go with the faux leather car seats. Baby doll, you need anything? New shirt, shoes, tampons?” Zap, zap, zap, zap, zap, zap, zap. “You just say the word.”

Thirteen minutes later we took our zapper back to the baby lady and she printed off the trophy sheet. It was six pages long. This registering shit is great. Can’t wait till the shower.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Jay Haters

Thought this was funny. I saved it in jpg form so it could be a part of Jay's Party forever and ever.

(I have no idea what she's talking about. Not only have I never emailed this person, I don't even know who she is.)

(I agree. Post that shit so I can see it, too. I must be sleep-mailing.)

I had a great time. Come back soon!

Monday, March 14, 2005

Cooter Pie

Eating out hasn’t been the same this last month. Once upon a time my wife had hip bones, a lovely dip beneath the navel when she was lying on her back, a tummy that held a little circle of pudge that was yummy and motionless. Nowadays, I get her on her back and I fucking find Nemo bumping around in there.

First there’s the foreplay. Ladies, look, we fellas got to know when we’re doing it right. You girls make noises that could mean both “Ooh, I love the circles, don’t stop” just as much as it could mean “Sensitive, you moron, back off, ow, OW!” Without the visual, it’s hard to tell. That’s why when we’re dining out we like to be able to look up and make sure things are on the right track.. Does she like that? What’s this spot right here do? Oh, shit, she shrieked. Is that bad? Goddammit, I forgot to change the oil in the truck today.

Now throw an 8 inch tall mound ‘o fetuses in the way and everything goes awry. I’m down there getting my groove on, looking up at the underside of the biggest belly I’ve ever laid eyes on from that angle when suddenly a thigh comes out of nowhere and slams against my ear.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“That’s too much, it hurts! Move around!”

Well, fuck. Look, all I wanna do is stick it in, all right? At least understand I’m down here for you. Yeah, it’s good. I like the taste, the power, the way it makes you want to ride me like a rodeo bull, but dammit have some understanding that I’m driving blind down here, will ya? I can’t see shit anymore. Swirl, swirl, lick, suck, swirl, swirl, moan, groan, spastic jerk. That’s what I was taught before. I had a routine. And it worked. Now I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

And holy mother of Christ, how in god’s name am I supposed to mount up? It’s in the way! We’re down to 3 positions, none of which are any of your damn business, but you can safely assume missionary doesn’t come into play. In fact, missionary is only remotely possible if I scoot her to the edge and stand up, that way I don’t have to lean over the mass of children who live for the opportunity to fuck up my sex life.

The last time I got the notion to kiss my wife during sex her face was at least three feet away from me and there was clearly no way to reach her without…exiting. And let me tell ya, folks, I wasn’t exiting a goddamn thing at that point. I was three strokes from the promise land and not even Christ himself was gonna tap me on the shoulder to stop at this point. There’s that one magical stroke that seals the deal and no matter how many dead puppies you think about, no matter how many logarithms you run in your head, that shit’s gonna happen. You just gotta hang on and hope for the best. And pray she gets hers and doesn’t define it as “apology sex” the next day to her friends when you shamefully face the fact that you were…a little quick, to put it kindly…and sincerely apologize for that.

It’s all the belly’s fault. Ain’t nothing been right since the belly came along.


Got arrested tonight. Charges were dropped, but if you ask me this is still going to ruin my chances of running for office.

I keep playing it over in my head trying to figure out what else I could have done, but really, it wasn’t my fault. I’m innocent, dammit.

All right, I ain’t gonna lie. I’m a bit aggressive on the road. When I want in a lane I take my spot. I don’t flip on a blinker and wait for the car in the other lane to mail me an engraved invitation as to when he’s ready to let me in. Still, I think ole Bubba got out of hand.

We were driving west, coming back from my old man’s place, when I went to change highways. I had to make a right turn, drive one block, then make a left onto the other highway. Easy enough. But in changing lanes to turn right, I pissed off some redneck in a red F350 when I got in front of him. In that little one block space between the two state highways he sped past me, threw an open can of coke at my truck, then swerved in front of me to stop in the middle of the street, blocking both lanes.

Bubba got out of his truck and no sooner had I unclipped my seatbelt when Jasmine started in on me. I’ll admit, more than the arrest, I regret yelling at her. I told her to shut up. Damn I feel bad about that. I can defend it, but I can’t undo it. She was trying to keep me from getting out of the truck and I understand that. But I couldn’t sit there and let the son of a bitch come up to my door and start drilling me through my window. Nor could I risk him walking around to her side of the truck. Oh, shit, if he’d gone to her side of the truck I would have killed him. As it was, he threw the coke right at her window. At least if he was unarmed I had a chance. I could clearly see the gun still hanging on the rack in his back window.

