Strange Puss

Actual conversation I had with DJ.

DJ: So do you have any special lady friend you’re hitting?
Me: (ignoring the fact that I’ve been hitting the Girlfriend for 7 months now) Nothing exclusive, but I do have a couple of lady friends I’m hitting on a regular basis.
DJ: Nice. So what’s it like hitting strange puss after so long? I’ve been married so long I’ve forgot.
Me: Well, considering I hit the ‘regular’ puss exactly twice in the last 3 years, everything is strange puss, even regular puss is strange puss.
DJ: (Laughing) I never thought of it that way.
Me: Hopefully you’ll never have to. But trust me, strange puss is pretty sweet. I’ll tell you all about it.

I’m not even sure what to add to this, or even if it’s funny, but can we just say it’s fucked up beyond all recognition?

Chuck E. Cheese = Whores ‘R’ Us

Ok, where do I even begin? Brought The Prodge and The Boy to the local Chuck E. Cheese the other day because they were going to hang with the Soon to Be Ex on Christmas and listen to her family bad mouth me. It was typically quiet on the MILF front except for the cutie who I couldn’t tell if she was knocked up, or had a truly impressive gunt. Sadly, I was leaning towards the latter. Then all of a sudden the crowd turned and jumped up a couple of notches. It became quite a happening place with legitimate MILFs coming out of the woodwork. As I’m vaguely in a daze from the suddenness of it all I saw it. I not only saw it, I had to take a picture of it.

Take a good look at the picture, ignore the bag of cottage cheese that the girl next to her is calling a pair of jeans, the last black stripe is the bottom of her dress. Not only is the dress that short, the body suit is that tight, and for good measure, the straps are off the shoulder. And she had a face that could stop traffic, she wasn’t even attractive. My god, I thought I was the only one looking for someone to blow me in the Chuck E. Cheese, but she’s advertising…

Sababa 2007 Boston Red Sox UNO – Jersey Case

Dude, just because you suck cock doesn’t mean you have to be a cock sucker…

So today was the department yankee swap christmas bullshit day. So not only did I find myself at the mall last night kissing a quality beer buzz goodbye and getting my hair cut by the hottest barely legal skank ever (it’s own separate post in its own right), but I also found myself buying a smelly candle for said retarded yankee swap. I pick third and end up with a bottle of wine, because me being Irish, I’m able to determine what looks like a bottle of booze. I am a genius after all. I don’t drink wine but hell, alcohol is alcohol. By the time #7 picks my bottle of shitty wine is traded for a giant bobble head of Jason Varitek. A goofy gift but acceptable because a) he’s a cool player who just won the world series, and b) he’s the girlfriend’s favorite player so I’m pretty sure I could swap the bobble head for some knob action, a better gift than anything available in a shitty yankee swap.

By the time the second to last person got to pick, I was pretty confident that I’d keep my bobble head, get the GirlFriend to pick something useful for me, and still be able to swap with her and get some sweet knob action, until the Token Pole Smoker picked the Sababa 2007 Boston Red Sox UNO – Jersey Case. Dear god, is there a shittier gift? I’m chuckling on the inside until he keeps walking around the table and takes my Varitek bobble head doll and leaves me with the Sababa 2007 Boston Red Sox UNO – Jersey Case. What the fuck dude, was that necessary? Within 2 picks the Girlfriend gets her chance to swap out her hair removal system (stop fucking laughing Wingman, you asshole [Yep, that one got me. -Wingman]) for the Varitek doll that the gay dude took from me.

So the Cock Gobbler ended up cock blocking me so he could get the hair removal system (shut up asshole), even though if he played his cards right, he could have gotten a coffee gift card, she could have gotten her Varitek doll, and I could have gotten full on helmet and an itunes gift card. Thanks asshole. I’ll be filing a complaint that you pulled the wide stance toe tapping crap on me the next time I see you in the men’s room. Total BS dude…

Oooohhh, Cunty…

At 3:30PM today I got a call from the Soon to be Ex-Wife:

StbEW: I’m just calling to see if you’ll be attending The Boy’s banquet tonight…
Me: What banquet tonight?
StbEW: You know, the one I told you about (and only mentioned that one time) 3 weeks ago.
Me: No I don’t have any idea what the fuck you’re talking about.
StbEW: Well are you coming or not?
Me: For The Boy, I’ll be there. Thanks for the under 3 hours of lead time bitch.

