Sweet and Sour Porky

I was a little late as I walked into the meeting, already in progress. I got the “look” from my colleague Linda, as if to say that I am never on time. Today in the spirit of outsourcing each and every American job that we possibly could, we were meeting with a Chinese company seeking business in the good ol’ US of A.

I mean why not, we don’t need the jobs here, we are America, and nothing will bring us to our knees with our great leaders behind the wheel. I sat down and quickly began jotting down nothing trying to look as if I were really interested. Before us were 4 Chinese guys, one of which was giving a presentation of their company. It all looked real nice in the presentation, but in reality they probably had a warehouse with dirt floors, kids working and slaving for twenty five cents a week so that we can go buy a Sixty Dollar shirt. The guy giving the presentation was obviously the “piss boy” of the bunch. He was short and had a set of teeth on him that looked like he had been gnawing on a steering wheel for some years. He was the kiss ass for sure.

Aren’t Chinese guys all bi? Don’t they swing both ways? Maybe I was thinking about the Thai dudes. My mind was wandering and my attention span, as usual was short.
I was becoming bored and fighting off the “sleep monster”. I kept nodding my head as if to acknowledge him and his crappy presentation, where in reality I was nodding to stay awake. He finished his speech and sat back down. What appeared to be the main guy, the “Chink in Charge” I thought, began speaking.

OK, now I was wide awake.

As the China dude or “Chink in Charge” began going into how he and his company could provide such a great service, I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. The guy with his broken English also had a definate stutter. Was this possible? I never heard of or imagined an Asian guy stuttering. I looked around the table to see if anyone else was in as much awe as I was. My eyes met Elizabeth’s and she gave me a look as if to say “Don’t you dare”! I turned back to CIC (yes, chink in charge. I am not racist, I hate everyone equally) and he must of noticed my intense curiosity. The more I stared at him the more pronounced his stutter became. I saw sweat begin forming on his brow. He was now having a difficult time getting through a complete sentence. It was like watching a Chinese “Porky Pig” get through “That’s all folks”. CIC’s partners must have sensed something was wrong. They began whispering to one another in their language and looked worried, like maybe CIC would have a nervous break down or something. I think that CIC meant to or was trying to say “Leveraging” but it came out as R-R-Reverchiny or something and I lost it. I was not quick enough. I had already gotten up trying to hold it back, trying to make it to the door and out into the hallway. Instead, there I stood busting up laughing, tears coming from my eyes. CIC began trying his best to cuss me out but all I heard was “No r-r-r-raugh at me, m-m-m-is-t-t-ter.
I explained to my manager who was trying to keep a straight face himself, that there was no way I could give the guy an apology in person with out cracking up once again. Instead I typed out an official apology letter to him and his company and told them I looked forward to doing business with them.

Monday Morning Migraine and blogger Bills

My day started out as many had before. An early morning at the airport to catch a flight somewhere. I hate the early flights because that means that in most cases it is the first flight of the day for that aircraft. I mean who knows, something could have happened over night as the plane sat. How do I know if it was checked prior to letting us board? Anyway, on this day I was heading to the Northern half of the Carolina’s. I was to meet and interview this guy that was involved in an incident. Not really an interrogation, but more of a fact finding sort of interview.

Why this could not be done via phone is beyond me. So there I was boarding a plane at Five Thirty this AM.

It was one of those small jets, a “Puddle Jumper” as they are referred to. Not my favorite mode of air travel, but at least it was a jet. As always it was a packed flight and I sat and watched as people tried to shove their bags into these tiny overhead compartments. They know as well as all of us watching them that those bags are way too big for a normal sized plane and should have been checked. Instead they try with all their might, until the stewardess breaks it up and informs the morons that she will need to check their bags. Like cattle waiting to become burgers, we all sat there and waited as the pilot cranked the engines for the first time today. I had some greasy looking chap sitting next to me. I am not the “Talker” type on flights. It is bad enough that I have to share such cramped quarters with someone, butt cheeks touching. By this point the last thing I want to do is talk. That’s were I was so early this morning, ready to take flight and get to my destination.

