Jay's Party

And not one damn book offer. Illiterate bastards.

2005-07-11T00:56:00.000-05:00

I’ll be honest, writing this post was harder than I thought it would be. I’m not so big on long goodbyes, so I’ll keep it short. I’m honored so many of you have drifted through and even stuck around just to hear my side of things. And it was humbling when I discovered recently that hundreds of people have quietly linked to me. But as is the fate of all kick-ass parties, it's time for the ball to drop. Not mine. The fictitious ones. Mine dropped years ago. Just prior to their removal back in January of this year.

So after a year and two months, Jay’s Party is turning out the lights. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me. And if I finished before you were ready, hell, it wouldn't be the first time.

In honor of my blinding talent, I dug up a few posts I felt summarized the evolution of our magical journey together:
Ring around the penis
Someone's at the door
Chernobyl ass
A photograph
Bad dog
Who’s your daddy?
Savannah smiles
Jiminy Fucking Cricket
Opimpia
I hate being a party pooper
The Boogey Man
You’re not Mom
They’re here!
How it all happened

Maybe we'll see each other around. And Jack, you still owe me a beer, you cheap bastard. I haven't forgotten.

Olivia & Ben

Good night,
Jay

Just a quiet morning in hell

2005-07-08T10:09:00.000-05:00

Olivia’s had her bottle. Ben’s had his bath. Both kids are swinging in synch side-by-side. We’re seconds from Mr. Sandman. Momma’s in bed asleep. Daddy’s about to sit his ass down in this here recliner, kick up the foot rest, and have himself a little power nap.

Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Foot rest up, there it is. Now we’re talking. It’s all about Jay right now, baby. Just me and my eyelids – Shit!

Shh, shh, shh! Don’t cry, don’t do it. Quiet down. Look at your brother. See how good he’s being? Where’s your binky. Here, here. Open up. There you go. Nice binky. Good girl.

Daddy’s just gonna go sit down over here in his comfy chair, ok? You just close your eyes and – well what the hell did you spit it out for? Don’t cry, why are you crying? You spit it out! Ok, ok, here. Here it is. See? Yeah. Now you’re fine.

Daddy’s just gonna crank this puppy up a notch and get you swinging good. Where’s the button for – how the fuck do you – well, shit. What’s this button do? Woah, that’s fast! AH, SHIT! Face plant!

Oh my god, oh my god, are you broken? Did that hurt? Daddy’s so sorry, baby. Come here. Shh, shh, shh, you’re ok. See, no blood. You won’t remember a thing five minutes from now so let’s not tell your mother.

Back in the swing, there you go. Seatbelt. We don’t wanna make that mistake again. Take your binky. Good girl. Let’s try something with fewer RPMs this time, shall we?

All right. You just close your eyes and enjoy the ride. Daddy will be right here in his big chair thinking about you. Perfect. Footrest up. Reclined back. Eyes closed.

(clock tic tocs)

Are they ok?

Oh good, she’s asleep. Just like her – what in the hell are you doing awake? Look at your sister over there being good. Go back to sleep. It’s not time – what the – ah, hell! Did you just shit your pants? Damn, son!

Great. Just fucking great. Look at this. Do you see what you did? You’ve got mustard squishing out your britches. Would you – stop pushing! Don’t you see the pamper has exceeded maximum capacity?

Come on, let’s go. Watch your head, watch your – ouch, did that hurt? Daddy’s so sorry. Uh oh, it’s gonna drip! Eww. Let’s go get this changed. Why didn’t you do this before your bath, huh?

Uhewehuhehwuh. That’s just foul, son. Lie still. Stop kicking or you’re gonna get your heel in the, shit! I’m not changing those socks again. You’re just gonna have to go barefooted.

Ok, here we go. Cracks are clean. All of them. Now we need…damn, son. Do you know what your mother would do if I laid on my back and pissed all over the place like that? How do you get it to be so…buoyant?

Now. All dry and clean. Let’s get another onesie out. Perfect. Back to the swing.

Dammit. I forgot about the shit. No problem. See, look. We’ll just put this hand towel over it and it’ll be fine. No problem.

What’s that face for? You’re not gonna – Shh! Stop, stop, don’t cry! Shhhhhhhhhhh! You’re gonna get daddy in trouble. Remember the last time you cried? Daddy just barely dropped you, but you made it sound like the end of the world and I got yelled at! Stop it!

Now look what you’ve done. You woke up your sister.

Olivia, stop copying your brother. Benjamin, be a man. Men don’t cry. We’re tough. Be a leader, son. Binky? Here you go, wanna binky? Close your mouth. Feel it? There it is. Close your mouth. Good boy!

Ok, angel. Here you go. Good girl. You latched right onto that thing. No wonder your mother’s nipples look like baked mud. All I got to say is you better outgrow that need to suck before you hit puberty or I’ll be damned.

Whew! Now it’s Daddy’s turn to take a nap. Right here in my chair. Ahhh.

(clock tick tocs)

“Jay?”

Nooooooo! What the hell is she doing up already? I opened one eye. “What do you want, woman?”

She smiled and kissed me. “Come back in here with me.”

Huh? The other eye popped open. “But you can’t…”

“I can do other things.”

I am one unworthy bastard.

How it all happened

2005-07-05T22:00:00.000-05:00

This has taken me four days to write. If you're smart, you'll skim it and be done with it in less than five minutes.

***

It started Tuesday, the 28th. She was moaning while she napped on the couch.

“Hey. Jazz. Hey.” She opened her eyes and looked up at me, just as pretty as the day I met her. “I can’t hear the TV over your moaning. You about to drop those puppies?”

She didn’t get my humor. Pity, because I’m damn funny.

“It just hurts.”

“You wanna go back up there?”

I knew the answer before I asked. She’d been up there twice and hated the stuff they gave her to stop the labor. I told her to take a shower, but she decided to walk around outside instead.

I stood in the kids’ bedroom watching her through the window as I called my sister. “Hey, she’s doing that thing again. And she’s walking up and down the sidewalk.”

“For how long?”

“Walking or hurting?”

“Both.”

I looked at my watch. “Hurting for about an hour. Walking for 10 minutes. She won’t go in.”

“She hates that stuff.”

“That’s what she said. What do I do?”

“Stay calm.”

Give me a fucking break. What the hell kind of advice is that? “So there’s no reason for me to boil some water and get a newspaper and shit just in case?”

“I can’t believe she married you.”

“Neither can I.”

Jasmine walked back in through the garage and I heard her call my name. She said she felt better, but was exhausted so she went to bed. Hmph. False alarm, I guess. I stayed up for about another hour working on some highly important illegal downloads before I headed that way myself.

I got no more than three or four hours of sleep when she started groaning again. Ah, hell. She kept moving from side to side, stealing the covers and getting louder by the minute.

“Honey, come on now. Do we need to go?”

And that’s when I heard it. It was a swooshing sound along with her gasp. She sat up and waddled to the bathroom to sit on the toilet and that’s when I felt my heart drop from my asshole. There, in the bathroom, was a waterfall of gushing fluids falling from my wife into the toilet. After months of five second “tinkles” every hour, the woman had become Niagara Falls. This could not be good.

“Jay?”

Shh! Don’t say anything. She can’t be in labor if you don’t respond.

“My water broke!”

Fucking A. Okay, think bitch. Think. Water breaking. That’s a labor thing. That’s like when the babies aren’t floating and, um, what did that woman say? 24 hours to something or infection.

“Call your sister. Get my bag. We need to go.”

Right. We need to go. I put my pants back on, grabbed a shirt and chased her out the door. We got about two miles away when I remembered the bag. Fuck it. If I have to choose between coming back for the bag or delivering these things myself, a second trip it will be.

I put in Norah Jones and we listened to it on the way to the hospital. She talked a little, but then she’d get quiet and cover her face with her hand.

Oh, shit. Don’t cry. She won’t cry. She’s a tough girl. I wasn’t talking about her.

She had two contractions during the first song. They were 2 ½ minutes apart. That’s fucking insane. Even I knew that. “Baby, cross your legs.”

“Shut up and drive!”

I hit the gas. We got to the hospital and I ran inside to fetch some homely bitch with a wheelchair. From the car to the elevator, Jasmine had two more contractions. I moved the car while they brought her upstairs and then ran back in.

I found her in the room already wearing a gown with an IV in her left hand. The nurse was hooking some belt things around her belly and telling her she’d check her in just a minute.

From this point, it’s all a blur, but I do recall little to laugh about. We went through several hours of contractions before the anesthesiologist showed up to do the epidural. By the way, you should be impressed with me. I spelled both of those words right. I’m the man.

Labor hurts. I know this. It hurt my hands, it hurt my arms and it hurt my chest when a fistful of hair was sacrificed to the cause. It looks like a scary, sharp spike on a piece of ticker tape coming out of a bleepy machine that makes just enough noise to piss off my wife. It curdles the innards of a perfectly sane woman and causes her to belch profanities that would make any sailor proud. And it’s long. It just goes on and on and on.

Her contractions were close as hell, but she wasn’t making progress. She’d been 3cm when we walked in the door, but was only 4cm five hours later. They were coming so swiftly they didn’t want to give her the drip that accelerates it, but if she didn’t start opening up they were threatening to take them surgically. That pissed her off. That’s when she demanded drugs for the first time all morning. I was so fucking relieved. How 'bout a round over here, too, please.

About an hour later the little dude with the magic spinal lube came in, chipper and smiling. He looked at Jasmine and asked her to define her level of pain. I nearly laughed. He’s gotta be new.

“If monkeys leapt from your anus, it would not compare.”

That’s my girl. Motherfucker had that coming. He looked awkwardly at me and then back at her. “I see. So that’s a number 10 on this list?” He pointed to a chart with a frownie face with tears. What a fucking moron.

They sat her up and slumped her over in this crouching tiger, hidden dragon position. Then Mr. Frownie Face With Tears took a needle with a garden hose attached to it and started jabbing her. She flinched.

“You have to be still, Mom.”

“Fuck you!”

He looked at me. “You heard her. Fuck you.”

“Hold her still, please.”

Oh. Okay. I had to look away and even then I had to listen to her scream when the medicine went in. She told him it burned. He told her that was normal. That’s when it all hit me. The smells, the tears, the needles, the pain, oh…shit. She’s for real. She's gonna drop these puppies today. Oddly enough, I expected someone to ask for my permission first.

Within minutes she was floating on a drug-laced cloud. I was glad to see her finally relaxed after so many hours. There were at least five people in the room at all times because of the twins. For the most part, they kept their distance and said supportive shit that made me think, “Damn, why didn’t I say that?”

I sat down for the first time all morning as she dozed off. It was so surreal. How could it go from screaming pain to silence just like that? The lack of yelling and moaning made me more uncomfortable than all the noise.

Julie showed up about 10:30. Fashionably late. “Nice of you to finally show up.”

“You knocked her up. Not me. How many centimeters is she?”

“Five.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“They letting her deliver?”

“So far.” I pointed to the big bleepy machine on the other side of the bed tracking the kids’ heartbeats. “As long as that thing doesn’t tell on her.”

Thirty minutes later, the world had again changed. Jasmine woke up and started complaining about the burn. Something burned. One of the nurses stuck a hand up my wife’s coochie, then pulled it back out. Her fingers were bloody.

“Fully dilated and effaced. You ready to push?”

Woah! Push what? Just like that? “Wait a second!”

My pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. I was given my wife’s left thigh and told to hold it up for her. A nurse angled the bed so Jazz was nearly upright and then people started scurrying everywhere.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Am I doing this right? Am I squishing her? This can't be comfortable. And why didn't I know she could get her legs up that high? Will they just shoot out right now or does this step go on for hours? Is my hair okay for the new dad pics?

“Deep breath. Push with your bottom and push push push push push push push push!”

The doctor was crouched between her legs and doing shit with his fingers. I peeked once and nearly lost it. There was blood and snot and boogers and all kinds of shit oozing out. Oh my god, it was nasty!

They had gadgets and monitors and a shitload of nurses standing in two groups waiting for the turkeys to shoot from their cannon. Jazz did her thing and she was so good about it. Her face was flush and sweaty and she was panting between pushes, but she kept going and was even cognizant enough to ask them questions about her progress.

I just kept repeating my line which I learned in the child-bearing classes Jazz and I took a few Saturdays ago. “You’re doing great, honey. They’re coming out, you’re doing great.” They made us repeat that line over and over again. Without it, I would have stared at the horror that was her crotch and probably puked. But this gave me a diversion. This way I only had to look at her face and damn she’s beautiful. Even when she’s sweaty and red and exhausted.

“One last push. Push, push, push, push, push, push! You did it! It’s a girl!”

I was afraid to look.

Someone shoved a pair of scissors in my hand. “Cut the cord, Dad.”

I looked at it.

It…was a smurf. A tiny, bloody, slimey, blue smurf with cheese in its cracks. It was the grossest thing I’d ever seen. “Huh?”

“Cut the cord. Quickly. NICU needs her.”

I put the scissors to the purplish-white rope, also covered in slime and blood, and started gnawing at it with the scissors. It was dense and rubbery and for all I knew it hurt like hell.

“I need to sit down.”

I think they laughed at me, but I was too sick to my stomach to care. Fucking hospitals are full of germs and now I’ve been infected with something that’s effected my gastrointestinal system and made me sick. And at a really inopportune time considering I’d just had a daughter.

After my body fought off the foreign germs in record time, I went back to stand by Jasmine. Apparently my sister had been asked to take my place while I struggled with this deadly strain of airborne e. coli or some shit, but I sent her ass out the door right away.

We went through the same drill all over again while they did things to the first baby over in the corner. She was crying her little ass off and everyone was smiling so I took that for a good sign. Jasmine had an easier time with the second one. Made me wonder just how stretched out shit was getting down there, but I figured we’d deal with that another time.

When the second one came out he had the cord around his neck.

“Jay, look at him. Is he okay?”

Like I’d fucking know. I braced myself for the gore and looked down there. Oh, shit! Jesus Christ, will I ever have sex with my wife again? I just saw a blue face hanging from her cooter.

“He’s fine. He’s looping it off.” Bleahhehahehaheeh!

One more push later and the next slippery little creature slithered out. This time I was prepared when they put the scissors in my hand. I sawed through the cord, having creepy flashbacks of my dog eating the afterbirth from a litter when I was a kid. They whisked him away and put him through the same abrupt welcome-to-your-life prodding and probing his sister had just gone through.

I think the room was filled with gelatin. Everything moved slowly and all the sounds were muffled and when I looked at Jasmine she was just beaming. I don’t blame her one bit.

I bent down to give her a kiss and asked her, “What in the hell have you done?”

Coming home

2005-07-02T10:45:00.000-05:00

Olivia's coming home with her brother today. I'm here getting a few things ready before I go get them since we weren't expecting them for another week at least.

Thanks for the congratulations. I read all 125 comments. Someone asked about the hats; they're provided by the hospital. And thanks to Julie for posting for me. Now I've gotta change my password.

It's so fucking surreal. All I did is take my wife to the hospital, now they're sending us home with two other people. Do we look like we know what the fuck to do with them? Those are people, dammit. What the hell do you mean they're mine? Bullshit.

I've got a shitload of gift cards for Babys R Us to spend today. That's my assignment. One of the things on my list is nipple protectors. You know, this time last year, I was cool. I was a fucking stud. Now I'm looking for maxi pads for leaky tiddies and nipple protectors.

OK, I wasn't going to get into this right now, but what in the hell is that green sticky shit oozing from their asses? For the love of god! They sleep and shit.

Jazz is testy today. She's fed up with the 87 visitors she's had and the 14 minutes of sleep. It hasn't bothered me none. They fight to change the diapers. Go for it.

She sent me home last night. Told me she wanted to be alone with the twins. I pretended to be bothered and then hauled ass back home. I took a shower and had just lay down in bed when the phone rang. Apparently, Ben was crying and she couldn't get Olivia "latched on" and she'd already called the nurse in three times for help and didn't want to bother her again.

"Honey, she loves to be bothered. Push the button."

"Jay, please." This is where the crying began. "I can't do this."

Like I could say no to that.

This morning I filled the truck with all of the flowers and stuffed animals and free crap the hospital gave us and brought it all back here.

Right now, when I stop typing for a moment.......the house is silent. I hear the clock ticking and nothing more. Something tells me this is the eye of the storm.

They're here!

2005-06-29T15:52:00.000-05:00

Hi, it's me again for Jay.

The twins were born just before lunch today! They are perfect and healthy and Mom is doing great! Dad got to cut the cord for Olivia, but then he got queasy and had to sit down. He did much better with Benjamin. Jay wrote down everything he wanted me to write.

Olivia Claire (that's our mom's name. we're all so touched.)
4 lbs. 15 oz.
18 3/4 inches
11:12am

Benjamin Grant
5 lbs. 6 oz.
19 1/2 inches
11:32am (i can't read his handwriting, but i remember a nurse saying 20 minutes apart. they were both delivered vaginally.)

Congratulations, little brother. You did good.
Jules

Puuuuuuush!

2005-06-29T08:02:00.000-05:00

Hi all! I'm Jay's sister. He told me to write something here to let everyone know they have been at the hospital since 5am. My sister-in-law's water broke at 4am so there is no going back now! She's been in labor for about 5 hours. She's doing so good! A real trooper. My brother is wigging out, but we were prepared for that.

OK, now. I'm on my way up there. If he wants, I'll do an update after they're born.

Jules

Vaginal tunnel

2005-06-27T16:38:00.000-05:00

That light at the end of the tunnel is the train coming at you. Or in this case, twins.

We've been to the hospital twice this past week. I don't expect to make it another week.

Ghosts from Christmas past

2005-06-21T20:20:00.000-05:00

I got this email today:

-----Original Message-----
From: Psycho, Tricia [mailto:crazy-ex-girlfriend@yahoo.com]
Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 2005 2:42 PM
To: 'Jay'
Subject:

dear jay,

hi handsome! long time no talk, huh? how have you been? i've been thinking about you lately. i hope it's gone both ways. what have you been up to? you know me, i've been keeping busy. i sold a painting to a man in houston a few weeks ago and the affirmation has really boosted my ego. well, anyway, i was just wanting to see how you've been. it's been almost a year since we talked and don't worry, i forgive you for not bailing me out of jail that night. (jk) but that's cool. i know you've probably moved on so maybe we can get together for some fun, you know? that's one area we never had problems in, right?

call me, sexy, and we'll set something up. i can't wait. 832-217-xxxx
trish

I told Jazz that Trish emailed. She met Trish when I was dating her a few years ago. There was no response. I haven't replied yet, either.

Family vacations

2005-06-20T01:40:00.000-05:00

Ever been to Mammoth Caves in Kentucky? It's this long, winding path underground with stalagmites and stalagtites and bottomless pits and blind fish swimming in black water and I swear to you there are still bodies in the crevices from tours gone awry.

I went there once, as a kid. We took the 4 hour tour. Four fucking hours of walking underground oohing and ahhing at wet rocks and black dropoffs into never-neverland, which is scarier to an 8 year old boy than the Never-Neverland that comes with butt plugs and a circus freak.

It was one of the many vacations we took as a family. I can only imagine what the fuck my old man was thinking when he planned them.

Then there were the bats at Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico. And oh my fucking god, Custer's battlefield in, what was it, Wyoming? For the love of christ, does every goddamn Native American left in this country gather in the West to make those stupid, fucking dream catcher hoops and shitloads of turquoise jewelry?

In Montana I desperately wanted to see a bear eat somebody. I sat with my nose to the window as we drove through Glacier Park, praying for bloody fangs. Wouldn't that liven shit up?

Arizona ain't got shit but aired-zonas. That was pretty funny, huh? I just made that shit up. Feel free to lift it. Grand Canyon, my ass. It's a big motherfucking hole. Period. But here's a thought: Let's ride a fucking burro to the bottom of the son of a bitch and make a day of it! Morons.

The sequoias were cool as shit, right there. I enjoyed those. I remember there was a fire near Fresno at the time I was there. I kept hoping it would chase the bears my direction and, again, I'd see one eat somebody. Still no luck.

I watched Old Faithful blow her wad, right on cue. And I'll tell you one place I absolutely hated was Hot Springs...Something-or-Other. Shut up. I'm impressed I remembered the name of the place. The state isn't relevant. You're not gonna go. I hated that place because it was a myriad of plank boardwalks over super-heated water about a foot deep all over. Except, of course, where it was a black hole that went to the core of the Earth and everything burned to death on the way down. That was great. Smelled like ass, too.

Graceland. Oh, Jesus H. Christ. Momma had a thing for young Elvis. I have walked the King's home. I have seen the museums, shops, pearly gates, and 1.3 million flip-flop wearing, big-haired, middle-aged groupees trying to get a piece of their leader. It was not a pretty sight.

I remember Dodge City, Kansas, of all places. They put on a show, outdoors, with a fake shoot-out. I thought it was great. They were standing there shooting at each other right in front of us. I had no idea it was an act. Fuck you, I was a kid. It was almost perfect. All it lacked was a big bear, running from the bushes to eat someone. That would have been the icing on the cake.

