Two rules in life...

Is it a full moon or something?

Every nutcase, oddball, dipshit, bitch, bastard (or bitch-bastard as the case may be) and otherwise unpleasant person within a 60 mile radius of this one-horse, shithole town seems to have required some level of my time, attention, energy, and/or waning mental capacity within the time frame of two hours. From the dude that was damn near belligerent when the computer lab computer had the absolute audacity to delete his magnum opus when the box was shutdown (apparently conventional storage methods are unknown to him) to the insane lady that wanted a copy of the photo taken with the school's mascot (apparently my more direct form of delivery was lost upon her and she had to bring about five extra folks into the conga line in order for her to get the fuckin' photo...and no, it wasn't that kind of fuckin' photo and if it was, ain't nobody would want to see it) to the common pests and thorns in the saddle.

Is it time to go home yet?

Damn.

Ahhh, Training... - or - ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Cast Your Vote, Place Your Bet!!

Oh Fences! Take One, They're FREE! -- Inspired in part by Iggy Pop and Eeeclectic.

So I'm driving down THE main road in town and I'm listening, at high volume, to Mr. Iggy Pop. I'm listening, very closely, to the lyrics in this song. Some of them I'm even singing. And I wonder how offensive the lyrics would be to the bloggolites. Then I read a certain comment by a certain blogger on a certain blog... And so I present to you, for your input:


"Pussy Walk" -Iggy Pop

The other day I was walking down 14th Street
It was a beautiful summer day
The sun was shining
And I found myself surrounded by Latin American and dark women

And as I looked at their ankles,
Their knees and their thighs,
And the curve of their bodies,
Their mysterious eyes
I couldn't help but thinking about their pussies
And I asked myself

Can your pussy talk
Can your pussy talk
Can your pussy smile
Can your pussy frown
Can your pussy prance
Can your pussy dance
Can your pussy walk
Can your pussy talk
Pussy, pussy walk

Now you know from time to time
My musical group and I have occasion to visit
The high schools, jr. high schools and
Other centers of learning in this wonderful land of
The united States of America
And when I do, from time to time
I run into the young girls that attend these places
And I see them smiling at me with their young girl clothes
And while I smile back, I never say anything
But inside I'm thinkin’
Can your pussy walk
Can your pussy talk
Can your pussy smile
Can your pussy frown
Can your pussy love
Can your pussy shove
Can your pussy dance
Can your pussy prance
Pussy, pussy walk

And then of course
Now all you men can relate to this
How sometimes you're supposed to go out of the house
And get something done
Like you're supposed to go to the store
And just go get a bottle of milk
Or just go to your job
And do it good and cone back home
But on the way, my God
There's a girl, and there's another girl, and there's another girl
And pretty soon you're surrounded
And your eyes are going one way
And your head is going another way
And your nose is going up
And your nose is going down
And you're thinking about that pussy
And it's become a real distraction
And you've gotta ask yourself
Can your pussy walk
Can your pussy talk
Can your pussy smile
Can your pussy frown
Can your pussy dance
Can your pussy prance
Can your pussy love
Can your pussy shove
All right
Pussy...Pussy walk
Now walk it now
Pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy walk
Pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy walk
Pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy walk

There Be A New Gnome In Town

Please welcome, all the way from Ill-A-Noize, the Assistant to the Ass. Gnome!

(Thank you CK!)

Stimulate Your Packaging - or - Let the Gnome Roam
Wicked Action Shot! Tx to Hello

No Longer In Beta

That's Life
-Frank Sinatra

That's life, that's what all the people say.
You're riding high in April,
Shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune,
When I'm back on top, back on top in June.

I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks,
Stompin' on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down,
'Cause this fine ol' world it keeps spinning around

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.

That's life
I tell ya, I can't deny it,
I thought of quitting baby,
But my heart just ain't gonna buy it.
And if I didn't think it was worth one single try,
I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself laying flat on my face,
I just pick myself up and get back in the race

That's life
That's life and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shakin' come this here july
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die
My, My

Packaged Coworker’s Dreams

A few years back, I used to work with a very, ummm, “interesting” group of people. I was working at an accounting firm at the time, and I was the only IT person for the entire firm. When I first started, everyone was very nice, very cordial, and very polite. I helped several of them loose those layers of informality.