We were in the air not longer than 10 minutes when this guy a row up and across from me begins holding his head, his ears with his wife saying something to him. The wife hits the “call” button and the stewardess came to see what was up. I could clearly see the wife telling her something, but I could not hear what they were saying. The whole while the guy was still holding his head, obviously in some kind of pain. Then the guy starts wailing, like a little bitch. I could now hear the wife and the stewardess trying to talk over his wails. The guy had a migraine or something (10 minutes ago he was fine) and the chicks were trying to calm him. The stewardess left as if to go retrieve something and this dude unbuckles his seat belt, lifts his large ass out from his seat and lies down in the isle of the plane. Yes, lies down as if things will be much better down there on the floor of this plane at Twenty thousand feet. Here is this rather husky older dude, on the floor rolling around, holding his head wailing like a baby. I am really irritated at this point (Go Figure).

This guy was making a scene. Sure, he was in pain, but the whole theatrics was a bit much, never mind the safety aspect of it. The stewardess was still calmly trying to get “Bruits” back into his seat. The wife now was becoming a bitch towards to stewardess trying to do her job. I see the pilot or co-pilot appear to investigate the situation. OK, who the fuck is flying this plane. I had enough of this. I go to the guy on the floor, grab him by his arm and the scruff of his shirt and place him into his assigned seat. I whispered into his ear that if he left his seat once again I would be forced to do things to him that would make his pussy headache seem like an orgasm. We made an emergency landing somewhere in Virginia. There were police and emergency people waiting to take him and his wife to the hospital. They both protested and didn’t want to get off the plane. They were removed. I missed my appointment, only to get back to the airport and do it all again.

I was in Target yesterday to pick up a few things. When I went to check out, all I had was a hundred. I handed it to the cute chick with an attitude behind the counter thing and she gave me a look as if she were constipated or something. “Is this all you have”? She asked me. I told it was and she began making change for the hundred, mumbling something or another about her drawer or drawers which were her problem. I was too busy checking out her little nipples sprouting erect through her Target polo. Her frustration became mine as she counted out over thirty dollars in one dollar bills. I gave her a puzzled look and again she started on the drawers so I figured she was riding the cotton pony or something. I walked to the car with this wad of one dollar bills bulging in my pocket. I thought maybe it was a sign from above that I would need to visit the local strip club or something. Instead, I decided that we all are going to play a game. An experiment if you will (Stay with me, the details are sketchy and I am making them up as I go). On each and every bill I have written the following:

“not touching you"
Each bill has its own number. My hopes are that another blogger will one day receive one of these bills and write their own info on it, number it and put it into circulation. I am hoping that one of these bills will return to me and – That is where I go blank. And what? What is the prize? I thought about sending cash to whomever was on the bill, but that could get expensive. I thought about holding a party for everyone on the bill, again, expensive. So there are some details to be worked out, but in the mean time it is a great way to get people to your site, so be on the look out. What is cool is I am on the road this next week all over, and will be able to put these bills into circulation in different states.

They’ll then become “Blogger Bills”.