The helicopter ride around Mt. Rushmore was the shit. I sat between the pilot and Momma and spent the whole time firing my imaginary machine guns at the ex-presidents.

My old man didn't finish. He wanted to take us to New England, too. I eventually went as an adult, but he still hasn't gone. He hasn't flown since he was discharged 30 years ago. Maybe I'll torture my kids with a 3,000 mile car ride. Or perhaps I'll just throw Jazz on a plane with them and tell them to offer my best to Mickey when they get there. Now there's an idea. It's never too soon to start planning your own family traditions.

Fucking with Ivy

2005-06-14T02:26:00.000-05:00

In my infinite wisdom, I attempted to talk some sense into my out-of-her-mind wife this weekend.

“You just spent three days in a hospital. We are not driving to your sister’s house.”

It was a valid argument in my opinion, but oh-the-fuck no, my wife’s gotta save the goddamn world from itself.

“It’s just for a few days. She needs help.”

She needs a fucking chainsaw to the skull, that’s what the fuck she needs. I was putting my foot down.

“We’re not going.”

I’d say it was about dinner time when we pulled into Ivy’s driveway. We’d spent hours trying to get out of Houston during Friday rush hour just to show up on Ivy’s doorstep and have her turn to me with, “Do you mind going to pick us up something to eat? Chicken. And don’t forget the biscuits.”

Bitch. This shit was ridiculous. Just because Gary was gone for the weekend didn’t mean I had to be dragged down here to rescue her from boredom. That was bullshit. Not that Jazz was making me go with her, but I damn sure wasn’t about to let her do it alone when she can’t even drive for more than 20 minutes without her legs going numb. This whole trip was just bullshit. And no, Ivy could not have come to my house. She is not allowed.

“I need a 10pc, mixed with a large side of mashed potatoes and slaw.”

“10pc mixed, large potatoes and large slaw. Would you like any biscuits to go with that?”

“Nope.”

Ivy wants to paint her bedroom, but with both women pregnant I was pretty damn certain my wife was going to give me those big doe eyes of hers with a plea to help my one and only, thank god, sister-in-law. Well, she could forget it. That’s Gary’s job. I’ve painted my shit. I realize he’s as useless as a wet noodle when it comes to doing shit around the house, but that’s her fault. She picked him.

I brought my feathered kill home, listened to grumbling when the biscuit void was discovered, and enjoyed my meal alone in the living room. A few hours later I noticed Ivy was fussing over shit. Nit picking. She’d straighten the hand towels, push the drawers all the way in, straighten the refrigerator magnets, close the lid to the trash can which popped open when you pushed a button and it stayed that way. I decided the weekend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

For three straight days I left the microwave door slightly ajar, cabinet doors wide open, drawers sticking out, trash can lid up, and scored brownie points with Jazz when I unloaded the dishwasher which was nothing more than a disguised opportunity to put dishes in the wrong place, silverware in the wrong bins, and pots where they didn’t belong. All the while leaving every cabinet door open. I tilted the magnets on the refrigerator every time she turned her back, bumped the perfect pile of magazines, wadded the hand towels and openly sniffed my pits for good measure. I left the foot rest up on the recliner when I got up, scrunched up the throw on the sofa, pulled the caps off her pens on the end table, drew tanks and missiles firing at people with the words “innocent civilians” written over their heads on her marker board, and insisted on using her private bathroom because it had better lighting to read with while I did “number two.” I also used all but that last square of toilet paper that’s glued to the core.

When we left my wife informed me I was an abomination. But what she didn’t say, was that I was wrong for doing it all. Maybe I can learn to tolerate trips to Ivy’s place after all.

It's just gas. Go back to sleep.

2005-06-09T17:38:00.000-05:00

Sunday night I was screwing around online, swapping out my background and getting ready to post the funniest post you’ve ever read. And then my wife fucked everything up.

She was sitting on the couch grunting and continually rearranging herself to get comfortable.

“I told you not to eat those beans at Marco’s.”

“It’s not the beans.”

It damn well better be the beans. She was holding her belly from underneath and cringing, but not in a lot of pain kind of way; just an uncomfortable kind of way. I went back to my typing, but it was hard to focus with her constantly shifting and grunting over there. “Am I gonna have to put you outside?”

Normally a very literate human being, my wife seemed to be at a loss for words. Her frustration had overcome her sense of logic and she could no longer string a sentence together.

“I can’t…something’s…it just won’t…”

Fuck, it could take all night to find out what’s wrong at this rate.

“Wait a second…oh, wow, that’s better.” She exhaled.

She was sitting upright by now, the children taking up the better part of 8 cubic feet of her torso.

Finally. Jesus. I went back to my typing.

So this weekend Jason and I met up with Jesse and Danny for a few rounds of pool. Jesse was bitching and moaning because his wife has quit putting out while Danny bragged that his wife had a fucked up ovary so they were doing it twice a day trying to get pregnant. I was about to throw in my two cents worth when Jason cut me off with-

A loud guttural noise suddenly came from the sofa and Jasmine balled up as much as she could be, holding the bottom of her belly again.

I felt my stomach hit my ankles. Oh my god, cut that shit out. Stop it, stop it. “What are you doing?”

The groan stopped and she just went tense and still with her eyes squeezed shut.

“Jazz?”

What the fuck is going on? Why isn’t she speaking? I got up and walked up to about 6 feet from her. I didn’t want to get any closer. I think that makes me a pussy, but I’m comfortable with that.

Whatever had been clenching her guts slowly let go. She looked up at me and I don’t know who was more scared.

I’d tell you what happened next but I don’t fucking remember. All I know is it was after midnight and we were hauling ass down the road trying to get to the hospital before she sprang a leak and ruined my leather.

At that time of night on an early Monday morning there wasn’t a car around. But apparently some moronic engineer had the lights set up on a timer instead of a sensor. My light turned yellow and I hit the brake. We sat there, no sound, no talking, no traffic, nothing. Just sat there at the intersection by ourselves listening to the crickets chirp waiting for our light to turn green.

“So…did you finish watching that movie?”

Jasmine yelled, “Ow, ow!” and started that groaning again.

Fuck the light, I hit the gas. We made it to the hospital in 17 minutes from door to door, a new record for me. It’s usually 28 during the day. Jazz didn’t even notice. Sometimes she’s so self-absorbed.

They strung her up, pumped her with shit, poked and pinched and lubed her down with goo. Turns out she’d been in labor for several hours, sitting over there on the couch at home taking it like a man. That’s how it ought to be. If women had our strength half the pharmaceutical companies in the world would be out of job without the need to medicate them for their periods and labors and deliveries. Bunch of damn sissies. Suck it up and be a man.

The kids are fine. One of them is bigger than the other so they wanted to observe her for a few days to find out if it’s a difference in growth rate or if one is stealing the other’s rooty tooty fresh and fruity. Jazz’s blood pressure was also a little high. No shit. How’s mine? Check my fucking blood pressure, Goddammit. I bet that shit’s through the roof.

Ah, hell. 33 weeks down. At least 3 more to go.

False alarm

2005-06-09T01:17:00.000-05:00

She went into labor Sunday night. She's been at the hospital for three days while they worked to stop it and observe...stuff. I'm tired as a motherfucker and she's already snoring. Guess that means no sex.

I'm hitting the sack for tonight. I'll be back after the market closes Thursday to detail what happened.

Thanks for standing by me. Sorry to vanish without a word.

The cow uterus

2005-06-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

Does it make me pathetic to say I’ve missed your sorry asses? On the flip side, I had the most productive non-fee month of my career without the obsessive blogging. Most of my accounts are managed so they pay a flat fee every quarter to have some big-balled manager play the market with their life savings, and I get a cut. This means I get to lean back in my chair with my feet on the desk and my dick in my hands and listen to the ch-ching as the bank comes pouring down around me. But in the off months, Feb/Mar, May/June, Aug/Sep & Nov/Dec it’s fucking poverty. Well, by my standards. I’m the man no matter what and you can’t prove otherwise so shut the fuck up and be in awe of me.

So here I was in the month of May, pissing my pants because my wife decided about four weeks ago she wants a tight little SUV and a 5-acre lot out at Saddle Creek which just opened for construction. Oh, shit. The SUV isn’t so bad. But the five acres lakeside are as much as our house we’re in right now and they’re cloaked in a fucking forest that will have to be cleared before building could even begin.

I told her to take a deep breath…and hold it until she passed out and hit her head. Then maybe when she came to this crazy talk would be behind us. I’d love to have enough land to put some livestock on. But livestock require tending and I’m too fucking lazy for that. Then I’d have to build a barn, hire a stable hand to take care of the horses and the next thing you know I’ve blown my entire wad and suddenly I’m in debt with a family of four, a giant house, five acres of land, an SUV with a pedigree, three goats, six cows, two horses and a stable boy who wants to grow up some day to be just like me. Who the fuck needs that kind of pressure in his life?

The land is a no for today. Saddle Creek ain’t going nowhere. Maybe we’ll do it this winter after I get Jasmine’s tubes tied before she can cause any more damage with those shotgun ovaries of hers throwing out eggs in every direction. Jesus, what if she has a third ovary we don’t know about? I’d be so fucked.

Back to my point with the productive month, it appears when I eliminate a large portion of my blogging time it’s actually worth quite a sum of cash to me. I’m a whore. Pay me, bitch, and I’m yours for the night. Or the month of May, as it turns out. Even got a good ole ‘attaboy from the prick I fondly call “Yes, Sir” who holds my balls/career in his hands. (Takes both hands, I have monstrous balls.)

Memorial Day weekend we went to some friends’ house who threw a 90’s party. I realized how old I am. They have an 11 year old who was gone for the night so we hooked up her insanely expensive karaoke machine to the television and fought for custody of the two microphones. Jasmine didn’t get off the couch much but she had a great time.

She’s miserable. A few days ago I asked if I could take her picture but she said she'd rather slide her entire arm into a cow's uterus than have her photo taken at this size. That sounded like a solid "no" to me so I left it at that. Then tonight I found this on the camera. She better have washed her hands when she finished with that cow.

HELL finally freezes over

2005-05-27T00:30:00.000-05:00

I see Jack wants folks to believe he quit for the night when we arrived at Trash's place. All right. If that's how he wants to play it. No problem. I won't say shit about what happened with Lady Mike, because I'm not the gossiping type. And I won't say a goddamn word about the honky-tonk we headed to after we left the revival. Because if I brought up the honky-tonk I'd have to let everyone know that Jack is a damn fine two-stepper. Not from personal knowledge, do I know this, ya understand. But then again, it's apparently none of your damn business how I know because according to Jack it never happened. Hell, I don't blame him. If I'd spent the night two-stepping with some British fop with longer sideburns than my own I wouldn't want my friends to know about it either.

Damn good thing I can respect that about Jack. Boy, you just don't find friends like me these days. I hope he's at home right now counting his blessings. I know Trashman is. I'm still getting the emails from him. Being in the presence of the Jay Master is a life altering experience. I only wish everyone could share, but alas, there's only so much of this sweet little package to go around and it's saved for the ovarian carriers of the species.

On another note, because you know how much I love other notes, I found this on askmen.com. They should rename that site askjay.com. In fact, I’m heading to GoDaddy to buy that domain right now. I’ve got all the answers anyway.

"Here are a few things your wife or girlfriend might do after she tells you that she "forgives" you for cheating:

She'll throw it in your face
Every time you do something wrong -- you're late, or you say the wrong thing -- out comes the weapon... the "you cheated on me" weapon. From this point forward, she is a virtual saint because it was you who betrayed her.

She might want to know everything
She might drill you with 50 questions about the affair and let it go. Then one night, in the middle of an intimate dinner, she might have a few more questions to ask. The point is that she might not let it go -- ever.

She will taunt you
All of a sudden Joe, Jim and John's names seem to be popping up in every conversation you have with her. Suddenly there are hoards of men for her to take her pick from if she ever decides to get back at you.

She'll interrogate you
From this point forward, you're going to have to check in all the time if you want to avoid a paranoid interrogation regarding your whereabouts. Oh and every time she catches you lying, you're screwed, and not in the good way.

She'll cheat
Because she thinks she has a "get out of jail free" card under her belt, she might just sleep with that cute guy in accounting just to have her fill of the grab bag and feel as though she hasn't been taken for a fool.

She'll make you jealous
She may become more flirtatious around your friends so you might have to prepare yourself for a change in her attitude. The worst part is, if you make any negative comments about her behavior, she'll retort with, "at least I'm not screwing them."

More HELL

2005-05-25T10:14:00.000-05:00

Laying eyes on Trashman for the first time is almost as unsanitary as letting your dog lick you in the mouth after he just got finished with a good, sloppy ball washing. Jack seemed oblivious to the behemoth wearing psychedelic purple cowhide slowly approaching the truck. Apparently the mites in his sideburns were acting up again and he was in hot pursuit of one making a mad dash for the chin.

I knew the right thing to do was to get out of the truck and shake Trash’s hand. But to be quite honest, I was afraid the motherfucker would eat me. He walked like the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters and with each step I could see ripples of vibration in Jack’s green tea. What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

Jack jumped out first and ran up to Trash, then he did this fucked up Elvis Presley karate maneuver before throwing his arms around Trash for a heartfelt embrace. It was scary, I tell ya. He even made the sound effects while he was doing it, “Hwaaaahhhhhh, hiYA!”

Now here were a couple of men who needed my help. Bad. This would be my most challenging mentorship yet. Abbot & Costello were depending on me to teach them my trademark, studly moves.

Ten minutes later I was the meat in a freakish GI Joe/Psychedelic Cow sandwich packed into the crack hoopty. Jack cranked up Shania Twain and the two of them sang it loud, sang it proud to Man, I Feel Like a Woman. Trash has a tick that causes him to flinch and wink. Says some dude named Hector put angel dust in his weed and shit ain't been right since.

We got to the tent revival and found us a seat close to god and all his wondrous creations. We ordered us a round of beers, well, two of us did. One of us had a Cosmopolitan and inquired about a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.

The first set of tiddies came out and when she worked her way around to our side Jack doubled over with his hands on his crotch, shuddered, and excused himself from the table.

“You nasty bitch, get the fuck out of here!”

Trash shook his head. “He does that every time.”

“No shit? What else do I not know about Texas Jack?”

Trash was puffing on a doobie. I had to wait for him to exhale to answer. “The man thinks he’s a lethal weapon. Steven Segal and shit. He filled out the registration card to carry a concealed weapon and wrote down himself as the weapon. Oh yeah, don’t laugh. I’ve been putting up with that shit for over 20 years, my man. Watch him when he comes back. He’ll be scoping the place like he’s some bad ass ready to kill. Won’t matter none to him that he creamed his pants ten minutes ago.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.”

“See that big tiddied ho’ over there about to go on?”

“The redhead?”

“Yep. He nailed that shit about a year ago.”

“Get the fuck out! What’s her name?”

“Mike. Shut up, here comes Jack.”

Weekend in HELL

2005-05-23T00:01:00.000-05:00

You think you know a man by reading his blog. You put up with his smack, tolerate his blustering and laugh at his bullshit and you think you know him. But I’m here to tell you, my fine friends, when it comes to Trashman and Jack, you don’t know shit.

I’m a busy man, see, I got lots of friends that I hang out with on a pretty regular basis. But I know that isn’t the case with some folks. So when I got Jack’s 15th email about driving out to his place and buying him that beer I owed him, I figured what the hell. Ain’t no harm in donating a night of my time to a worthy cause. I mean, hell, the man’s gone to war for me. He carries a glock and everything.

Now I’ve read blogs and I know what I had in mind. But apparently there are some less than truthful folks out there. Unlike me, who is honest 110% of the time. Fuck you, you can’t prove shit. So here I am on the drive thinking I know what's ahead of me. Thinking about all the tiddies I’m going to play with at the “church” Trashman and Jack like to meet at for “prayer sessions.” Big Jay was ready to get the party started.

After I managed to locate Whitetrashia Lane I finally found the rickety “cabin” where Jack lived. The appearance might have been a little rough around the edges, but Jack made up for it with a shitload of those miniature crockpots of potpourri all around the house.

“What the fuck is that smell?”

“Summer Berries,” he told me.

“They didn’t carry Some Are Nuts?”

Jack wasn’t on his game at the moment and my attempt to emasculate him went unappreciated. Alex the dog was sitting in the living room, one ear vertically challenged, watching me from beside the TV. “Holyshit, what are you watching? Is that Thelma & Louise?”

“Yeah, well, you know…”

I was quickly starting to fill in the missing pieces of Jack’s identity. Suddenly the lengthy stretches of celibacy made sense.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” I could feel my manhood slipping away into the abyss of Jackdom.

Jack insisted on driving since I’d already been on the road for so many hours, but the last thing I wanted was to be seen in public in the crack hoopty. Folks around there thought Jack was a dealer and he damn sure looked the part. Motherfucker was gonna tarnish my image, but I reminded myself that this man obviously was in some bad need of the Big Jay Mojo and the least I could do was share a secret or two.

It took us about three hours to get to Trash’s place. Turns out Mr. Undercover Narc has a bit of drinking problem. Son of a bitch was sipping Green Tea all the way there and kept having to stop and take a piss. I could already tell this was going to be a fun filled night. At one point he was clawing at his pork chop sideburns when something got caught under his fingernail. I don’t know what the fuck it was but he played with it for about a minute before he flicked it out the window. I swear I heard it scream.

We pulled into Trash’s drive and when that screen door slung open and slammed against the wall my fingers dug into the armrest of Jack’s hoopty and I screamed some shit the likes of which I have never heard come out of my mouth. In fact, I can't even go on right now. I need to go bathe in a tub of rubbing alcohol and penicillin before I can describe what happened next.

Hard drives and orgasms

2005-05-19T09:50:00.000-05:00

The fucking world imploded on me this week. My cable went out Monday night, cutting off internet connection thanks to some dillweed in a backhoe. Then Tuesday night when I sat down and was sliding through some photographs out of sheer boredom I came across one of Katy that was all fucked up. Ten photos later I came across another one. What in the hell? I went into another folder and pulled up one of Mom and it was gone, too. Scrambled, like someone had chopped it up, then partially gray where it just vanished.

Holyshit! I’ve got a fucking virus.

I updated the Norton definitions and set it to running, then fired up the spy hunter and sent him on his way. I had 404 traces of Trojans involved, and not the good kind, but no viruses. So I shut the shit down and ran scandisk on the startup. That motherfucker went all night long repairing bad clusters. I could see the names of the damaged files as they scrolled across the screen and it made me wanna piss on something.

I don’t know what the fuck happened, but something within the last few weeks has been terrorizing my data and neither Norton nor the spy hunter came up with anything. which means one thing: my laptop is an ancient piece of shit.

The hard drive is 20GB, which was massive when I got it 4 years ago. I have 13 GB eaten up with miscellaneous crap. I’m low on RAM, intermittent wireless connection, and my LCD has had a crack in it since the day I brought it home. Around the house we affectionately refer to the machine as the Ghettotop. Jazz’s machine blows mine to pieces, but I gotta bond with mine, ya know? Can't just go replacing shit just because it gets a little cranky in its old age.

And then I discovered my downloaded porn collection had been corrupted. Oh, this motherfucker’s going down, bitch! I went to Best Buy last night and found one that makes Jazz’s look like a boat anchor. I dropped both of them off with a buddy and he’ll be transferring my precious data to the new one for me so I can get my shit up and running again.

I had a pretty damn funny post prepared for Monday, already typed out and everything. But lost internet connection, then lost the file. You would have laughed your ass off. Probably might have even nominated me for Blog of the Year. But alas, you’ll never know now. The mood has passed and I’m not the type to dwell so it’s on to the next topic I go.

Orgasm.

Did you know orgasm is rumored to bring on early labor? I told Jazz she can forget it. She ain’t getting another one from me until the oven is empty because I damn sure won’t be the one to bring it on early. And if I so much as I catch her thinking about masturbating I’ll tie her hands behind her back and publicly flog her. I even told her about the rumor I heard that orgasms are dangerous when carrying twins because of the compressions on their little heads. Brain damage, and all. It’s a rumor I started my fucking self, but goddamn that don’t make it untrue.

She won’t even let me take a photo of her anymore. She’s fucking huge. I look at her and wince. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

She’s 30 weeks. She has an ultrasound scheduled today. I’m hoping to get out of going. It’s always the same shit every time. Now tell me there’s a monkey up in there and I’ll be bedside in a heartbeat. But otherwise, yeah, been there. Done that. Left my card(s).

Sarah’s a whiney pregnant chic. How do you tell a woman who keeps insisting her butt is getting big that, by god, yes, woman your ass if fucking HUGE? And getting bigger every day. She doesn’t even look pregnant but I’m worried her ass is gonna get wedged in my doorway and I’ll be trapped in here and they’ll have to pitch bottles of water to me over her head to keep me from dehydrating until someone can get the machinery out here to dislodge her. I bet she’ll make a popping sound when they finally pry her lose.