One of those coworkers, whose age I am not sure of, appeared to be old enough to be my mother. Of retirement age if you will. Ok, she was OLD. There, I said it.

Several of us would go to lunch often and have a great time telling off-color jokes, trading insults, and bitching about the slow service at the restaurant. After about a year and a half of getting to know each other pretty well, we sat down at our regular table and ordered the usual and were just about to start a discussion when one of the ladies looked at the senior member of our party and asked, “Did you tell him?” The lady of age immediately turned a very dark red and, shaking her head without looking at me said,“No!”

The words, “Oh shit” came to mind, and I didn’t know why just yet. But I was about to.

“Well, you’ve GOT to tell him!”

Oh shit.

And so the story began with, “Bloggy, I had a dream about you last night.”

OH SHIT!

…”and, let’s just say that while I hadn’t thought of you before in that light, I will from now on.”

I cannot remember the smooth and cool lines that easily sprang forth from my mouth, but her embarrassment was eased and we all had a good laugh.

Once we were back at the office, I had to get some cash from the bank downstairs. When I came back up to our floor and exited the elevator, she was seated at the front desk where she works. Without making eye contact, I strolled by singing:

“Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree?”

Now, fast forward a few years to…yesterday morning…

Currently I share an office with a lady of age. She’s very nice mind you, and is quite the cook with her Minister’s Delight she’s fond of whipping up in a crock pot. Anyway, she came in yesterday all smiles.

Oh shit.

She didn’t waste any time, “Bloggy, I had a dream about you last night.”

OH shit.

“I was out in the field (which is in reference to work, and being at one of our locations) and I was training a new employee. I remember what she looks like, but she wasn’t anyone I knew. After we got done with a certain part of the training, I looked around and there were several other people there working. Then we got a weather alert on the radio and several of us got in the shower…”

OH SHIT!

“…to stay safe. Once the weather had passed, there was no damage and no one was injured, I decided it was time to leave for the day. I opened the front door, and there you were. You were standing in the middle of the yard, looking up at the sky. I looked up to see what you were in awe of and the entire sky looked like broken crystal. It was beautiful!! Then I realized that it looked like the sky was getting closer. As it got closer, I noticed that it wasn’t crystals after all, but it was actually FROZEN TREE TOPS! The storm must have broken them off as it passed, and they were just now coming back down! A huge clump of them were above your head, coming straight for you, and I said ‘BLOGGY you better get out of the way!’”

“That’s when you looked up, and said ‘Oh, they won’t bother me!’ and you took ONE step back and they fell to the ground, right in front of you. You didn’t have a scratch on you! And that was the end of the dream.”

After I sort of came back to reality there, I said, “Well it’s not completely out of my character, because I do look up and examine the sky a lot when I’m out.”

At least I was calm and cool to the very end.

Box of Me (slight return)

The blessed event is over and my Me Box will be taking to the road on the Me Box touring circuit. I hear it's really big in third world countries. Due to time constraints and general lack of interest (not to mention my desire to walk before they make me run occupationally speaking), my entry wasn't as psychotically fucked up as it should have been.

First of all, I had to acquire a box to put the shit in for it to effectively be a Me Box. I went to one of the local farts and crap stores to purchase materials. While browsing their wares, I found a suave ass purple box. I didn't realize that it was some kind of Red Hat Society deal at first. As I paraded around with the box, I found a miniature cow skull and equally miniature baseball bat to beat the hell out of anyone caught snickering at my box. Then hastily made my exit before I had to whoop some ass and then learn instantly that I am unable to whoop ass then have my manhood shot down in flames like John Denver at an air show.

The contents are as follows:

--Krispy Kreme donut--This really requires no explanation.