First Aid

Today I was at my desk, on the phone when I heard some commotion coming from down the hall. No big deal. No, not until this chick came rushing up to my desk, frantically huffing and puffing, motioning me to hang up. I did and told her to calm down and tell me what was wrong. She asked if I was the building “First Aid” monitor. I told her indeed I was the designated first aid person for this floor (They have this notion that just because I was in the Military, that qualifies me to be the first aid dude. I mean, I can give you CPR, perform the Heimlich if you’re choking, but that is about the extent of it). Today I would do much more. She grabbed me by the arm, still gasping for breath and hurried me down the hallway. I started thinking about terrorists, anthrax and all sorts of scenarios that would justify this crazed woman’s actions. What I came across was none of the above.
She lead me to one of the vacant offices and upon entrance, there in the center of the room lying on the floor was a woman, a very pregnant woman. Have you ever had one of those days where you say to yourself “I shoulda called in sick today”? Or a moment where you wish that you could be anywhere else but here? Those were the thoughts going through my brain. There lie this woman, naked from the waist down, legs spread wider than any set of spread legs I had ever encountered, and she was lying in a puddle of something, maybe piss? I instantly knew that this was way out of my league or my “Things to do” list. The woman let out a scream that was haunting. The freaked out lady told me to do something. I asked if they had called 911. The lady on the floor said in her best “Linda Blair Exorcist” voice “ITS COMING NOW, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE AND DELIVER THIS BABY”. A crowd of people were gathering and I closed the door. I rolled up my sleeves and told one of the ladies in the office with us to run to the cafeteria and get some hot towels (that is what they always did on “Little House on the Prairie” so don’t give me shit). I must have sounded as if I knew what I was doing because the mousey chick bolted out from the office towards the cafeteria to fetch the hot towels. I positioned myself between the spread legs of the mother to be and came face to face with an oozing, almost pulsating deformity of a vagina. I knew one thing; this lady knew what she was talking about. I could see something that looked like a boil, but was actually this baby’s head making its final approach into this world. “Think Mike”, I thought to myself. I tried to calm the woman. I told her to concentrate on her breathing. I began asking her questions about herself, what she did here, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. Anything to take her mind off of the fact that she was here, giving birth in a deserted office on the floor in front of strangers. The hot towels arrived and one was placed on the woman’s forehead (?) and the others where down with me in the baby zone. Over the next couple of minutes her screams became much louder, she began cursing me, her husband or boyfriend (His name was Shawn I am guessing) and the world. During those couple of minutes I gazed in amazement at her womanhood. It was a new perspective on pussy for me to say the least. I did find myself noticing the nice job however she had done at trimming her pubes. That must be a chore when one is pregnant I thought to myself, then shook it off. This was no time for me to loose myself inside of my imagination. The baby’s head was mostly out. I could see the eyes and a part of the nose. Again I paused to wonder at the size of this vagina. It was huge, swollen and gooey. I began thinking if it would ever be normal again. Or would poor Shawn now be like a hot dog in a hallway.
Up to this point I had been completely useless. Where were the damn paramedics? Hell, I would settle for a security guard at this point. Linda Blair let out a huge scream, puffing and said “GO IN AND GET IT OUT”. OK, this was way beyond a paper cut or other simple injury. I questioned myself. I was not qualified for this. But the fact remained this kid was coming and seemed to be stuck in the well groomed, grossly oversized vagina. An image I saw in an email recently of a snake eating a crocodile suddenly came to mine as this looked like the exact opposite. I grabbed one of the towels and wiped my hands and reached into the zone and went for it. I gently held the baby to get a feel for if this would be easy or not. I felt like I was playing tug-o-war with this woman’s vagina, almost like it was trying to suck me in, in exchange for the baby. The woman screamed again and with good cause as her privates were ripping, bleeding. I was afraid if I did not get this baby out her butt hole and vagina would become one. “Cute kid” I thought as I could see more of its little face. I was now in the position where I could leverage my hands up inside of the little things arm pits. My hands were lubed with prego goo and I was now partially inside of this woman (Astro-lube has got nothing on the prego lube). The woman’s screams were deafening but I was winning the battle with her vagina. The pull of the suction was strong against the exiting child. I heard someone tell her to push. It was as if her vagina gave in. The baby came out with a loud “plop” sound. Sort of like popping the cork off a bottle. The sound was followed by what I can best describe as a queef (I pictured that drunken guy from the “Simpsons, burping and his lips gyrating).
There I sat, between this ladies legs, holding this alien looking thing with an intestine connected to its belly still within the black hole. I guess she must have literally pushed. There was muck and goo everywhere and it looked like she maybe crapped as well. I couldn’t tell as her butt hole was gone. As gory of a scene it was, I was holding the most amazing miracle I had seen to date. I just stared at the little creature in my shaking hands. It was a boy. I could not see any penis, but the little guy had a huge sack on him. As the paramedics entered the room and removed the little guy from my hands, I rose and my eye caught the new mother’s eyes. She mouthed “Thank You” to me and I left to go clean up.
It was a wonderful experience that I was fortunate enough to witness and be part of. I felt sorry for Shawn. He missed this. I am not sure how soon it will be before I can be face deep in Vagina again, but –
I found out later this evening that she named the boy “Michael”.

HNT Part two-Double Header!!!