Hot Date

2005-05-16T01:20:00.000-05:00

Just got back from a hot date. I'll update this post in the a.m. Hasta mañana, amigos.

Wendy's "Sorry about that finger shit" giveaway

2005-05-13T19:36:00.000-05:00

It's more like a shot of Frosty, but it made Kadybug's day.

eHarmony Lovechild Arrives

2005-05-13T11:15:00.000-05:00

Well, the little shit finally popped out. Jones’ eHarmony wife squeezed out a 7 pound something or other screaming, shitting, sucking little ham last week. Jones is happy. He is, dammit. He keeps saying that over and over again, like I’m the one he needs to convince. He ought to be happy. She loves the fuck out of him, the fat bastard.

He was complaining a few weeks ago that his new, petite little wife was creeping up on 200 lbs. I think that set Jasmine off because she was walking by when she said, “Been a long time since you saw 200 lbs.”

He replied back with, “I’m a man.”

To which she retorted after she passed by, “Honey, you’re a man and a half.”

Fuck Jones. I was laughing. He turned to me and said, “You need to shorten her leash.”

“Hell no, she’ll turn that shit on me.”

So today I got an email from him with photos of the little lovechild. The women oohed and ahhed, but hell, it’s a baby. They’re no fun until they get to be 2 or 3 years old and there ain’t nothing cute about an animal that can be held upright and be oblivious to the hiccup that just induced a half cup of vomit to gush from his mouth and splatter onto the floor. Oh yeah, fucking adorable. Yum.

Happy Friday the 13th. Jasmine’s been having those Braxton contractions. I told her to cross her legs and suck it in. I’m not finished being ‘Just Jay’ yet. I’ll let her know when I’m ready. Until then, cut that shit out.

Cat fight

2005-05-11T10:30:00.000-05:00

I really get a kick out of some of the ISPs that surf through my blog. Like lucasfilms.com, probably George. He thinks I’m the man. And UH.edu, my alma mater. Must be the honeys still clamoring for me almost a decade later. Not to mention the many military ISPs and various .gov ISPs as our nations employees are working hard to protect our safety and health while reading about how I flogged the dog. Used to get hits from schwab.com but we all know what happened to that fella last year. And one of my favorites, harvard.edu. Because the shit that comes out of my mouth is best contemplated by the most brilliant minds in the world.

Referral links are very telling as well. We all recall what happened a few months ago when a certain someone opened a forum for the sole purpose of judging and bashing me. We also recall I said nothing in return, but posted a lovely array of jpegs displaying the Jay-Bashing for the whole world to see. It would have never been discovered had a link not been typed into the forum, like bait on a line, leading me right to the source.

So last night I suddenly got about 20 hits or so from a particular site that, this time, I will keep to myself. My part in it was negligible, a random mentioning of me that I found harmless by someone whom I have no qualms with. And in fact, the forum owner or whomever either took offense at my Choke the Chicken post or decided to quickly salvage the forum’s privacy, quickly deleted the link to stop the flow of traffic through to me. Too late.

I skimmed a few of the posts, mainly looking for shit about me because I don’t give a damn about anyone but myself. And in the process gathered the gist of the witch hunt taking place. The fucking fur was flying like I’d never seen before. I couldn’t believe there was an entire cyberworld where women gather to rip each other to shreds. Deny it if you want, but women are catty. Mean. Judgmental. Hateful. Vindictive. And passive aggressive, as one of them put it so balls-on accurately.

In fact, since reading the “passive aggressive” comment last night, I’ve had time to think about it and think about all of the women who’ve given Jazz a hard time these last few years. All of the sweet smiles that parlay some of the most spiteful, cruel shit I’ve ever heard.

Jasmine has seen and been through more shit than I can imagine. And she still moves through her day like she’s weightless. She avoids the shark pool and yeah, when it comes to female companionship she’s a little light. But I can see why she’d prefer to err on the side of caution after reading some of the shit on the forum that linked to me last night.

I think people seem to forget that nobody can offend you unless you allow yourself to be offended. No one can anger you unless you allow yourself to get angry. And nobody’s opinion has shit to do with who you are on the inside, so publicly castrating another human being for not following your code of PC isn’t going to change the world.

So if Jasmine “trapped” me, Amanda, I’m one lucky bastard. She saved me from all those others.

Smell the flowers

2005-05-11T02:36:00.000-05:00

Sunday morning we drove up to the sticks to see Momma. I didn’t go last year, wasn’t ready I guess. But my old man has gone every year since his mom died back in the late 70’s. All those years that I rode up with him to lay flowers on his mother’s grave when I was a kid I never thought I’d be just like him, doing the same for my own mom. Funny how history really does repeat itself that way.

The cemetery is ours, all our relatives. I guess someday I’ll end up there as well. Some of the stones date back to the early 1800’s. It’s mostly sand up there, no grass. Lots of pine trees around the area, but nothing to really offer any shade. Just hot, sunny, sand.

The tallest mound belonged to John Henry. But Momma’s still had some curvature to it.

As we walked toward the far end the sand crunched under our shoes. The highway is miles from the cemetery. There isn’t even a paved road within 5 miles. Just a dirt road only traveled by family. It’s amazing how quiet the Earth can be when nobody’s around to muck it up.

We were about 30 feet away when I had to stop. Jazz was behind me, following me out. I heard her take one more step before it went silent.

I could hear the wind.

See, when John Henry was laid down, I didn’t walk in. I stood back a few yards. His plot, which is beside my dad’s mom’s plot, is only a few feet from Momma’s.

The tree tops were bending in the distance and I could see the front rolling in. It was gonna rain. Back when Momma was first buried I used to think about that stuff. About her being outside now, in the ground, under the rain. Was she cold? Of course not, stupid question. But not any more stupid than flinching when we see an autopsy being performed, as if the body could feel it’s skull being sawed off. Yet we still react that way.

Jazz never said a word. Just stood quietly behind me. Goddammit, I don’t wanna do this. I don’t want to walk out there. I don’t want to see her name on her headstone or see the date I don’t need help remembering. I don’t want to see his name with his date of birth and the blank spot for date of death, just waiting to be filled in. I don’t want to stand beside that spot, knowing what’s beneath the surface. And I don’t fucking want to walk away until I tell her Happy Mother’s Day because she damn well deserves to hear it. If “hear it” is an acceptable phrase.

I heard the crunching again before I realized I’d resumed my walk. Once I got there I inhaled deeply, trying to sense her, I guess. Who knows. All I know for sure is everything I wanted to say was shit. And completely gone from my head. I just squatted down, staring at the letters, brushed off some dust, and waited for something to come to mind. Jasmine reached across and handed me the calla lilies she’d brought, then walked back toward the gate.

I took a moment or three. I never actually spoke out loud during it, but I thought it all. I figure she didn’t need sound anyway. It was the only way to keep it completely between us. Why in the hell I didn’t say some of those things two years ago when we knew the day was coming is beyond me. I guess I kept hoping for the impossible back then.

I laid the flowers across the low rise of earth and rose to my feet. They had really green stems and white petals and didn’t match the dry sand. I don’t know why Jazz chose those, but they were perfect. Elegant and classy, like she had been. No frills, no pretense. Maybe the rain would keep them alive a little longer.

When I got back in the truck I could still smell them. Their scent lasted the entire drive home. That night I went back out to get my silver travel mug. I sat in the passenger seat for a moment and inhaled a few times, but the scent was gone.

Just like Momma.

Choke the Chicken

2005-05-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

I was eating some beef jerky this weekend when I decided to try a little beef jerking of my own. Jasmine and I had caught an early movie and afterwards she headed over to Julie’s to sip hot tea and talk tampons or whatever the fuck they do. So there I was. All alone. With Big Jay.

Come on, buddy, it’s time to snap out of it.

I went into the bedroom, glancing around the corner as if she might walk in any minute, and slipped my hand between the mattresses. Oh yeah, there it is. I pulled it out and checked the title. Raunchy Redheads. Good enough. Chapter 3’s not so bad. What was that redhead’s name? Veronica?

I headed back to the living room, because porn is best when viewed across a 52 inch widescreen, and started it up.

“Scotch!” When was the last time I had any scotch? Damn. Months. I poured a short glass of scotch and dripped thee drops of water in, no more, no less. Don’t wanna destroy the flavor. Everything has to be perfect for Big Jay to get his groove on.

Victoria?

I patted my shit, just to make sure we were both aware of the trouble I was going through to seduce myself.

As I walked back into the living room I heard the music playing on the opening menu. I set down my scotch and gathered the other necessary supplies, hand towel, lotion and remote. On the way back to the couch I saw Jazz’s stretch mark cream, the stuff I rub on her belly all the time. Now we’re talking! That shit’s like silk. She’ll never know.

I sat down on the couch, spread my legs out in front me, selected Chapter 3 and hit play.

“Talk to me, Vicki.”

I warmed the stretch mark cream between my hands before grabbing the mighty staff. I didn’t give a damn if I had to go through the entire canister of cream, Big Jay was getting his tonight.

But as I watched Voluptuous Vicki do her thing on screen I struggled to stay focused. Every little thing caught my attention. Stop it! Focus! Ok. Here we go. Start pounding. Come on, come on, come on, no pressure, no pressure, oh yeah, here we go-

What was that noise? Was that the garage door? I froze. Oh, shit!

With my pants around my knees I jumped up and hobbled to the door. I cracked it open just a fraction. When I didn’t see anything I opened it a little wider and the motion sensor went off, turning on the light.

Fuck. I’m hearing things. I kept my hand on my boy the whole time, didn’t wanna risk losing momentum. I shut the door and hobbled back to the couch, plopped down and hit resume.

“Come on, Vicki, you can do it. You’ve been a bad secretary. No flowers for you. Open wide.”

It took a minute, but things picked up where they left off. Okay, this time we’re getting this shit done.

I began easy, applying just enough pressure as my fist slipped to the end and headed back down. And for that special loving feeling, I used both hands. Oh yeah, gentle squeeze, there you go, up and down, up and down, all right, fuck the left hand, just the right. There we go, just the end, squeeze, rotate, swirl, down, up, squeeze, all right now, let's pick up the pace a bit. Little more speed, not so fast – ok, fuck foreplay. It was time to flog the dog. Come on, now, let’s do it, come on, come on, come on, come on, almost, there, there, there it is, oh shit, oh shit-

My eyes crossed, my jaw dropped, my knees jerked and I painted the ceiling white.

Good boy. I never doubted you, buddy. Never.

I sat there panting while Vicki finished up on screen. I’m the man, the shit, the king, baby. Fuck’em, fuck’em all! Ten minutes later I was sound asleep.

Spawn of Satan

2005-05-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

My wife. Ivy. My assistant. If Julie gets pregnant I'm moving to the east coast.

It appears I'm going to be an uncle again. Poison Ivy is pregant. She's due in January next year. I'm not sure what's more disgusting: the fact that I had to listen to Ivy talk about her mysterious coochie debris all day Saturday or the fact that Gary actually poked that coochie. Nasty fucker.

Baby's due in January. I hope it's a monkey. That would be cool.

Only the crazies live anywhere else

2005-05-06T14:27:00.000-05:00

There he goes again, that fucking redneck. Always bragging about Texas, like any of us give a damn. And if I had anything else at all to do right now I'd move the fuck on. Lucky for him I'm almost as big a loser as he is.

Beaumont to El Paso: 742 miles

Beaumont to Chicago: 770 miles

El Paso is closer to California than to Dallas

World's first rodeo was in Pecos... July 4, 1883.

The Flagship Hotel in Galveston is the only hotel in North America built over water.

The Heisman Trophy was named after John William Heisman who was the first full time coach for Rice University in Houston.

Brazoria County has more species of birds than any other area in North America.

Aransas Wildlife Refuge is the winter home of North America's only remaining flock of whooping cranes.

Jalapeno jelly originated in Lake Jackson in 1978.

The worst natural disaster in U.S. history was in 1900 caused by a hurricane in which over 8000 lives were lost on Galveston Island.

The first word spoken from the moon, July 20, 1969, was "Houston."

King Ranch is larger than Rhode Island.

Tropical Storm Claudette brought a US. rainfall record of 43" in 24 hours in and around Alvin in July 1979.

Texas is the only state to enter the U.S. by TREATY, instead of by annexation. (This allows the Texas flag to fly at the same height as the US flag.)

A Live Oak tree near Fulton is estimated to be 1500 years old.

Caddo Lake is the only natural lake in the state.

Dr Pepper was invented in Waco in 1885 and there is no period after Dr in Dr Pepper.

Texas has had six capital cities:

1. Washington-on-the-Brazos
2. Harrisburg
3. Galveston
4. Velasco
5. West Columbia
6. Austin

The Capitol Dome in Austin is the only dome in the U.S which is taller than the Capitol Building in Washington D.C. (by 7 feet).

The name Texas comes from the Hasini Indian word "tejas" meaning friends.

Tejas is not Spanish for Texas.

The State animal is the Armadillo. (An interesting bit of trivia about the armadillo is that it always has four babies. It has one egg which splits into four and it either has four males or four females. Fuck you, I thought it was interesting anyway.)

The first domed stadium in the U.S. was the Astrodome in Houston.

Erectile dysfunctional conversation:

2005-05-05T11:14:00.000-05:00

Julie: Hello?
Me: Have you heard from the doctor yet?
Julie: Aw, are you worried about your big sister?
Me: No, stupid, I’m worried I’ll get stuck with your kid.
Julie: Admit it, you’re worried about me.
Me: I haven’t had a hard-on in a week because of worrying about it all.
Julie: Oh, my God! You’re nasty! Shut up! I don’t wanna hear about your boner! Bleh!
Me: Were you not listening? It’s a non-boner. I’m not ready for parenthood, let alone a half a six-pack. I don’t care about you.
Julie: I can’t believe you said boner. You’re so disgusting. Don’t you have a wife to share your problems with?
Me: No. She thinks I’m the man.
Julie: Oh, my dear Bubba, she soooo does not think you’re the man.
Me: What did she say?
Julie: I don’t have to tell you anything.
Me: Did she say something about…anything?
Julie: Don’t you hate that sinking feeling? You know, like when your whole body goes…limp?

I dropped the phone and stuck my head out my door. Jasmine glanced at me.

“Pick up my line, please.”

Jasmine: This is Jasmine.
Julie: Hey! It’s-
Me: Shut up, Julie.
Jasmine: Hi Julie! Have you heard from-
Me: What did you tell Julie about me?
Jasmine: I beg your pardon?
Julie: Leave her alone, Jay.
Me: Did you tell Julie I couldn’t get it up?
….lengthy pause….
Jasmine: No.
Me: Bullshit.
Julie: God, Jay, you’re such an asshole!
Jasmine: What’s going on?
Julie: If you would just calm down for a minute-
Me: Did you tell her-
Julie: Jay!
Jasmine: Jay, I didn’t say anything! I promise!
Julie: Would you leave her alone? I was screwing with you!
….lengthy pause….
Me: What?
Julie: You’re the one who told me, dumbass. I was kidding. It’s flat out disgusting to me, but your wife happens to think you are the man. But I haven’t given up hope. Someday, she’ll come around.
….lengthy pause….
Me: Oh.
Jasmine: I swear, Jay. Julie, have you heard from the doctor?
Julie: Just got off the phone with him. It’s benign.
Me: Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?
Julie: Because you brought your non-boner into the conversation.
Jasmine: You called your sister and told her about that?
Julie: Oh my God, he was telling the truth?! I thought he was just trying to gross me out!
Jasmine (laughing): How does that foot taste, sweetie?
Me: I gotta go.

Penis envy

2005-05-04T11:32:00.000-05:00

I've figured it out! It's Julie's fault! That little twit. Leave it to my stupid head sister to steal my ability to get hard-on. Big Jay's been on vacation since she came over that night. Her and her selfish ass problems. I'm calling her today. I can't even get a chub because I'm worried about what her oncologist is going to say tomorrow.

I think I'll call her doctor and see if I can speed things along before my balls decay. Big Jay must have gotten upset that I neglected him for nearly a week. That's my problem. Hang on, buddy. Help is on the way.

Tit for Tat

2005-05-03T09:46:00.000-05:00

My wife is delusional. But don’t worry. I set her straight. Somehow she got the impression that I’m deep and complicated. It took me all of five seconds to dispel that myth.

On the way in to work this morning she turned to me and said, “Remember a few years ago, right after your mom died, when you were in the kitchen at the office and I walked in?”

Sure. That time? What the hell, is my middle name Memorex? “What about it?” Small white lies don’t count. That’s my rule. Besides, I was not in the mood for a deep, philosophical, let’s pick your brain apart kind of conversation. In fact, I could sum up all the times I was in the mood for such conversations on no fingers.

She made that exasperated sound you women make when confronted with wisdom such as mine. You know, the half sigh, half cough sound.

“When I walked in and you stared at me with so much emotion in your face and I told you your mother had her reasons not to fight it.”

Such emotion in my face? What the fuck ever. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. I remember. What about it?”

“Well, when you were staring at me so intensely, do you remember what you were thinking? I’ve always wondered.”

If I could have sighed without getting smacked I would have. So instead I pondered a moment. And to my surprise, I could actually recall that day. She had stepped really close to me without saying anything.

I clicked on my blinker and glanced at her as I looked over my shoulder before changing lanes. Damn, she’s pretty. She wore her hair down today. I like it down.

“That if you got two inches closer your nipples would touch me.”

She backhanded me in the gut.

“Hey! I’m driving here!”

“That’s what you were so focused on?”

“I was trying to will you with my mind.” I wanted to laugh when she folded her arms on top of her belly. “Oh, come on. What were you thinking?”

“I felt sorry for you, Jay. I wanted to console you.”

“Why?”

“Because you were sad.”

I was so going to nail her ass to the wall with this one. “Bullshit. Geoffrey is sad. I was fine. And you damn sure didn’t need to get up against me to console me.”

She had the nerve to gasp. “What are you saying?”

There you go, honey. Bite that bait. “Come on, Jazz. That was months after Mom died. You need to own that shit. You had on the big shoes, the hair and makeup going on, you were smelling good, and you walked right up in my face. I can’t believe you didn’t go for my fly. You know you wanted – Ow, stop it! I’m driving, dammit! Get back on your side before I pull over and kick your ass out.”

“I was trying to be nice to you!”

Do I look dumb? I glanced over at her. She was angry. Funny thing was, I hadn’t thought about that day in years. I don’t know why she brought it up now, but with everything that’s happened since then, today was the first time I realized I might have a point. She wanted me. She had me fooled with the comment about Mom that day, but now that I added it all up...oh, yeah. I’m the man.

“Baby, come on.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You’re about 28 weeks too late for that, don’t you think?” Silence. Ah, hell, it was funny to me, at least. That’s all that counts, right? “Hey. Look at me.”

She cut her eyes my direction. I shouldn’t have been smiling but it was completely beyond my control.

“I was too fixated on your eyes to think of anything else. Honest.”

That seemed to pacify her. She stopped backhanding me, at least. We went about another five minutes before I tried to reengage by asking her the same question. “So what were you thinking when you were standing there?”

She pushed her hands through her hair. “I was thinking ‘if you’d close that two inch gap my nipples could touch you.’”

I grinned. “You deserve me.”

“That’s the scary part.”

Just Jay

2005-05-02T02:44:00.000-05:00

I was given a scavenger hunt list this weekend to complete for the little lady who worships the ground that I walk upon. I spent half the day Saturday and all day Sunday collecting various items, running errands and basically making my wife’s life a little easier. Because that’s what I’m all about.

I negotiated, argued and bartered my way through Target and other fine retailers who’ve never experienced a man as cheap as I, and proudly carried off my prey from each store. After an entire day on the prowl, I finally dragged my tired ass back home. I saw my sister’s car in the driveway, hogging my damn spot as usual. Who the fuck pays the mortgage for this joint? Jazz knows I like that spot. And after all the shit I’ve been doing for her today, you can bet your ass she has that spot cleared for me the moment I walk through that door. All I gotta do is snap my damn fingers.

So I grabbed a big armload of shit from the back of the truck and stumbled blindly toward the house. I dropped a thing or two along the way, but nothing breakable so fuck it. I managed to twist the door knob on the third try and kick the door in so I could get through. The manly groaning and sound of a door slamming into the doorstop apparently sparked some interest in the kitchen, as it damn well should have, and I heard voices and a chair scraping. I twisted to the right to see Julie poke her head into the living room. Thank god, someone to unload all this shit on.

“Hey, can-”

But she disappeared before I could ask for her help. Fucking little brat didn’t even offer me a hand. I stumbled another two steps then saw Jasmine stick her head out from the kitchen. Finally, the cavalry. I could hear the horns blowing. Here, woman, take this shit.

“Hey, baby, can-”

But then she vanishes, too. What the fuck? And that’s when I hear, “Oh, it’s just Jay. Do you want some tea, Jules?”

One limp dick and suddenly I'm just Jay.

Too much masturbation?

2005-04-29T00:08:00.000-05:00

Something went horribly wrong tonight.

