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Our Dogs Kind of Love Uncooked Brown Basmati Rice

20 May

Warning: This post contains profanity and several references to feces. If you’re offended by this type of thing, you might want to skip this one.

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I’m carefully crafting a blog post about how I literally almost crapped my pants on the evening of Wednesday, May 7 at approximately 8:30 pm.

Often people exaggerate and use the phrase “I almost crapped my pants” casually, like “This big, hairy spider came out of nowhere and was, like, right by my face; I almost crapped my pants!” This person doesn’t really mean that they actually ALMOST SHIT THEIR PANTS. I’m almost certain of this.

But once in awhile it’s real. Because I almost shit my pants thirteen days ago–FOR REAL! So check back every couple of days or, better yet, subscribe to this blog because you seriously don’t want to miss it. Now, for more poop talk . . . .

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I wasn’t going to write today, but the dogs got into the pantry yesterday afternoon and helped themselves to a six dollar, 16 ounce bag of organic basmati brown rice, ripped it open and scattered it about the front room. (It was my fault; I left the door open.)

When I discovered the mess at around 2 pm, it was impossible to know how much they had eaten, if any. I mean, it’s uncooked rice. Eww. For humans, eating uncooked rice is not much fun. I can think of a 150 things I’d rather eat. But dogs? Who fucking knows. Dogs are crazy.

The mess our dogs made


This morning while walking them, Dexter stopped and assumed his pooping stance while I jabbed my hand into a black shit-bag (because I pick up after our dogs unlike most people in this neighborhood) and waited. And waited. His eyes bugged. He strained. Nothing came out. The other two dogs were like What’s your deal? Come one, let’s get going! We ain’t got all fucking day.

Finally, after much effort, he pinched off this amazing little rice roll that put an end to me wondering if this particular dog had eaten any brown basmati rice. He definitely had. The rest of the way home, I fretted about all that rice sitting in their guts soaking up water, wreaking havoc and wondered what all this meant for our future walks. Alas, I predict much standing around staring at dog ass today and writing more about rice rolls tomorrow.

(I didn’t snap a photo of the rice roll. If I had known it was coming, I probably would have. But since I was standing there with a ready poop bag instead of a camera, I had it scooped up before I could think about it. Too bad for you because it was pretty awesome, though still gross, because, well, it’s dog shit.)

Since this is a shit-centered blog post, I’m sitting here trying to think of another incident I can talk about, but I can’t think of anything significant. I mean, I walk the dogs 3 to 5 times a day, so I see a shit-ton of dog poop. “Shit-ton” is a word that means “a lot” if you’re unfamiliar. I pick up so much dog poop, such a shit-ton, that we buy pet waste bags in bulk, 700 at a time, like the people who have pet waste removal companies.

Okay. I agree. Enough shit for today.


Biden Introduces Obama to Twerking

28 Aug


President Obama: Let me just say, we cannot appear weak here. If we do not strike at Syria and strike at them with great force, Assad will be over there there thinking “Oh, that Obama is weak, a real chicken shit, let’s gas some more people. And the nut from North Korea. What would stop him from doing the same?”

Vice President Biden: I agree. Let’s bomb them. How ’bout this afternoon, three-ish?

President Obama: But don’t we need to go to the United Nations first, you know, get some kind of authorization, like a note or something? I better call David. Get me David on the phone.

Vice President Biden: No, no. Wait a sec. Here, take a look at this. I think this will help. Watch this.

(Joe slides his laptop over to Barrack)


President Obama: My God, who’s the guy in the Beetlejuice costume?

Vice President Biden: No, look at the girl, Hannah Montana. Look at what she’s doing there.

President Obama: Oh. Yeah. I see that. What is that?

Vice President Biden: That there’s called twerking. It’s the thing now. It’s not all that difficult. I’ve been working on it. You just bend over a little . . . and . . . here, let me show you.

(Joe stands)

See here, I have to hold onto a table or something because of my back, but you’re younger. You can just raise your arms up over your head and do this.

(Joe begins to twerk with one hand on the table and one over his head)

President Obama: But what are you doing? I can’t tell if your bottom is bouncing like this young lady’s. It looks like you’re just–

Vice President Biden: You can’t tell through my slacks?

President Obama: No Joe I can’t.

Vice President Biden: Dammit, here, let me take off my pants so you can see. I could feel some bounce back there. Are you sure you couldn’t tell?

President Obama: No, Joe, not at all.

(Joe takes off his pants and resumes twerking, holding his shirt and jacket up above his butt)

Vice President Biden: Okay, there we go. You see that? Look at that! I know you’re seeing it now, huh? What do you think about that, prez? That’s twerking right there.

President Obama: Yeah, yeah, I see it. Not bad, not bad. But I think I can do it better than that.

