Wolsamnoraa's Blog

That soap just cleaned itself

There’s a little secret that God hasn’t told you about.  That’s right, you’re just s’posed to figure it out for yourself.  Soap, my friend, is a self cleaning miracle device.

You wash your hands; the soap stays clean.  You wash your face; the soap stays clean.  I washed my butt; your face and hands are clean.  It’s anti-bacterial by nature, the way your good lord intended.  Haven’t you heard “reeks to high Heaven”?  God smelled you and reevaluated the situation.  Boom!  Soap, hallelujah.

He didn’t stop there, however.  Ladies, have you ever had one of those not so fresh days?  I’m talking about ladies’ troubles right in and around the fourth week.  That’s right!  God smelled you, too.  He took a sniff and decided to build in the self cleansing feature you’re familiar with today.  Ta da!

The new and improved vagina is self cleaning and roomy enough to store an assortment of latex-covered, battery-operated machines.  Much better than the old model all covered in hair.  You know how many pieces of chewed gum I’ve lost in the tangles?  Several.  I should have my mouth washed with soap for talking like that.

Every once in a long while, the animosity you bare for your fellow earthlings falls by the wayside.  You learn to live and let live and even love and get head.  I am convinced the formula for such change heavily relies on one’s ability to share.

I recently acquired an animal pet.  Her name is Tippi Nunu but I call her Nu for short.  She is black and white and pees in the sink.  I really like her and the story of how we found her is amazing.  As much as I like this cat, my old cat, Tookie or Grandpa for short, hates her.  Or at least that’s how it’s seemed since I brought her home.

For the first two months, they have been fighting and mangling each other in only the way cats can; loudly and with the removal of fur.  The points of contention are usually related to food or territory or fiscal responsibility.  Tippi says, “My space” and Tookie says, “I’ll claw your eyeballs out!  Facebook, bitch!”  And a kitty quarrel ensues.

The other day I awoke to the frisky felines contending over the warm spot between my legs (the place where my sleep-farts live).  At first it seemed like they were actually sharing the spot until I realized a thousand small incisions covering my shins.  Apparently, I was a victim of circumstance in their battle royal.

Today I saw Tookie and Tippi in one of the special cat beds I bought for them.  This is a scene I’ve seen before and, like those times before, I feared there may be blood.  Something unusual happened, though.  Instead of fighting for the small island nation of Catbedonia, the cats were sharing.  In fact, Tookie, my old, large, white sour-puss was licking Tippi, the smaller, blacker cat.

I was astonished so I took a video on my phone.  It was short lived, however, when Tippi made a sudden move that spooked ol’ Tookus.  He went from licking to biting in a matter of milliseconds.  I assume Tookie has marinating agent in his saliva that enables his fangs to sink more easily into skin.  I took video of that as well.  Completely amazing.  Regardless of the circumstances, they are making huge strides in sharing and love.  See for yourself…

The calamity that ensued…

You can give the dog tacos if he does his trick

Part of the new diet that I started last week is to get my flabby, smelly self to the gym at least every once and a while.  While seemingly good, this strategy faces a mogul.  Herein lies the problem; at the heart of every diet there is a monster lurking waiting to rear its ugly head.  Since I have limited my work-outs to binge eating and seldom vomiting (great for your abs but not your self-esteem), it has been much more difficult to move around efficiently.

I liken it to one of those gym commercials on TV.  In the commercial, every body’s fit and looking good.  The price in the ad suggests you could afford a membership to the gym, and maybe that’s true.   However, since you lack any sort of physique (let alone a healthy one) and risk judgment from other members, you permanently fix yourself to the sofa.  You essentially decide that in order to fit in at the commercial’s gym, you’d first have to join a less reputable gym filled with ugly people that you feel comfortable around until you developed into a worthy specimen.  In other words, there’s a lot of work involved just to start the work that’s involved.  Clearly, not worth it.

And that’s me.  I decided that getting old, fat me up and off the couch is a work-out in itself.  It’s such a heavy burden to bear, in fact, that such work usually deserves a salty/sugary/fat laden snack or two, or three, or just gimme the whole box, dammit!