Not that I need an excuse, but in honor of my birthday, I felt a little good loving was in order. No, that’s not semantically true. “Little” isn’t possible, because of course I’m hung like an elephant. Shut up. You don’t know.

So when Jazzy and I got home I decided to crank it up. Soft muzak, blinds drawn, me in all my stunning glory. No need to wait until the sun goes down, Big Momma. Slide on over here.

I’m working my magic, sprinkling a little pixie dust where pixie dust likes to be sprinkled, and when I go in to make my move…I realize something.

Big Jay is still sleeping.

What the fuck…

I looked down at my crotch and sure enough, a total teepee absence.

“Why’d you stop?”

Oh shit. I ignored the question and dove in for her ticklish spots to change the topic until I could straighten things out. Come on, fella, wake up. Daddy’s gonna get his groove on.

We kissed and did some shit you don’t need to know about. Jazz commented on how attentive I was being. Uh huh, I’m all about you, baby.

And yet, Big Jay snored.

What in the hell is going on? No stirrings, no tightness, no fucking response whatsoever. Why isn't this working? Big Jay's never slept through anything like this before. Hell, he's poked his head up at the mention of an exposed boob before. I slipped my hand down and patted my shit, just in case I was out of touch, but the terrifying truth just hung there like wet, flaccid laundry.

After 20 minutes, or maybe 5 but who’s counting?, I had to make a choice. Hence, my wife is glowing in her sleep while I sit here confused and a bit freaked out.

I can't believe it. I broke him.

Feliz Cumpleaños

2005-04-28T00:01:00.000-05:00

I expect a mailbox full of e-cards when I get back wishing me a Happy fucking Birthday. Throw me some gift cards to Best Buy and Academy to make it worth my while. I won't do shit for you in return, but that's not what giving is all about, now is it? Selfish bunch of tards. Focus, people. Me!

Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday dear meeeeeeeee,
Happy Birthday to me.

Lucky Jazz. She gets to endure me all day today.

Big Jay does Big Sur

2005-04-23T20:41:00.000-05:00

I'm in not-so-sunny California right now, getting ready for the Big Sur marathon. It was one shit storm after another with the airline getting over here. I flew out at 6am, certain I'd get to the sunshine state in time to pick up my race packet by 6pm. But apparently only a retard would be so foolishly naive. I, in case you didn't grasp that, would be said retard.

The first plane was grounded because the cleaning crew left a clip in the gasket around the windshield and the cockpit was losing pressure. Now, see if you just kept right on reading you apparently didn't hear me right. I said the first plane was grounded because the cleaning crew left a CLIP in the GASKET around the WINDSHIELD. Who the fuck crams clips into the gasket around a windshield to clean it? Is it a cleaning requirement to spit shine the bottom side of a gasket? Is that not an obvious safety hazard to anybody else?

So the first plane lands, they pull the clip, patch the seal and off we go...40 minutes late. I land in Denver just as my fucking connection to San Jose is taxiing down the runway.

Shit.

I get on a second plane and after everybody has boarded the pilot comes on and says that there's an electrical malfunction and the seatbelt signs will not light up. Big fucking deal. What he should have done was walked out and silently mouthed, "Are there any deaf motherfuckers up in this rig? Cuz this son of a bitch ain't got no lights and your hand-signaling asses need to stay buckled up. Safety first, bitches." That way only those on a need to know basis would need to know and the rest of us could have gone on our way to the big C.

But no, we have to wait for Wilbur the mechanic to come and take a look. Wilbur, not equipped with a full deck himself, somehow leans in too far to wherever the fuck they keep the fusebox on a little boeing and drops his Bic ink pen into the abyss. Holy mother of christ, somebody call the FAA!

And I think someone did. We were asked to unboard the plane we had just boarded and told we would be sitting in the waiting area for an undetermined amount of time until the pen could be recovered. Are you fucking kidding me? For the love of god, people, what in the hell was this pen made of, titanium and diamonds? Look, brother, I got a shitload of pens for you. Take one. Knock yourself out. Here, take this one, it works on presurrized airplanes. I won't be fucking needing it!

"Excuse me, ma'am, can you tell me what the contingency plan is here?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your back up plan in case the pen is never recovered. Is there another flight we'll be put on?"

"Oh, no, sir, they're all booked solid."

Should I punch her now or try to get a few more answers out of her? "So how are we getting to California today?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

You stupid little--Breathe. Calm down. Inhale, exhale. Idiotic moron! What the fuck is your purpose with this airline, to PISS me off? Inhale. Hold it. Exhale slowly. Now imagine her gripping the wing of the plane as it soars over Nevada. Yes, happy thoughts. Much better.

Late, and tired, I'm here. It's almost 7pm. Gotta go carb load with the folks I came with. My goal is to finish. Fuck time.

What the hell am I saying? Like I could back down from a competition. Here's to hoping I trample some little old woman on the way to the finish line.

Not this time

2005-04-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

Julie came over tonight. I haven’t had much to say to her since April 9th. Not even when we picked up Kadybug last weekend. I stayed outside in the truck and sent Jasmine in for her.

“You’re not getting out?”

I couldn’t even answer. Just shook my head.

“Jay, don’t do this to her.”

I’m not doing anything to her. I just can’t talk to her yet. I can’t. I want to. Eventually.

But I guess Julie had had enough. She impressed me when she showed up at our house tonight. When I opened the door and saw her standing there it was really hard for me not to hug her. I’m just so pissed off, still.

“We need to talk about this.”

“No we don’t.”

“Stop being a baby.”

“Fuck you.”

Jazz pushed me out of the way so Julie could come inside. I’m glad they’re close. I’m glad Julie has her.

I stood at the door for a minute contemplating whether I should stay or get in the truck and leave. Yeah, I’m a pussy. A pussy so big I didn’t even have the nerve to do it. Instead I walked to the end of the entry hall and just stood there with my hands on my hips. Julie’s back was to me as Jazz hugged her, giving me that reprimanding look of hers.

“Hold your arm above your head, sweetie.”

Julie did as she was told and Jasmine felt of her breast. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Any discharge?”

“None.”

When Jasmine’s eyes lifted to look at me over Julie’s shoulders my heart sank and the anger I’d been holding onto for the past week and half just slipped away. Julie turned to look over her shoulder at me and I couldn’t even keep eye contact.

My mind went blank. No denials, no anger, no response to anything at all. Just blank. I didn’t want to think about the now-whats or the what-ifs. Or even tomorrow. Fuck tomorrow. And goddammit, fuck cancer.

Shit. I hate this. I'm so tired of it. Dammit, that's my sister.

“Come here.”

And I stood there, hugging her, as she cried. Something I should have done a week and a half ago. I could only think of one thing to say and I repeated it over and over again, for my sake as much as hers.

“You’re not Mom.”

The A part of Q&A.

2005-04-19T21:10:00.000-05:00

Ok Jay, when was the first time you got laid, and di you have to pay for it?
Ricky | 04.19.05 - 12:15 am | #

15 years ago this summer. You mean not everybody pays for it?

1) What is your favourite colour?
2) What is your middle name?
3) What colour are my knickers?
Claire | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 1:51 am | #

1. blue

2. alan

3. you’re not wearing any

Shoe size? :P
Jeanette | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 2:19 am | #

Bigger than your whole leg.

Are you a pathological liar? Didn't anything else worth blogging about happen today? Will you post these answers Tuesday?
Jenn | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 2:52 am | #

Yes. No. Yes.

Have you ever fantasized about gay sex?
i bet you have....don't lie.
aure | 04.19.05 - 4:24 am | #

Yes, all the time. Usually between Jasmine and Catherine Zeta Jones, but sometimes it’s Jasmine and the very naughty mystery woman who likes to be whipped.

what saying your parents used on you as a kid do you hope you won't be repeating?

Found myself saying "Sorry isn't good enough" yesterday to Amy and groaned inwardly. I am my mother... noooo.
noonie | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 5:58 am | #

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Do you dress to the right or to the left?
riz | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:22 am | #

I usually dress both sides. How fucked up are you that you had to ask?

Which blogger would you most like to meet. And don't worry, I'm not expecting you to say me! I have my bets as to who I think it is, though...
Jamie | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:25 am | #

Jack. He owes me a beer.

Can I borrow some money?
Trashman | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:40 am | #

Open up, I’ll let you earn it.

Haha, if you had to have a homosexual experience, who would it be with?
Khaki | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 7:07 am | #

Anne Heche. She’s a homosexual, right?

what is your favorite women's perfume? And because I can be some what twisted... I like Khaki's question above. LOL
HarleyQuinn | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 7:12 am | #

Whatever Jasmine has been wearing for the past several years.

where do you see yourself in 21 years when the twinnies are all grown?
lou lou | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 7:26 am | #

Worn out and broken down.

What is your dream job? and don't say the one you have now.

What is the strangest place you have ummmm, practiced self gratification?

Have you ever been busted while in the midst of gratification?
angi | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 7:47 am | #

Athlete, crippled people stall in an office building, so many times…

Do you like Roller Coasters and if so what is your favorite one to ride and what one do you hope to ride someday?

What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?

Notice I ask questions about my favorite things? After all it is all about me.
Boohunch | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:07 am | #

Fuck yeah! No favorites. If I ever find one that can scare me, that’ll be the one. Chocolate chip.

there're some twisted sons of bitches up in here
Jay | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:13 am | #

Who the fuck is this bastard?

1. What does your sister think of Jazz?
2. Are you going to get another dog?
3. Do you like to cook?

kim
kim | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:23 am | #

1. she likes her better than me

2. not if I can help it

3. the real question is do you like to EAT what I cook? That’s a negative, ghostrider.

Give us some detail as to the first time you proudly wore Jazz's lipstick rings to work. Please?
Rizzo | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:23 am | #

No can do.

Just how big is the lil guy?... lie if it helps...
boo | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:36 am | #

When I say duck, you better duck.

Do you talk a lot of smack about Jazz here, but butter her ass at home? LOL
Lisa | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:55 am | #

I’m the goddamn man of this household and don’t fucking forget it. Shut up. Here she comes.

What's the best advice you ever got?

What's the best advice you ever gave?
AmyVegas | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:55 am | #

“Run, dude.”

how much plastic surgery did you have done to get jazz to marry you?
ed | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 9:02 am | #

Hellllooo, it’s called a lobotomy. Get your procedures straight, dipshit.

LMAO @ ED.

Damn. Need time to think of a good question
magikgrl | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 9:08 am | #

As my teacher used to say, “the only stupid questions are the ones you ask.”

were there any times in your youth when the farm animals may have been to much a temptation for your raging hormones?!
averil | 04.19.05 - 9:23 am | #

in my youth? Fuck, I’ve got 2 sheep and a goat in the backyard right now for the 6 weeks abstinence after the twins are born.

If a Monday Night Lifetime movie were made about your life, who (other than John Stamos) would play you and who would play Jasmine?
Lisa | 04.19.05 - 9:30 am | #

Me: Arnold Schwarzenegger

Jasmine: Kirstie Alley. J

When are you going to tell Jazz about us?

How do you suppose she'll treat the child we have together?

Do you think she'll kill you?

How do you want your funeral? Cremation or burial?

Last but not least...
Can I have my thong back? I don't want it in your collection anymore now that you're married...you might get in trouble with the wifey if she found it...
tCj | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 10:04 am | #

Never. The same way I do, with ignorant indifference. Hopefully. Total body donation – a gift as great as this should be shared.

Who is your favorite author?
Me.
Boxers or briefs?
Yes.
What's your favorite junk food?
Cheetos. Except during porn. Turns Big Jay orange.
What's your computer screen background right now?
MSBlue
What (physical thing) are you afraid of?
Cancer
What (non-physical thing) are you afraid of?
Losing another family member to cancer.
sadly, that's as creative as I can get this morning...*sigh*
Kristine | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 10:20 am | #

Why do people keep asking you if you are gay?

Does Jasmine really exist or are you secretly pretending to be a woman?
Zelda | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 10:39 am | #

Make one freaking movie and suddenly you’re branded for life! Yes. And yes.

Did you mean it?
leese | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 10:39 am | #

Every time, lisa. Every time.

What's the worst thing you ever got away with without getting busted?
Doesn’t ‘get away with’ automatically imply ‘without getting busted’?
What are your thoughts about being the father of a girl? Are you scared that a guy as horney as you will get a hold of her when she's still in high school?
I am not emotionally prepared for a daughter, I won’t lie. If he’s as horny as me she’ll never make it to high school.
Have you ever been caught in the act by your parents or another adult?
Yes.
Do you want one of our dogs? 3 80+ pound dogs doesn't cut it when you have a 9 year old son and are trying to get pregnant.
No.
Did you and Jazz really have "procedures" while she was wearing Ivy's wedding dress? Was it great?
Hell yes that shit was good.
What is your best childhood memory? Momma carrying me from the bedroom to the kitchen on my first day of kindergarten, she made me pancakes.
What memories are you going to make sure that you children have?
I don’t think I have any say in what their memories are.
Does Jazz ever slap you in the back of the head? No, but she smacks me in the gut ALL THE FUCKING TIME.
Melanie S. | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 10:39 am | #

I just have one question. With all the wonderful attributes that Jasmine possesses, what is the one thing about her that you love the most?
Big Gay Sam | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 11:19 am | #

She loves me back. Feeds the ego.

what are the three things you wished you did but didn't because you're a lily-livered sissy boy?
asked jazz out sooner – that’s it.
How would you rate a farm animal(goat, pig, chicken, etc.) as a sex partner, as compared with the 'women' you've been with?
Farm animals take a lot more persuasion.
How badly do you wanna smack all of us for asking these riduculous and extremely private but thought-provoking questions?
Was I supposed to THINK about these answers?
IS the Pope catholic?
Yes, but I don’t think his name is really Pope.
Dd you REALLY meet Jeff Probst or was it a slick graphic manipulation? My whole life is a slick graphic manipulation.
aure | 04.19.05 - 11:31 am | #

How long have you been a broker?

What led you down that career path?

How often do you wear a cowboy hat?
Jeanette | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 1:03 pm | #

Since 96. They were the first ones to offer me a paying job. Every time I’m busting my ass for free outside at my old man’s.

Hey Jay...Have you ever been to Canada? If so where?
Sasha | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 1:16 pm | #

Yep, many times. Calgary and Quebec. Border control asked me on my way back into the states which country I was from and I said, “Texas.”

What is your favorite song of all time?
cindy | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 1:26 pm | #

Elvis Presley – “Little Less Conversation, Little More Action”

If you were on Celebrity Poker Showdown, what other four celebrities would you want at the table?

Which of them would you like to see go "all in" first?

Whom would it give you the most satisfaction to take all their chips and send them to the Loser's Lounge in tears?
golfwidow | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 1:31 pm | #

Seriously, turn off TNT and go outdoors.

Can you come visit us in Chicago? We'll fix the air mattress if you do.
Angel | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 1:54 pm | #

I was just there 6 months ago. Where the fuck were you when I needed a place to stay?

With airplane restrooms so small, do you think people are just lying about being in the mile-high club?

If not, please advise on proper positions.
pup | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 2:23 pm | #

I think they’re all lying bastards. But my suggestion is to mount up before walking in together.

What is the one quirk about Jazz that bothers you the most?
She’s never wrong.
What is your favorite meal to cook and or eat?
Spaghettios/anything other than spaghettios.
What did you want to be when you grew up?
my old man
Are you planning on raising your kids in a church environment?
fuck no.
Do you have a fear that one day you'll lose your job and not be able to provide for Jazz and the kids?
only 50 times a day
Do you like your name.....that is if Jay IS your real name?
yes. It’s much cooler than “kristin,” don’t you think?
What's the one thing you've done in public that totally embarrassed yourself?
nothing.
You secretly watch The Bachelor with Jazz, don't you? Hell no! But charlie’s an idiot for keeping Sarah W. around. She’s not even hot.

Kristin | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 2:38 pm | #

I just have one more to add to this big pile....

Are you going to really answer all these questions? Or are you going to blow 'em all off for "sex night"?
tCj | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 2:45 pm | #

Heh heh, you said “blow.”

Who would you go gay for?
Beth | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 2:49 pm | #

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that question…

Hey Jay, it's dull and cold here in Europe, brighten our days...
so for me..

Does Jazz read your blog?
Do you read hers?

tee hee... what a laugh.. you two...
Kay | 04.19.05 - 3:08 pm | #

No. No.

My anus thanks you.

Are you wishing you never posted this blog entry?
Ren | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 3:34 pm | #

Not at all.

have you ever had a 3-way? if so when?
All the time. Big Jay requires both hands.
have you ever been arrested? if so, for what?
Yes. Stupid shit.
how tall are you?
little over 6’1”
favorite food?
Pussy
and finally, would you rather: (a) burp then taste it; or (b) fart then waste it? Who says a fart is wasted? Gotta release it in your buddy’s office. Then close him up in there with it.
robin | 04.19.05 - 3:54 pm | #

I need a job. Help a brother out?
tinyhands | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 4:51 pm | #

Depends on what you’re willing to do, bro.

Who will be the first person you call when the babies are born?
micki | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 5:46 pm | #

Whoever jazz puts on the top of the list.

I think some of these questions have already been covered in past blog entries, but here's some more. Please describe the:
-Biggest lie you ever told. But honey, I love you!
-Stupidist thing you ever did. Told her best friend I loved her too.
-Closest you ever came to death. When they both found out.
-Weirdest thing that ever happened to you. When they got turned on by it and started coming onto me.
-Most angry you've ever been. When I woke up and realized it was all a dream.
-Most scared you've ever been. When my girlfriend asked why I was air-humping in my sleep.
-Happiest moment of your life. Yet to come.
-Most impt to you single thing that you still hope to achieve/gain/have in the future that you don't have now. Are these questions every going to end?
-most unusual sexual fetish/desire that you have ever had. There is nothing unusual about sexual fetishes and desires, chica. Get it straight.
Crazygirl | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:06 pm | #

Name three places, one where you'd want to stay -
a week California
a month Australia
a year Europe
jus' wonderin | 04.19.05 - 6:16 pm | #

Forever: Texas.

Do you fantasize about a woman's underwear? What sort do you imagine?
cybele | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:17 pm | #

Nonstop. The removable sort.

1) When's the next marathon or race and what's your goal regarding time, if any?
2) Let's say you can do a 7:30 mile for the first 15 miles, and you want to speed up for the next five, figuring you need an hour for the last 10K... if so... how long you gonna keep up this charade, and admit you're crashing in the stables on a emu farm down in Oaxaca, Mexico, where you get paid in emu egg tamales and internet time?
2) If you were running out of ideas for blog entries... why didn't you just ask me?
Michael | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:35 pm | #

1. Sunday. Goal time: Sunday. As opposed to Monday.

2. Pie.

3. Because you have an obvious bias against the number 3 that offends me.

Oh! another Q - do you have a brother called Randy Montez?
riz | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 6:51 pm | #

Umm, no. You don’t get any more questions.

Holy Hell ... as of right now, if I counted right, you have 118 questions to answer.
Jeanette | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 7:36 pm | #

You should get a hobby.

4) What famous person do you idolize? I don’t.
5) You're in a room with Saddam Hussein, Darth Vader, Hannibal Lechter, Lady MacBeth and the CEOs from Enron. Who gets the first bitch-slap? Yo Momma
6) What's your favorite restaurant in Houston? Benihana’s
7) What are the simple things in life that give you happiness (aside from the wife, the kids and the left palm)? The right palm
8) Why do fools fall in love? Because it’s cleaner than falling in horse shit.
9) Nearly every other long-term blogger has met another long-term blogger... except you... why don't you take a trip up from Oaxaca and visit someone? I have met one.
10) You're up to 125 questions so far. Are you sorry you did this now? Nope.
Michael | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 7:51 pm | #

Why do you blog?
so people like you will ask me why I do it.

And what do you think of Yahoo! 360? Still haven’t tried it yet. I’ve been a little overwhelmed answering a bunch of fucking questions, in case you hadn’t noticed.
Fox | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:07 pm | #

Your invest in? And why?
Short & long term advice for $20,000.
veronica | Homepage | 04.19.05 - 8:45 pm | #

Stocks, bonds & mutual funds. See a broker.

Questions and Lotsa Bullshit Answers

2005-04-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

I've never done a Q&A session. Primarily because I'm a pathological liar and if I was in the mood to write fiction I'd make up the topics my own damn self. But I figured I'd give it a whirl. It's not like shit else happened today worth blogging about.

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. Then again, how would you know?

I'll post the answers to your questions Tuesday night.

Troublesome Tiddies

2005-04-18T01:21:00.000-05:00

I am the man. And it’s damn good to be the man. Saturday afternoon we picked up Kadybug and brought her to the mall to play in the kid’s area. I sent the wife away, told her to go buy some decent clothes for god’s sake, and started scoping the honeys. Oh yes, daddy found him a redhead.

I spotted her sitting a quarter way around the encircled area. I knew better than to make eye contact but she was apparently nippy and I couldn’t help myself. That’s when I glanced a few inches higher and realized she was staring back.

