Free Advice Saturdays (One Day Early)

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Why I Love Summer

I should have posted this blog last week, when it was in the 70's. WTF is up with this weather? It is supposed to get in the low 20's every night for the rest of the week. And highs in the low to mid 40's. Screw that!! I am going back to the Tropics!!

OK, I guess I am staying right here in Iowa, but I wish I was off to the beach somewhere warm 12 months of the year. I have been thinking a lot about summer lately. I love summer. "Why??" You ask. Let me tell you:

I can wear flip-flops, shorts, and a tank top all the time.
I don't have to put on layers of clothing then take them off, then put them back on again, then…you get the point.
THONGS!!!
Driving with the windows rolled down and the music pumped up.
Anything involving water (Lakes, swimming pools, hot tubs, rivers, etc.)
Women laying out at the park catching some rays.
Did I already mention THONGS!!
Going for an evening jog.
Drinking a beer while sitting on the back porch and grilling up some ribs
Drinking a beer while at the lake
Drinking a beer while watching a baseball game
Drinking a beer while watching girls in THONGS!!
Women wearing cut off tops and daisy dukes (added bonus if they have a belly button ring and/or a tattoo in the small of their back.)
Bikinis
No classes and students to deal with for a couple of months.
My annual summer trip (past destinations have included Mexico, Honduras, Dominican Republic, Australia, Fiji, and Colombia)
The State Fair
I also love all those little county fairs and city festivals that they have. Some of those are a blast.
Being able to sleep in
Ice cream, chocolate sauce, ice cubes and a hottie.
These are just 20 things. I could probably go on and on. Things like Thongs on the Beach, Low cut jeans and Thongs, etc. But I will stop at 20. Please feel free to comment and add anything that you like about summer. Stay warm, summer is only a month or so away!!

Curly Hair or Big Boobs??

There's a secretary in my building with the biggest rack ever.

I mean, there's simply no other way to put it. Hindenburg-huge. Preposterously gargantuan. Incapable of being restrained by the strongest of sports bras or tightly-knit sweaters.

And everyone knows this. Her boss knows it. Her coworkers. Every that comes into the building knows "Sarah with the boobs." Christ, the vending machine that spits out our coffee and candy bars knows it.

Folks, her boobs are fucking huge.

So last Thursday, myself and Sarah and her boobs and a few other coworkers find ourselves at the local "TGIFridays" for that most gut-wrenching of office niceties, the birthday lunch. And one of the girls is showing off her new tinted contacts, and she's apparently quite happy because she'd rather men focus on her eyes than what she deemed her "beak-like nose." And Sarah chimes in that she's quite proud of her own deep blue eyes, because, and I quote, "they're the first things guys notice about me."

Not on this planet, baby. Not in this lifetime.

But it did get me thinking. Are we fooling ourselves with what we truly think are our best features? I recall a former girlfriend who had a model-quality arse [how I let that one slip away... it is still a sore subject to this day], but was convinced her impossibly curly blonde hair was what drew myself and countless other guys in.

Hell, I even fool myself. Countless hours in the gym have convinced me that my arms and chest are what keep the ladies coming. But if you ask the ladies, they'll tell you that it's really the fact that I always pick up the bar tab.

The Look

Today, I had to go to downtown Des Moines. First, I hate going down there right around rush hour. All that damn construction coupled with the partially ice covered roads this morning turned a 15 minute trip into a 45 minute trip.

So I get downtown, and all the garages are full. I am going to 801 Grand building (that super tall one). I end up parking near the Federal Building, about 6 blocks away. This will only add to my tardiness!! At least we have a ton of skywalks. I finally get to the building and go up to meet with some people about a presentation I am to do this afternoon. We sit there and talk a few minutes, they give me some info, then they add “You do know that you are presenting before lunch, right?”

I answer “No, but thanks for telling me!”

So I get out of there and take the elevator down 20 some odd stories to the lobby. I am thinking about this damn presentation and what the Hell I am going to say. I thought I would have all morning and lunch to work on it, but now I am screwed.

Although there was another person on the elevator, I took advantage of the general solitude to consider what I was going to speak about and how I would approach the presentation. Mid-thought, probably around the 15th floor, the over 40 "I am a secretary but want people to think I am an executive" bitch decided she would try to strike up a conversation. I don't remember exactly what she said, but it was some bullshit along the lines of "How's it going?" and "Looks like you are busy". Yeah, I’m frickin busy as Hell, bitch. I just got informed I have a major presentation at 11 AM, a presentation that I was going to do at 2:30 for finals, now shut the hell up.

