Own Goal

Dear David Beckham's junk,

Go away! Great Jerry Lee Lewis his package is everywhere. As a frequent inter web tube user I don't like going from ESPN (David Beckham junk of the month calender). To CNN (Fed raises interest rate on David Beckhams's abs).

I am terrified to go to bed, what if my mom has replaced my sheets with David Beckhams?

Sandwich Frisbee

JAson looks up to the sky and just shakes head. "Ah come on now, what the fuck?" I am asking no one in particular "what the fuck" is going on. I just like the sound of the word and the day has been so blatantly stacked against me "What the fuck?" is the only sentence that adequately describes what is going on.

If the word "Fuck" was replaced by the word "Hippo" things would be funnier.

I had a bad show. This happens more often than not. I should have that checked out. So I decide I am going to take a cab home. Get home fast plant myself in front of a box of cheezits and video game away the nights worries.

Problem: There is a huge line of tourists waiting for cabs.

OK. I will just take the bus. Pop in my Iignore head phones and pretend I am Huey Lewis.

Problem: I just miss the bus and the happiness that is the F-line won't be back till I grow a Brawny man beard.

Finesicle, I will walk. 30 minute walk, 30 minutes of a clear head, I can still pretend I am Huey Lewis.

Problem: Wooooo!! Splat!!! A rouge Honda Civic that I am sure smelled of Hugo Boss and copious amounts of hair gel whizzes past and out the window comes a hurled sandwich.

"Ah come on now, What the fuck!" Who throws a sandwich?! At least hit me with a snake filled with some batteries. Shakes fist at no one in particular.

Hippo this day.

P-Day

MY mom wanted a gay son. That is the only rational reason I could and still can come up with for this one.

I was listening to sports talk radio the other day at my masculine job work where I build Chevy's out of old tank parts while listening to Bruce Springsteen and stabbing Vampires. When the host began to talk about his football sheets as a child. He described how he was so protective of his sheets even at a young age and would get into fights with his brothers if they dare to try and take them.

Then I remembered. Then I had a brain aneurysm-

I don't have a kid. . . that I know of. But if I did I would use THE GOOGLE to figure out how to potty train him. Or I would hope that by 1.5 years old he could use THE GOOGLE to teach himself. This is what he would find:

"My personal recommendation is to first teach your son to potty training sitting down. Once he completely potty trained for both and is accident free, then I would recommend training him to pee standing up like his father and brothers!!" Weeeeeeeeee!!!

My mom did not have THE GOOGLE. She had OLD MOUNTAIN DEVIL WITCH METHODS. Which is why I had Bambi Sheets.

Listening to my manly sports talk show shot the memory of my mom putting me to sleep with a tuck in, kiss on the forehead and a "Don't pee on Bambi's mom"

This was notNOT followed by "Gee the old girl had it hard enough what with being shot, she doesn't need you pissing all over her face." Oh no no noes!

"You don't want to get Bambi's mom dirty." Would anyone be surprised if I said I was in a onesie Culture Club jumper?