--Kiss Alive II CD--This was the first album that I ever bought that didn't have a Disney logo or cartoon character on it. It sort of symbolizes my childhood since Kiss were essentially my introduction to music that wasn't some kind of gay-ass campfire song or shit like that. It was a different kind of shit. Shit served up with smoke, fire, fake blood, and clunky shoes.

--Rollins Band's The End Of Silence CD--This was a supremely important part of my life as a twenty-something. In some ways, it is one of the reasons that I am still here today, so those wanting to file a grievance over this, take it up with Henry Rollins.

--Now Watch Him Die by Henry Rollins--One of Hank's books. It's a heavy duty read and it has inspired me in my own flirtations with writing shit down for human consumption.

--Cheap Trick's Silver DVD--The importance of this item is that it reflects a time in my life when I was actually happy and life was good. If you watch the concert in slow motion on a big ass TV screen (preferably HDTV), you still can't see me but my ass was there.

--The miniature cow skull was present so that there would be some kind of oddball shit in the mix.

The only thing of note about the entire event was when my boss picked up the Rollins book and started flipping through it. While I couldn't see my own expression, I figure it must have been a look that screamed "OH SHIT!" while draped in a cloak of fear. We'll see if I still have a job tomorrow or perhaps she will buy her own copy of the book.

When Doves Cry Blood Sugar Sex Magik

Updated: The newly added photo is the packaging from the imported chocolate egg we got from my co-worker's trip to Germany. Ain't it cool packaging?!

Former High School Packaging

Tripod, timer & teets. B&W photography class assignment (outtake) around 1986-87.

Introducing the New "Ass. Gnome"!!

Assistant to The Gnome

Quote of the Day (Easter Monday edition)

Describing one of our classrooms...

"It's the second happiest place on Earth. It's like Disneyworld. More accurately, it's like a steamy and smelly restroom at Disneyworld. However, there's a certain charm there."

Our Gang

Fat & Drunk Bunny Packaging

It's only 30 seconds long, come on...CLICK. You know you want to.

Box of me.

"I'm the man in the box...buried in my shit" --Alice In Chains

One of the more pointless workplace activities lately has been the creation of a "Me Box." Prior to the memo, I assumed that only elementary school students created such a thing. Apparently I was wrong. Due to some inner-office friction (of which yours truly played absolutely no part), this was our punishment as handed down by the fine, fine folks at Human Resources. This project will apparently make everything so much better. How could it not?

Needless to verbalize, I'm skeptical.

I began making a mockery of it all before I finished reading the memo. It's my natural response to most things in life. I'm an asshole, I don't sway, blah blah blah. Fuck it, you know the drill.

While everyone was giving consideration to what 5-10 items would go in their respective "Me Box," I was assembling the most fucked up group of items that would likely lead to my dismissal, my arrest, and possibly some form of clinical observation or being permanently booked in an institution with thick wallpaper. Perhaps a loving combination of each option. Items like fishnet stockings, a priest's collar, handgun, Guatemalan pornography starring animals fresh from the rain forest, or maybe just a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Regardless, this project is bullshit from any angle that it's viewed.

The showman side of me thought it would be righteous to have someone wheel in a casket and at a given moment, pop open the top and loudly proclaim "WELL, DAMMIT, YOU SAID YOU WANTED A ME BOX!" Another part considered dragging a box behind my car at a high-rate of speed to depict my current state of disrepair and overall tattered antiqued nature. This idea seems too much like a damn arts and crafts kind of ordeal or bad performance art. I really don't want any part of any of that bullshit. It would likely lead to the buying and selling of bootleg versions on Ebay and that's not cool unless I'm getting paid. Anything resembling arts and crafts would drastically cut down my waning shelf life, which is rapidly approaching zero as it is.

So what will my Me Box look like? Damned if I know. What will be housed within said box? The same answer applies here too. I don't have a fuckin' clue.

I suppose we will have to wait until April 19th to see what a box of me looks like. Maybe it will be worth the wait, but somehow, I just don't see that being the case.

The anticipation is no doubt going to kill us all.

But Who Follows Rules These Days?