We had some words, mostly the four-lettered kind. I was ready for him to take the first swing. He was damn sure pissed enough to do it. He had on a beat up Stetson with a handlebar mustache I couldn’t believe I was seeing. And he was a big son of a bitch, too. Motherfucker was an oak. While my mouth was spewing stupid shit that could do nothing but earn an ass whipping, my mind was running the digits through my head, 250, maybe 275. He wouldn’t feel it in the gut. Gonna have to go for the face. Goddamn he’s tall. What, 6 and a half, maybe?

That’s when Andy Griffith showed up. Apparently Jazz had pressed the emergency button on the OnStar and three cops rushed to the scene. Hot damn, they had a live one! For the third time in my life I was Mirandized, put in bracelets and placed into the back of a patrol car. I didn’t even fucking do anything. “Leon” was placed into the back of another car. Guess that name explains his inner rage.

The third cop was talking to Jasmine for a long time. I kept waiting for him to give Officer Lickety Split who was in the car with me the okay to let me out, but he just kept right on talking. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Looks to me like he’s flirtin’ with your wife.”

Jesus Christ.

Twenty bats of the eye later I was pulled from the backseat and told to avoid the city of Redneck for awhile.

And before you people start in on the shit about how she rescued me from going to jail, keep in mind she’s the one who called the cops in the first place. I had it under control.

Friday, March 11, 2005

War of the Roses

I am not vain. There’s a difference between vain and confident. Last night when I did my rendition of “Ain’t Going Down till the Sun Comes Up” by Garth Brooks which earned me a standing ovation from all 13 people in Papa’s Icehouse I didn’t let it go to my head, no ma’am. I took my applause like a gentleman.

“Thank you, thank you. Please, that’s enough. Thank you. Oh, me? I’m the greatest? No, not at all. But thank you. Thank you, folks.”

It helps when 9 of those 13 people are your already drunk co-workers. In fact, every damn one of us got up and sang a song before the night was over with. Which was roughly 7pm when Happy Hour ended and the price of beer went up.

For those who have never heard the song before, maybe I’ll upload it when I get home this evening so that you can be awed with my lingual skillz. I don’t know what my wife ever did to snag me, but she must have been awful damn good in a previous life.

Ah, but the tides turn, do they not? The DJ at Papa’s was a rookie at the firm for a few months until he fell out of his quintile and got the axe. He lets us pick songs as we go rather than submitting slips of paper for a turn. I rallied the meager crowd into chanting Jazz’s name until she gave me an irritated glare and stood up.

“Hey, honey, take the kids with you, will ya?” I earned a smack upside the head but it was worth it.

She whispered her song to DJ Jazzy Jeff and that’s when I got suspicious. What the fuck is he laughing at?

Not everybody is blessed with my vocal ability, but Jazz is mediocre at best and she knows it. I give her props for getting up there. Did I mention she was the only female there? That’s probably why she did it. Had any member of the shark pool been there she would have never gotten up.

Jeff queued the music and my compassionate, warm, witty, sarcastic, spiteful wife paid tribute to Carly Simon with a little “You’re So Vain.”

Even the fucking bartender was laughing.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Woahwuz me.

You're probably thinking I'm a pussy when I'm sick. You're probably right. Fuck you just the same. I'm headed to the office. I'll steal some corporate time and update this shit shortly.

******* Holyshit, he updated!********

In honor of St. Pat we'll be heading over to Papa's tonight, a local
karaoke bar. I even talked Jasmine into going and mingling with the
office folk. The BM stopped picking up the tab for office outings two
quarters ago but that also means he stopped showing up for as long so
it's still a winning scenario. Flaccid sack of shit.

I've been practicing in my truck on the way to work, clearing my lungs
with a little a capella. Sing it loud, sing it proud. I'm an
amazing singer. As far as you know. Jasmine will probably sit with
the boys and try to remain inconspicuous, like I'm gonna let that
happen. I'm'll have to get my groove on tonight. She'll hate it.
I'll love it. Damn, life is great.

Odd, the sickness is all gone. Raging high fever, little mucus,
pounding head and 72 hours later perfectamundo. That's how it is,
right there. Fucking virus screwing around with my T-cells. My
T-boys whipped some ass.