Busted.

Hate when that happens. Why can’t women wear padded bras? It’s all their fault. Had little miss Strawberry Shortcake over there been a responsible human being she would have thought ahead and padded those sons of bitches and this shit would have never happened. It’s not my-

Oh, shit.

Dude, she’s coming over.

No fuck.

Run, man, run!

What about Katy?

She’s cute. She’ll find a ride. Get your ass up and go!

“Hi. Mind if I sit down?”

“Not at all. Have a seat.”

You’re fucked now.

Go to hell.

“I’m Rachel.”

I shook her hand, but all I could think about was what I was going to tell Jasmine when she came back. “Jay. Nice to meet you.”

“Here with your daughter?”

She flipped her hair and smiled sweetly and nearly poked my eye out with those hypothermic nipples I was trying too fucking hard not to be caught looking at.

“She’s my niece. I’m giving my sister a break.”

There you go. Endear yourself to her.

“That is so sweet!”

Now tell her it was your wife’s idea.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Your pregnant wife.

“Sweet.”

Sweet jackass. Bail, dude. Before she comes back and you never get laid again till death do you part.

For the next 15 minutes I sat and half listened as my gaze shifted from Kadybug, the direction I last saw Jazz, and Strawberry Shortcake’s diamond cutters, which seemed to be getting larger by the minute.

In fact, I was convinced I could see them becoming more and more defined the longer I stared. Jesus Christ, is it 27 degrees in here? Those can’t be real. Do they make nipple implants? And then she said to me, “Even gold does it. Know what I mean?”

Uh oh.

LOLOLOLOLOL!

Shut the fuck up. What in the hell is she talking about? “Um, no, I guess I don’t.”

Smooth.

Not bad, huh?

“See look.” She lifted her hair and turned her back to me so I could see the back of her neck. Umm. Hmm. “Do you see the rash?”

“Oh! Yes. Right there. Yes, ma’am. Thanks.” What the fuck?

She turned around and pulled the neckline of her shirt down to show me the top of her holyshit very creamy, smooth globe which I did not notice one damn bit where the fuck is my wife it’s about to pop out oh my god here comes Katy lady please put that thing away before you get us both shot up in here when the extremely pregnant brunette comes back and finds you oh jesus is that an areola?

“Everywhere my necklace touched I got this rash. See, right here?”

She’s gonna eat you alive. You know she’s nearby.

“That’s a damn shame. Maybe you should try sterling silver.”

Another painful minute or two passed before she grabbed for her purse and handed me a business card. I can’t even remember what she said when she handed it to me. All I knew is she and her troublesome tits could not leave fast enough.

But I saved the card. On Monday I’ll show it to Jesse and Danny. In case they, too, might have forgotten I’m the man.

Novacain

2005-04-14T11:06:00.000-05:00

My smile is almost breathtakingly perfect once again. Last Fall one of my bottom teeth broke. The shit just snapped off. That particular tooth sits out just slightly farther than the rest and apparently was under a lot of pressure whenever I clenched my teeth during moments of genius. I’m surprised every damn one of them didn’t break off when you think about all the moments of genius I’ve aspired to.

He tried to putty that shit up twice but, again, I clenched through moments of genius and broke them both off. Ironically, all three incidents occurred while sitting on the can. The dentist recommended a DaVinci veneer and a little more fiber in my diet. Fucking sicko.

Today was the sanding with a temp adhered to the surface until the veneer is created. He had me numbed up, sanded down, plastic strips between my teeth, lips dried out from an hour of work, and was just starting to squirt the bondo shit when I heard, “Uh oh.”

To which I responded with, “Wahh uh uck wah ah.”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Jay. My resin got warm and was runnier than I had anticipated.

“Ahn ooh eh ih ahh?”

“Yes, sir, I can. I’m wiping it off right now.”

Then I shift my eyes to the right and see the expression on the hygienist’s face. What the – oh, hell naw! “Wahh uh uck ih oh-eeh ah?!”

“Calm down, Mr. Jay. Everything’s fine. Sally, sponge, quick!”

For the love of Christ.

Smoldering pile of monkey shit

2005-04-13T00:23:00.000-05:00

Miss USA. What a crock of shit. I believe I’ve already stated my disdain for the fucking imbeciles who compete in beauty pageants, but I’m prepared to reiterate my position.

It’s really easy. There’s only one guideline to remember. Even a beauty pageant contestant can handle this one. If you have to walk across a stage in a bikini to earn money for college, you’re an idiot. You’re not entitled to a college education. Hobbies: watching television and spending time with family. You did not just say that. Hobbies: singing in the car and surfing the internet. Oh my fucking god.

And don’t give me that world peace pile of smoldering monkey shit, either. Ooh, you got asked a question on stage. Know what I heard? “Blah blah blah nipples blah blah perky bosoms blah blah blah fake, superficial, materialistic, blah blah blah my what big teeth you have blah.” Damn glad you got that scholarship. Sure would hate to see it go to some UGLY BITCH. We all know ugly bitches aren’t worth a damn, right? Big ass about to blow a seam in that size 24 bikini? You must be stupid, then. No scholarship for you!

But grown women competing on the basis of best T&A don’t piss me off as much as the mother’s who raised them that way. That’s who I really hate, those bitches like Patsey Ramsey. They make me want to shove my leg so far up their ass my toes are tickling the gray matter. Putting a little kid, a fucking baby, through that beauty pageant bullshit is cruel and irresponsible. Talk about fucking up a kid. Just a bunch of ugly bitches who couldn’t make it as beauty queens themselves now living vicariously through some poor kid who had the misfortune of being born cute.

I wish they would all go bankrupt. Fuck Trump. He can handle the financial blow. I wish people would entertain me by boycotting them. Now that I would watch. I wish they’d make a beauty pageant for men. I wouldn’t watch that asinine crap, but maybe then people would see the absurdity in it. I wish ABC would stop belittling my intelligence by trying to convince me these women are somehow superior to a college chic who works a pole on weekends. At least the stripper is earning that shit fair and square out of my pocket. And dammit, I wish for world peace.

I need Sex.

2005-04-11T00:07:00.000-05:00

Is she ever fucking going to bed? I sat in my recliner, fiddled with my laptop, flipped channels at the most obnoxious speed possible. Asked stupid questions. Expelled gas. Told her to look at the huge booger I dug out of my nose. And yet, the woman just sat there on that couch and ignored it all.

“Honey, aren’t you tired?”

“Trying to get rid of me, Jay?”

“Me? No! No, no, no. Shit. Why would you ask that? Please. That’s stupid. Can you get me a coke?”

She actually laughed. Needless to say I got my own coke and when I returned I was still not minus one pregnant wife.

I popped up the foot rest and contemplated my options. 10:00pm. Much later and I’ll have to go to bed Sex-less. That would suck. I could always admit that I have a problem. “Hi, my name is Jay and I’m a Sex-aholic.” No, not good. That’s a secret I intend to let die with me. No reason to share shit like that.

“I fixed the brightness level on your alarm clock’s LCD.”

She smiled. “Thank you! How did you fix it?”

This is the part where I shrug humbly. “I made a few adjustments.” I removed the factory sticker off the light-sensor so it would automatically go dim in the dark. Failed to do it when I set it up for her. Moot point.

Another twenty minutes ticked by. I was about ready to give up when she shifted and pulled her legs up.

“You going to bed?”

“Yes. I’m tired.” She gave me a kiss. “Good night, sweetie.”

It’s about fucking time! Go, woman, go! Get your ass off to bed. Hurry it up. “Good night. Love you.” Close the fucking door, chica. Close it. There you go. Ahh, alone at last. Where’s my remote?

Settings
iControl – Select
(One Moment Please)
Premiums – Select
HBO – Select
HBO Series – Select
(One Moment Please)
Sex and the City – Select
Episode 69, The girls celebrate Charlotte’s 36th birthday with a trip to Atlantic City. – Select

Cool. I haven’t seen this one.

The Chad

2005-04-08T12:44:00.000-05:00

I work with a boy who likes to put folks in their place. He’s a rookie, of course, and been around about three months. He passed his test and got his 7 and it’s been hell for all of us ever since.

A wholesaler took several of us out to lunch yesterday and the rookie, Chad, tagged along for the free meal. It’s not like he has any clients that would notice him gone or anything.

The whole fucking meal he kept challenging the wholesaler, questioning the age of his stats and trying to one up him with his newly learned securities lingo. Thing was, it was Chad that looked like a fool. Yeah, it’s good to question the wholesalers from time to time, but the shit Chad was questioning was ridiculously 5th grade. Who gives a flying fuck if the stats are rounding up or down to the nearest tenth? It’s a fucking tenth!

But that’s not Chad’s only issue. See, Chad has no nuts. I know this not because I’ve looked, because I assure you I’ve avoided eye contact with the magical one-eyed serpent, but because of the shit he has to do to prove he’s a fucking man. A woman at a table adjacent to us got up and wouldn’t shut her mouth long enough to turn around and look where she was going, thereby walking backwards into a waiter who was also walking backwards. They clash into each other and both stumble a bit before catching their balances. I disregarded it as soon as it happened.

So of course Chad jumps up to yell at the waiter. I couldn’t believe the goddamn spectacle he was causing. He was in the waiter’s face about being clumsy and unprofessional and ripping him a new one for not apologizing to the lady. That’s not how I saw it. Her need to urinate apparently did not overpower her need to run her mouth. She’s just as guilty as the waiter. But I can’t say that shit when I’m on a business lunch. I represent the firm. On a Friday night, yeah, I’d lay my mind on him in a heartbeat. But not in the middle of Landry’s with 11 other brokers sitting around. He was making an ass of himself with his white knight bullshit.

Danny finally spoke up. “Chad. Chad! Chad!”

Danny’s got a way with never taking people seriously which makes the ones who need, need, need to be the most popular, well-liked men in the room look like the testosterone junkies that they are.

Danny: Sit down, Lancelot.
Chad (sitting): What an asshole, huh?
Danny: Yeah, we were all thinking that.
Chad: I hope he feels as stupid as he looks.
Danny: I bet he don’t.
Chad: I bet he does.
Jesse (to Danny): You know what his real beef is, huh?
Danny: People don’t like him?
Jesse: Nope. That he knows people don’t like him.
Chad: What are you bitches talking about?
Danny: Watson, I think you’re right.
Chad: I was just looking out for that woman!
Danny: Hey, Jay, what do you call a limp jerkwad?
Jay: Man, don’t drag me into this.
Jesse (to Danny): What?
Danny: A hanging chad.

I figure Chad will sit in the fifth quintile until the BM’s had enough and cans his ass three months from now. And I’m sure he’ll be replaced with yet another immature pisser desperate to be the coolest motherfucker on the block. But like all those in his wake, he, too, shall pass.

Besides, everybody knows the secret to longevity is possessing a humble charm. Candy apple ass cheeks never hurt the matter, either.

36 times

2005-04-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

April 7th, 2003. I recall it being a Monday.

She called me at work that day. She used to call me all the time. Sarah even knew her voice. She’d yell out to me, “Jay, it’s your mom” and I’d pick up with something like “Jay’s Cemetery, you stab’em, we’ll slab’em.” That’s when I’d hear the familiar “Hi, honey. Are you busy?”

For a long time that call haunted me. More than the words, I remembered the long silences. Now, even when I try my hardest, I can’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice. I think I can sometimes, and then it slips by me before I can wrap my mind around.

“Never. What’s up?”

This was the first of the long silences. I imagine my brows were drawn in confusion, but there’s no one to ask.

“Mom?”

“Honey, I need… When’s your next visit?”

“What’s going on?” It started slowly, like a creeping mass of frozenness. I remember feeling it. It was cold and sharp and embedded within my chest somewhere slowly beginning to wreak havoc on my nervous system.

She'd been to the doctor.

All at once I became panicked and angry. Don’t say it. Don’t ask and she won’t offer. And then it won’t be true. She’ll be fine if I just don’t ask. It was just a little lump. Little lumps never killed anybody, right?

“Jay, honey, Dad and I just got back from Dr. York’s office.” The second of the three monster silences I would endure occurred here.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it… But she will. She will say it. Fuck it. Let it be. We’ll do chemo. We’ll do a lumpectomy. I know she was worried about possibly facing a full mastectomy, but she’ll get through it. We all will. We won’t let her down. Fuck cancer. I hate cancer. I hate it. Don’t say it, Momma.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Momma?” My voice had vanished somehow and it came out a whisper.

And then she started crying.

Son of a fucking bitch! My temper exploded and I dropped the phone to get up and slam my office door shut. This is bullshit! I wanted to throw the goddamn phone through the window and I wanted to feel it shatter. I needed to feel the whole fucking place tremble. This is not happening. I couldn’t even get my hand to my hair I was so stiff with rage. I saw the phone lying on my desk and I struggled to bring it back under control. Just…give me a moment. All right? Breathe.

I couldn’t tell you how long I waited before finding the courage to pick the phone back up. She wasn’t crying anymore. I bet she didn’t even mean to tell me at work. I bet she was sitting there fussing at herself for saying anything at all.

“What are you gonna do?”

This was the third and final long silence. For once I didn’t even try to guess her answer. No reason to rush it. And looking back, I knew it already.

“I’m going to wake up every morning and thank God for the 35 years I’ve had with your father, the 31 years I’ve had with your sister and the 29 years I’ve had with my sweet baby Jay and I’m going to smile and laugh and love you to pieces. All of you.”

“Oh, god, Momma, please-”

“I love you, Jay.”

She told me 35 more times after that. Once every day for the rest of her life.

Snip

2005-04-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

My to-do list is so damn long I could use it to wipe my ass for the next three weeks and still have a few ply left to pick my nose. Change light bulbs, paint rooms, go through all my shit in the closets, clean out the attic before it hits 125 degrees up there, redo the kitchen countertops, plant her damn crape myrtles and jasmines, get the sofa steamed, clear out the garage (what the fuck for?), rip up the parquet and replace with ceramic tile, refinish the deck, replace all of the switch plates (because what, they wear out?), and throw away everything I’ve collected over the years that takes up more than 12 square inches of space.

I’m fucking tired. It’s those kids’ fault. I told her I had an emergency tonight, had to go see Jason. We went up to the gym and shot some hoops for an hour while I whined and he laughed at me with his “I told you so” bullshit. Easy for him to say. He’s only got one kid and his wife’s too pleased with her figure to change that. Meanwhile, mine is at home incubating her own farm and talking about bigger houses in case we have another.

“Another?”

I snagged the ball from Jason and we exchanged glances.

“You know what you gotta do, huh?”

“Fuck you, man.”

Jason’s not but 5’9”. He slips by a lot easier than I can around him. He stole the ball back and we trotted back to the board. I already knew his plot and I wasn’t interested.

“It’s perfect. Think about it.” He shot and missed. He sucks. I caught the rebound and put it in. I’m the man. Little shit robbed me of my glory though, just kept talking. “Gotta get’em snipped. But don’t tell her.” He elbowed me. “You could spend years trying 6 days a week before she gave up. Years, bro.”

When I got home Jasmine started giving me the frisky eyes, big belly and all. Suddenly, Jason’s plan wasn’t so irrational.

Arachnaphobia

2005-04-05T00:07:00.000-05:00

First, on the “The End” post, it was obviously an April Fool’s joke. Gooch actually picked up on it and left a second comment right out of the gate about it being a joke. He was fucking up my mojo so I deleted it before anyone else saw it. Sorry, buddy.

Second, it was fucking killing me not to comment on Friday. There was some smack talk I’d love to go back and delve into, but alas, the moment has passed and I’m not the backwards looking type of fella.

Third, for all of y’all that were happy about my departure, lick my left nut and tickle the right.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Julie dropped Kadybug off tonight so she could go shopping for a backyard swing set for her birthday next month. Jasmine was busy lying on her back with her “hooves” in the air to bring down the imaginary swelling so I had Katy follow me around the house while I took care of some odds and ends, you know, the manly deeds.

We went into the garage and drug a table beneath the light unit for the garage opener. The bulb had burned out and no longer came on when there was motion anymore causing my spoiled ass to have to flip a switch whenever I wanted light. I don’t think so.

So I’m standing on the table, rescrewing the screwables when I slip and the screw bounces off my forehead and hits the garage floor. I glance down to see it at what might as well have been a mile away because I was stuck holding up the loose end of the light cover.

“Hey, Kadybug, sweetie, can you pick up Uncle Jay’s screw?”

“Uh huh!”

“It’s right there. See it? Look at Uncle Jay’s finger. No, baby, look at me. Katy, look at me! There, see my finger, see where I’m pointing?”

“Uh huh!”

“Get it, sweetie! Get it! See it? Hurry, get it!”

Right at that moment I hear her majesty chime in from the door to the house. “Spider?”

Oh, that’s fucking it. “Yes. Yes, a big, poisonous black widow and I’m trying to convince a three year old to kill it before it gets me. Go back in the house and watch your 25 catty women fight over one odd looking bachelor.”

Like I need her bullshit. Katy handed me the screw and I put it back in place then jumped down. Just as I did I swear to you a spider the size of my motherfucking left butt cheek scrambled out into the middle of the garage, hate in its eyes. I was caught off guard by the viciousness of it, the monstrous fangs dripping with venom and blood from its last victim, probably Juicy from next door. I jumped out of the way right before Kadybug rushed in and with her tiny toddler foot she creamed it in one blow.

“Hoo-ah! Look, Uncle Day, I kill it!”

It must have been as big as her leg. It was wheezing and gasping for air when Katy giggled and stomped it again, completely obliterating it into a wet pool of goo running down the pavement.

"Sweet jesus." I picked her up to take her inside before its peers came back for the body. "Kadybug?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Let's not tell Aunt Jasmine, ok?"

"Ok."

That was a close one.

Three feet inside the door Katy yells out, "Aunt Dazz, I kill a biter!"

We need to work on her comprehension skills.

Miss me?

2005-04-04T18:16:00.000-05:00

We'll chat tonight.

The End

2005-04-01T00:01:00.000-06:00

I don't know what I was thinking when I started this blog thing. I never even thought people would care. Hell, it's up to 134,000 hits just from people who want to hear the shit that comes out of my mouth. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes frustrating. And I cyber-met a few people I'll be keeping in touch with for a while I hope.

But with the new wife at home, the bambinos on the way, the expectation that I'm about to become the sole breadwinner for 3 other human beings, things are picking up speed. It's time to put this thing to rest.

I'll leave the archives up. It's been fun.

Take care.

Jay

The troll

2005-03-31T09:17:00.000-06:00

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.

The kids

2005-03-30T00:44:00.000-06:00

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.

What are they?

2005-03-29T00:01:00.000-06:00

You tell me.

Wishbones and circles

2005-03-28T01:19:00.000-06:00

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.”

“Really?”

“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.

“Well?”

She flashed me the chart.

I smiled. “I’ll be damned.”

Nice hose

2005-03-24T23:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Officer and a Gentleman

2005-03-23T00:41:00.000-06:00

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.

The pitts

2005-03-22T01:08:00.000-06:00

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 About.com 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.

Good girl

2005-03-21T02:32:00.000-06:00

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.

Do you smell that?

2005-03-18T00:10:00.000-06:00

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.

S&M nightmares

2005-03-17T03:27:00.001-06:00

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.

Babies are marketing gimmicks

2005-03-16T01:11:00.000-06:00

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.

Jay Haters

2005-03-15T00:01:00.000-06:00

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!

Cooter Pie

2005-03-14T17:16:00.000-06:00

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.

Miranda

2005-03-14T01:50:00.000-06:00

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.

War of the Roses

2005-03-11T10:20:00.000-06:00

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.

Woahwuz me.

2005-03-10T06:59:00.001-06:00

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.

The Germinator

2005-03-08T09:07:00.000-06:00

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.

Too much time to ponder

2005-03-07T11:53:00.000-06:00

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.

The holiest of shits

2005-03-04T00:41:00.000-06:00

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.

Freaks R Us

2005-03-03T00:10:00.000-06:00

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?”

“No.”

“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?”

“Nope.”

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.

Impregnated Uteri

2005-03-01T10:51:00.000-06:00

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.

Deprived already

2005-02-28T02:15:00.000-06:00

My children are already disadvantaged. I feel sorry for them and they haven’t even been born yet. I’m contemplating making some major changes in our lives to make up for how far off course things have gotten.

For one, they’ll each have their own room. Not right away, but that’s for our convenience while they’re toddlers. Eventually they’ll each have a bedroom. My sister and I shared a room through elementary school and then a storage room was converted to a bedroom for me. The house didn’t have central air or heat and that storage room wasn’t insulated like the rest of the house was. Not to mention the house was on blocks so the cold hair practically enveloped that room. Fucker was 40 degrees in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Didn’t help either that the washer and dryer were in that room and there was no adequate ventilation so the place was always filled with lint when Mom did the laundry. My old man shit a brick every time he got his hands on the gas bill and for a few weeks afterwards each time he’d do the laundry himself when he got home. 11pm at night and his ass was outside hanging wet jeans on the clothes line. When it got so cold outside they wouldn’t line dry he built a clothesline inside the house above the gas heater. That’s where the clothes were hung during winter and rains.