SPORE CZAR EVE ILL

A couple pre-uniform baseball pics fer ya!

Spring Spring It's a Marvelous Thing -or- Audio Douchebaggery

Bloggy’s Bag –or- Sometimes I Feel Like a Twinkie –or- “Mass Tour: Bay Shun”

When it’s a post about something as important as music, it’s gotsta have three titles. Don’t you agree?

So here’s the deal. In my car I carry two “music bags.” Both are black and have wonderful zippers. One holds maybe 12 discs, the other is more like 40. The small one is for my “bought music” and the other is for my “burned music.” Oh of course most of them in the “burned music bag” you know have uh been, uh, backed-up for personal use only. But that’s how I role, with two bags o’ tunes. (Plus one in the backseat for my boy.)

After Bone Machine’s list of recommendations, I thought I’d do something similar in that I would talk about a couple of the discs that are with me most if not all the time, and then some that keep coming back to the bags.


Bought Bag:

Danzig. If you’re not familiar with Glenn Danzig and his music, now is as good a time as any to get so. Mr. Danzig offers the type of music that covers the mood of: “I have been fucked with to the point that I am ready to fuck back.” Often I multiple Danzigs with me, but I ONLY put them in when I’m in the mood above as I tend to stay that way. For a good long while. For the most part, I pretty much like all of the Danzig stuff quite a bit. Having said that, I’ll go right into the next performer…

Edie Brickell. Edie is just amazing really and I think I would volunteer to have her babies. She covers my moods of “melancholy introspective and poetic big-picture” Listen to the sounds, READ the words. Then read ‘em again!

John Cougar Mellencamp. I don’t want to have John’s babies, but that’s mostly because I don’t think his ticker is up to it. The boy rawks, plain and simple. To me it’s REAL rock n roll. You can put it in and crank it, or you can listen in to what he has to say. (Try to ignore the political stuff as you can. That’s what I do.)

Those are the standards in the bought bag. Others that come and go frequently would be Jonny Lang, BB King, & too many really to mention.



Burned Bag: (damn if that don’t sound painful)

The burned bag gets a lot of swapping out and ignoring. I’ll take out 20 discs and put in 20 and then not change it until I get sick of the music in there. (I should point out that I get very sick of music very quickly, but if it’s good stuff, I’ll get over it.) The first page in this bag pretty much stays the same.

Eric Clapton’s From the Cradle. Ah, you say. He mentioned a certain disc. Yes, yes I did. Seriously, other than the Cream stuff, you could essentially, in my humble opinion, erase everything else he’s done throughout his history and keep the Cream years and this one album and I would be such a bigger fan of his. (Well, ok, and the Riding with the King disc.)

John Fogerty’s Blue Moon Swamp. Ah, you say. He did it again. Yes, but this time it’s only because this is my favvy fave of all the awesome stuff the man has been a part of. Buy it, spin it, love it.

John Fogerty’s Deja Vu All Over Again. Ah, you say. A double listing? Yes, good stuff I tell ya.

The Word. Bluesy instrumental gospel. Very uplifting.

That’s page one. I nearly never change it. When I am having a great day, page 1. When I need a little lift ‘cause the day be sucking, page 1. Now, beyond that though, if I need a BIG lift? Well, I gotta crank out the heavies for the most part.

Currently the items in this one range from Lit & Neil Diamond, to Tommy Womack & Aerosmith, to Lords of Acid & Son House, to Frank Sinatra & Motown Hits, to Lenny Kravitz & Eddie Murphy, to Hendrix & The Stones, to Def Leppard & Front 242, to Steve Wonder & WASP, to Chuck Berry & Buddy Guy, to Daddy & Riot…Joan Jett, Mississippi Flapjacks, Van Halen…

ANYWAY to me music can be a 50 course meal, what with your Rush and your Yes options, or it can be a burger and fries with Fogerty. Or, music can be a Twinkie, like the Electronic Periodic stuff I downloaded from iTunes. Not too much of one thing, and you’ll have a well-balanced meal.