Screaming for Vengeance-HNT

It's just about three AM as I glanced at the alarm clock. I heard the knock, the knocks I should say, rattling against my door. Who in the hell would dare wake me at this hour? I rose from the bed and grabbed for my robe. I paused a second to gaze in amazement at the morning wood I was sporting (It really does have a mind of its own). I slipped on the robe and headed towards the noise still coming from my front door. Again, “Knock, Knock, Knock” gradually getting louder. I took a look through the peephole and saw a finger obstructing my view. At this point I had a pretty good idea of who it was. I debated on opening the door. Against my better judgment, and to stop the annoying rapping on my door, I unlocked the deadbolt and open it.
There before me stood “K”. What a site she was. She was obviously inebriated as she swayed side to side. She looked pretty rough for this time of the day. “Can I come in” she slurred trying her best not to give away the fact that she was loaded. Did I have a choice? Who knows what in the hell she might do if I left her drunken ass out there in the hallway? Besides, there was the morning wood to consider. Why not? I stepped aside to allow her to pass. I shut and locked the door behind her. There she was, standing in the center of my living room. Although she was polluted, she still was beautiful. Deep down within this image before me was someone I cared for. Someone I had shared my most secret confessions with. We stood there silent what seemed like forever. “Well”, she said. “I was thinking the same thing” I replied. “Aren’t you going to cuss me out, tell me all about myself”? I did not reply. “SAY SOMETHING” she shouted. I asked her what she thought I should say. She described how miserable she had felt, wondering, not knowing, and how she hurt not only the one she loved but her dear friend. I just stood there, listening, watching her try to stand and keep her composure as she confessed her wrongs to me. I was making her sweat. Now this was a Kodak moment. The more she appealed and plead her case, the more I wanted her naked and on me. “Enough”, I said. She stood quiet, her eyes staring like a child awaiting punishment. “Oh, sweet revenge” I thought. I untied my robe and let it drop to the floor.
I sat on the couch with “K” on the floor, her head between my legs. She must have been real sorry because she was not holding back on me. I just leaned backed and watched her head bob, up, down, around, repeat. Normally I would be gentle with dear “K”, but not this time. I grabbed her hair and twisted it around my hand and assisted her, pulling her head downward while thrusting myself upward. I knew this was risky as her “Gag reflex” was coming into play and after all she was drunk. After sometime of taking enjoyment of watching her work it, I released her hair, took her by the upper arm and hauled her off into my room. I sat before her on my bed facing her, watching her remove her clothing. I reached into the drawer and grabbed it. To assure that my point was well taken, I handed “K” a condom and told her to put it on. “K” hated condoms. She also hated that fact that I was making her use one now as before I had always trusted her. I could see it on her face, in her eyes. This got to her. With Jimmy wrapped and “K” naked, I told her to assume the position, on all fours, head up straight forward in front of the full length mirror. I arrived behind her and began into her. I kept telling her to watch, “Look at the person in the mirror”. “K” obeyed every word. This was actually turning me on beyond belief. I never before played this card before, I liked it. I was wide-awake now and fully into “K”, literally. I served “K” her punishment, from behind watching her watch herself and us in the mirror. This whole thing was way erotic and I knew wouldn’t last much longer. I told her to tell me she was sorry. “Sorry” she whimpered. “LOUDER WHORE” I demanded as I was hitting deep and turning the corner towards home. “I AM FUCKING SORRY” she yelled. Just then she exploded and began pushing back at me, matching my rhythm, slapping up into me. That was all she wrote.
We lie there together, both exhausted, sticky from the ordeal. I glanced at the time. There was no use in my trying to sleep as I would need to prepare for work soon. “K” had been silent ever since I made her dispose of the spent condom. She must be sobering up I thought as we lie there. I gently run my fingers through her hair and up and along her face. She truly was beautiful. I got out of bed to go shower and prepare for work and “K” asked “Do you really forgive me? Is everything OK? Are WE OK”? I turned back to her, looked her dead in the eyes and said “K my dear, I was never upset, it was all a joke”! As I entered the bathroom I heard something hit the wall beside me. Thank God she is a bad aim.




Yes, I know. I am getting fat! And the huge pimple is so attractive!

Tag Your IT!

Iknow, I know. I have been slacking on the posts. No excuse. I spent today interviewing college students for intern positions at my company. It was grueling. These are the people that will be running our country! Some of the answers and the questions these clueless kids asked. It really makes me doubt our society and its future as a world leader. I ended each interview with “Do you have any questions for me”. The two that stick with me are “What time would I have to start, I hate getting up before 10 am” and the other was “Is everyone that works there old”? Yes, these were asked with 100% sincerity.
It appears that I have been “tagged” by the beautiful and sexy Roxi This is a first for me. So here goes nothing.
The rules: The tagged victim lists 8 different points of their perfect lover/partner, mentioning the sex of said partner.