Vice President Biden: No way.

President Obama: Yeah. Yeah. I think–

(Joe stops twerking)

Vice President Biden: I don’t think so. You saw the bounce, right. I was all over the place back there.

President Obama: Yeah, Joe, I saw it, but I think I can do it better. Here, let me try.

(Barrack stands, unbuckles his belt, slide out of his pants, shirt, and jacket)

Vice President Biden: Yeah, we’ll see won’t we? Oh, getting all serious, huh? Mr. Competitive over here.

(Barrack bends knees, raises arms up, twerks)

Vice President Biden: Why’s your tongue out like that? What is that?

(Barrack stops)

President Obama: I’m twerking. The young lady, Hanna Montana, she had her tongue out.

Vice President Biden: No, you don’t have to do that. It’s not part of it.

(Barrack resumes)

President Obama: Yeah, there it is. That feels good. See there? See there?

Vice President Biden: Yeah, not bad. Not bad.

(Press Secretary Jay Carney opens the door, enters, Barrack stops twerking)

Jay Carney: Mr. President, we need a statement on–whoa, whoa, whoa. Sorry guys. I’ll come back.

President Obama: No. Jay, come in here. You tell us who can twerk better, me or Joe. Be honest.

Jay Carney: Mr. President . . . Syria?

President Obama: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Syria this, Syria that. Let’s do this real quick and then we’ll talk about Syria.

Crushed by Cow or Penis Bitten by Snake? A Thought Experiment Gone Wrong

27 Aug

In mid-July, I stumbled upon the following headlines on Gawker.

Brazilian Man Killed in His Bed By Falling Cow

Mr. Souza was crushed, but his wife was unharmed. Mr. Souza survived the initial impact, but died the following day after suffering from internal bleeding.

Snake Hiding in Toilet Bites Israeli Man’s Penis

The injured man told emergency workers that he noticed a strong burning sensation as he was using the toilet in his parents’ home in the northern Israeli town of Nofit. At that point, the man looked down and saw a snake in the toilet. He then “ran from the room in horror” to call paramedics.

As a philosophical being, I’m left trying to decide which man’s fate I’d choose to take on for myself.  Would I rather have a cow fall through my roof, killing me, or would I rather live, but have my penis nipped by a snake?

It seems simple because in one case, I live, in the other, I’m finished, but it also involves fear and uncertainty. If I pick the snake and I’m on the toilet anticipating the bite to my penis . . . . Well, I just don’t know if I can do that. If I pick the snake and you tell me my penis will be bitten, like, eventually, maybe next week, maybe 2024, then that’s something that could ruin my life.

In the article: “There will undoubtedly be bite marks on the area in question.” This is attributed generically to the hospital. Who at the hospital? A woman visiting her grandma? A crazy dude from the psych ward?

Okay, let’s say the doctor who treated the penis made the statement. What if the doctor considers a half inch of penis loss to be “just a bite mark”? What if people around him–and I’m including people close, like family–are always like “Wow, Jim, that sure is an understatement!” Maybe for this particular doctor a whole goddam inch would need to be snipped off for him to more accurately depict the damage.

“There will undoubtedly be a decrease in satisfaction for the patient’s sexual partner due to the loss of penile length.”

Another worry would be if I’d get the same snake to bite my penis or if a replacement snake would be used. I mean, who’s  choosing this snake? A venomous snake expert or an electrical engineer from St. Louis who wouldn’t know a garter from a copperhead?

You know what, I just can’t do this. I’m done. Too many unknowns.

I’m going to choose death by cow.


Why I Might Store Summer Squash in my Butt <–best title ever!

15 May

zucchini boat

If I could bottle a day I would pick this past Monday. The weather was perfect and I felt fit, productive, and content. The only thing missing was a head first dip into a tub of melted chocolate. Cooled off, of course.

All kinds of good stuff happened. I dug a small garden and planted four tomato plants and two pepper plants. I pedaled down the heart of Glen Carbon, from Enterprise to Panera, without being squashed by a truck. I even avoided two common, negative occurrences: cutting my finger with our sharpest kitchen knife and having my nose pierced by our puppy’s razor teeth.

In the evening with my trike and trailer I hauled home a bag of soil, four zucchini plants, a pineapple sage plant, and some other obscure herb I can’t think of. We’re already members of a food co-op, so I’m sure we’re going to have zucchinis falling out of our asses this summer. (It’s much more comfortable than when they’re going in. I’m kidding and it’s a small miracle I allowed this joke to stay in because, well, “that’s not right,” which is something I hear people saying quite often.)

The problem with my good days is that they’re usually followed by days of spectacular crapiness, just a shit-storm of crap. I’m totally open to follow great days with medium quality days if The Universe is open to that. What do you think? Universe?

