Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting!!!

Today I was punched in the nose.  It was probably the hardest hit to the nose I’ve ever taken.  I didn’t bleed, but I’ve never been one to bleed from the nose anyway, so that’s not saying very much.  It hurts like fuck and it still pops when I wiggle it around.

So I was at work, building a wood chipper.  Bull and I were putting this thing called a belt guard on the chipper when it happened.  I was trying to maneuver my hands into a position that would support the weight of the belt guard, yet keep my fingers from being severed when we dropped it into place.  We had it all lined up and got ready to drop it.  I felt Bull start to let go and I did the same, pulling my hands from beneath the guard as fast as I could–making every effort to keep Thumbelina and her four friends as much of a quintet as possible.

Then *BAM!!!* I get hit, square in the schnoz.  The motherfucker sucker-punched me.  I was so intent on making sure my left hand would have all of its digits that it took me about four seconds after the attack landed to realize what had just come barreling at me with lightening speed.  But once those four seconds had passed I was hysterical with laughter.  Through the tightly clenched fist around my nose, of course.  Bull says, “What happened?  What’s wrong?  What’s so funny?”

“I just fucking punched myself in the nose.”

As the usual prankster/goof-off/joker in the shop, to say that laughter and jokes ensued for the remainder of the evening on my behalf would be an understatement.   I would expect nothing less than a pair of padded gloves and a safety briefing on not punching yourself in the face tomorrow morning.  I guess it’s my payback for sticking “Lubricate Daily” stickers on everyone’s back.

Can’t You Smell That Smell?

I had just left the local Wal-Mart (unfortunately the only thing open at midnight that sells both beer and cigarettes.) and was heading up Hwy-74 back to the house, gently patting the case of Budweiser Select (again, unfortunate. I’d much rather have a lager, but I’m on a budget here.) when a most foul odor pierced my nostrils with overpowering vigor. “Skunk,” I muttered to myself. I drove along half expecting to see a monochromatic corpse bloated on the roadside. Somewhere between four and six miles down Hwy-74 yet another overpowering stench invaded my nasal cavity. Except, this time I was jamming out to For Those About to Rock, muttered “opossum”, and instead of scrunching my nose, I started laughing at myself. I laughed because of my ability to distinguish the source of the different… aromas. And I thought about a week or so earlier when someone said they smelled cow shit and I corrected that they were smelling chicken shit. And Jeff Foxworthy came to mind. You might be a redneck… If you can name any animal by the smell of its feces.

I guess what they say is true, you can take a man out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of a man.

What am I doing?

The most common things you can find me doing these days:

• Drinking Snapple Raspberry White Tea like its going out of style
• Playing the Sims 2 and Civilization 4 with my ubermicro
• Watching internet television religiously
• Mowing my neighbor’s lawn in a red bandanna, wild west robber style
• Catching up on LOST, Heroes, and Black Donnellys
• Eating sugar free Jello from the little plastic cups
• Wearing my three month old pair of contacts with bloodshot eyes
• Whoring up the DoD forums
• Making tacos
• Having at least two bowls of Rice Crispies with every meal (all 6 or 7 of them)
• Not Blogging and being generally lazy. Sorry. (no, I haven’t found my way to the library)

Get me off my slacker ass please

As most of my readers know, I used to be addicted to the online game World of Warcraft (WoW). It was pretty bad there for a while; logging some 120+ hours a week playing the stupid thing. I tried to quit a few times but could never stay away for more than a few weeks. When I finally kicked the habit a few months ago, I decided to start doing some other things to help keep my mind away from the game. Reading and writing was one of them–and that’s how this blog was born.

I really want to thank everyone who checks in with me daily, despite my lack of fresh content, and everyone who bitches me out for not posting something new–of which the later has been growing increasingly in the recent week. I want to apologize for being a steaming sack of lazy-shit too, ha-ha. Like I told my ‘coon-slaying WoW buddy over ventrilo last night: I’ve stopped writing because I’ve stopped reading. My last order from Amazon is on a three or four odd week delay, and I don’t have the money to go buy new books. So, what I need from you, my reader, is to suggest something for me to read. The cheaper (by cheap I mean free) the better.

I look forward to it. Gimme something good.

Am I going to lose my license?