Of course, I didn’t say this, just thought it. I smiled and nodded my head.

Why is it that random people insist on talking to you when stuck in a one-on-one situation? Just because you can't 'maintain' during an awkward silence doesn't mean the rest of the world needs to be hassled with your bullshit. Some of us take advantage of our alone time by contemplating certain issues in life. Leave me the fuck alone...if I make eye contact with you and smile, then I'll talk to you.

I have a default expression on my face that I use when I think someone is a fucking retard. It's hard to describe, but my wife knows it well since she sees the look just about every time we have to deal with the general public. We now refer to it as "The Look".

Sorry, I just had to vent. I am having a bad day!!!!

Troublesome Tiddies

Here is another blog I had posted on my old website. I am going through some of the old stuff I had posted way back when. I will keep mixing in some of the old classic posts with some of my new ones.

I am the man. And it’s damn good to be the man. Saturday afternoon we took our daughter, Victoria, to the mall to play in the kid’s area. I sent the wife away, told her to go buy some decent clothes for god’s sake, and started scoping the honeys. Oh yes, daddy found him a redhead. Remember, we can look, but not touch. No harm in that. The ladies do it to us all the time, right?

I spotted her sitting a quarter way around the encircled area. I knew better than to make eye contact but she was apparently nippy and I couldn’t help myself. Was she even wearing a bra?? My God!! That’s when I glanced a few inches higher and realized she was staring back.

Busted.

Hate when that happens. Why can’t women wear padded bras? It’s all their fault. Had little miss Strawberry Shortcake over there been a responsible human being she would have thought ahead and padded those sons of bitches and this shit would have never happened. It’s not my-

Oh, shit.

Dude, she’s coming over.

No fuck.

Run, man, run!

What about Vica?

She’s cute. She’ll find a ride. Get your ass up and go!

“Hi. Mind if I sit down?”

“Not at all. Have a seat.”

You’re fucked now.

Go to hell.

“I’m Rachel.”

I shook her hand, but all I could think about was what I was going to tell my wife when she came back. I mean I have looked and flirted with a lot of ladies while married, but I rarely ever talk to any. “Eric. Nice to meet you.”

“Here with your daughter?”

She flipped her hair and smiled sweetly and nearly poked my eye out with those hypothermic nipples I was trying too fucking hard not to be caught looking at.

“Yes, I am. I wanted to take her out and have some fun. With this rain, she hasn’t been able to do anything”

There you go. Endear yourself to her.

“That is so sweet!”

Now tell her it was your wife’s idea.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Your pregnant wife. (My wife was 7 months pregnant with our son)

“Sweet.”

Sweet jackass. Bail, dude. Before she comes back and you never get laid again till death do you part.

For the next 15 minutes I sat and half listened as my gaze shifted from Vica, the direction I last saw wifey, and Strawberry Shortcake’s diamond cutters, which seemed to be getting larger by the minute.

In fact, I was convinced I could see them becoming more and more defined the longer I stared. Jesus Christ, is it 27 degrees in here? Those can’t be real. Do they make nipple implants? And then she said to me, “Even gold does it. Know what I mean?”

Uh oh.

LOLOLOLOLOL!

Shut the fuck up. What in the hell is she talking about? “Um, no, I guess I don’t.”

Smooth.

Not bad, huh?

“See look.” She lifted her hair and turned her back to me so I could see the back of her neck. Umm. Hmm. “Do you see the rash?”

“Oh! Yes. Right there. Yes, ma’am. Thanks.” What the fuck?

She turned around and pulled the neckline of her shirt down to show me the top of her holyshit very creamy, smooth globes which I did not notice one damn bit where the fuck is my wife it’s about to pop out oh my god here comes Vica lady please put that thing away before you get us both shot up in here when the extremely pregnant brunette comes back and finds you oh jesus is that an areola?

“Everywhere my necklace touched I got this rash. See, right here?”

She’s gonna eat you alive. You know she’s nearby.

“That’s a damn shame. Maybe you should try sterling silver.”

Another painful minute or two passed before she grabbed for her purse and handed me a business card. I can’t even remember what she said when she handed it to me. All I knew is she and her troublesome tits could not leave fast enough.