Sex: Female

1.Smart
2.Funny
3.Sincere
4.A huge sexual appetite with an open mind to try things.
5.Confident
6.Loyal
7..Honest
8.And a nice stomach!

Sounds fairly easy huh? NOT! See you tomorrow

Hello

"K”: Hey, what’s up?

Mike: Nothing, watching the Playoff’s.

“K”: Where have you been, I’ve called, I stopped by. I wanted to do something this weekend.

Mike: I’ve been busy, had plans.

“K”: With whom, what plans?

Mike: Hey, can I call you back?

“K”: Why? What is your problem?

Mike: I think that you may be my problem; I don’t think this, what ever this is, is going to work
out.

“K”: What? Wait a minute, what in hell happened? I mean,

Mike: I really didn’t appreciate that crap you pulled with the pregnancy test. It was immature
and fucked up. It made me think a bit. This is not going to work.

“K” {sounds like she is crying} It was just a joke, come on you can’t be serious, please, please don’t do this, can’t we talk about this?

Mike: A joke huh, HA, HA,

CLICK

You Better Slow your Mustang Down.

In Memory Of Wilson Pickett, 18 March 1941 – 19 January 2006 (Mustang Sally – Ride Sally Ride)

I ditched out from work early this afternoon. Recently I have been in the market for a new vehicle, a truck in particular. My lease on my over traveled boring “work” vehicle was up so I have been searching the internet for some great, or even good deals. By nature, “I’m a FORD truck man”, but I was leaving all options open. Some of the import trucks look pretty sweet. During lunch, while surfing the net I saw my truck, or at least one I had to investigate. It was indeed a Ford, and appeared to be a great deal. Very low miles and all of the extras (I never by a new vehicle, instead one that was repossessed or less than one year old, but that is another post).

I left work and headed for the dealership which was out in the country, about 35 miles away. I pulled in and parked and exited to go find my truck. Along the way I passed the Mustang isle which had several of the new Mustangs. I have rented this vehicle several times and although I love the way it looks and its power, it is very hard to get in and out of and it rides like a jeep. Plus the price is way inflated due to the perceived demand (Actually it is not selling too well, or at least as well as predicted. Ford has made up this shortage story to in entice a made up demand when in reality all they have to do is start making them on a regular basis). One of the Stangs caught my eye. It was a beautiful car. It had everything and had some cool ground effects and it just looked mean. “Hi, can I help you” I heard from behind me. I turned to see this slim, scrawny, girl of a guy standing there (which reminded me of a female Jack). Now if I were a gay man or had homosexual tendencies I could see me taking this kid in as my cabana boy. “No, I am alright just looking” I said. I guess he didn’t hear me and started rambling the stats of the car, the horse power, and the cubic inches of the engine, BLAH, BLAH, and BLAH. Now if there is anything I hate more than watching fat people eat, it was sales people, especially car sales people.
I decided to make this kid work for his money and my irritation. I began asking a lot of technical questions, as if I was truly interested in this car and may buy it so this kid could make his first sale. He was lost at the gear size and ratios. “OK, let’s have some fun” I thought.
I asked if I could drive it. He said that I could, retrieved my license and went to fetch a copy of it and a dealer plate. He just about skipped away in excitement. His day was about to change. I am well versed in driving and such; it is a part of my career path. Not the “Professional driver on closed course, do not try this at home” variety, but far advanced from the everyday driver this kid was used to. I glanced around at the country side. This would be fun.



I started the Mustang and asked the kid if I could “Really test it out”. “Sure” he said as if he had a sack of steel between his legs. I put the 300 HP pony in gear and punched on the gas. The tires squealed, and left a plume of smoke behind us as we barreled out of the dealership parking lot. I could see by the look on cabana boy’s face he was already regretting this. Before the pony hit third gear we were pushing 100 MPH with an open country road before us. I began with “Yeah, my wife just left me, took the kids and ran off with another man”. 110 MPH. “My physiatrist says that I will adjust as long as I stay on my meds”. 115 MPH. “I didn’t take them today though”.