Our neighbor across the street suddenly moved this week. Not one damn
word was said to me. He's a pro-golfer and has invited me to shoot
some holes with him several times. Hell, free golf is worth a few
hours of bad jokes. His wife was all right, little bitchy about his
sports car fetish, but hell it's better than a hooker fetish. Gotta
pick your battles, ya know. I would have expected him to say
something any of the dozen times we talked over the week about the
fact that he was moving. But nope. Motherfucker snuck out during
business hours and vanished. Turns out the wife came back a day later
to get some things and told Jazz they moved up to a big 3500 sq ft
house a mile away pricing in the quarter mil range.

"Why didn't Dave say anything to me?"

Jasmine shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't like you."

That hurt. And even though I think she's wrong, (who wouldn't like
me?) it's been bothering me all week. After six years of
living side by side, the son of a bitch up and left without even a
"bite my ass, half breed." This po' white trash redneck ain't upscale
enough for him? Allow me to pick my drawers out of my ass while I
send him a big "up yours, bitch." See if I accept another offer of
golf from him again. Unless it's at Tour 18 in which case I'll be the
bigger man.

Maybe I'll sing Madonna's "Like a Virgin" to Jasmine tonight. At 20
weeks along, she is unmistakably not.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

The Germinator

Been running a fever the last couple of days, hence the reason Jazz took her own car. 103.1 according to her new baby thermometer she couldn’t wait to zap me in the ear with. My head hurts, there’s some nasty shit coming out of my nose when I sneeze, my ears have checked out for the time being and when I glanced in the mirror this morning I could have sworn my hairline was not where I left it. I think the germs are eating my follicles.

I can remember a time when I walked around feeling like a champ, carrying a stiffy 3 or 4 times a day, never had fevers or body fat or hair in my ears. Now I’m sleeping in the third bedroom several nights a month to keep my evil germs away from the party of 3 holed up in my nice, soft king size bed with the crunchy down comforter and silky 600 thread count bed sheets. I feel like a dog that got caught pissing on the floor, dammit.

It was Katy, that little shit. She gets me sick every time. She’s a walking germ factory, manufacturing the crap and spraying it like a shotgun blast every time she comes over here. “Uncle Day, I give you a kiss. Come ear-atchoo! Hee hee, I ‘neeze on you.” I frantically wipe at the shit before it has time to seep through my skin and infect my blood stream but alas her bionic taint overcomes me every time. Little shit.

Jazzy and I made out a will last week. Legally, we can’t address the children in it yet because they haven’t been born, but we were able to foreclude them should something happen to her during delivery or what not and the children survive her. Sucks to think about that stuff, but you gotta. And assuming something happens to both her and me before we have time to amend it after their births we left them to my sister and The Professor to raise with Kadybug. Katy is mine if something happens to Julie. The Professor is not her father and her biological daddy is probably living under a bridge somewhere tapping a vein. I have legal guardianship of her so the state doesn’t whisk her into foster care while I fight it in court. All stuff nobody likes to think about, but hell if you’ve got life insurance you’re halfway there. Might as well follow through.

Here’s The Germinator weekend before last. There's only one way to watch 102 Dalmations on TV. In full costume.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Too much time to ponder

After Ray died I started questioning my mortality. He didn’t commit suicide by Webster’s definition, but in essence he initially performed something that killed him. Then again, if we look at it that literally then everybody who is overweight is committing a form of suicide whenever they get that second plate of food, or everyone with high blood pressure is committing suicide whenever they heap on the good ole sodium chloride just to end up in a coffin at the ripe old age of 48. So I guess in that way he was as guilty as the rest of us. He was just successfuly sooner.

I think I eat right, I run about 35 miles a week, I maintain a positive outlook. Essentially, I don’t believe I’m committing suicide. But if those who say we leave this Earth when our job here is done are right, then why not live it up? Why not smoke, drink, weigh 600 lbs and suck the salt straight from the shaker?

I remember using a blade to clean sap off my old man’s truck windshield when I was 16 and pausing to look at the blade. Would it hurt if I sliced my wrist? Probably not much. What would it feel like once the blood started to spurt out? Cold, maybe. Perhaps I’d panic and try to stop it. Is that what Terrell was thinking when he jumped from the Rainbow Bridge back in ’89, panic? It was an unsurvivable leap. So if he changed his mind half way down did the fear numb him to impact?

Hell, sometimes I just think about stupid shit I guess. Jasmine took her own car to work this morning so I had nobody to talk my ear off on the way in to work. I’ll have to make sure she doesn’t do that again.

Friday, March 04, 2005

The holiest of shits

Whatever it is that compels us to look at something we know we don’t want to see is buried deep within us. Like a pair of old lady tiddies in the breakroom. I knew they were old. I knew they were ugly. But they were tiddies and I needed to see them. I can’t explain it. It’s primal.