But I saved the card. I never called her, but I showed it to my friends just in case they, too, might have forgotten I’m the man.

Invisible to Teenagers

As I was filling my gas tank this morning at Casey’s and I glanced up and noticed a credit card sitting on top of the machine. It was a platinum card for Bank of America. Ah, mamacita, a debit card. As per the little photo in the upper left corner, a brunette with a cute smile and just old enough (She looked 19 or 20) so I wouldn’t get my ass thrown in jail if she wanted to give me a personal reward for finding it, left her card behind for all to share in the wealth. Bless her generous, stupid heart.

What teenager has a platinum card? I don’t have a platinum card. And if I did I’d damn sure not leave it sitting ON TOP OF THE FUCKING PAY AT THE PUMP! Especially if it was Daddy’s checking account. But then, that’s just me and I’m fucked up like that.

I topped off my tank, to hell with those cutesy little stickers that warn not to or else goblins will eat my soul, and tossed the abandoned credit card onto my front seat. Now maybe the right thing to do was to bring it inside, but who’s to say the owner went inside or would know to come back for it at this location? And who’s to say the remarkably sharp clerk behind the counter inside with a mouthful of broken teeth in a lovely shade of moss would make an effort to return the card to its owner, let alone keep it safe? Honestly, I felt like a thief, but hoped nobody would find out until I’d had time to locate the owner and prove my intent. Worst case, if she was nowhere to be found I’d cut it up and trash it and she’ll never have to experience fraudulent charges whether she realizes it or not.

Fortunately for both of us, her name was Meghan Thingamabobber. Not really, Duh!!. But unique in a similar way. I got to work and hopped online. It took me about 2 minutes to find someone by the last name of Thingamabobber in my zip code. Jackpot!!! I only found 1 with that name. Ironically, his name was Eric. Eric Thingamabobber. Now was Eric Daddy or Husband??

I wrote the number down on a dirty Starbucks napkin I almost used to pick my nose with earlier in the morning. Went with the sleeve of my jacket instead. Good job. I dialed the number and got this:

Her: Hello?
Me: I’m calling for Meghan Thingamabobber
Her: Yeah…?
Me: …is this Meghan?
Her: Yeah.
(Rude little shit). Me: I have your Bank of America card.
Her: Huh?
Me: You left it at the Casey’s. I found it this morning.
Her: I need that.

You’re welcome, you ungrateful little brat.

Anyway, she gave me her address and I immediately understood how she could leave her credit card at the gas station. What woman in her right mind would give a complete stranger her address. For all she knew, I could have been a deranged ax-murderer or a serial rapist.

When I drove to her house some time later, I immediately figured out Eric was her daddy. No way she was even 18. She answered the door wearing a tight, red tank top that made me want to do naughty things with her not-quite-legal appendages which strained against the cotton. Maybe in a few more months when the stiff jail time falls from her plate of goodies to savor I’ll come back and swipe my own debit card between the boobies and see what it buys me. Try as I might, I was unable to maintain full eye contact when I handed her the debit card.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir? Ah, hell. There went that fantasy.

Only the Crazies Live Anywhere Else

There he goes again, that fucking redneck. Always bragging about Texas, like any of us give a damn. And if I had anything else at all to do right now I'd move the fuck on. Lucky for him I'm almost as big a loser as he is.

Beaumont to El Paso: 742 miles

Beaumont to Chicago: 770 miles

El Paso is closer to California than to Dallas

World's first rodeo was in Pecos... July 4, 1883.

The Flagship Hotel in Galveston is the only hotel in North America built over water.

The Heisman Trophy was named after John William Heisman who was the first full time coach for Rice University in Houston.

Brazoria County has more species of birds than any other area in North America.

Aransas Wildlife Refuge is the winter home of North America's only remaining flock of whooping cranes.

Jalapeno jelly originated in Lake Jackson in 1978.

The worst natural disaster in U.S. history was in 1900 caused by a hurricane in which over 8000 lives were lost on Galveston Island.

The first word spoken from the moon, July 20, 1969, was "Houston."

King Ranch is larger than Rhode Island.

Tropical Storm Claudette brought a US. rainfall record of 43" in 24 hours in and around Alvin in July 1979.

Texas is the only state to enter the U.S. by TREATY, instead of by annexation. (This allows the Texas flag to fly at the same height as the US flag.)

A Live Oak tree near Fulton is estimated to be 1500 years old.