I can remember being whipped for forgetting to turn the light off when I left the room. Electricity ain’t free, boy. Also remember getting lectured when I walked from bedroom to bathroom to bedroom to bathroom, turning each light on and off every time I entered and exited. Apparently I was supposed to apply common sense in that case and know NOT to turn the light off. That’s the kind of fucked up mentality my kids need to be exposed to.

Money is also a problem for my kids. They’ll have it. I was pretty damn old by the time I realized everybody else did NOT stand in line Saturday mornings to get their allotment of cheese, butter and powdered milk. God, that powdered milk was awful. Mom ended up buying real milk at the store and just getting the cheese and huge bricks of government butter. For all you taxpaying folks out there, thanks for the meals. We appreciated them. That’s the kind of shit my kids need to experience.

Free lunches in the school system. Boy was that shit great. Momma would give me my form and I’d stand in the ticket line in the mornings. She was always so nice to me, the cafeteria lady. She had brown hair and wore a hair net and I never knew her name. She was probably younger than I am now. She’d smile real big and count out my free lunch tickets faster than I knew any human being could count and she’d hand me my pile of yellow tickets, not green like everyone else’s. But I was too young to know the difference. Hell, Jasmine will probably pack our little shits lunches every day in designer lunch boxes. I hated those kids in school. Fucking Star Wars and Scooby –Doo lunch kits with twinkies and ho-ho’s and shit inside and not one slice of government cheese to be found.

Because we owned so much land we had a riding tractor to cut the grass. For our riding pleasure, my old man replaced the standard seat with the front bucket seat from an old Dodge van he got for $300. The van, not the seat. It was white and huge and folks laughed, but damn it was a nice ride for the 4 hours it took to do the lawn. The dog used to sit on the hood because he liked the vibration under his ass. I used to put it in “Rabbit” gear and chase Julie with the dog on top because she thought it was disgusting when the dog’s one-eyed weasel would jut out from the enjoyable ride. Yeah, it was nasty, but it was funnier watching Julie run in fear as I chased her down with the dog’s hard-on. Ain’t no tractors needed to mow this 1/8 acre I got going on now. Guess that means no wet dog willies for the kiddos either. Pity.

Vehicles are another perk for the twins. I can remember many a journey on the back of my mom’s bike pedaling down the interstate. Later, we had the one car, a red Volkswagen Beetle. We parked it on blocks when it rained because the housing edition we lived in at the time for the sailors families flooded in the slightest rain. The seatbelt was my Mom’s right arm. Every time she hit the brake, she simultaneously slapped that arm across my chest and kept me from being thrown into the windshield. Ah, the good ole days. Fuck child safety seats, we were living on the edge.

My kids won’t be responsible for feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs, picking pecans, cleaning trailer homes for sale, riding a horny dog around on a vibrating tractor, swimming in the bayou, or struggling to take a shit in an outhouse when the government cheese has stopped everything up. Poor kids. I hope they still manage to turn out all right.

I'm special. Special-Ed

2005-02-25T09:46:00.000-06:00

Our next door neighbor mentioned to us yesterday that they learned their daughter, Juicy’s little sister, has ADD. It doesn’t surprise me. I could see the signs. What surprised me was Susan’s behavior when she said it. She whispered it. It’s not herpes for fuck’s sake, it’s ADD.

I asked her if she had started Miranda on Ritalin yet. Oh, hell no! Ritalin? Put my child on drugs? No way, Mister! My daughter’s not doing that. We’ll handle it through diet.

Jesus Christ. You fucking nut job. So yeah, cut back on the sugar which is good because Miranda’s about as juicy as her older brother and could probably benefit from a less sugary diet. But swearing off ADD medication because you don’t want your school nurse to know? Because you don’t want your family to find out your child isn’t cerebrally perfect? Give me a fucking break.

I have ADD. It ain’t no big thang. I don’t take Ritalin, but mine is mild and can be controlled through caffeine alone. My grandma figured that out early on, way before it was vogue to diagnose a special attention deficit disorder. She called it “milk coffee” and she fixed me a cup every time I came over. The milk was to disguise the flavor that naturally repulsed the normal 7 year old kid, but after a cup I was mellow, more patient and focused. Mom didn’t drink coffee and my old man worked so damn much the last thing he wanted when he got home was a jolt of caffeine. She compensated with diet soft drinks. No sugar, but plenty of caffeine. We didn’t even know it had a name, we just knew I was better after a can or cup of the big C-word. Grandma said my uncle, her son, was the same way. Of course he was. ADD is genetic.

I’ve written several posts at the end of the day when the coffee has worn off, such as A-D-D, and this one which I didn't even realize was so multi-directional until the next day. For me, it feels like someone has jumped behind the wheel of my brain and shoved the gas pedal through the floor. Everything whizzes by at mach speed and I never fully wrap my mind around something before it’s a thing of the past and I’m on to something else. I’m not a slob, but my place was never what you’d call kempt prior to Jasmine moving in. I’d fix a sandwich and forget to put the knife away because my mind had moved on to something else while I went through the motions. I’d put a load of laundry in the washer and not remember it until two days later. Unfinished tasks became my trademark. I’m not unwilling to finish what I start, just forget that I started it because something else came along. Without my caffeine fix it’s impossible for me to see something through to the end. I lose focus. And it’s not multitasking either because I don’t complete anything at all.

ADD affects the right side of the brain, the creative side. It intensifies it. This list here distinguishes those who showed clear indications of having it, Mozart, Beethoven, Picaso, Frost. To me, it’s cool. I’m naturally analytical and logical which are left-brained tendencies. But then I have sparks flying on the right side that, without coffee, can be pretty entertaining when I sit down to write something. That’s why ADD is more often diagnosed in males than females, in my opinion. I suspect it displays equally, but women’s ability to multitask and their natural lean to the right side of the brain masks it. It’s very easy, very easy to recognize. Does speed relax you? ADD is chemical, not mental. You can’t control it with your mind if it’s your mind that’s out of control. And unlike the rest of the pathetically bland, normal population out there, we don’t get hooked on speed. It’s entirely non-addictive for us because the chemical that creates a dependency on it is missing in our brains or so low it can’t impact it. That’s what makes us ADD. It's not the same as being scatter-brained. If caffeine wakes you up or makes you jittery, this is not your problem.

The way I see it, Miranda’s lucky. It’s her mother that has the problem.

See ya later, buddy

2005-02-23T17:41:00.000-06:00

My blogroll is short and yeah, I’ve caught some hell for that at times. Zelda posts regularly, Jack every few days, and Trashman whenever he fucking feels like it. On my toolbar I have my own blog, then Savannah’s, then Angi’s.

Any time I log on I check Savannah’s blog first, then mine, Angi’s, Jack’s, Zelda’s and Trashman’s. That’s my routine. Every time.

So when Jack suddenly pulled his blog offline, I was floored by the absence. It fucked up my whole routine. Not only that, his is one of those that I read out loud to Jasmine. If my marriage suffers, it’ll be Jack’s fault.

I found Jack’s Texas Music in June of ’04. He’d commented at the Former Life at TJ’s Place with something almost as witty as something I’d say. I believe he was preparing to go skydiving at that time. Shortly after he posted a story about Seth. I haven’t read it in 8 months but I remember it damn well. The pacing was incredibly smooth and I had to admit I was impressed.

Then, of course, there was the bullshit I somehow managed to find myself in the middle of when Vader and I weren’t seeing eye to eye on an insensitive phrasing of a delicate question I posted over at Sloth’s. I found myself before the firing squad and if you ask me I think Jack was quietly laughing his ass off out in Somewhere, TX. That’s when he devised the plan to stage yet another fight, only this one was to be between us. Little fucker was trying to muscle in on my shit storm.

So we did, we staged a fight. It was fucking great. Every time he posted a pissed off comment on my site I cracked up. I would come back with something witty and brilliant and that motherfucker would one up me every time. Then I got him good. I posted the pic of the dog with a dildo in his mouth. I caught some hell from the readers on that one. Calling me names and shit, immature asshole, childish prick and what-not. Funny thing was Jack loved it. He just sat back watching the sea of people turn on me and run to him. Bastard. I think he set me up.

When I recall Jack’s post about his dad and the TV antenna I have to ask myself if that was his or mine. I’m sure that’s his memory, but damn it’s a helluva lot like my own. The post with the wire while inside making a buy was pretty heart pounding. Especially when the ambulance drove by and the siren could be heard on the tape. I thought the dealer was gonna cap his ass right then and there.

I greatly enjoyed the glossary of cop terms he posted, as several of you might remember. Of course, now that he’s removed his archives I’ll have a broken link in that post from July. I hate when he only thinks of himself. He also swore my post about how much I hate Wal-Mart was directly stolen from his blog, but I swear to you he never wrote a post about Wal-Mart. And nobody can prove otherwise now. I also enjoyed his S&M posts because he was into that kinky shit. You might have missed them, but they were pretty fucked up. He was all about some nipple clamps and size 12 clear platform heels. I’d put a link, but as you already know they’re all gone now. Pity. It was some freaky shit.

The recent one about being pulled over was funny as hell. I read that one several times, laughing in the same spots over and over again like a retard. Rolling probable cause. I also enjoyed the one weekend a month posts as well as the one about the soldier wannabe trying to scam free drinks with his mismatched “fruit salad” and all that other shit he said that I couldn’t understand. Jack earned my respect on that one. Not because he called the man down, but because someone commented that he was a jerk for trying to intimidate the young prick. I called the anonymous commenter a flag burning coward for hiding behind anonymity to insult someone standing up for our military. Jack didn’t just set the record straight with the Anonymous one, who was later discovered to be a commenter by the name of “KC,” but he got onto me for jumping his shit. That was the part I respected.

The Michael Moore post was great. I really enjoyed the one comparing Kerry to Bush. I found it to be as close to objective as humanly possible. I learned a lot from the Assault Weapon Ban post. I began to understand the hard work, low pay, emotional stress and driven need to be a part of the Task Force despite all of that. I also recall one paragraph from a particular post that hit too close to home. It was the one about scorpions a few days after his dad died. The one where he got stung and had salve below his eye when he decided his dog Alex looked like he needed a hug. It reminded me of the week after Mom died and I knew the feeling. And lest we not forget The House That Jack Threw Up In.

I don’t pretend to know Jack personally. Hell, I don’t even know his fucking name. But I suspect that’s a technicality that won’t stand forever. Now that he’s AWOL maybe I’ll throw some old emails up here where he goes into detail about his bunions and hemorrhoids. Don’t know why he always shared that shit with me. Also, I'm 80% sure he was in love with me in a weird hetero kind of way. Yeah, you take that shit to dinner and chew on it for awhile.

The slaughtering of Jayday

2005-02-23T00:07:00.000-06:00

I finally got my hands on a copy of Collateral which I’d been wanting to see. I missed it at the theaters. But apparently fondling the jacket was about as far as I was going to get. I was plagued with intruders.

Me: Hello?
Julie: What are you doing?
Me: Having sex.
Julie: Must be by yourself. Your wife just called me from her cell phone.
Me: Doesn’t change the facts. What do you want?
Julie: Can you watch Katy Saturday?
Me: No.
Julie: Good. I’ll bring her over about 10.
Me: I’m busy.
Julie: That’s not what your wife said.
Me: She’s a pathological liar.
Julie: Fine by me. See you Saturday.
Me: Later.

I open the DVD case. Phone rings again.

Me: Hello?
Dad: What’s up?
Me: Trying to watch a movie before Jasmine gets home.
Dad: Porn?
Me: I wish. Collateral.
Dad: It was shit.
Me: Great, thanks. What do you want?
Dad: Just called to shoot the shit.
Me: Seriously, you need to get out of that cast.
Dad: Why?
Me: You’re calling too often. Get back to work, you lazy sack of shit.
Dad: (Laughs) We’re going up to the sticks Saturday. Wanna go?
Me: Damn, wish I could. I’m watching Katy.
Dad: (Laughs again) Your sister’s going.
Me: Get the fuck out!
Dad: Get back to your porn.
Me: Later.

I put the DVD into the player and changed the TV to video. I got almost to the menu when the phone rang again. Motherfuck!

Me: WHAT?
Jason: Damn, bro, what crawled up your ass?
Me: I’m trying to watch a movie before Jasmine gets home.
Jason: Porn?
Me: What do you want?
Jason: Wanna go kick the rock?
Me: Nah, man. I gotta return this by noon tomorrow. How about Thursday?
Jason: No good. Saturday?
Me: Babysitting. Sunday?
Jason: That’s cool. Don’t grab my ass again.
Me: How can I resist?

I hit play, tossed the phone down to the other end of the sofa, kicked back and settled in to finally watch my movie. That’s when the front door opened.

“Hi, honey. Can you help me bring all this stuff in? I can’t wait to show you all the cute little outfits!”

Just. Fucking. Great.

Gimme my damn miracle, beeyotch

2005-02-22T01:17:00.000-06:00

My mom’s mom was very religious. I’m talking Oral Roberts, singing the praises in the street, visualizing the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich, the whole nine yards. Even at 10 years old I thought it was ridiculous to tell a good man who’d lived his life dedicated to helping others that because he didn’t accept Jesus that he was doomed to burn for eternity. Seemed like a technicality to me.

I’m not saying one thing or another about what’s true and what isn’t. I’m really just slamming Baptists here, just so we’re on the same page through this journey.

My grandma had asked us to go to church with her. I remember sitting in the pew as the slick haired man yelled at us, threatening us to be better Christians or face an eternity in hell. Worthless sacks of shit, we apparently were. Then he said it was time for the healing to begin.

All those wanting their miracles tonight were to line up down the center of the church where the bride would traditionally take her last few steps as a free-thinking woman. Each person in line was to ask for a miracle and he, Preacher Boy, would grant our miracle through God’s powers. My grandmother insisted I get in line. What the hell for? Go, go, go. Get your miracle. Yes ma’am.

I got in line and spent my 15 minutes trying to think up what miracle I would ask for. Preacher Boy would announce everyone’s miracle, then he’d say it was so and all was granted. Abracadabra. Who needs a genie?

So while I’m standing in line I start thinking. I’d like a new skateboard, but that’s not really a gift from God. More like a gift from Dad. No, it should be something money can’t buy. Like to be taller. Yeah, that would be cool. It sucked being the shortest boy in my class. But what if I walked out of here as short as I walked in? Then I’d be the only one who didn’t get my miracle and grandma would fuss at me for asking for something ungrantable. Or worse, I would get taller and I’d have to listen to her tell me repeatedly it was due to my miracle and not my pituitary. Not surprisingly, a glance into the future would show I grew another 16 inches over the next couple of years. Good thing I didn’t waste it.

When my turn came Preacher Boy asked me in his loud better-than-thou voice what miracle I wanted from God this day. I took off my glasses and told him I wanted to see clearly. Fix that shit, motherfucker. Make it 20/20.

Had the man possessed an inkling of conscience he would have refused. But then, he was already up there offering people miracles simply for asking. To hell with conscience, that dipshit didn’t even have common sense on his side.

He placed his palm on my forehead and prayed to Jesus that my eyes would be healed. He was so sure of himself, so confident in his ability to pass along the ability to heal the terminally nearsighted, that for just a second I believed he just might do it. He gave me a push after his loud request for help to save my soul from my optical dysfunctionalism and he asked me in a voice everyone could hear:

“TELL ME SON, CAN YOU SEE? HAS GOD PERFORMED A MIRACLE FOR YOU TONIGHT?”

Well, fuck, dude, don’t put me on the spot or anything. Everyone turned to me as I stood there with my glasses in my hand and my short bangs standing upright from his sweaty palm. Now what? I glanced behind him at the clock a half a football field away and stared at it. Was it possible? Was it actually clearer?

“Yes. Yes!” I could see!! Praise the Lord, Jesus Christ our Savior, thank you God! I could see! All this time I wore those glasses, put up with the name calling and hassles when all I had to do was ask Preacher Boy to deliver me my miracle. Wow! I turned around to share the wondrous news with my grandma and ran smack into a woman wearing a dress the same color as the carpet.

Stubborn is as stubborn does

2005-02-21T00:49:00.000-06:00

I sat down at my desk tonight to find this shit on my desktop. My wife is not funny.

Sometimes my old man gets exactly what he deserves and other times he deserved worse than he got. He spent 30 years either taking care of the three of us or just Mom, but either way it’s been hard on him to suddenly have nobody depending on him financially. To make up for it, he’s made a few poor choices as he’s eased back into the dating pool. He informed me tonight of something he’d kept quiet since it happened in November.

See, Dad still has Mom’s car. He bought it for her in ’85 and since it was nicer than the pickup he’s been driving since ‘82 he’s kept them both. Back in November he was getting his feet wet again with some needy chic looking for a sugar daddy. The woman, Gimme, was having car problems and rather than get hers fixed she asked to borrow my Dad’s. Or rather, my Mom’s. He agreed. After a reasonable amount of time passed he asked for the car back. She refused.

My old man got in his pickup, which burns a quart of oil on a good day for every tank of gas, and drove the 45 miles to Gimme’s house. She’d hidden the car somewhere nearby and refused to hand over the keys. He stood on her doorstep and phoned 911 to report a car theft. Gimme opened the door, threw the keys at him, and slammed it shut again. The cops gave my old man a ride around the area to find Mom’s car parked a few blocks away. He dropped the charge, the cops left, and now my old man discovered he was in one hell of a predicament. He was 45 miles from home with two vehicles. And did I mention too fucking proud to call Julie or myself or even Cuz to ask for help? He got himself into it, he was gonna get himself out of it.

He drove the car about a half mile, then ran back to where he’d left the truck. He drove the truck a half mile past the car, parked and ran back to the car. He did that for about 3 miles before he figured out he’d never get home before Christmas, so in a wave of genius he parked the car in a safe location then drove home and borrowed the 8 year old neighbor’s pink bicycle. Over the next several days my father could be seen along the shoulder of IH-10 westbound from Louisiana to Texas, pedaling furiously with his ass up in the air like the wicked witch of the west on a little pink Huffy with streamers in the handlebars. With less than an hour of daylight after work each day it took him nearly all week to get both vehicles home. And this whole time he said not one damn word to any of us.

Stubborn son of a bitch.

Need I say more?

2005-02-18T02:05:00.000-06:00

Those are the sexiest monkey PJ's I've ever seen.

Me eyes!

2005-02-17T00:00:00.000-06:00

I discovered a while back the 'Next Blog' button usually lead nowhere worth traveling. This confirmed it. I knew something was awry in the first photo, but I could not conceive what I discovered.

Valentine's Day

2005-02-16T11:26:00.000-06:00

We had another ultrasound last week. Sonographer said she couldn’t tell yet about the sex but she made a guess based on heart rate. Wouldn’t you like to know…

The little shits are wearing me out and they haven’t even left the womb yet. I had the whole house painted less than three years ago, but silly me I had it done in beige throughout. Children need color, don’t you know? And I’m too fucking cheap to bring in yet another painter for a single room so I spent my first healthy weekend in a while taping off the molding, baseboards and doorways. After I moved everything out of the room into the other bedroom/attic/closets/garage. Fortunately, I had Jasmine there to point me in the right direction as I stumbled by with a futon on my back. What would I do without her?

Did I mention my wife is pregnant? Holyshit. She’s 17 weeks now and can I say DAMN? No stretch marks yet. I should know. I’ve been put in charge of staving them off with gallons of cocoa butter. She admitted stretch marks are purely genetic and no amount of cocoa butter can prevent them, but decided to put me in charge making sure that’s not a medical misstatement. What are the chances they’ll appear and I’ll be accused of slacking nonetheless? I smear that shit up to her earlobes and down to her knees just to be safe. Unless those kids drop to her ankles I’ve got it covered.

I have been excused from my voluntary coffee ban. She couldn’t take it anymore. I was drinking Red Bull to get the caffeine but at a buck and a quarter a pop she got tired of listening to me complain. Now I get a $3 coffee instead. Sucker. I also successfully defended coffee as a form of medication. It was brilliant. I’m sorry you missed it.

I had a dozen roses sent to the office for Valentine’s. She loves white roses. I know that isn’t the color of love, but since I waited until Monday morning to order them pickin's were slim. I made it up in creativity though. Only 10 of the roses were white. Two were pink. One for each baby. They didn’t have any blue roses so don’t read anything into the pink. Or do. The fact that I asked should tell you something. Unless I’m lying.

Our next ultrasound is next month some time. She told us without a doubt, assuming good positioning, she’ll be able to tell us the sex if we want to know it. You bet your ass I do. Jasmine is torn between learning the surprise now and learning it later. They’ve got suspicions based on heart rates but specifically told us that was unreliable and not to be counted on.