This blog has a page I can visit to check all sorts of different stats; daily hits, incoming links, referrers, most read posts, and whatnot. There’s also–what has recently become my favorite–a search engine results section, which shows the search used if someone comes to my blog from a search engine. These are a few reasons why it’s my favorite section:

• probation officer excuses in texas
• shit curb alignment
• sex carton picture
• sex in the bedroom
• sex positions driving
• list of excuses for my probation officer
• bad sex positions
• air force questions going to jail
• scool sex [sic]
• cop questions typical can i see your lic…

Obviously there are a ton of sex searches. I mean, we’re a race of sex-fiends for crying out loud. I just think the obscurity of some of them (“sex singe”, “bad sex positions”,”hallway+sex”) is funny. But the thing that cracks me up the most are people who don’t know how to use a search engine–in the case that you’re one of them, I laugh at you. You use keywords. “hallway+sex” is actually a good example. But you’ll be surprised–at least, if you know how to do it–at how many people just type a question into a search. Here’s a few hits I’ve gotten recently:

• am i going to lose my licence for speeding? (well it helps if you can spell license, ha-ha)
• am i going to lose my license
• how old do you have to be to sit in the… (gets cut off. ‘front seat’ maybe?)
• i want a real picture of a sex position

They just crack me up sometimes, so I thought I’d share them with everyone. I’m sure there will be plenty more to come now that I’ve put the words ‘obscure’ and ’sex’ in the same sentence. By the way, does anyone know what the fuck a ’sex singe’ is? Ha-ha, sounds painful.

Status Report

Sorry guys, I’m just not really in the humor mindset lately. I’ve been reading every ounce of fiction I can get my greedy little eyes on; most of it with a dark, science, or supernatural element. I’ve got my heart set on writing some flash fiction and shorts, and possibly a novella when I’ve worked out the details.

Also, nothing has really happened in my life lately, so I have nothing to tell. I appreciate the traffic and the interest, though, and I hope you guys bear with me through my dry spell.

I promise that when something happens, aside from my normal routine–sitting on my ass, eating, sleeping all day, and reading–I’ll write about it as soon as I get the chance. Until then, be careful who you call a ‘nappy headed ho’.

Who you gonna call?

I’m thoroughly convinced ghosts exist, and that I have seen them; different occasions in different locations, sometimes recurring. One such recurring location was in the house where I grew up. It was built near an old Native American burial ground. My friend, Andrew, used to find an arrowhead in the horse pasture behind our house every time he came over.

Our home was a small rectangular basement house. The rooms on the back side of the house didn’t have windows, as they were completely underground. This was great for sleeping; with the lights off and the door shut, they were completely pitch-black. My parent’s room was on the front of the house, and had one large double window. There was a hallway with two doors on each side. The first door on the front side of the house was the bathroom, and the second was my parent’s room. The first door on the back side of the house was my room, and the second was my stepsister’s room.

From time to time when I looked down the hallway, I would see something moving from my stepsister’s room to my parent’s, or vice versa. You might think it was just the dark hallway and my imagination playing tricks on me. I know that’s what I chalked it up to for the first dozen-or-so times I saw it. But I started to notice that I could usually only see them when there was enough light coming through my parent’s window to illuminate the hallway. I saw them more and more, sometimes from closer positions too. I won’t lie; they scared the ever-loving-shit out of me. For the most part, they were colorless, like a shade of grey. But not grey. I don’t recall them being translucent. They were usually out of focus, blurry. They were kind of short in stature, and when they were clear enough to make out, they looked as though they were a person walking somewhat hunched over. Sometimes they were clear enough to make out; it seemed their clarity grew exponentially the closer I was, but they were never close enough to make out intricate details. Mostly it was just one wispy image sneaking into either room, but sometimes it was two, and on rarer occasion there might be three. They never turned to look at me, or even seemed to be aware of my presence. I was sure-as-hell aware of theirs though, and sometimes I would break into stride and run through the hallway to my room, where I would shut the door and dive across the room into my bed. I saw them less often once I moved into my stepsister’s larger room at the end of the hall, but I still saw them. They continued to appear, ever sporadically, until my last day living in that house.

On a few occasions, I did awaken in the middle of the night to find someone in my room. I had poor vision and wore coke-bottle glasses every day past the third grade, so everything in my room, without my glasses, was blurry. Once I awoke to find my mother standing beside my bed, leaning over me, watching me sleep. The next morning, my mother was no longer wearing a white nightgown, and I asked her why she changed. She said she didn’t own a white nightgown. I asked her why she was standing in my room the night before, and she swore she had never set foot in my room that night. I was petrified. My mother wasn’t one to lie about things like that to scare me. I started sleeping with my bedspread pulled over my face, and to this day I still sleep that way if the temperature permits.