The cycle will continue until one day, I look out from the body of an enormous gastropod only to see that TLC is filming in my living room.  Yes, the TV that I ignored for so long will find me out once again, thus, showing me what a waste I’ve become.  I imagine that the producers of “House Whale” will try convincing me of some exotic and new gastric bypass surgery that, in the event it doesn’t kill me, will take me down a size or two, or three, or just gimme…

Unfortunately, after some initial excitement, I imagine the brochures that the producers show me to sell their fancy surgery are riddled with svelte recovering fat freaks.  I will again hold that I could only accept the exotic bypass procedure if first I incurred a smaller surgery at a less reputable clinic.  The producers will discuss the issue and ultimately reject my claim.  I will wither away into a fifteen hundred pound puddle of tears and nothing more.

No matter how hard I work-out, there is no way I will ever lose the ugly head.

This is no joke...he needs a smoke. It's part of his identity.

Life is a test of finding your niche.  Your self-worth is determined by the relationships that you create.  Phrases like “match made in Heaven” or “balance is best” come to mind.  After all, acceptance is human nature.  It’s as important to discover yourself  as it is to find people who value you for the person you claim to be.

These discoveries may include finding a mate that loves you exactly the same as you love it; eating the right diet that tastes good but doesn’t make you fat; smoking the right brand of cigarettes; landing the right job; watching just a little less TV than the American average and other things.   But these life long quests can lead to some not-so-good outcomes.  Mixing the desire to be accepted with self-satisfying behavior is absurdly difficult.

There is a major conflict that stands between these two endeavors.  If in the attempt to discover yourself you fail, then your record will be tarnished.  To find out what things you like, you may venture into territory that’s not suited to your interests.  In doing so, you discover that the activity which you are participating, is, in fact, deviant behavior.

Maybe you try tea in place of coffee or do a different type of work out at the gym or, perhaps you journeyed into the bi-sexual section of your Netflix account.  Now you’re being solicited movie titles like Harry, Dick and Sue and Boys on the Side.  Your wife logs into the account and boom; now you’re in therapy.

You didn’t find what you were looking for and, as a result of your curiosity, you get singled-out and mocked.

Unfortunately, because of the fear of judgment and exclusion you face by discovering yourself, you hesitate to ever step “outside the box”.  And so it happens.  You ultimately wave your God given right to be your own person and stick to the mainstream.  The perfect pair…you and everybody else.

I’ve been applying to jobs here and now just to appease some of my friends at the corporate office.  My attitude has been that I’ve got so much on my plate there’s no real reason to be looking for a job in any serious regard.  That all changed yesterday when I had an epiphany of sorts.  I don’t need to work, I want to work!  Although dickin’ around on the Interwebs is phenomenally entertaining and fun and keeps me busy most of the day, it just doesn’t pay a whole lot.  Yeah, blogging and jerking off at the computer is work for me, but it’s not enough.

Money Talks and also sucks

Money talks and walks and I was at a baseball game once and I saw the pitcher, a crisp five-dollar bill right up from the minors  miff a pitch; apparently money also balks.  Money isn’t the only reason I want to work but it doesn’t hurt.  Recently, I attended a Jefferson County workforce-center seminar that introduced me to the idea that working for a living isn’t all that bad.  ”It’s not?” I distastefully murmured.  It’s what the Communists call Utopia.  It’s what I call sweet salad dressing.  The delicious aftertaste to an otherwise bland heap of roughage.

Life is work.  It’s just that and if the work doesn’t pay, you need to move on.  So that’s what I’m proposing here.  I am moving on.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still be blogging my face off and pursuing my dreams of successful dreaming.  I will just be adding a paycheck to it…somehow.  I hear Craigslist is popular.

If you’ve got any ideas or know a guy who is looking for my type of talent (you know?  The 6′2″, handsome and well-groomed type of talent), then drop me a line.  I’ll see you on the other side.

Ever since high school, I’ve been hip to the health scene.  I’m familiar with the rules that insure a healthy life:  eating the right foods, exercising regularly and burning more calories than I ingest are crucial to successful living.

Since high school, however, I have avoided these rules like the plague.   Nothing turns my buttons like a fifteen thousand calorie day packed full of stuffing my fat face at a buffet or drinking my way through a suitcase of beer.  It pains me to think that these days of extravagant indulgence are over.  I have neglected my body too long.  As a result of my willie-nilly relationship with exercising and dieting, my heart hurts.