So today when Jesse and Danny and I came back from lunch and stopped off at the restroom it was destined by nature to be interesting.

Danny and I took the urinals with the usual spacer urinal between us and began doing our thing. That’s when Jesse, who had headed for a stall, suddenly shrieked and ran back toward us.

“Man, you gotta see this!”

I gave Big Jay a moment to wrap things up, shook him off and dropped him back down into my pants leg before turning around. “Pass.”

“No. No. Come here. Now.”

Danny looked at me and smiled. He started chuckling and shook his head. “Uh uh.”

Jesse was pacing back and forth between the stall door and us. His eyes were huge. I started picturing a bloody body with a tourniquet or maybe a python. “Can't you just flush it?”

Jesse suddenly halted, raised his brows and stared me down. “Ya think?” He swept his arm out toward the stall door. "Go for it, bitch. Take her down."

My life path altered in that moment. It was a split second decision to subject myself to something I knew could cause permanent retinal burn-in. An image destined to pop up during sex when I least expect it. But I wanted to know, to see for myself, what could upset a man who stood roughly 6’0” with 200 pounds of push. It was a decision I quickly regretted.

I stepped up, leaned into the stall and...

“Holyshit! Danny, you gotta see this!”

Danny started laughing so hard he couldn't respond. He walked up, I'm sure against his better judgment, and looked inside. "Ahhhh, hell no!"

None of us will ever be the same.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Freaks R Us

Michael Jackson is a fucking freak. I don’t understand why money persuades people to accept him as an idol. His goddamn nose is made by Rubbermaid and he coerces young cancer stricken boys to let him jack them off. Get the hell out of here.

And what’s up with the armband? The face masks are obvious, he’s hiding his umpteenth nose job. And I get the long hair and makeup. It’s gay. Duh. But the armband means what?

He should be kicked in the ass for naming his kids Prince Michael. All of them. That shit just ain’t natural. What kind of screwed up twist of fate gives Michael Jackson three boys? I bet that sick fucker has already had his hands on all three of them.

You just don’t know how loud I’ll holler when the verdict comes back guilty. Yeah, Rodney King was a travesty of justice. But so was OJ. The score is tied. Let’s finally send a freak to jail where he'll get all the butt-fucking he can stand. Damn I wish I could have been selected for that jury.

Prosecution: Juror 178, have you or anyone you known been the victim of a sexual assault?
Me: Guilty.
Prosecution: Do you foresee any problems you might have serving on this jury?
Me: Guilty.
Prosecution: Are you coming to this jury with an open-mind?
Defense: Veto, your honor.
Me: Guilty.

Speaking of freaks of nature, I was staring at my wife tonight while she sat on the couch. She had her shorts pulled down beneath her belly and her shirt pulled up high and kept saying, “Did you see that?”


“Look at it, Jay. See?”

I looked. “No.”

This is the part where she loses patience with me. It always happens and I know its coming and yet I can’t stop myself from encouraging it.

“Come here.”

Dammit. I leave my sacred recliner and sit down next to her. She takes my hand and places it on her belly. “Feel that?”


She gave me the look. I love the look. It means I’m winning. Now if I can just hold out 5 more months I’m sure I’ll wake up and realize this was all just a very bad, scary, ball breaker of a dream.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Impregnated Uteri

My timing sucks. I finally told Jasmine last night I had no problem with her staying home with the kids if she wanted to. Or even with her going back to school for her Master’s which she’s mentioned before that she wished she’d gotten. We talked it over at length and it looks like she’s gonna do it.

Then I got to work this morning and Sarah informed me she’s 2 months pregnant.

Well, fuck.

So just about the time Jasmine should be, but won’t be, returning we’ll be wheeling Sarah’s ass out the door for a couple of months. Not to be selfish and insensitive, but does this mean I’m gonna have to fill out my own new account forms? Dammit to hell! And what if she gets the brilliant idea to stay home with her kids, too? I am so screwed.

Sarah’s been yucking it up with Jasmine all morning out there. I wish she’d shut the fuck up. She just found out yesterday. I knew I should have been suspicious when she left for a doctor’s appointment and then called to tell me she wouldn’t be back that day.

“Where are you buying clothes? What does it feel like? Is it tight? Can you bend over and touch your toes?” Why would she want to? “Are you scared? I’m scared. You’re tall. I’ll look like a butter ball! What color are you painting the nurseries? Are you still throwing up?”

Shut the fuck up!

Four more months of the dueling mothers. Maybe I’ll be glad for the peace and quiet by the time they leave.