Anything less is just, masturbation.

So. Do You Like Henry Rollins? - or - DIE Spassgespenster!

If you are lucky, like I am, and have a co-worker who goes to visit a family member stationed in Germany…perhaps she will bring home a chocolate candy egg that is all the rage with the youngins there. I fully intended to post photos of the foil packaging but it seems that I didn’t realize it was chocolate. Yes, it was covered in foil (clue #1) yes it was shaped like an egg (clue #2) and yes someone even told me (clue #3) but instead I ignored all of those bits o’ info. Yep, I tucked the egg in my shirt pocket before sitting in the sun during baseball practice (*shudders*) and nearly forgot I had it with me. By the time we opened it up, the chocolate was a little too soft to save the packaging. Very cool German packaging in this case.

So, all you get to see is toy, and its container, that was within the egg.

According to AltaVista’s Babel Fish Translator “spassgespenster” means Fun Ghosts. While the photo I took of our little spassgespenster is fuzzy, you can get a clear view of him in the color brochure that was tucked inside. (He’s the guy on the left)

They come unassembled, with the full-color brochure and the card that has the magicode. Sorry, we have yet to use our magicode, so I had to block it out. You know, for security reasons. We can’t have just any random blogger using our magicode all willy nilly like. It ain’t cool with the spassgespenster.

I like saying spassgespenster. We need to name our spassgespenster. I don’t even know how to pronounce spassgespenster, but I thoroughly enjoy trying. Spassgespenster. We should name our little spassgespenster. Maybe, Sam Spassgespenster? Steven Spassgespenster? Sven Spassgespenster? Seth Spassgespenster? (Nah, not that last one. World’s got to many Seths as it is.)

Happy imported packaging all!

Your Pre-Packaging Sucks!!

In this day and age where everything from Happy Meals to entertainment choices are pre-packaged for those folks who move through their life like a whirling dervish on amphetamines home-brewed in a Motel 6 in darkest recesses of America's Heartland, I'm going to provide my own pre-packaged oasis in your action-packed desert of life. I'm also going to consider typing shorter sentences because that first one up there is what is commonly known as a "motherfucker."

It's quite often I get a thorn in my saddle and one of these thorns in the saddle of life is the way that the entertainment industry force feeds the consumer something with all the charm and overall goodness of a Chicken McNugget while so many people practically beat down the door to get served this shit. If some form of art and/or entertainment with a trace of original thought and creativity slips one past the goalie, then every other network/label/etc. feels like they have to have their version of that shining star until the whole shooting match is one diluted trend with a shelf-life shorter than an ice cube in a southern ghetto in Hell.

This overhyped trend-ride is how disco happened. This is how Milli Vanilli sold a shitpot of albums until their "fans" realized that the pseudo rastas on the cover couldn't sing worth a damn. This is how that boy band bullshit happened. Did someone say American Idol? No, because what kind of social ne'er-do-well would take a shot at a sacred institution like American Idol?

My point in all of this long-winded, slow-building rant is that there are a truckload of great artists out there that put in the time and effort to actually learn to play musical instruments (GASP!), put their hearts into writing their own songs, and bust their asses loading and unloading their gear around the world simply because they love and believe in their art. Even though they may be amazingly gifted, chances are extremely good that they'll never break through the barrier of mass acceptance. This is damn near criminal when so many folks are suckling at the teet of pre-packaged crap as it is being shoved down their throat and up their ass simultaneously and it generally meets in the the middle...somewhere around the wallet area. While these folks bust their asses around the globe, some douchebag on a modern day Star Search (and yes, that's all that American Idol bullshit really is) can make it through a poor excuse for televised "reality" and go from nothing to playing in front of a stadium full of zombies who bought into the trend. The only justice here is that these dedicated fans of the moment will drop this artist faster than a jackrabbit on a date as soon as the next trend arrives. If you don't believe me, step into a store that sells used CD's and tell me how many Hootie & The Blowfish or Vanilla Ice discs you see. This is probably not an accurate indicator, because some folks have likely used those discs for important purposes like skeet shooting or drink coasters.