So, starting today, I have decided to adhere to a lifestyle change: a specific diet of no more than 2500 calories a day combined with regular exercise, lots of water and a daily vitamin.  I am tracking my calorie intake at www.my-calorie-counter.com.  Right now, I’m a flabby 221 pounds…I’d like to weigh less (somewhere around 185).  My BMI is somewhere between “ech” and “fatty”.  I’d like to maintain this plan for six months or until it becomes habitual.  I made a chart with my wife to help track progress and plan out meals.

I have a gym membership that has been collecting dust for months.  I will work out at least three times a week for at least 45 minutes per time.  I’m ready, I’m able and I’m willing.  Here we go!  It’s time to kick start this bitch!

There's a small sand castle under that man's hat

I’ve been out of a job for three months now. I could think of no better way to celebrate that fact than by setting off to the region of the world known as Mexico. My thought was that I could live it up in an all-inclusive resort on less money than it takes to fill up my gas tank (btw, I drive a bus).

However, Mexico’s third-world hospitality left a bad taste in my mouth. Mexicans were so nice even though Americans were so stupid and mean. Additionally, its tropical climate left my fair-skinned ass cheeks as chapped and chaffed as a cheap prostitute’s money hole.

What I thought was going to be a great deal turned into a great dump. The shams that have been put in place to make up for years of degradation by Americans give Mexicans a bad name. I soon realized that my presence in Mexico wasn’t doing anyone any good.

I don’t think that anybody should go to Mexico and I have no one to blame but all of you. It won’t get any better until people stay away and give Mexico time to recover from years of abuse from Western culture. Here, then, are ten reasons that people should stay out of Mexico:

10. “All-inclusive resort” is Spanish for “nothing’s included in the price except give us more money”

9. The watered down Tequila is 40% alcohol by ballroom

8. Tipping is unnecessary and mandatory

7. I was in a restaurant and ordered a steak that was cooked to medium weird

6. All of the good help has immigrated north

5. The Chinese food was not very good

4. The polluted and murky sea water is not safe for drowning in

3. Pesos look like and function as play money

2. The soiled Mexican scenery makes the Jersey Shore look like paradise

-and, finally-

1. There is no doubt about it…you will get sick

My one time great dorm mate and supposed tweaker, Dave W. Cissell , once posted on his Facebook that “Morality is temporary, wisdom is permanent…”

Notice the butterfly's unicorn horn

Short stack, short stack, coming up

There was a time when I was strictly opposed to the form of body art known as tattooing.  I forbade myself from ever permanently scarring my flesh with some meaningless tribal band or ill placed flower.  I was opposed, until I heard this story of a band of brothers and their quest for greatness; a story that I’m making mine.  This story gave me wisdom.

And, so it was.  I ventured into the vast expanse of the world and came back with a permanent scar.  It’s something to show just how committed to living life fully I really am.  Sunday:

My wife, Jessica, and I went to the tattoo parlor the other day and returned with ink.  We were assisted by Ben at Primitive Soul Tattoo in Lakewood, CO.

Nice place.  Clean, seemingly reputable.

We were joined by our good friend and snack raider, Tyler J.  Jessica didn’t want us to watch as she received her ‘too so Ty and I ran to get some pho.  It took an hour, but it was really good pho.  Pho 95.  The best, Jerry.  The best.  We were headed back when I received a call from Jessica.  ”It’s time,” she said.

When I arrived there were some kids standing outside the shop smoking.  One looked like a retard, another one slipped on some ice and nearly fell.  As I was walking in, I slipped in the same spot.  ”Now who looks like the retard?” their jeers suggested.

We went in and I got inked.  Squid style, son.  The image of a short stack of pancakes three high, forever ingrained in my skin and on my soul.  Maybe one day I’ll incorporate some mythical creature with a bowl of cereal for a body and bulls-eye eggs and bacon for a face hurdling over my pancakes.  The sky’s the limit!

Afterwards, we went to a liquor store to get some beer and I showed the Chinese lady my new tattoo and she was aghast.  Take that, lady!  You just got caked.  I’m living.  I’m full of wisdom and, now, beer.  Here’s a movie:

I was in college once and a professor told me to get off the grass.  Punderful!  He also told me never to use Wikipedia as a resource in collegiate academia.  ”Why?” you may ask.  ”Because,” he said, “it’s crap!”  I wondered about this.  I use Wikipedia to fact check everything that seems the littlest bit suspicious or forged.