If I ever experience two almost-perfect days in a row, I’ll probably fill my pants with moist zucchini muffins from the shock. And we all know what that feels like, don’t we?

But seriously, I know that happiness is, like, a choice or something. At least that’s what I’ve read. If a cat barfs on my keyboard, I can choose to smile and laugh. If I crash my bike into a bush and emerge with a dog turd stuck to my cheek, I can choose to smile and laugh.

So . . . our assignment for today: to smile and laugh (even when you don’t feel like it).

How Many Pairs of Shoes do I Need? I Guess Seven!

1 May

Well, isn’t this sad: millions of people around the world have no shoes.

I stumbled upon this article this morning that says U.S. Americans have an average of 19 pairs of shoes. That’s 27 for women and 12 for men. If you click on that link and scroll down you will see that several people posted a photo of all their shoes, which, to me, is, like, the most fascinating thing in the world. And I don’t even have a foot fetish. 

For someone like me who’s always jabbering about the topic of “stuff,” you’d think I’d have less than seven pairs. This post will either justify all seven or show me that I can drop one or two. They’re in order from shoes I love down to shoes I want to strangle.

Saucony trail running shoes

Where I got them: This Spring at Goodwill for $8. Why I keep them: They fit perfect and they’re in like-new condition. They’re extremely versatile (cycling, running on all surfaces, walking the dogs) Why I might get rid of them: They’re not so versatile that I can wear them with jeans. Still, I’ll have these for a long time.

Vivo Barefoot “minimalist” running shoes

Where I got them: I bought them online a couple of years ago through The Clymb. Why I keep them: They’re the only shoes I’ve received compliments on since I rocked bright orange Converse high tops in Junior High. They’re comfortable, easy on/off, and multifunctional. They’re cool enough to wear with jeans. Why I might get rid of them: They beginning to show some wear. If my toes bust through I’ll have to retire them.

Crocs, Dark Blue

Where I got them: I bought them in 2012 at Goodwill for $8. Why I keep them: Comfortable. Light. Utilitarian. They’re my all-season house shoe, but I can also wear them for the quick bike trip to the library or around town. Why I might get rid of them: No chance.

Crocs, Stealthy, Brown

Where I got them: I bought them at Goodwill this Spring, again for $8. Why I keep them: I just bought them, so it’s too soon to jettison them; that would make me sad. They’re a stealthier version of my blue Crocs so I feel better about wearing them in public. Why I might get rid of them: If I find a good pair of shoes that I can wear with jeans, they could be cut from the team. The fabric on top make them less water resistant than regular Crocs.

Muck Boots

Where I got them: I bought them online over five years ago. Why I keep them: I want to spend more time outdoors; outdoors gets messy and moist. So these waterproof shoes will keep my other shoes clean. They also serve as my winter boots. Why I might get rid of them: I have used my old Crocs (below) for wet, dirty, warm weather activities. They’re not very comfortable. Still, I don’t want to buy snow boots, so I can’t see myself getting rid of them.

Crocs, Brown & Dirty

Where I got them: I think from Amazon several years ago. Why I keep them: Super comfortable! They were demoted to mowing shoes two years ago and they serve very well in that role, saving my other shoes from grass stains. Why I might get rid of them: They’re tread-less and stained, slick and potentially dangerous. I could mow in the mucks.

Dress Shoes

Where I got them: I bought them at–guess!–Goodwill for $8. Why I keep them: I can’t find a business that rents dress shoes. I don’t live close enough to anyone with size 9 or 9.5 feet with a well-stocked closet. They’re Kenneth Cole shoes, so they seem to be well-made and should last awhile. Finally, I’m not brave enough to be the freak wearing Crocs to weddings, funerals and dressy events. Why I might get rid of them: I only wear them once or twice a year. They’re uncomfortable. Jennifer’s father lives 70 miles away, but he’s in town often. We have similar feet. If he could take them off my hands, I could borrow them when I need them. Besides, I’ve never have been called on to wear dress shoes on short notice.

A Thorn in my Arm is but one of the Thorns in my Arm

20 Feb


If you ask a hundred Americans to name their favorite flower, eighty-five will say the rose. The remaining fifteen won’t hear you because they’re texting or playing games on their phones. No, seriously, I’m not sure about those fifteen people, but I would guess that they were somehow involved in the rose production process, which includes watering, weed removal, pruning, and wringing blood from socks caused by multiple, severe thorn injuries.

I worked with roses for three summers in a greenhouse the size of six Walmart Supercenters. A greenhouse–you probably didn’t know this–is a glass structure where humans are baked for eight hours a day at exactly 325°.


Gertrude “A rose is a rose is a rose” Stein

On this most fragrant of flowers, Gertrude Stein nailed its essence when she penned “A rose is a rose is a rose.”