Dr Pepper was invented in Waco in 1885 and there is no period after Dr in Dr Pepper.

Texas has had six capital cities:

1. Washington-on-the-Brazos
2. Harrisburg
3. Galveston
4. Velasco
5. West Columbia
6. Austin

The Capitol Dome in Austin is the only dome in the U.S which is taller than the Capitol Building in Washington D.C. (by 7 feet).

The name Texas comes from the Hasini Indian word "tejas" meaning friends.

Tejas is not Spanish for Texas.

The State animal is the Armadillo. (An interesting bit of trivia about the armadillo is that it always has four babies. It has one egg which splits into four and it either has four males or four females. Fuck you, I thought it was interesting anyway.)

The first domed stadium in the U.S. was the Astrodome in Houston.

The University of Texas are the defending NCAA Football Champions.

Good News!!! I will be around for a long time

I was reading Men's Health online (Why? I still have no idea!!!) There was an article about living longer and they referred to the November 2005 issue of Men's Health. According to them: "Researchers discovered that men who ejaculated frequently between the ages of 20 and 50 were at markedly lower risk of developing prostate cancer. [Also,] Men in their 20s who ejaculated at least five times a week were one-third less likely to develop aggressive prostate cancer during their mature years."

Whew!! No prostrate cancer for me. I guess I may have a shot to live to at least 120 years old!!! I just hope I am having sex into my 100's. They way things are going now, there will be some super viagra around by that time!!!

Hot Girls and Dorky Guys

Is it just me, or is the dorky-guys-with-cute-chicks ratio officially off the charts? It started out in the imaginary world of TV, where balding, beer-bellied dolts like Jim Belushi, the King of Queens guy, and some guy from some other show could land aging but still quite hot women like Courtney Thorne-Smith, Leah Remini (Although she has gained a little weight, she is still cute) and Jami Gertz. Now it seems to have spilled out into real life, where I am constantly amazed at how many dorks and near-gimps have hooked up with women who wouldn't give them the time of day in high school.

Last week, I saw one of the hottest girls that I went to high school with. She was a cheerleader, smart, witty, athletic, and damn good lookin. She was with her husband. DAMN!!! He was the dorkiest guy I had ever seen. I mean he was a pure nerd. Skinny, glasses, curly hair. I swear he was Napoleon Dynamites older, darker haired brother!!!!! I would have expected her to marry a pro football player, or a handsome doctor, or something like that. This guy didnt even have a mega high profile job. He was a frickin school teacher, just like me!!!!! Unbelievable!!!!!!

I guess everyone has a chance.

Public Hand-Ass Affection (Please Make it Stop!!)

So the other day I'm strolling through Jordan Creek Mall when I get stuck behind this couple in their mid-40s. All is good except for two things: They're walking so slowly, they're practically standing still (and, as you all know, I am an on-the-go type of guy). Also, the guy has his hand secured snugly inside the back pocket of the woman's jeans.

Ass man that I am (see some of my previous posts), I have never understood the allure of the "let me walk around with my hand in the back pocket of my girl's jeans" maneuver. First of all, it's not comfortable. I love ass, but I also love comfort. And when I'm walking through a picturesque park, a windswept alley, or Jordan Creek Mall, it's all about comfort. If the hands are inserted into said pocket quickly, say during a spontaneous kiss or while pausing to whisper some sweet and sexy little smalltalk such as "You rock" or "Let's go dress up as pirates and fuck each other retarded," then I can understand... my hands are roaming your backside and sliding them into your pockets is acceptable, as long as it is only for a moment. But to walk for any great distance with a hand in someone's back pocket? Unacceptable.

As fate would have it, a few hours later at Valley West Mall, I see an even greater offense: A hookerish-chick in her early 20s walking with some thick-necked lug in a Gold's Gym sweatshirt who's simply gripping her ass as they amble along. No back pockets, hell not even a beltloop to slide a couple fingers through; just his beefy mitt on her rather bitchin' ass. I'm watching this madness asking myself, "What's the message here?" Is he that enamored of her backside that he has to get his feel on 24/7? Or, more likely, is it a not-so-subtle message to all us pencil-necks: "When I'm not pounding iron or quaffing protein shakes, I'm tapping THIS SPECTACULAR ASS! And YOU'RE NOT!"

Please people, let us use some common sense and relax on the public ass-grabbing. Besides, when a guy has his hand on some girls ass, that blocks my view!!!! Totally unfair!!!