Life in general is like some practical joke. Think about it. When we are born, we are helpless. We depend on everything. We drool, we shit in our pants, and we can not talk or walk. We have no teeth, therefore we eat mush. We have no hair and we can not understand a thing anyone is saying. As we get older into our teenage years, our bodies and health are in their prime. We still do not know much, but we think that we do therefore we are fearless in the things we will do and say. As we grow older, we educate ourselves and go out into the world to try and make a decent living so that we can have all of the things our hearts desire. Suddenly we find that we owe everyone money and are in debt so far that it will take years to re-pay and now not only do we have our own wellbeing to look after but we have a “family” whose needs often come first. So we work harder at making that living and spend more time doing it. Before you know it that family is gone, out making their own living and we are left to fend for ourselves. Our mind is strong, full of knowledge. But we are helpless, and no one will listen to us, or care what our opinions are. We depend on everything. We drool, we shit in our pants, and we can not walk as well as we used to. We still feel like we did in our prime, but when we look in the mirror we see an image that doesn’t in the least bit resemble the person we used to see in the mirror. We have all of the things that our hearts once desired but now they sit collecting dust. The people, the ones that we worked so hard for, whose priorities often came first are no longer around. Yes, some days life does seem to be one big practical joke, as we sit alone and helpless and wait.

Thanks

Hi gang. Thank you for all of the great comments, emails and calls. The stalker situation seems to have gone away. I am undecided as to what to do about my blog. I have recently signed on with the good folks over at “Sex, Lies And My Space” and I am having fun. Check back here as you’ll never know what you may or may not find

Critique of the Obiquitous Goatee

Warning: This Critique contains no intelligent subject matter, faux-profound political insights, or tips on how to have sex with the mentally challenged.
As a recently single woman I have been utilizing every resource available (Match,com, Friendship Network, tying a six-pack around my neck), to help locate a suitable man for dating or a possible relationship. The dating scene is much different than it was in Chicago during the 80’s and 90’s when I was in my teens and early twenties. Perhaps it is not that the Valley is a less “social” and outgoing community, though the dearth of hotspots might indicate otherwise, perhaps it is dating in your late 30’s/early 40’s that is truly the issue. I have been contacted by some seemingly honest and nice men (the other category is a rant unto itself!}, but there has been very little in the way of physical attraction. The number one attraction killer, so far, is the goatee. It seems like many of my fellow 30 something’s have not been able to let this fashion statement from the nineties die. I have a few theories on this grooming observation. 1) is the above stated wanting to go back to the nineties to be 20 somethings again. 2) a futile effort to hide the growing chin line that has come with the ten plus years 3) a desire to be perceived as a little “edgy” and hip despite the off-name polo shirt, pleated khakis, and minivan. As I read this, I am appalled at how shallow and vain I sound but I would like to think of this as a “Public Service” announcement and shed some light on a possible reason why “chicks don’t dig you like they used to”. Try something new and set your own trend; perhaps it is time for the Hitler moustache renaissance.

Nip & tuck

I starting to notice more and more each day the effects of getting older. I have heard the old adage of “Everything Heading South” as we age, but I really never took much stock in it. I had always written it off as another thing for a woman to complain about. After all, there is more of them to head south if you know what I mean.
Recently however I received a rude awakening.
I was totally exhausted and was glad to be home. It was one of those days where I just wanted to be alone in my own space. Away from people, noisy and life in general. I needed to get into the zone, relax mode if you will.
I showered and slipped on a pair of loose boxer shorts and headed for the kitchen. I reviewed the bottles in the liquor cabinet and decided I would pour me a nice scotch. Normally I am not one to drink such a thing, but after the day I had I decided I would pour my drink, grab some bread and cheese and head to the couch and hopefully catch a good movie or maybe a game. I removed the chilled glass from the freezer and poured a nice shot. I sliced my bread and retrieved the cheese. I laid the bread and cheese out onto a large plate. “Presentation is everything”, I thought. I grabbed the plate in one hand and the drink in the other and ventured out to the living room where I would finally put this day behind me. Being mindful not to spill I went to sit down in on the couch.
That is when it happened.
As I descended downward towards relaxation I sat upon my sack.
Never in my life would I image this possible. When the hell did the sack sag such that I am now finding myself sitting on my nuts? It is not a pleasant feeling. Much worse than a swift kick in the crotch.
I screamed. The plate flew from my hands and the Scotch poured out over my body. Once the tears subsided and I could once again stand I headed to the bedroom and stood in front of the full mirror. I dropped the shorts and stood in amazement. I am not sure of which I was more taken aback from. The size of my throbbing nuts or of how far the once snug sack had dropped. Will this continue? Will I one day find that my sack will drag upon the floor toting my balls along behind? What is the rate of which one sags?
I surely do not remember mention of this in “the talk” with my father. Is this common or do I have some sort of “sudden sack sag syndrome”? Is there a special “push up” sack bra out there? I am very disturbed over this and must seek professional help. I wonder if there is such a thing as a “Sack Lift”. I shall investigate and get back to you.
I would like to introduce myself, or rather re-introduce myself. I am the other “Mike” or “Michael” who originally stared this monster that is “I’m Not Touching You”. After the first few weeks I felt that I didn’t want to be out there in the blogsphere and that I would lay back and participate behind the scenes. Friday is the one year mark and Mike has asked me to take over for a while. It is his feeling that he needs a break. Personally I think it is a ploy to spend more time on my space.
He will still participate as always, but he will do it from the back row. All along we have both been contributors in the writings and posts. None of that will change. You will see changes however to the layout of the BLAH blog. I will now be behind the wheel, so bear with me as I get back into the rhythm. I am hoping to get to know all of you and maybe meet new visitors. As for the HNT’s, I am not sure if I am ready for that, or better yet, if you are. But I am sure Mike or Michael will drop in from time to time to keep his ego charged. In fact I believe starting tonight PST you’ll find him and this weeks HNT over at Andrews



He could not resist

Not a morning person!