I don’t think that’s how it went down exactly, but close enough. Needless to say, I was pissed. I stood up, saw my boss had left for the day and decided to leave myself. I had a long drive ahead of me, beers to find and I needed to buy a camera to replace the one I lost in the divorce to capture this blessed moment. I make the drive and hit the local beef/pig joint for a pleasant dinner of squid and beer. I get a good buzz on and realize I still need a camera, and I need to drive to the banquet, and get there in under 30 minutes…and it’s Christmas time, so I should be pretty fucked. It took me nearly 15 minutes to get help at the local big box electronics store where when I’m cashing out, I’m ripping open the box of the camera prepping it for the event that’s only 10 minutes from now. I’m assembling the fucking thing on the drive over, installing and re-installing the battery the right way and taking the memory card out of my palm pilot and throwing it in while driving over.

Name that cow…

I had a nice quiet evening with the GirlFriend after I finally got cable and high speed internet hooked up. I must admit after being a satellite guy for so long I forgot how cool on demand is. While in between sessions we stumbled across some old Facts of Life episodes. We fire them up and sing along to the main theme. As the characters appear on screen during the opening credits we easily name them all, except I call Mrs. Garrett Mrs. Garrison after the south park character. All goes well until the fat bitch appears on the screen. For a solid 2 minutes we are both at a loss as to what the fuck her name is. I defy you to come up with it, but I know you can’t. It’s impossible. Even the guy who fucks them never remembers the name of the fat chick. You’ll remember the token black chick because, well, she’s exotic, way more exotic than just plain fat, but come on, you know Tootie, what’s the name of the fat bitch? Come on Mr. High and Mighty, can you name her? Nope, because unless you’re a total fruit no matter how lame the excuse you can’t name her because fat chicks don’t register, and this proves the point, damn straight you remember Blair and Joe, but you don’t remember the fat chick. Thank you, this sociological experiment is over, and you have proven my point.

Pulling one in the stone age

The Wingman is coming today to visit. He’s bringing the ribs, like a good Canadian, and I’m supplying the beer. I hope to have high speed Internet and HD cable by today. I have taken the day off to celebrate and masturbate to quality Internet porn. It’s been a few days since I had sex, and it was going to be a few more before I had a chance to hook up again so I decided I needed to toss one out. I was hoping in one of my boxes I packed my old collection of porn magazines. Archaic, I know, but we were in desperate times. As usual, God hates me and evidently I threw them away a long time ago. Not going to be denied an opportunity to embarrass myself, I end up jerking off to the scene in ‘Private Parts’ where Jenna Jameson is completely naked massaging Howard Stern on my laptop while I’m laying in bed. I’d like to say this is the worst masturbation story I have…

Things I learned while moving to Canada

I don’t know if you know this or not but the North is cold, not just in New England, even Canada is cold…and moving sucks. I don’t know if you know how much it sucks moving in the fucking cold. It’s been a few days since I officially moved but I have no idea when this will be posted since the Canadians suck with their ability to install High Speed porn feeds in a timely fashion. Fuck, I don’t even have cable TV yet, I’m fucking dying. At least I don’t have to talk to the soon to be ex wife in order to pass the time. I feel completely disconnected from the real world. Tell my mother I love her…

Who writes these things?

The other day I heard The Boy tattletale on me for – hypothetically speaking – pissing on the bathroom floor because I was too drunk to see the toilet. I was later reprimanded by The Wife, not for the hypothetical puddle of pee, but because according to some parenting book she read, the wrong thing for a parent to say to your son at that point is, ‘Nobody likes a rat. You’ll never survive in prison.’

My job as a parent, I feel, is to teach my sons lessons of life that they can use. I can’t think of any other better lesson in life a man can learn than to how to avoid a good ass raping. Now if only someone had that same conversation with me when I was a kid…