During Obama’s historic presidential campaign, I was all over John McCain’s baloney like white on race rice.  My buddy told me that Wyoming is the smallest state in Union.  ”Bull fur!” I cried.  I Googled the funk out of that stink and low and behold, first on the search results, Wikipedia.  Wyoming has the smallest population of any state in the U.S.  It’s probably smaller than the population of  Guam,  I’m maybe betting.  They should call it “Why, oh, why would you live there, Ming?”  Or not.

It seems that Wikipedia’s fact backing power far exceeded the expectations of that darned professor.  But, being the intellectual smarty that I am, I decided to research further into his claim that Wikipedia is crap and that one shouldn’t use it to prove anything.  I have listed a few well-known facts I searched that returned some questionable results:

She's as shocked as I am

My 1st Inquiry: Define Boning.  Wikipedia’s Answer: The method a butcher uses to remove meat from bone.

What is this Tom Foolery?!  There’s not a mention of the real definition of boning which is to sexually penetrate a lady or Thai boy-girl.  In fact, the only relevant portion that matches my search was some sketchy mention of cutting into pork.  Outlandish!

My 2nd Inquiry: Jerry Seinfeld’s birthplace.  Wikipedia’s Answer: Jerry Seinfeld was born in Brooklyn, NY.

Fact:  Jerry Seinfeld was born amongst immortals high atop Mount Olympus and was cradled and cared for by the comedy gods Zeus and Jokusplese.

My 3rd Inquiry: What is the worth of a mint condition United States 1921 issue Peace Dollar?  Wikipedia’s Answer: $135.00.

Bogus, man!  The answer is one dollar.  Hence, why it’s called the Peace Dollar and not the Peace Hundo-and-Change.

I am shocked that my professor was right (I mean, he was only a PhD).  Wikipedia is an informational super traffic jam.  The only fact that you can ultimately prove with Wikipedia is that Wikipedia sucks…balls.  To my dismay, this explains why I failed all of my college papers.  I should have known better.  If only Wikipedia could have warned me…oh, wait.  Dammit!

If the New Year is going to cry the whole time, I don't want to participate.

At the beginning of every year, people decide to take a stab at making and sticking to resolutions.  Starting a project on January 1st is one of the most inane and arbitrarily timed strategies to accomplishing goals.   Most, if not all, resolutions are ridiculous and range anywhere from losing weight to selling more stuff on eBay.  While the intent of a resolution seems worthy, it’s not.  It’s dumb.  Here are 10 reasons I suggest no one makes resolutions:

10. Why start something now, when you can start next year?

9. Losing weight is pointless when you’re not even as fat as you’ll ever be.

8. You love smoking.  Why would you quit something you love?  Especially, when you’re only three cartons away from your very own Marlboro coffin?

7. Working out tends to be a lot of work.

6. Enjoying life more is going to be impossible with your hectic schedule.

5. Don’t cut up your credit cards; Obama said the only way out of a financial crisis is to spend more.

4. You’ll stop procrastinating this afternoon.

3. The Chinese New Year is still two months away.

2. You couldn’t possibly kill any more of your snide neighbors. You exceeded the state’s limit last year.

-and, finally-

1. Whatever your goal, you’ll never be as far along as if you’d started a year ago.

My last day as a camp counselor was pretty incredible.  Me and two others were responsible for the teenagers.  One day the teens were playing dodge ball on an outdoor basketball court when three kids came up to me.

Camp is fun!

“Something’s wrong with Roger,” Benny said.

Before I could ask what was the matter, I noticed that Roger’s eyes were red from crying.  Being the “attentive” guardian I am, I hadn’t even noticed that anything was wrong.  The kids asked if they could show me Roger’s ailment privately.  I was fearful because I was already in direct violation of my court ordered restraint to be unsupervised in the company of minors.  Regardless, Roger looked hurt and trusted me to help him.

I grabbed my first aid kit and followed the kids inside a nearby gymnasium.  Roger’s friends, Billy and Benny, pointed at his shirt.

“See how’s he’s been bleeding?” Billy asked as he pointed to Roger’s nipples.

Around Roger’s left nipple was a ring of blood.  It was as if the combination of an abrasive shirt pattern and the jostling of a half-marathon had chaffed Roger’s nipple raw.  But Roger, nor his friends, had ever participated in any such event.  The lack of Gushers brand fruit snacks and cheese laden nachos at track meets kept fat kids like Roger from doing that sort of thing.