Kadybug spent the night the weekend before last when I was sick. I was sleeping in the other room to avoid getting Jazz sick and had crashed early on, before 9pm. About an hour later I woke myself coughing, rolled over, and in the shadows I saw the silhouette of someone standing 6 inches from my face. I screamed in a totally manly way and jumped to my feet in the darkness just to hear, “Hee hee, I ‘care you, Uncle Day. You ‘cream.” My pregnant wife came running to my rescue/humiliation.

Jasmine snickered. I wish boys upon her. Come on, chromosomes, don’t let me down.

Spooks

2005-02-14T02:05:00.000-06:00

I was up watching Best of Autopsy on HBO tonight. I hate shows like that, and yet I watched it. I knew it was gonna be bad when the words “corpse” and “vaginal tube” were used in the same sentence. Some people are just fucked up. Then I completely freaked out when a mug shot was shown and the city and state was the very same small city I was living in at the time of his arrest. Population 12,000 which included me and the murdering, corpse-fucker.

My cell phone just beeped and scared the shit out of me. I don’t do scary movies and that includes gruesome autopsies. Jasmine wants to see White Noise where they record the voices of people after they’re dead. That Jason and Freddy crap bores me. The Hollywood gore festivals are stupid. You got Hannibal chowing down on Peggy Sue? Yuck, but whatever. But you go and throw a fucking ghost up into the mix and you’ll hear my little bitch scream for miles. M. Night Shyamalan can kiss my motherfucking ass. I ain’t sticking around. That scene in the Sixth Sense where the kid is taking a leak and the dead housewife walks past, damn man, it was weeks before I could piss again without watching the doorway. I sprayed down so many urinals, toilets and floors it wasn't even funny.

Jasmine is in the bedroom alone. I better go in there in case she wakes up and needs comforting.

Miss me?

2005-02-11T01:45:00.000-06:00

Weddings are stupid. Especially long drawn out weddings with singers and guitarists and poetry and shit all crammed into the ceremony stretching it from 10 minutes to 45. That’s bullshit. “Do you?” “Yep. What about you?” “Sure.” Done. That’s what it ought to be. There is no rule book somewhere that says the more money you drop, the more agonizingly, mind-numbingly boring the procedure is, the more likely it will last. Putting someone, 200 someones, through that crap on Super Bowl Sunday is cruel and unusual punishment.

Due to an unforeseen illness, lucky bastard, one of the groomsmen had to cancel a few days before the wedding. To compensate for the lop-sided bridesmaids to groomsmen ratio, Jasmine agreed to step down as maid/matron of honor. She didn’t fit into her dress anymore, didn’t want to do it anyway, and third, Ivy suggested it. Blood might be thicker than water, but it’s a liquid that pours nonetheless.

When the music started up and the parade down the aisle began we all waited with bated breath, oh yes, to catch the first glimpse of the bride in her gown. Even I was eager to once again see the love dress. Once Ivy finally appeared with her father at her side, I was greatly disappointed.

“It doesn’t look the same,” I whispered.

Jasmine shushed me. Oh, I see. She can do the deed in her sister's gown, but she can't talk about the deed among 200 of her closest family and friends. Hipocrit.

Ivy came closer and I could see the dress was the same one, but obviously longed for the voluptuous curves Jasmine had lent it.

After my eyes rolled back down out of my head at the end of the excruciatingly long ceremony, we all got to watch them run out of the church together, hand in hand, like innocent babes eager to start their lives together as if they hadn’t already been shacking up like the rest of us these last few months. We made our way to the reception site where the ritual of dancing and eating took place. Bride with groom, bride with father, groom with his mom, groom with Aunt Dinky, best man with drunken bridesmaid.

Ivy came around to pay homage to her loyal followers, inquiring as to whether we were all having a good time, did we get enough to eat, were we enjoying ourselves, had we pulled the sharp pins from our eyeballs yet, the usual pleasantries. Jasmine suggested, in front of everyone I might add, that I dance with Ivy. An awkward moment passed as we each thought of the many live arachnids we would rather ingest than have to willing come in physical contact with one another.

“I don’t know how to dance.”

Jasmine likes to entertain herself with me at times. She knew damn well I had no interest in touching her little serpent sister. “He’s an excellent dancer. Go.”

The surrounding folks got involved, blissfully unaware of mine and Ivy’s hate-you/hate-you-more relationship. It was uncomfortable and tense for a few moments until I buckled and held my hand out to her. If she declines, she’ll be the ass and not me.

Little shit took my hand. Dammit.

I shot Jasmine a look I hope she took to heart because I damn well meant it, then led her snippy little sister out onto the dance floor. (For the record, that is not me in the photo with her.) Neither of us even looked at each other the first half of the song until I thought about the dress. Under no circumstances was I trying to check her out, but she happened to look up at me just as I was looking down at the dress.

“Keep your eyes to yourself.”

I was so fucking pissed. I looked back toward Jasmine and I knew she could tell something was wrong, she had that “Oh shit” look on her face as she watched us.

I swore not to make an ass of myself in front of Jasmine’s parents. “I was admiring your gown.”

“Like you would notice.”

I clenched my jaw tighter than a homophobic’s ass cheeks in the middle of San Francisco. I wanted to snap her fucking head off. “You added those straps. Jazz showed me the gown when she picked it up. It didn’t have straps.”

Ha! Fork tongued fucker! Take that shit to the bank, why don’t you. Don’t fucking tell me what I was looking at.

But instead of apologizing like she damn well should have she copped an even bigger attitude. “I had them added because I thought they looked nice. Not that you really noticed.”

I could hear the song about to end. It couldn’t have come soon enough. “Yeah. That, and you don't have any tiddies to hold it up otherwise.”

I finished her off with a whirl, bowed, and handed her off to the next poor sap in line for a turn.

Temporarily out of service

2005-02-08T01:50:00.000-06:00

I came down with the flu last Friday. I'll post soon.

The Boogey Man

2005-02-03T18:55:00.000-06:00

I scared the piss out of Jasmine today. I never laughed so hard. The OnStar system doubles as a satellite phone. It’s actually really handy. If you can see the sky, you’ve got a signal. To activate it you hit a button on the rear view mirror. The odometer display changes to “PHONE” and the radio automatically shuts off since the car speakers double as a giant in-stereo speakerphone. To dial out you say, “Dial” and speak the person’s name you want to call from your speed dial list. A very pleasant sounding woman replies with “Dialing” and you’re hooked up. Other than pressing the first button, it’s entirely hands free.

Since I park on the third floor of the parking garage, I usually go out first after work and drive back down to get Jasmine at the front door when it’s really cold. She was taking unnecessarily long today so in my boredom I rang up Jason who was still at work.

Jason: This is Jason.
Me: Hey, man, do me a favor.
Jason: Another hooker?
Me: Not this time. Fuck with Jasmine.
Jason (laughing): Love to. How?

Just as I was wrapping up my instructions to Jason I saw Jasmine walk out, Sarah yapping away at her. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, then looked back at Sarah and brushed her off somehow.

She got in the car and immediately started in on work.

“…so, she went through the things on my desk like I had it and was hiding it from her. Has she lost her mind? If I step foot in her office when she’s not around it’s time to request video footage. And why would I lie about not having it? I swear, I come home so worked up sometimes because of that woman. You wanna know why I’m hardly ever in the mood for sex anymore it’s probably because of that wom-”

“Woah, woah, there, honey! Hard right, hang on. I need a coke.” I whipped into the driveway of the Stop & Rob and parked out front. “Want anything?”

“Her head on a platter.”

I winked at her. “So a Yoohoo, then?” I’ve never seen a woman so crazy about chocolate flavored water.

I ran to the door and once inside quickly grabbed two drinks out of the case and got in line. Outside, I could see Jasmine sitting peacefully in the truck, her head back against the headrest and her eyes closed. I couldn’t help but snicker.

Suddenly she screamed, bolted upright, ducked, spun around to look in the back seat, then jumped out of the truck and ran 10 feet away from it, panicked with eyes as big as dinner plates and her chest heaving beneath her hands. I dropped my coke I was laughing so hard. I couldn’t even stand up straight. My face was red and I couldn’t breathe, doubled over and pointing at her. She finally looked inside the store, gulping big breaths, and put it together.

I paid the clerk and walked outside. “What’s the matter, honey? Something startle you?”

“You sorry pile of shit! Was he listening the whole time?”

Ah, yes, that’s my lovely wife. What a lady, huh? I gave her a big hug and a kiss and we got back in the truck.

“Jason, you still there?”

His laugh resonated from the doors and dashboard. “Yeah. Hey, Jasmine, it was his idea. I’m sorry if I scared you too bad.”

She forgave him, but backhanded me in the gut.

“Man, don’t apologize to her. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Glad I could help. And hey, what was she saying about your sex life? You told me-”

“OnStar, disconnect.”

¿Cómo se dice "get off my ass" en español?

2005-02-03T01:05:00.000-06:00

My gray matter checked out hours ago and what little white matter I have left is vanishing quickly. I have a meeting in the morning I’ve been prepping for all week. Dude’s from Madrid. He speaks English but he’s only been speaking it a few years so as a courtesy I subject him to my back alley, “learned it from a hood rat named Juan,” Spanish. Lucky him.

We’ve talked on the phone several times and I’m having a hard time adjusting to his accent. Spaniards near Madrid speak Castilian which sounds different from the Tex-Mex bullshit I use. Not only do they use the “vosotros” form of the verb, which is all but gone from Latin America, not to mention my pea-sized brain, but they speak with what sounds like a lisp.

“¡Hola, amigo! ¿Qué patha?” or “Tengo thinco dolareth.”

I went over everything tonight that I will present to him and jotted down notes in Spanish. This way if I have a brain fart during the meeting and suddenly can’t remember the Spanish translation for “thank you for trusting in me” or “lick my nut you cross-eyed immigrant” I can refer to my pad. It’s all there.

By the way, did anyone else know that amniotic fluid completely recycles itself every three hours? You should check with me more often. I’m a fucking fountain of knowledge over here, just waiting to spew shit all over the front of your blue dress so you can share it with the world. And let’s not forget about the cheesy coating which can be located within the folds, cracks and crevices of a newborn infant. Yum. Got milk?

Back to the Spanish, because I wasn’t fucking finished before you distracted me with the baby bullshit, it’s a state of mind. It’s not just a different vocabulary, but an entirely different way of looking, thinking and understanding. If you are lucky, like Jasmine, you say “tengo suerte” which translates as “I have luck.” Once I get into that frame of mind, I’m good to go without a lot of thought. It just falls out naturally. I even think in Spanish. I’ve dreamed in Spanish before. I dreamed I was in Mexico trying to barter with a local man, my burro for his daughter. One nice ass for another. He wasn’t going for it.

Back to my point and quit with the fucking topic changes. I’ve got a moral. Note, I didn’t say morals. Totally different. In any language.

So I’m sitting in my office this evening, alone. Jasmine and I took separate cars because we knew I’d be late working on this meeting. I’d been thinking in Spanish for about three hours and was armpit deep in the language when something appeared in my doorway.

I looked up and saw the cleaning lady standing there in her yellow smock with her hand on the handle of a vacuum cleaner.

“Do you mind if I vacuum now?”

I just stared. ¿Qué?

David Fucking Copperfield

2005-02-01T08:56:00.000-06:00

I asked Jasmine to give me some loving in the truck in the parking garage this morning. Surprisingly, she declined. It’s not like more than a dozen people might have seen us or anything. I then tried to negotiate a hummer. Nada. All that crazy monkey love from the beginning is long gone, I see.

In my sexual frustration, I dropped the keys into the cup holder to grab my briefcase from the back and check inside to make sure I’d brought back the files I’d taken home to look over. All was in good order. I hopped out and we headed in. Fifteen feet away I remembered the keys.

Shit. “Hang on.”

When I got back to the truck the doors were locked.

“Jay, what are you doing?”

Dammit. She’s always telling me to quit dropping the keys in the cup holder. “I left the keys in the truck and now the doors are locked.”

“How did you lock the doors without the keys?”

“I’m David Fucking Copperfield. Go inside!”

I’ll call OnStar. They’ll unlock it. How did I lock the doors without the keys? But when I pulled out my cell phone I couldn’t get a signal deep inside the garage. Fuck. Bet the satellite won’t be able to find the truck, either. It was too dark to see inside, but I remember dropping them in the one on the right. Damn dim ass garage lights. Plus it was raining so there was no sunshine at all. I knew from the snugness my balls were smarter than I was and had already gone inside.

To hell with it. I’ll deal with it later. I walked to the office and got inside to find Jasmine in the kitchen making her daily cup of wannabe coffee.

“Hey, I locked the keys in the truck somehow. I’ll take care of it at lunch.”

I knew when she glared at me that I was in trouble. “Your keys are on your desk. I grabbed them out of the cup holder and locked it as we were walking off.”

Son of a… “Why didn’t you say that?”

“Because you’re David Fucking Copperfield.”

Ah, shit. I didn't mean it that way. She was obviously irritated. I took a deep breath and looked at her for a long moment. I shouldn’t have yelled and she knew that, she was waiting to hear it. “I’m sorry.”

She didn't smile, but her face relaxed and she looked down at her coffee. She doesn’t get touchy feely at the office, but when she walked behind me to leave and said “It’s okay” she grazed her hand over my ass.

Fucking flirt. Maybe I’ll forget the keys in the truck again tomorrow.

My digits, not yours

2005-01-31T01:58:00.000-06:00

I watched a man hit on my wife today. We went to the food court at the mall to get something to eat and I went to the restroom. When I came back out I got in line at the Cajun place to get us something to eat. I had glanced around and spotted her at the sunglass kiosk trying on different pairs. That’s when the Oshman’s poster boy walked by.

He literally stopped dead in his tracks, looked over his shoulder at her, then walked backwards to stand beside her. I moved up in line then turned back to watch him glance back and forth between Jazz and the glasses until he built up the nerve to speak to her.

I’ll be damned. He’s making a move. She still had on her leather jacket which is too bulky for anyone to notice her belly barely poking out.

He tried on a pair then I assume asked her opinion. I saw her shake her head then offer him a different pair.

“Sir? Your order?”

Fuck. I asked for two Cajun chicken meals with a coke and a water and tossed a ten onto the counter so I could get back to my spying. The Oshman’s boy was sliding a pair of sunglasses onto Jasmine’s face. I froze. And when he pushed her hair back I think my aorta ruptured from the pressure.

“Sir?”

Goddamn nagging little prick! “What?”

“Your order’s ready.”

“That’s dandy. Thank you.”

I took the food and dropped it less than gently on the table then plopped my ass into the chair and simmered. I know she can handle him herself. But it damn sure would feel good to shove my knee in his gut. He’s not her type anyway. Tall, blonde, kinda lean, outdoorsy Brad Pitt look. Nobody really likes that shit. Isn’t there a soccer game somewhere he needs to be warming up for?

She put her sunglasses back on the rack and went to walk off when he grabbed her hand. I stood up. She said something to him, gave him a smile he damn well didn’t deserve, and walked in my general direction.

Mr. Oshman’s hadn’t left the sunglass kiosk. He was watching her walk away and as she got closer to the table he spotted me. That motherfucker and I made eye contact.

I sat down before Jasmine noticed me watching her. She gave me a kiss and sat down, then started eating like nothing at all had happened.

“Some guy asked for my number.”

Son of a bitch. And damn he’s fast. I was conflicted between hating him and admiring his speed all at once. Took me over two fucking years to ask Jasmine out while Mr. Jock Strap did it in 2 minutes. He must be on crack. “Really? I’m not surprised.”

She grinned. “Were you jealous?”

I shrugged and took a swallow of my coke. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Liar.”

Oh, now she’s gonna question my honesty. It doesn’t matter that I’m lying. She should believe what I say just because I say it, dammit. “Jazz, I came out of the restroom, got the food and sat down. I never noticed you over there.”

That’s when she pointed at the kiosk. “I watched you in the mirror. Lie to me again and see what I do.”

And though I suspect she was being light-hearted, I was too scared to ask.

Playing catch up with old posts

2005-01-28T20:47:00.000-06:00

I had some posts sitting in draft that I never published. This one is from my wedding morning. Here’s what I had to say before the overwhelming nausea hit:

January 14th, 2005 - 7:55am

This morning I woke up, took a leak, scratched my sack, sniffed my underarms and then it hit me. Oh fuck, I’m getting married today. All of the warmth in my body evaporated as the blood pooled at my ankles. I looked back into the bedroom and saw Jasmine lying in bed, staring out the window. Was she planning her getaway? She ought to be. She’s damn sure getting the short end of the stick. Does she know I’m deathly afraid of cockroaches? Ewhwehehewhehew, those little bastards give me the chills.

Is there anything I don’t know about her? Her eyes are hazel, a correction she made when I mistakenly referred to them as green with brown flecks of shit in them. Don’t see the difference. Her middle name is Rayne which has been the middle name of every first born daughter in her family for 6 generations. Her shoe size is large, fucking large. She likes her unleaded-pretend-coffee with cream, no sugar. She wants 2 kids. Check. She’d rather live in the suburbs. Check. She likes dogs, hates cats. She’s a conservative democrat but definitely not a liberal republican. Yeah, that’s what I said. She doesn’t take shit, but she’s so classy about it you never realize she’s not taking your shit until there’s egg all over your face. She doesn’t like sweets. Her real mom OD’d when she was 9. She thinks beauty pageants are for the intellectually disabled. Amen. She detests abortion, but supports the death penalty. You go, girl. She’s a Texan, born and raised. That right there is a prerequisite. What the hell did I do to deserve her? Or better yet, who did she screw over in life to deserve me? Karma’s a motherfucker.

I don’t know everything about her. That’s a good thing. How boring would that be to know someone inside and out from the get-go and have nothing at all to look forward to? But I know she complements me. I’ve heard opposites attract but don’t last. I don’t think we’re opposite, really. If you sliced a jagged tear down the center of a painting, sure the pieces would mirror each other and technically be opposites, but aren’t they both part of the same big picture? A picture that doesn’t mean as much with one half missing?

Now I’m rambling. She’s doing God knows what in the bathroom right now. I feel like I’m in the eye of the storm. Two miles in either direction and all hell will break lose. It’s like standing in the center of the merry-go-round. As long as you’re in the dead center and you maintain that control, you’ll be fine. Step out of bounds and the centrifugal force will sling your ass in an embarrassing blur of arms and legs to land in a heap in the grass while your niece’s toddler friends point and giggle.

Coffee. I need coffee. I got my reloadable Starbucks Shareholder card in the mail. I think those things are stupid, yet I feel compelled to impress the 17 year old ball-less wonder behind the register with my fancy “I own a piece of you” green coffee cherry card. It came with $3.50 already on it. Lucky me. I bought Starbucks when it was at $31 around January last year. I just had a feeling. Nowadays I’ve got a damn good feeling. Wish I’d bought more, but no reason to get greedy and I never break my own rules, especially in my own accounts. Gotta stay balanced.

Damn I wish I had asked her out when she first hired on. I’m such a pussy. At least I mentioned her to Mom once. I told Mom my ex was raising hell about me flirting with a lady at the office. Mom asked if I was guilty of flirting. I didn’t answer, just smiled. Mom asked if it was worth the ensuing fight with my ex. I kept smiling. She patted my cheek and told me I reap what I sow. That was an understatement.

Lo and behold it’s my turn in the bathroom!

Bastard

2005-01-27T23:26:00.000-06:00

You folks are gonna hate me for this, but I'm tired and heading to bed. I'm giving a presentation in the morning to 400 prospects. Largest presentation I've ever been a part of. My section discusses the 529 which I'm versed on, but honestly Sarah is the expert so I've never bothered with the administration details of it like annual fees and shit.

I'm not a rehearsed speech kind of guy so I spent all night studying up on the tax laws and fine print for each company I'll be referencing. My brain is crammed with so much shit right now nothing but a good jerk and a full night's sleep is gonna make it better. I'll let you folks know after lunch how it went. The presentation, not the jerk. That'll go just fine. Trust me.

May I have the envelope, please?

2005-01-26T22:55:00.000-06:00

Jasmine’s middle name is Rayne. It’s the surname of her great-great-yada-yada-grandmother originally from New Orleans in the 1850's or so. The first born daughter was named after her, getting the mom’s middle and last name as her own first and middle. Keep up, it won’t get any easier.

That daughter along with her two sisters attended a college in New England that was unique for its time. It promoted independence for women and encouraged them to demand equality. That shit’s rooted in the DNA. I never had a chance.

The family had a bit of chump change laying about. Not hard to do in the mid-1800’s. Just invent some shit that makes picking cotton easier and bam, you’re a millionaire. So they invested heavily in said college and the girls generated the stirrings of organized feminism in that particular state. Six generations later my wife as a direct descendant has found her way back to the mother land, that being Texas, and done the smartest thing she could have ever done in this quest for independence and equality. She married my ass. Two steps forward, one step back.

Back to the name thing, when the oldest daughter married and had kids of her own, she chose to pass along her mother’s surname just the way she had received it, hence creating this legacy I stumbled into.

That being said, Jasmine chose Autumn Rayne. And you can etch that shit in stone. It ain’t changing, I don’t care what some poll says. The woman’s mind is made up.