Maybe it’s just the overcast this morning, or maybe I didn’t get enough sleep, but I woke up feeling misanthropic. It utterly amazes me how many genuinely stupid, wretched people are on the road. My list of peeves this a.m.-
Cyclists. Yeah, I know you guys are doing us all a service by not stinking up the air with your emissions and I should thank you for it. I know that you have chosen a healthier path for yourselves and I should follow your example, but you guys piss me off. You whizzing through stopped traffic between cars, blowing through stop signs, and then holding the rest of us up because you cannot pedal at the speed of traffic when it moves, fills me with contempt. We, in our cages, as you so affectionately call them, should not have to straddle lanes at 15 mph to avoid hitting you stupid, thoughtless ass holes. Find a street with a bike lane, carpool, take the bus, whatever, but do not expect me to tip my hat to you. I paid good money when I bought my car to have the privilege of driving on the street. Highway improvements, and RTD tax are enough to choke a damn horse, and you paid none of those at the bike shop, and are not entitled to make up your own traffic rules on the streets you share with us. And, with very few exceptions, you look like shit in spandex. Suck my exhaust pipe.
Speaking of exhaust—
Soccer moms—with 2.5 kids, wearing your adorable little Wal-Mart leisure suits, getting impatient for every one to move out of your way when YOU have finished dumping your maggots at school, you piss me off. Maybe the line of cars would be shorter in front of the school if you did something useful and brought some of the neighborhood kids with you this morning. Your vehicle is the size of a school bus any way, and don’t act like you have something important to do, or somewhere pressing to be. The cookies will still be there when you get home, you over fed hussy. My damn car overheats waiting for the line of cars to move, and you don’t see me freaking out and honking, you manicured former suburbanite princess. You’re driving in the city now, so consider your title rescinded, Highness.
Harley riders, you know which ones. You guys piss me off. Where do I begin. First, let me congratulate you for being awake at this hour. I have no idea where you work with all those tats, the filthy damn clothes and the ZZ Top facial hair, but the fact that you are a productive member of society despite looking like a vagrant gives me hope. However, that earsplitting noise from your beloved machine makes me want to strangle you with your own beard, especially when we are forced together in traffic and there is no escape from you. I know, the noise helps keep you safe, because we morons in our cages have difficulty seeing you, and you want to make us aware of your presence. Believe me buddy, you are noticeable. The outfit makes you stand apart from the crowd. And think on this…at least the ass hole in spandex pedaling like mad is not screaming at the top of his lungs to make sure we know he’s there. He’s too busy getting his cardio workout in the exhaust heavy air to even attempt screaming. You should take a page from his book, you beer gutted troglodyte, and get some exercise.
Have a nice morning

Kicking it-HNT

Hi guys, I know that tomorrow is Thursday. I also know that there will be no possible way for me to post tomorrow, so once again, here is HNT early! I would like to thank YOU for last night! What a ride! Cheers from an undisclosed location. (Hint, it is an island)

Intervention

I have a confession to make. I can not kid myself or you any longer. I am tired of living a double life, a lie. It is time to come clean with you all here and now. I am an addict. A week person who has succumbed to temptation, blinded to what is right and what is wrong. Yes, I am an addict.

I do not know what it is or why, but I feel the need to order every single stupid invention or gadget that they show on those “As Seen On TV” commercials. Is it the stellar narration? Is it the presentation? I have no clue. What I do know however I am the proud owner of every little stupid invention known to man. Every time one of those commercials comes on, I dive for the remote in hopes to change the channel. It is always too late. Once I here that familiar cheesy announcer voice, I am hooked like a crack head waking up for the morning score. Normally I am one with an incredible sense of willpower, but when it comes to these items, I am helpless. I have even found myself roaming the isle of the “As Seen On TV” products in the local Rite Aid.

I own the “Microwave Caddy”, the “Deli Pro Knife” and even the “Magic Dryer Balls”. I had ordered the “One Touch Can Opener” the “Magic Duster” and even bought some “Oxi Clean”. I have fought the urge, but broke down and called to get the “Roller Slide Abdominal Roller Exerciser”, the “Squirrel Scatter” and even the “Drain Buster”. The worst part is, I know before the item even arrives it will consist of some cheap plastic, molded together in some third world country and I will also know that it will not work. Yet I continue to order, I continue to buy. I need help.

Just recently, one of the evil spots ran and I was doing great, fighting the urge. I was really proud of myself until the “But Wait”. It was all over but the crying. Now I have a “Pasta Express” and I must tell you I have never ingested that much starch at one time in my life. Please, someone help me. There has to be others like me. There must be some Twelve step program or something. At this point I am thinking about refraining from television all together.

Please, if you are the person on the phone when I place the call to order, turn me away. Do not allow me to charge the 19.99 plus shipping and handling to my credit card so that in six to eight weeks I will come down from the high once again. Not even the 30 day money back guarantee will save me.

Yes, I am an addict.

I am hitting the road once again. My girl Jessica will be watching the place for the next week. Anyone who would like to post please email me!