Wait, what?

Let’s forget about Gertrude for a moment because the glam metal band Poison said it much better in their 1988 Billboard Hot 100 #1 hit power ballad “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” when they whined “Eeeeevery rooose has its thoorn.” I remember it well because radio stations packed away their OTHER songs to dedicate a solid three months to this ode to faded love.


Radio DJ: And that was Poison singing their hit song “Every Rose Has its Thorn.” Next, we’re going to shake things up a bit; we’re going to play Poison’s hit song “Every Rose Has its Thorn.”

But as I think about it, Poison didn’t know a thing about this popular woody perennial of the genus Rosa of the family Rosaceae. I mean, did they really believe every rose has just one thorn? Idiots! From experience I know that one rose stem brandishes no less than nine hundred thorns, which were all embedded into my skin on any given day.

Still, you’re probably thinking how wonderful it would be to work in such a beautiful, sweet-smelling environment, like your ultra-thoughtful partner is surprising you with roses all day every day. I have just one word for you: shut up! Two words- whatever. Who is this “Gertrude Stein” anyway and what did she know about greenhouses? Nothing!

Gertrude Stein, if working with me during the summer of 1990: “A rose is a rose is a rape of my nose.”

Sure, in my first hour of hard labor I thought “Wow, it’s so pretty in here and it smells so awesome!” By lunch it was “Roses are the stupidest woody perennial in the world and they smell like a pile of decomposing rats!”

Today, after putting so much thought into this matter, I have decided to sue Illinois Roses Ltd. for stealing my ability to enjoy the rose flower. Forget that it was over twenty years ago, that every sliver of glass is now gone, that Illinois Roses Ltd. is no more. The crime on my nose is too large to ignore for even one more decade.

Before that summer I enjoyed–no, I really, really loved–sticking my schnoz into the midst of soft rose petals and inhaling with all my sniffing strength, occasionally ingesting a petal or two. What I did NOT do was duct tape a dozen roses to my face and wear them around all day. I took one good sniff and moved on, like any sane person would.

Sadly, I can’t even surprise my wife with a fistful of daisies because it reminds me of how much I hate roses. So you see, the damage is widespread and very . . . damaging. And I’m going to do something about it.

But first I’m going to listen to that one-thorned Poison song because it really is a nice tune.

It’s Thanksgiving and I am in HELL

23 Nov

I am in hell.

I’m trapped in a rolling 110 cubic feet of space with one other human for three hours in a span of eight. Other human is in the driver’s seat. Human driver declares: DRIVER MUST BE COMFORTABLE.

Between us, available to human driver ONLY: on/off radio with volume adjustment knob, on/off interior “climate control” with temperature adjustment knob.

I have no headphones. No battery powered fan. No ice cubes. No gun. No pills.

Exterior atmospheric conditions: 55°F. Sunny.

I notice temperature of cramped interior space is comfortable 70°F. Human driver twists temperature knob to Red Zone. I send sideways glance to human driver. Interior temperature climbs to 85°F within minutes. I take my thin hooded sweatshirt off. I sense moisture on my upper lip. The hair under my arms scream and wet themselves. My temples moisten. I become irritable. I take my t-shirt off. My bare chest glistens. I think about the pros and cons of taking my pants off. With eyes and mind, I eject human driver.

Simultaneous to heat punishment campaign, human driver turns radio volume to uncomfortably loud level. The sound waves bounce from the glass, shoot all around and assault my ear drums non-stop. I turn the volume down to 6. Human driver turns it up to 9. I turn to 6. Human turns to 8. I give up. I think about ear plugs. I think about gun. Helpless, sad. I look at watch six times in ninety seconds.

Simultaneous to heat and sound punishment campaigns, human driver introduces Mind-Fu*! campaign: Human driver switches radio station 400 times  in three hours. I think about movies: passenger jumps from moving car, survives without a scratch. I stare at door handle.

Station change. Station change. Station change. Two seconds of a song I like. Station change. What the F*!*! Station change. Bon Jovi. Thanksgiving can bite me. Human driver singing. Just kill me. Station change. Station change. Journey. Human driver singing. Two seconds of a song I think we both like. Station change. What the fu*!! Unidentified song from 1963. Human driver singing. Station change. Two seconds of a song I like. Station change. Two seconds of another song I like. Station change. Bon Jovi. Human driver singing. I wonder if there’s something pointy in the glove box? Station change. Unidentified song from 1974. Human driver singing. Unidentified song from 1978. Human driver singing. Prison can’t be THAT bad.

Sweat in eyes, headache emerging, desperation setting in, I weep quietly with head on cool glass. I notice brainless cows covered with flies and filth. Feel jealous.

I am in hell.