I looked over and cabana boy was as white as a ghost, his fingers in a death grip upon the door handle. 120 MPH. I took my eyes off of the road and looked right at him “I’m a decent guy aren’t I”? I saw his eyes shoot from me, to the road and back to me again. “ye ye yes” he stutters. “Then why would she leave me” I yelled, and took a hard left, the tires screaming as we made the turn. 125 MPH. I turned the radio on and began obnoxiously changing all of the radio stations, then screamed “FUCK” and hit the “On / Off” button. 130 MPH. Again I looked directly at him and said “You know, sometimes I just wanna end it all”. I could swear that cabana boy crapped his pants at this point, but the smell could have been from the heat of the engine breaking in all of the new engine parts. I saw the road. A dirt road off to the right into a field, then disappearing into some trees. I slammed on the brakes, barely making the turn. Once

I hit the dirt, the car started fish tailing and I went with it, punching the gas once again to get the car into a spin, a burn out, doughnut, brodie, what ever they call it these days. Cabana boy snapped. He was about in tears as he squeaked, “Please let me out”. At this point I again slammed on the brakes and the car came to an abrupt stop. As the dust settled all around us, I put on my best “I am insane” face and asked “what is it”?

There we sat in this semi wooded area. Me with a crazed look in my eyes playing the crazy card, and cabana boy on the verge of a melt down in the passenger seat (at this point I may have had a gay moment. I visualized having my way with cabana boy, way out here in the middle of now where. After all he looked like a girl, minus the boobs, kinda like the singer from Hanson). We sat face to face silent. “You think I am crazy, don’t you” I asked? He told me no, it was just that the car wasn’t made for this kind of speed and abuse. “Then why the hell would I want it” I asked?

I came clean to cabana boy and told him that it was all in good fun. I drove back to the dealership. I told him about my truck, the one I had seen on the internet. When we arrived at the dealership, I parked the Mustang and we exited. It was at that point I noticed it. An undeniable wet spot in the crotch of cabana boy. Cabana boy had pissed himself. I held back the laughter.

I ended up buying my truck. Cabana boy got his first sale

M&Ms Phobia

I recently visited my therapist to talk about my fears, in particular of M&Ms.Therapist: Tell me what happened.
Me: Well. Somebody at work just came back from vacation.

Therapist: (didn’t say anything but has the inquisitive look)

Me: He brought chocolates and placed them on my table with the note, “Enjoy the M&Ms. Don’t worry I didn’t buy them from ShopRite).

Therapist: (Nods)

Me: I had a hysterical attack. I freaked out and started shouting.

Therapist: Okay.

Me: It lasted about twenty minutes until I calmed down.

Therapist: What happened?

Me: I have an M&M phobia. Not the peanut one but the plain one.

Therapist: I’m listening.

Me: When I was a kid, I used to love M&Ms. I usually take the pieces out of the pack, place them in a plate and arrange them based on colors.

Therapist: (listening intensely)

Me: However, things changed back during my Junior year in High School.

Therapist: Why? What happened?

Me: Well there was this nasty guy.

Therapist: Did he steal your candies?

Me: Nope. He didn’t do that. He had a bad habit of picking his nose all the time. My friends even joke about him that he should use a shovel to pick up the nasty stuff in his nose.

Therapist: Okay

Me: One time, one of my classmates brought M&Ms which she bought when she was on vacation.

Therapist: Okay

Me: Actually, she brought different chocolates, maybe five packs of different stuff and placed them on a vacant table located next to the door. There was one pack of M&M plains, not the pack with individual packages, but just one big container for the candies.

Therapist: Please continue.

Me: At that point, the nasty nose picker just finished working on his nose. When he saw the chocolates, he opened the M&M pack and grabbed a handful. Of course, this turned the rest of my classmates off, and nobody ever touched the M&Ms.

Therapist: Okay

Me: However, I came home late that day. So I didn’t see the whole hoola baloo of the nose picker. When I entered the door, the first thing I saw was the M&Ms. Since I loved M&Ms, I grabbed a handful and ate them.

Therapist: I see, there’s a problem there, but there’s also a solution to that for sure. But that’s it for now. So see you next week.