From under the shirt, I noticed a small bump within the rim of blood.  The bump was too large to be a hardened nipple, and I became curious.  Billy and Benny gently lifted Roger’s shirt and tucked it behind his head.  Roger writhed with pain as they exposed Roger’s breast.   Protruding from the center of his bloodied areola was a thick, grey hair.  It was an odd sight given that it was the only hair on his prepubescent body.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“It’s some kind of hair, but it hurts to be touched,” Billy said.

“What do you kids want me to do?” I asked.

They looked confused and turned to each other as if they hadn’t thought this far ahead.  Assuming that a “responsible” adult like myself had any clue how to resolve this dilemma was a blunder only a child could commit.  Not sure what to do, I reached for my first aid kit and unzipped it.  Angst escaped the room as the kids’ trust in my abilities as counselor were confirmed.  I took out a pair of tweezers.  I lightly brushed the tip of tweezers across the hair.

“Roger, does it hurt when I touch the it with tweezers?” I asked.

“Oh, God!” he cried, “it hurts!”

“Billy, Benny, hold him tight,” I said.

Locked in the grip of his two compatriots, Roger squirmed with pain.

“What are you gonna do to me?” Roger asked.

I said, “On the count of three, Roger, I’m going to yank this hair out of your nipple.  Are you ready?”

“No!” he shouted, “Don’t you dare!”

I grabbed the base of the hair with the tweezers and Roger cringed.

With Roger and his hair secured, I counted.  ”One…two…”

Before I counted “three”, I yanked the hair as hard as I could.  Roger belted out a short scream and a discernible fart noise before fainting and falling to the floor.

I looked to see the tweezers held only a broken piece of the hair.

“Oh my God,” Benny cried, “he crapped his pants.”

Roger collapsed onto his side.  He was unconscious.  With his shirt pulled behind his neck, I could see the hair on Roger’s chest funneling blood to the floor.  His gym shorts were freshly stained with feces and urine.  I reached for the cell phone in my pocket and handed it to the boys.

“Benny,” I demanded, “call an ambulance!”

Paramedics arrived and put Roger into an ambulance.  After telling the other counselors what had happened, I jumped into my car and followed the ambulance to the hospital.

Tests were run and a doctor met me in the waiting room.  He explained Roger’s condition.

“Roger is doing fine.  He has a rare epidermal condition whereby free nerve endings and nerve fibers can work their way out of the skin.  The nerves are extremely sensitive and can cause severe pain and bleeding.  In Roger’s case, the nerve ending had surfaced through his areola.  The tweezers you used to pull on the nerve fiber caused Roger’s muscles to contract simultaneously.  Due to the shock, he lost all control of his bowels and defecated.  We will need to perform surgery to fix the damaged nerve ending.  But like I said, he should be fine.”

“Thank you Doctor.”  I said.

Later that day, I got a call from my supervisor.  He said that I should have used better judgment and I should have let professionals handle this “sensitive” issue.  He fired me right there.

Nothing gets your nipple harder than a good story.

Weed will cure what? Um, what?

Recently, there has been an influx of marijuana clinics and advertisements popping up around town.  They make it seem like you could waltz in and buy a pack of marijuana cigarettes, no problem.  You might not even need to be sick.  To be honest, I’m curious (and sick?) but I haven’t smoked pot since my first pubes surfaced from my armpits nearly ten years ago.  After this embarrassing incident, I don’t know if I could smoke again.

It all went down like this…Some friends and I were going to attend the 93.3 FM’s summer music concert series, the Big Gig or Big Adventure or something like that.  I remember 311 was there and that’s why I was excited.  From my friend’s accounts of that day, Incubus, The Long Beach Dub All Stars and (for the sake of exaggeration) David Bowie were performing, too.  (No surprise, I didn’t remember any of that because I was so stoned)

In preparation for the big event, we took a short drive to Fechter’s house to chief big smoke.  He had a three foot bong and a hefty sack of smoker friendly weed.  So we traveled to the house and ripped bong hits until the sack ran out.  I was catching a ride with a neighbor to the concert, so after getting high and eating three bags of Funyuns, I had to venture home.

Being the responsible teenager I was, I designated myself the driver and drove home slowly, waiting for every “stop” sign to turn green.  When I eventually got home, I was just in time to see another car pull into my driveway.  As I inched into my parking spot, a woman, let’s call her Mom, stepped out of her car and watched as I fumbled to act naturally.