When I was in my early teens I spent every other weekend at my stepmother’s house. I had a stepsister there that was only two months younger than me, so we got along pretty well. It was in a really small town, one of those one-stoplighters, and there wasn’t really anything to do. So we rode out bikes around town a lot. There was an old broken down house on the opposite side of our block. And elderly couple had died there, first the husband, followed about a year later by the widow. We used to see someone staring out of the window to one of the rooms upstairs. I saw her, my stepsister saw her, and if we happened to have a friend with us, they would sometimes see her as well. We we’re all pretty convinced that it was just something sitting in the room, something on the wall, or the glass, or some drapes. So one day we all got the bright idea to go check it out for ourselves; a little innocent breaking and entering. When we found an unlocked window on the side of the house, I was boosted inside and went to open the front door and let the others inside. We all got pretty nervous because the entire house had been cleaned out. We found the room, and the window, and both were empty; nothing to reflect the light, nothing to show through the window. We all got pretty freaked out and bolted out the front door, never to look back. We never rode out bikes around that corner again; all certain the old widow would be pissed that we had been in her house.

There were some other occasions, but the details all seem to escape me right now. I never believe something until I see it, and sometimes I don’t believe it even if I do see it. Yet I still believe what I saw, and I’ve always believed in ghosts. I don’t know what else they could have been, so until I’m proven otherwise, ghosts are real.

…in the end.

I don’t recall the specifics, but I know I had been at a party. I’m pretty sure it was a kegger hosted by this Staff Sergeant that looked like Jessica Alba, but I can’t be entirely certain. I am, however, entirely certain that I was drunk off my ass that night. So was my lady friend, we’ll call her Ashley. Ashley was an attractive, fit, and somewhat sexually uninhibited young woman. Our sex life was awesome, we tried new things, we were awesome at the old, we did it often, and we did it everywhere; however, she was adamantly against the notion of anal sex.

Now I’m not an anal fiend or anything like that, but I am defiant. The moment she set the rule of “no rear entry” it became my primary objective. I always want what I can’t have. Time passed by and I slowly wore her down. Eventually, she tried it and, to her surprise, she actually enjoyed it. I had taken what I wasn’t allowed and was rather content with myself. I didn’t feel the need to press the matter any longer, so when she brought up the next day that she was rather sore, I agreed that we would only do it on the rarest of occasions.

A few months went by and we found ourselves at the party I was taking about. We were both incredibly drunk, and incredibly horny. No bathroom quickie or cramped closet romp would allow us the pleasures our hearts genitals desired. We made an exit, stage left, and cruised home. Our pace was slow and steady as we navigated the vacant, back road, shortcuts. As soon as we arrived at my house we started stripping, and had initiated the act a little early, in the form of your traditional stand and carry position in the carport. We moved into the house, stumbled through the kitchen, dodged the bar, and bounced off the hallway walls until reaching my bedroom door. “Hey dude, how’s it-oh fuck!” my roommate, Tom, saw my exposed ass as I fumbled with the door to my bedroom.

We ultimately ended up in my bedroom, on my bed, doing-the-do in the more conventional sense. Both of us are still extremely inebriated when I get the idea of trying anal again. I don’t recall exactly how I brought it up, but in my drunken state I’m sure it wasn’t far from, “Hey, babe, let me put it in your pooper.” Regardless, it worked, and she agreed. So I scurry over to the end of the bed, and she starts going through my nightstand looking for the K.Y. Jelly. She finds it and, somehow, between my penis and her ass, uses over half of the bottle. So were all lubed up, and in our positions, and I’m readying the approach. Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Houston, we have lift-uh oh, there seems to be a slight problem. Despite the gallon of oily lubricant that my penis is swimming in, entry is posing rather challenging. I’m pushing, but it’s not going in. I’m trying to be careful, because it is a rather sensitive area, and I’m pushing, and pushing. Finally! I start to penetrate, but the momentum and the lubricant play their evil deeds and, instead of taking it slow and easy, my entire penis slams into her pooper. I mean entire. Balls deep. I know immediately that the situation is ugly, and I don’t move. I’m just standing there, slack-jawed.

Aaaaaaaaaaaannnngggghhhh!!!!!!! She screams.
I scream.
Tom screams.

She screams again.
I scream again.
Tom screams again.