Subway Diet-HNT-Apologies

Iwould first like to say sorry for those who tried to comment, but could not. My blog service was doing maintenance and I neither could post nor could anyone comment. All is well again.
(Blogsome is being improvedBlogsome is currently being moved (as announced in the Blogsome Forum) in order to add additional servers to our network. The outcome should be a much faster blogging service. The work will take a number of hours. Your blog will be viewable to the public during this time. Please check again later.)

Yesterday I was short on time, so I decided to grab a bite to eat at subway for lunch. Normally Subway isn’t on my list of places for lunch. Sure, Jared lost weight. But it wasn’t because he ate the frigging subs. He lost the weight because his fat ass walked there and back two times a day after not leaving the couch for months. The thing that pisses me off about Subway is after I eat, I am hungry like twenty minutes later. But, it was close and I had no time.

I walk in and immediately remember the whole “stand in line shuffle as they make your sub” routine. Every time I am at Subway I think back to that Seinfeld episode with the soup Nazi, and the whole routine. I get in line behind this lady that had on polyester that was at least one or two sizes too small. I guess when she was getting ready today she looked in the mirror and thought the rolls overlapping her waist line were attractive. She was placing her order and I was adhering to the whole routine. She ordered something, all I know it had extra everything on it. You know they get irritated at Subway if you start making special requests and they actually have to work. The first step of her sub was complete and it was slid down to the next person to slop on what ever condiments she may desire. I heard her ask if the Mayo was fat free. The pimpled face kid behind the counter stared at her as if to hold back “You should of thought of that years ago”, but instead said yes. She side stepped per the routine to her right and followed her sub.
The polyester winched from the friction of her thighs rubbing together. I was up and the stoner looking kid asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted the combo and he asked me what kind of bread. I told him I wanted the Italian Garlic kind and he gave me a death stare as he had to leave his post and go to the oven and fetch the Italian Garlic roll.

s he walked towards the oven, his back to me I saw him pick his nose. Yes, it is true. His left pinky inside the greasy plastic film glove he wore inserted deep within his nasal passage.
He returned with the Italian Garlic and started slapping some cheese on it (Not that it mattered at this point, but he didn’t even inquire if I wanted any fucking cheese or if so which kind). “Hey, don’t even try it”, I said to him. “Dude, what’s your deal”, he asked in a voice which reminded me of Butthead from “Beavis and Butthead”. I explained to him that I saw him digging his horn and I wanted him to get a fresh set of plastic film gloves, a fresh Italian Garlic roll and to start over. “No way” he replied. At this point I must have started to speak louder because the whole rhythm and flow of the routine was disrupted. People were turning and looking all confused. “I’m warning you” I told Butthead. He smiled and wiped his pinky all along my cheese and my Italian Garlic sub. The same pinky that moments ago was knuckle deep inside of his face. I lost it (remember the temper) and lurched up towards him, reaching for his neck. The sneeze guard plastic shield thing hit me in the chest. People scrambled as the Manager dude got in between us right as I was going to smash his face into my Italian Garlic sub.
The police were called, the polyester lady had my back, I was warned, the kid was fired, and I missed my meeting and ended up eating a bag of pork rinds for lunch.







This was taken whilst on vacation in California –

PUNK'D

Well the joke was on me. I got punked like a fat kid at summer camp. Apparently “K” and her friend thought it would be funny. HA, frigging HA I say. I guess the real pregnancy test was for her friend. It just goes to further prove alcohol does significantly impair one’s judgement. I would have never thought her friend would have to be worried about being “knocked up”. She has what I like to call “Natural Birth Control”. The built in kind some are born with. Just plain ugly. I hope that they got a good laugh out of it. HA, HA, HA. It doesn’t matter that I spent all weekend worried, walking about in my robe, drinking like a fish. No, great joke. It did however make me sit down and take stock in myself, my life and list out all of my faults, sins and other unmentionables that would have to go if I was to be a father. The choice was mine. Time to own up and be responsible. Then after completing my list, I sobered up and realized I would rather be dead! So while “K” and her friend are away, laughing it up at my expense, I am sitting here thinking about revenge! Over the next few days I will be plotting a plan to not only get “K” back, but also her beer goggle friend. I am open to any and all suggestions