As she waited and watched me from the top of the drive way, I cautiously slipped out of my car smiling.  I started to close the door behind me but realized the car was still running.  I slowly slipped back into the driver seat and turned off the engine.  I waived to her and said I was going to the neighbor’s house so that I could catch a ride to the show.

Mom stopped me and said, “Why don’t you come over here and give Mom a hug.”  I moseyed up to her and she pulled me in tightly and whispered in my ear, “Are you stoned?”  For the first time in hours, I quickly moved away and hustled to my neighbor’s house.  It was humiliating and, afterwards, I decided to never smoke weed again.

Now all of these billboards and bus stop ads are making me question if I could get away with smoking again.  They’ve made it seem almost unillegal (or legal for all of you English scholars).  I’m tempted to try it again, and can’t quite figure what’s at stake.

What do you think?  After my dizzying experience and the likelihood that nothing bad could come from the situation, should I try it again?  Or should I walk away real slow like?

I’ve been having these really weird dreams.  They’re vivid and sometimes they’re kind of freaky.

Last night I had one where I was walking around in my condo and stepped on some nails.  The nails popped right out of the top of my foot and I was bleeding all over the carpet and then the carpet turned into a sea of nipples.  Another dream I’ve had was one where I’m in line at a Taco Bell drive-thru and someone asks if I want hot sauce.

These dreams seem so real.  But because I half a logical brain, I’m able to deduce that they’re not real.  For instance, I know the Taco Bell excursion was a dream because I couldn’t find a receipt for tacos, nor were there any left over hot sauce packets or napkins.  Additionally, my bowels seemed to be intact and in normal working order the next three days which is evidence that I never ate any damn tacos.

Anyway, I was curious as to what these dreams all mean so I kept a journal of them and looked up the meanings.  Discovering each translation was like opening a bitter fortune cookie.  Here is a short list of dreams I can remember having over the last week:

Blue tea kettle in an open microwave – Something mysterious will happen to my testicles
My older brother – I stand to lose my hair
Jared Hood’s (childhood friend) old kitchen – Success followed by failure

Dreaming of Taco Bell can only mean one thing; Gay

Hamster/gerbil – Abundance/scarcity

Gift from my older brother – A sign of heartbreaking love
A golfer – Traveling a great distance by goat
My car – Putting a lot of money into a “sinking ship”
Open car windows – Making a new friend who steals from me
Desert – Sexy new beginnings with cacti

Mattresses – Support from gloved ones
Parking lot – Finding meaning in life
The YMCA – I’m gay?
Kindness of stranger named Angie who goes by Anne – Penetration by sword or writing tool
A baby – Impending doom
My cat, Tookie – Terrible, hurtful things

Traveling by car – Diabetes
My mother – Birth of a relative
A piercing through my inner ear – Successful homicide

Bear Creek High School (the name and the physical site) – I will go horseback riding soon
Toilets outside – A plentiful garden
Pooping – Transitioning from one part of my life to another
Wiping but not being able to clean it – Lying to the people I love
Best friend asking me to hurry or he’ll leave – Afraid of success
Throwing soiled toilet paper at my friend – An exchange of gifts

So  what does it all mean?  Good question.  Using some very valid/nonsensical online resources, I can tell it’s all very good/bad.  Apparently, I either stand to inherit a good bit of wealth or I’m doomed to roam the world sad and dead.  It’s really all up to interpretation.

Things to consider when getting a tattoo:

1. The tattoo has a unique story behind it

2. You have no personal biases against tattoos

3. The tattoo incorporates pancakes

The vegetarian diet of a butterly makes its magic look like poop

I’d never considered a tattoo.  My wife has one of a magical butterfly and she resents it every day.  I’ve always been told modifying the body in such an unnatural way goes against the Jewish religion (a faith I used to subscribe to).  And I’ve never seen a piece of art or cartoon that I loved so badly as to prominently display it on my human flesh.  From this, I can say that without a doubt, I’m not much of a “tattoo guy”.  That was until Saturday night.

I spent several really good hours this weekend at my friend’s wedding–for the sake of naming names, let’s call the wedding the union of  A Wat and Mel Wat.  It’s no big deal or nothin’ but the governor was there–for fun’s sake, I’m not gonna tell you which one.  The ceremony was all churchy and nice and junk, but the reception is where things got all friggin’ awesome.

It was at said reception where I encountered a gentleman who, for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call C. Lav.  Mr. Lav was kind enough to humor me with a wonderful anecdote from his past that has quite possibly altered my perception of tattoos and friendship for the rest of eternity.