Tom comes rushing to the door, “Are you guys okay?!”
“Yeah, dude. Don’t come in!”
“Are you sure? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing dude, just don’t fucking come in.” I’m freaking out; trying to make sure my drunken Ashley isn’t bleeding all over my bed. She’s curled up, fetal position, bawling uncontrollably. I don’t really remember much after that. I think I passed out. All I know is that was the last time I had anal sex.

The great mysteries of life

I grew up in a particularly rural area, and on a horse farm to boot. For a short phase of my life, I aspired of being a cowboy. I would grow up to wear boots, herd cattle, tip my hat, and be an authentic Marlboro Man. It wasn’t long before the phase had passed, and my love for the simple life had devolved into a dark, wretched loathing.

I traded my cowboy hat for a necktie, my boots for a briefcase, and cattle for computers. I dreamt of climbing a corporate ladder somewhere. I had scene the movies. I knew what a cubical was. I wanted one. I wanted to work in my little cubicle where I could sneak and play Tetris when my boss wasn’t making his rounds. I became fascinated with it.

The thing was… there were no skyscrapers full of cubicles in my hometown. I didn’t know of a single soul who worked in one, or who had their own cubicle. This was a minor obstacle, but nothing large enough to deter me from my dream. My imagination is pretty lucid, at times, and somewhere between my wanting to know what people did in their cubicles, and my not being able to find out, I made up my own facts.

I finished my adolescence knowing that people sat in their cubicles, typed things into their computers, and printed things out. They put these printings into manila envelopes, folders, and file cabinets. Sometimes they would have to take the printings to other locations, so they carried briefcases. Their briefcases contained manila envelopes, calculators, business cards, and pens. Their bosses would sit behind their computers and read reports on how many papers their employees had printed and filed that week, and when you didn’t print or file enough, your boss would yell at you.

This is my perception, and I maintain it to this day. I still have no clue as to why people carry briefcases, and what could possibly be so important that it couldn’t just be left in the office. I guess it’s just one of the great mysteries of life.

*yeah, I know this blows, but I’m sleepy and I’ve rewritten the ending like 6 times. maybe I’ll remember where I was going with this crap and edit it tomorrow*

What treasures lie beneath?

When I was in Kuwait there was a big job site, a $2.6 million construction project. It was a massive place, there we’re a ton of Third Country Nationals (euphemism for broke-ass laborers who make a dollar a day, just to send it to their family back home), and they worked extended hours, so we had to have a ton of escorts to secure the area. We we’re there all the time.

For the first several weeks, one of the spots we routinely set up shop was on a large piece of metal that protruded from the ground. It was in a good spot; a back corner of the fence-line, away from the construction, in a good angle to see a lot of what was going on. Day in and day out we sat on this big piece of metal and watched these TCNs do their thing. They moved some bricks, took a siesta, bitched each other out, moved some more bricks, and the cycle continued. Sometimes the boredom got the best of us. We’d dance around if someone had a radio, or we’d kick stuff, or draw in the sand. Whatever the entertainment of the hour may be. Once we played a makeshift game of horseshoes; we threw rocks, instead of horseshoes, at the big piece of metal, instead of a pole. A few times we banged on it with sticks and rebar, to make a little percussion à la the Stomp musical group. It could get pretty brutal just sitting there in the sand for hours on end, day in and day out.

Time passed, we worked other sites, banged on other pieces of metal, and made up new games with rocks and sand. About two months after we had started working on that particular construction project, one of our guys who had never worked the site before notices the big piece of metal. We saw it and said, “There we go, a nice place to sit.” He saw it and said, “What the hell is that thing?” So he radioed it in. He asked around if anyone knew what the big chunk of metal was, and nobody could answer him. So they followed procedure and sent some Explosives Ordinance Disposal (EOD) guys down to check it out.

Sure enough, the damn thing was a huge fucking bomb that had never gone off. It was just sitting there, ready to blow up. It was still live too; made a humongous explosion when EOD took it out. Needless to say everyone was pretty shocked… Wait, you mean that thing I was beating with a piece of rebar was a bomb? Yup. Like, the kind that blow up? Yeah. You mean that piece of metal that we jumped up and down on all of last week was a bomb? Yup. A real bomb? Yeah, a real bomb.

Son of a bitch. I don’t think any other group of 50-or-so people have ever been so simultaneously relieved to still have their legs as we all were that day. This moral should be pretty easy to figure out: Don’t beat on strange pieces of metal. They might blow you up.