Needless to say, this shit really pisses me off. I hate seeing so many people that have a shitload of talent get overlooked for whatever reason that they get overlooked. I know that my words probably won't change a thing in this Velveeta world, but by jingle, it doesn't mean I have to shut up about it. Maybe just maybe someone will read the crap that I am spewing and check out an artist that doesn't get Top 40 heavy rotation airplay or check out and support a local artist that is doing something different and interesting.

Nine Pound Hammer--The origins of the band trace back to the same one horse town that spawned the conspirators of Your Packaging Sucks!!. They've released several bad ass albums, toured the world, provided the theme song for a Cartoon Network cartoon and kicked a lot of ass along the way. They deserve your attention and disposable income, because they are musical gods. Don't question my words, but buy the products. Now! Pick up some of the finer than fine discs by Blaine's other band, Nashville Pussy, too.

I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch In The House--Once I saw this band's name, I knew that I had to check them out and I was in no way disappointed. In fact, my ass was thoroughly kicked as soon as I checked them out and who can argue with lines like "Gone, gone, gone, outta here like Donkey Kong." Pure genius. Not only is this one fantastic band (both live and on disc), but main man, Michael Dean Damron's solo disc, A Perfect Day For A Funeral, is a damn fine musical slab. Steer your internet ship over to their site and order up all four of the Lickers discs and Mike D's solo disc from CD Baby and they'll hook you up with musical goodness. If you don't like these guys, then you suck! Okay, that's a tad harsh. If you don't like these guys, then Toby Keith still sucks!

Tommy Womack--Mr. Blog and myself have been trumpeting the genius of this guy for ages now. I can't say it enough and if you still haven't checked him out, now would be the ideal time to do so. From his days with local legends, Government Cheese, to his work with the Bis-quits on John Prine's Oh Boy label to his solo work to Daddy, the collaboration disc with the great Will Kimbrough, it's all good as the kid's say and that ain't no bullshit. In addition to his music, he's also the author of a nifty book called The Cheese Chronicles, which provides a great look inside the world of a touring band that isn't getting swanky hotel accommodations and lush backstage spreads. It's an essential read as far as I'm concerned. You should be concerned enough to read the book.

Danko Jones--Bad motherfuckers from the Great White North. If you're still holding a grudge against the country that spawned Paul Schaffer, it's time to bury the hatchet. These guys are one hell of a live band and the albums don't suck either. They play with an intensity and ferocity that you don't find all that often these days and that's a damn shame. With a name like Danko, how could you possibly go wrong?

Jason Ringenberg/Disciples Of Loud--This is sort of a two-fer entry. In the 80s and 90s, there was a phenomenal band called Jason & The Scorchers. They had a unique blend of rock and country that has since become all the rage in Nashvegas and beyond, the problem is that the Scorchers were largely overlooked. This, too, is a damn shame, because the closest I've ever been to a religious experience was the first time I saw the Scorchers live. Up to that point, I was sort of on the fence about them until they took the stage and promptly blew my mind. Unfortunately, they've been on a lengthy hiatus in recent years, but that's not to say that the band members haven't been busy. Jason has released several solo albums and Scorcher guitarist, Warner Hodges, has a new band called The Disciples Of Loud. As far as guitar players go, Warner is one of the elite few whose wallet should look like the one in Pulp Fiction, because he is truly a bad motherfucker of a guitar player.

There are countless others out there that deserve to be mentioned and these are but a few that are near and dear to my heart. If these artists aren't your cup of whatever it is that you drink, dig a little deeper than the flavor of the moment and check out some of the great art that is floating just below radar. It's a win-win situation for one and all.