The story begins with an innocent marriage proposal.  C. Lav’s best friend, let’s call him B. Mav for the sake of this story,  was to be wed to a woman.  B. Mav was expecting a bachelor party to be held in his honor by his two very best friends, C. Lav and his other friend, for the sake of the story and for purposes of anonymity, we’ll call A. Nav.

To honor the time old tradition, C. Lav and A. Nav planned a party for B. Mav which entailed a trek across these late, great United States via passenger rail car from Denver to Chicago and then to Milwaukee and back again.  B. Mav was excited for the journey as it was the popular style at the time.

It was in this honorable and timeless journey that the most incredible thing happened.  Along the way, somewhere between here and there, the three decided to do something radical.  Dazed from the toxins that one ingests during a bachelor party, the men wound up in a house of pancakes.  (An international house, no less.)

It all started with a conversation about B. Mav’s reoccurring dream of a soaring hawk swooping down into a pond and, delivering to the sky a lily pad that was locked within the deadly clutches of his talons.  As majestic and vivid as the dream seemed, it all sounded hokey and gay to A. Nav and C. Lav.

“Nobody’s going to recognize a tattoo of a lily pad, dude,” they said, “Why don’t you make it something cool that looks like a lily pad but is way cooler?”

As the three pondered the suggestion, they gathered ideas from their surroundings.  What looks like a lily pad but is more stately and ultimately cooler?  Pancakes!

B. Mav agreed to an artist’s depiction of a hawk soaring above pancakes so long as C. Lav and A. Nav also plated a tattoo incorporating pancakes.  And so it was.

Pokey the Unicorn in all his majesty

The boys embarked on a second journey…to get tattoos of pancakes.  On their way, A. Nav and C. Lav decided what tattoos to get.  A. Nav decided on a beast that represents mystic wisdom and grandeur hurdling a short stack…he picked a unicorn.  This was no ordinary unicorn, however.  It was an expression of his boyhood hero, Pokey from the claymation cartoon series, “Gumby”.

C. Lav went for another creature of mystic proportions.  He picked a creature more elusive than the unicorn…one that had captivated his imagination ever since seeing the head of one prominently displayed on the wall of an Applebee’s.  He chose the mighty jackalope making quick work of pancakes.

So it came to be that these three best of friends would be joined spiritually and emotionally with iconic beasts and their pancakes tattooed to their skin for all time.

Afterwards, they traveled home only to share their tale with trusted contemporaries.  I enjoyed the story very much but was skeptical.  Determined to prove his anecdote, C. Lav took me to the bathroom and exposed me to the markings of his hind quarter.  It is with great pleasure that I share the glory with you, my faithful readership.  I give you what must simply be called the Jackalope…

The Jackalope

This representation changes my perception of tattoos all together.  I anticipate the day when I can vandalize my skin with the same creative display as C. Lav.  I can only hope that it comes out of the same love and passion that only best friends can share.  Thanks for the story, buddy.

Do you have a tattoo story that you love, or hate?  Feel free to share it in your comments…

About three months ago, I decided that quitting my sh*tty job would be a good idea.  Even though the action temporarily halted my night terrors and self-mutilation, it has led to a host of other problems.  I have since been diagnosed and treated for depression and a disease simply known as the gay.  These ailments have caused me a host of other problems that I could not have predicted.  Tension is mounting between my wife and me as I sit at home all day.  Despite my reluctance, there seems to be only one solution; I should get to f*cking work.  Here, then, are 10 reasons that I should get a job:

10. A job provides an opportunity to have money, to give back to society, have a bigger purpose in life, meet new people and be mad at something other than my wife and the house cat

"I've been workforce ready since my conception"

9. There are no more dishes to clean and the floors are as swept as they’ll ever be

8. The fern I planted to provide me with a sense of fruitfulness and hope has died

7. Water cooler talk about Seinfeld reruns is turning me into a schizophrenic

6. I’ve been taking public buses just to see where their routes end

5. Investing money in my home business of cashing in on the Internet has amounted to numerous porn site subscriptions and dozens of pills that combat erectile dysfunction

4. My home office consists of a barcalounger, a box of colored pencils and a guitar I plan on learning

3. Anticipation of checking the mail keeps me up all night

2. Getting drinks “after work” starts at nine in the morning

-and, finally-

1. I spend more money than my wife makes