For my choice on a second girl’s name I cheated as well. My mom’s name was Olivia. My old man called her Liv. If we get a second girl I’d be really damn pleased to be able to name her Olivia Claire.

On to the boy names. I get first dibs so if a boy is born he’ll be named Benjamin Todd. Jasmine is pretty firm on Ethan Grant for a second boy, but she’s not as confident as she is with Autumn. So that’s what we’ve come up with. Don’t hold me to it. You know how I am about committing to one thing forever and ever amen. Makes my pits sweat.

Bambinos:
Benjamin Todd
Ethan Grant

Bambinas:
Autumn Rayne
Olivia Claire

Since the voting was anonymous, thank you to the 175-200 unique IP addresses who participated. I was able to rub Jazz's nose into the fact that I picked a way cooler name than she did. It bothers her deep down. Her shifty-eyed glance doesn't fool me with it's look of pseudo boredom.

Name that baby, part deaux

2005-01-25T22:15:00.000-06:00

Here are 10 boy names we're tossing around. The one I've picked for my primary choice is within this list along with several Jasmine is debating. Thursday I'll let everyone know which names we like.

Name that baby

2005-01-25T07:53:00.000-06:00

Jasmine and I have already chosen one name for each sex, but we're considering back up names in case it's two of each sex. The female name we chose is in this list. Jasmine's middle name is 6 generations in the making and if we have at least one daughter it will be 7. For now, you'll just have to wing it in your guesses. It only lets you vote once per 24 hours and I can't figure out how to change that so vote wisely.

Texas, Our Texas

2005-01-23T15:35:00.000-06:00

I’m sitting outside right now in the swing on the back porch. It’s 70 degrees and sunny and the only time of year that allows me to do this without risking West Nile or Malaria. Every summer when it gets hot, I mean really hot, I always say I’m going to leave. 105 degrees with 100% humidity is miles past miserable, it’s outright insane.

But the truth is I could never leave Texas. I would move around within the state, but I’d never leave. I’m a Texan. I love this state and the mentality of the people here. I love the pride and prestige. Maybe it’s all in my head, and it probably is. But this is where my head is. You can’t earn a Texas birthright. You inherit it. My kids will be Texans. That’s the first gift I’ll give them.

If I want the beach, I’ll go to Galveston. If I want trees I’ll head to Longview. If I want rolling hills and awesome landscapes I’ll settle in Austin. If I want the Rockies I’ll take IH10 to El Paso. Lubbock’s got all the snow I would ever need and Dallas has America’s football team, or at least, it’s close enough to it. Big city life is right here in Houston. Twenty miles north I get trees and land, twenty miles southwest I get open range. I can eat a slice of pizza with the local Sears Auto Shop mechanic on my left and George H. Bush and his men in black on my right.

Yeah, we got mosquitos. And it’s hot as a motherfucker in September. And May, June, July and August for that matter. But I don’t have to leave Texas to get away from it.

Every time I go to Austin I just want to suck in the air and plant my feet. Not within the city, but in those nice areas on top of the hills just north of Austin. Ain’t nothing prettier than the capitol all lit up at night. Nearly everyone there is a graduate from UT, but I can forgive them for that.

Regardless, if I ever do move it won’t be out of this state. Texas is a part of me, I can’t imagine not being a part of it.

That being said, a vacation home in Maui is not out of the question.

Turn that shit down

2005-01-21T01:25:00.000-06:00

I was leaned back in my recliner when Jazz plopped down on the couch with the tube of lube, pulled off her shirt, and lowered her pants. A few months ago that would have aroused me to no end. But nowadays I do little more than to shift my eyes her direction, roll them upward and pucker as I turn the volume up on the TV. Why can’t she do this during The Apprentice or some crap I’m not interested in?

She squirted the goop onto her belly and clicked on the doodad and for the umpteenth night straight I had to listen to the sound of an Apache helicopter just starting to spin its blades.

“Jazz, come on. I’m watching TV here. Hey! Turn it down!”

She thinks when she gives me that look that it makes me feel shallow and petty but she’s wrong. I know I’m shallow and petty. Her look only confirms to me I know myself well. I bought that damn baby doodad thing so she could find the babies’ heartbeats next time she starts bleeding and not have to wait to go to the ER or wait for an ultrasound to know if they’re alive or not. I had no idea I would be listening to the melodic gurglings from the inside of my wife’s digestive track every night as she searched persistently for a tiny, rapid heartbeat.

I always pretend to hear it just to get her to shut it off. “Is that it?”

“No.”

Whatever. Like she can tell. “I think that’s it.”

“That’s mine, there’s an artery there. Hush.”

Hush? I’m not the one blaring the belly serenade, now am I? “Is that it?”

“No.”

I waited all of 11 seconds. “Is that it?”

“If you don’t stop it…”

Please. “You’ll what, not let me hear the wonder of your colon anymore? Pity.”

After another 10 agonizing minutes with the Doppler, Jazz struck gold. She found one of the babies. Only instead of sounding like an Apache getting ready to take off, that son of a bitch was in full flight. I tried to count them off but there were at least two beats every second. She was so excited until the little fucker made a scratching sound, like a record on a turntable, and disappeared. She found it again a few minutes later and for the next half hour I watched her sit there and chase the little shits around so we both could enjoy this magical moment while I missed my show.

“Hey honey, can you maybe do that in the bedroom?” That’s the least she could do, right? I mean, come on, I’m trying to unwind here.

“Listen to them, Jay! You do it.”

“Jazz, I can’t hear anything else. I’ve got no choice but to listen! Can’t you do that in the bedroom?”

She twisted it off and suddenly the TV seemed ridiculously loud. I figured I was in for it, but that’s okay. It’s not like she’s giving it up on a regular basis right now. What’s my incentive here? Let’s be realistic about this.

She turned to stare at me over her shoulder.

Still staring.

I'm not looking at you.

Hey, what’s that over there? Look, quick!

Quit it.

I don’t see you still staring at me out of the corner of my eye while I pretend to focus intently on what Pat Sajak has to say.

I don’t feel you boring holes into my skull. You can just stop wasting your time.

Stop it.

I slid my gaze to the coffee table to check her out peripherally.

“I see you looking at me.”

Damn. That shit never worked with my old man, either. I looked at her, looked at the TV, looked back at her, sighed and clicked off the TV. “Hey, sweetie, can I do it? Please?”

She grinned. “Sure!”

I want my balls back.

Smoky & the Bandit

2005-01-20T01:34:00.000-06:00

I nearly took one up the ass today. I usually take the Metro into town whenever I meet with clients down there, but this time I decided to drive since I was only meeting with one client and that was for less than an hour.

The left hand lane on the interstate is for passing. People should not be in that lane unless they are passing. Why this simple concept blows right over the heads of some ignoramuses I’ll never know. It’s true that when I get on the entrance ramp I swing all the way across into the left lane as quickly as I can. And it’s also true that once I’m there I do not leave the left hand lane unless I’m ready to swing back across all four lanes and suddenly exit. But in my defense, I am always passing everyone else. Why should I bounce in and out of the left lane when there is nobody going faster than me?

Under normal driving conditions, this philosophy works fine for me as it has for 14 years. I’ve learned to expect the occasional grandpa, the occasional mascara chic, the occasional cell phone talker. But what I don’t expect to find is a goddamn city street sweeper weighing in around 6 tons fucking PARKED in the left hand lane of the interstate.

Keep in mind this next part all happened within a matter of 3 seconds:

I was barreling down the interstate doing no less than 80 mph when I saw the vehicle two cars in front of me suddenly twist in desperation and shoot to the right. The van directly in front of me hit his brakes, hard, causing me to do the same. All the shit in my front seat smacked the dash and scattered all over the floorboards. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw two rigs. One directly behind me, one right beside that one in the lane to my right.

I instinctively wanted to cut left and risk flattening all four tires on the shoulder, but lo and behold another motherfucking behemoth street sweeper was also PARKED on the shoulder beside the one PARKED in the left hand lane of the interstate. The van in front of me had its ass so high in the air as he rode his brake I contemplated just drilling him from behind and hoping it hurt less than hitting the street sweeper. But at the last split second, literally, I glanced back into my rearview mirror, saw that the rig behind me was NOT going to stop in time and made the decision to swerve to the right instead, in front of the second rig that hadn’t bothered to take his foot off the gas at all.

I cut the wheel, skimming past the rear bumper of the van, got in front of the second rig and stomped that damn gas pedal so hard I heard it clink against the floorboard. That ole GMC fucking screamed while I held it wide open, waiting precious pants-pissing moments before it finally woke up, dropped its ass to the ground and took off before the rig could ram me from behind. A shit storm of smoking rubber ensued as the first rig finally saw the motionless street sweepers. The backend jackknifed to the right, swinging across the other lanes and just missing the second rig behind me.

Cars went everywhere with no regard to painted stripes. Screeching and squealing this way and that and yet not one damn crunch or shatter occurred. Within seconds it all happened and ended and nobody was injured. My body had dumped a gallon of adrenaline into my bloodstream and I realized the pressure of holding down the gas pedal was causing my leg to shake uncontrollably. My hands vibrated and my whole body felt immensely exhausted. I got off the gas, but every time I tried to apply pressure to the pedal my leg began shaking so bad I had to let up. It took me 30 minutes to coast that last 12 miles.

eHarmony.com

2005-01-18T22:43:00.000-06:00

I went to lunch today with Jones, Jesse and Danny. Jones, if you’ll recall, went on a banging streak Christmas before last when his lovely, high maintenance wife informed him she’d been doing some banging of her own while still under the bonds of matrimony. After Jones replaced shock with a shitload of bourbon he eventually dried out and signed up for eHarmony.com. That’s where he met Belinda, a little brunette who looks strikingly similar to his ex-wife minus the haughty pole up her ass and big price tag.

I asked him today if he was still dating that little brunette. He flashed me his left hand where a silver band resided. “No shit! Did you get married?”

“Yep.”

We all stared at him like he'd just soiled his pants and shrugged it off. Turns out he married her Friday at 1pm in the Precinct 4 courthouse. Looks like Judge What’s-his-face was a busy man last week. Jones hadn’t said anything beforehand. And now he sat there stumbling over his words explaining that the baby was due in May but they were going to get married anyway. All through lunch he dropped little comments like, “If I could have kept my pants up longer…” and “So much for reliable protection.”

Maybe when the disappointment wears off they’ll be happy and be in one of those eHarmony commercials. For now, I’m not so sure this is the kind of advertisement eHarmony is looking for. “Sign up today and meet your baby daddy!”

Penis vs. Vagina

2005-01-17T23:10:00.000-06:00

Not that our opinions matter, but Jasmine and I are debating about the sex of the babies. She thinks it's two boys. I think it's two girls. I'm confident that's how my luck will run. I'll be outnumbered, outvaginaed, outsmarted, and outvoted for the rest of my life. We've batted around a few baby names, nothing serious yet. We'll have a separate poll for that once we get a Top Ten for each sex in order to cover all the bases. In the meantime, let's a have a little gender quiz. Everybody who gets it right wins not a damn thing. Everybody who gets it wrong wins exactly the same thing. Lucky bastards.

And before anyone pipes up, I know I have a gap between my text and the poll that's wider than the valley between Tara Reid's fake breasts, but they don't make a book called Blog Polls for Dummies.

Fans of Vannah

2005-01-17T00:31:00.000-06:00

A good number of people either care deeply for a little girl they have never met, or really fucking hate me. Either way, bloggers united to raise $1,326.61 for Savannah and her family. Doubled, that comes to $2,653.22. I’m impressed. You should be proud of yourselves.

Donations ranged in amounts from $5.01 to $500.01. A big thank you to everyone and a special fuck you to the bastard with the half a grand donation there at the end. Bastard.

How about a round of applause to the following people:
Martine
Innana
Kim
Amyvegas
Harleyquinn
Sara
Jack
Helen of France

A few of you specifically asked not to be named and others simply left their donations anonymously. I respect that and will keep it that way. If it’s an oversight just let me know and I’ll add you on here.

This was fun. Thanks for sticking it to me. If you didn’t get to participate the end of the match doesn’t mean you can’t, but I’ll let your conscience guide you on that one.

Tomorrow I’ll write a post about the ceremony. For now, enjoy the view. This background photo was taken on our wedding night at Pappas Steak House.

Great job, folks.

Voting

2005-01-16T22:38:00.000-06:00

Stop. After I got an email at the beginning of the week I asked people to stop voting. This is one sentence from that email:

1/11/05
Jay, quite honestly, I could single-handedly beat you. I have my own domain. I could put anything@dot.com and verify it.

You absolutely can not compete with that. I didn't want you guys busting your asses because you're all competing against one chic with absolutely nothing better to do than sit up all night voting hundreds of times. This contest is easily rigged and I think we've all proven that. There's no glory in that kind of win. I'm honest to god fine with second place in this case. In fact, I'm proud of second place. It means I didn't stoop. No more voting. But you guys made me smile with your determination. That was pretty cool.

Let's get back to posts about my sweet little candy apple ass.

T minus 2

2005-01-14T09:01:00.000-06:00

I'm gonna throw up.

Going to the chapel and we're...

2005-01-14T01:13:00.000-06:00

The time has come. I'm 30, she's 30. I'm hot, she's hotter. I'm smart, she's smarter. I'm the man, she wears the pants. Sounds like a match to me.

Speaking of matches, we're down to the last hours of the dollar for dollar Jay Match. Based on emails I've gotten since the last count, we're currently at $905. Are we gonna make this thing hit quadruple digits or what? You know what to do. If you want me to list your name in the "Vannah Fans" post on Monday be sure to drop me an email. Even if you already did, do it again. I got ADD, ya know.

I showed this photo to Angi a few days ago. Thought I'd share it with everyone else, too.

This is my sister Julie, taken summer of '74. She was 2 1/2 years old.

Here's Savannah at the same age, taken in 2002.

I didn't pick up on it until Angi mentioned something. Just goes to show how bright I am. Julie's eyes are dark blue and she has a dimple in her chin which she gets from my old man. Vannah's way cuter than my stupid-head sister.

I'll write some time this weekend about the actual day and how lucky she is to have me. If we don't talk before then I just want to say...thanks, guys.

I can't believe this woman is marrying me.

Jay the Wedding Planner

2005-01-13T01:00:00.000-06:00

9:00AM - Called my sister today and told her the news.

Julie: Hello?
Me: Hey
Julie: Hey
Me: Jazz and I are going to the courthouse Friday, 11:30. Wanna come?
Julie: You marrying her?
Me: Yep
Julie: Better hurry before she changes her mind.
Me: No shit. Can you loan her something?
Julie: Sure.
Me: Bring a camera.

9:05AM - Called my old man.

Dad: Yeah? (He never says hello, he always answer with “yeah?”)
Me: Hey
Dad: What’s up, boy?
Me: Jazz and I are getting married Friday. At the JP.
Dad: I’ll be damned.
Me: Why is that?
Dad: Thought she was smarter than that.
Me: You thought wrong. Can you stand beside her, crip?
Dad: Wouldn’t miss it.

9:11AM - Wrote a note to mom.

Momma,
Met a girl. You’d like her. She says you raised me right, so kudos to you. We’re getting married Friday. Julie’s letting her wear the pearl earrings you left her. Miss you.
Jay

9:16AM - Called my boy, Jason.

Jason: Hello?
Me: Hey
Jason: Who’s this?
Me: Fuck you, man. I’m getting married Friday.
Jason: To that tall brunette?
Me: Yep
Jason: Get out! She said yes?
Me: Lick my nut. Beers tonight at Rookies. Bachelor’s party.

9:26AM - Called the BM from my office to his.

BM: How’s it going Big Dog? (What an asshole.)
Me: I’ll be out Friday.
BM: Why?
Me: I have an appointment with a judge.
BM: Power! Get a MAC with Calamos.
Me: Uh huh.

9:29AM - Called Jasmine.

Her: Hello?
Me: All done. This wedding shit’s a piece of cake. I can't believe people get paid to do this.

Today is Thursday. We have gathered $365 through Paypal on Savannah’s behalf so far. Deadline is tomorrow at midnight if you want me to match it. I’ve got more than that in my wallet right now. You guys must be taking it easy on me.

Soiled goods

2005-01-11T22:49:00.000-06:00

Jasmine has been in the best mood tonight. I don’t know if it’s the detachment from the women at work or the marriage license or that the babies are okay or what, but it’s been nice.

Saturday, Jazz and I drove to SAKS to pick up Ivy’s wedding dress for her. In fact, Ivy was supposed to drive in this weekend and pick it up but Jasmine let her know we may not be home until Sunday night. She shit a gold brick. I don’t see what the big fucking deal is. She still has it for alterations Monday morning, she just can’t sleep in my damn house Saturday night when she comes in. Jasmine and Ivy argued over the phone and Jazz got pretty pissed on this end. Ivy wants it Saturday. Period. Jasmine wants 48 hours alone with me after we’re married. Can you blame her? Have you seen my ass? Ivy is showing up Saturday, regardless, and Jasmine’s mad because she knows she’ll cave in and be here.

It got pretty ugly and ended with Jasmine’s angry voice. The angry voice has an origin in their past and Jazz only uses it when Ivy’s at her worst. This is where the story can go one of two ways right here. For one, I could tell you why Ivy is the snit that she is and possibly generate some understanding and remorse in most of you. Or, I can tell you what really naughty thing I did tonight at Ivy’s expense. I think I’ll go with the latter.

Afterwards, Jazz was lying on the sofa with her head in my lap.

“Speaking of gowns,” she said, “What should I wear Friday?”

"Levi’s." But then I got a better idea. “Wear Ivy’s gown.” Oh yeah, that would piss off little Sis.

Jasmine sat straight up and smiled at me with her eyes wide. “She’d be so mad!”

Oh, fuck, I wasn’t serious. “Don’t wear that thing. I was playing.”

The gown is hanging from the curtain rod thing in the living room which appeared a few weeks ago while I was at my old man's. Jasmine jumped up and unzipped the bag. The dress is white and strapless. That’s about all I can say about it. And that it was a cool 5 g’s.

She unhinged it from the mega hanger they had it strapped to and laid it across the chair. That’s when she yanked her shirt off. “What in the hell are you doing?” Damn her knockers are huge. Did that just happen?

She wiggled out of her sweat pants and then started climbing into the silk monstrosity. “Zip me up.”

I felt my heart start racing. Oh please, don’t want a wedding now. Come on, don’t want a gown and all that shit. “How are you gonna get your belly into that thing?”

I watched her twist and writhe for a moment trying to zip it herself before I gave up and helped. She grunted, hopped and shifted. Not sure what all that accomplished, but she was mostly in it. The zipper wouldn’t go all the way and when she turned around I nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw her boobs bulging out the top.

Damn, she sure was pretty. "Now what are you gonna do?"

I love that shit-eating grin of hers. "Come here, Jay."

Oh, man. I didn't hesitate.

That gown will never be the same.

Nooner

2005-01-11T13:11:00.000-06:00

Jazzy was given the week off for vacation based on the doctor's written advice. We just met for a quick 30 minute trip to the courthouse to pick up our marriage license, peck on the cheek, and she went back home while I came back here.

We'll be married this Friday at 11:30am by the Honorable Judge What's-his-face of Precinct 4.

I'm starting to worry she took that proposal shit seriously.

(Don't forget about Vannah.)

Sleep talking

2005-01-11T02:42:00.000-06:00

I was sitting in the living room contemplating a little monkey spanking while Jasmine slept when she suddenly walked in, scaring the holy bejesus out of me.

"Did you stoke it?" she asked.

"Son of a-" I yanked my hand out of my pants. "What are you doing up?"

"That's good." She blinked heavily, turned around and went back to bed.

Now I'm having Bobby flashbacks.

***UPDATE***
I want to sincerely thank all of you who wasted precious finger strokes to vote for me in the BoB contest when you could have been stroking something else. I am assured a second place finish and quite frankly that is fine with me. I know this contradicts my freakish nature to win at all costs but two weeks is a long time to put you folks through this and hell I'm tired. You guys are fucking phenomonol, phenomo, phen, fuck it, you guys rock. Or as the Greek say, you guys fuck and beat! Yeah, I know, but Ksenia swears that's true.

So, alas, thus, hence, you may relax and stop voting and I may stop checking all day long. We know we're the bigger whores deep down in our hearts. By the way, we owe O'Pimpia his share of the earnings. Thanks for second place guys. That's really cool. Be sure to congratulate Lisa when it's over. She's got a pretty cool blog, the cow.

If it's a boy...
	Ethan
	Benjamin
	Oliver
	Andrew
	Nicholas
	Alexander
	Jack
	Camden
	Trashman
	Douglas

If it's a girl...
	Bree
	Celeste
	Autumn
	Faith
	Madison
	Kaysie
	Alana
	Chaise
	Olivia
	Abigail

What is growing inside my wife?
	A pair of tiny, but soon to be massive penises
	Way too many ovaries
	A balanced soup of testosterone and estrogen