And THEN...Some LOSER Nominated Bucky!!

http://bestofblogger.blogspot.com/

Fools of April the Video --or-- Underdog(s)

Six and a half Minutes at Western Kentucky University – Or – Turning It Up a Notch

It was 1987 and by this time I’d had a few relationships, but managed to retain an intact heart that was mostly unscathed. I was still driving my first car. It started out shit brown and ended up a kick-ass maroon with silver pinstripes. It was a two-door 1973 Buick Regal and the boyfriend to the mother of my girlfriend painted it for me in exchange for 300 in cash. I say girlfriend, but it wasn’t long before we were engaged. Yeah, I was that “in love”/stupid/romantic/naïve. I was 16, engaged, a freshman at a “party school” (apparently THE Party school) and all I knew was that I wanted to “do something with computers and be a father someday.”

Unprotected sex, on a small wooden desk, in an all-too-stuffy cube-shaped dorm room (when you’re not too sure when to expect your roommate to return from the weekend)…is a wonderful, wonderful, goddamnwonderful, OHFUCKYES thing. I know, because I tried it. More than once. And it was fun. Hell, I’m ready to try it again.

There we were, on the tenth floor of the building I like to call The Big Brick Dick in the Sky. We were all alone and all she had on was the ring on her finger that PROVED beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were in L.U.V. The room was hot, the desk was slippery when wet and we didn’t give a damn about Jon Bon Jovi because we wuz gettin’ BIZ-ee. Oh. My.

But at this point, I feel I need to pause, no, I feel I need to rewind. Rewind just a few weeks possibly. Yeah, probably rewind just a literal few weeks. There, that’s it, hit play…

Unprotected sex, on a small, girly, twin-sized bed, in a two bedroom house (when you’re not too sure when to expect your girlfriend’s, er uh, fiancé’s, mother to return from work)…is a wonderful, wonderful, BringItOnHomeYouKnowWhatILike, OHFUCKYES thing. I know, because I tried it. More than once. Many, many, many times more than once. And it was fun. So much fucking fun that it must be why I ain’t getting any now, because I used up all my turns.

There we were, on a made-for-girls bed enjoying the time alone. During the, uh, enjoyment, we thought we heard a car door. Actually, she though she heard a car door, I didn’t hear shit. I heard my lungs I my left ear with the shwoosha, swoosha, swhoosha, and in my right I heard my heart doing a Little Ricky solo that would make the purple mountains less majestic as they blush at the sight of teen love. Then, there it was. The stiffening of the neck, the gritting of teeth, the, the, the…melting in a big pool of sweat tellin’ my baby, “Baby? I L.U.V. you!”

Reluctantly I decide I better get up or risk getting my bare ass shot by her mom when she comes through the door to find innocence has been so far lost, that shit ain’t never comin’ back. After a few dozen, deep, passionate kisses; I grudgingly pry myself from the passion pallet and pull my pants up. Yes, I pulled them up, because, well, we just couldn’t wait long enough to disrobe completely. While she removed her pants, I only dropped mine.

It wasn’t until I was halfway down the hall that I realized I hadn’t quite dropped them enough. In fact, I must have barely pulled them down, or the explosion was quite a bit more powerful than I’d realized. You see, I seemed to have, uh, how to put this politely, “made a mess” on the front of my pants. Yeah, so, I am of course pissed. Well, not pissed, but you know what I mean. To vent, I voiced my concerns, like any gentleman in love would do, as I walked down the hall.

“Well goddamn. Motherfucker! What the fuck?! I cannot fucking believe this fucking shit. I got that fucking shit all over my fucking pants!!”

As took one more step, I was in the kitchen and I heard, “What’s that?”

Awe shit. It was the mother’s boyfriend. HE came home from work early.

To not draw suspicion, I went on with my stream of expletives, only lower in volume.

“Oh, I just made a fucking mess *unrolling paper towels* right on the front of my fucking pants.”

Uncaring, he says, “Oh.”

Then, from just in the hallway I hear, “What the hell’s wrong with you? What are you yelling about?” as my girlfriend walks into the room, zipping her pants.

I grit my teeth, and nod in the boyfriend’s direction, “Nothing. I was just telling Dennis here how I’d made a mess. You know. On. My. Pants. ?”

Her face reddens instantly, “Oh. Ready to go?”

I kiss you, Fools of April!!