Wolsamnoraa's Blog

What do you call an Irish guy that stays out all night? Patty O’Furniture.

St. Patrick’s Day is quickly approaching. It’s one of those holidays that has special meaning for me and my wife. You see, it’s the “day of her people.” Part of her is Irish…her liver, I think. As a loving and supportive husband, it is my duty, neigh, my privilege to celebrate her heritage with eagerness and joy. Many great St. Patty’s Day parties and memories have been shared and forgotten.

There was the Great Green Gathering of ought seven. The neighbors called the cops because of all the car bombs. Plus, we had a dance party in the apartment until three in the mornin’.

And then there was the Green Machine. Enter Tyler “the Hate/Fuck” Davis, the proud owner of a 2004 green Buick. He parked it right on the bathroom wall and toilet seat of our college apartment. We had the Irish-Korean, Jon O’Leezy, to thank for that incident. He thought it’d be cute to serve Ty warm green beer ’til three in the mornin’. It was a grand old time.

This year is going to live up to the hype.  We’re going out, Irish style! (That means without potatoes).

For anyone who’s interested…this is a pre-invitation invitation for a St. Patrick’s Day Pub Crawl.

We’re doing a good old fashioned pub crawl around Lakewood, CO on Wednesday, March 17th. JDubs and I are going to call it Irish Golf or something cute and nonsensical like that. You gotta dress up. We’re going to hit up some local dives that are within walking distance from our old potato factory (that’s Irish-speak for ‘house’). If you’d like to participate, send me a comment or an email or a text or letter via Pony Express or just call. And, as always, if you’d like to hang out but don’t want to get caught up in some drinking and driving malarkey, you can always stay at our place for the night/weekend (standard rates apply)…did someone say dance party? Let’s get “jiggy”.

You read right.  I’m a paid comedian.  Actually, I won twenty dollars in a comedy contest last night at Old Chicago’s Comedy on the Rocks contest.  I was in the zone.  I brought the energy up in the room so high that they had to scrape it off the ceiling with a broom, or so they said.  I did a few stories.  I told a pun.  I had the benefit of having my lovely wife and several compatriots attend the show also.  I pretty much ran the gamut and pulled out all the stops.  I plan to do it again.  Here, have a listen: Feb 24 Standup by  wolsamnoraa

Grrroowwlll.  I went to the Lion’s Lair on Monday Night which is a bar…the Lion’s Lair not Monday Night. I did some stand up comedy. I pretty much brought the house down with some information that was given to me by the late, great Tyler Hate Fuck Davis (not pictured). Let me just say that Avatar was a movie.

Thanks to Steve Biernacki and Ryan Blum and Alex Nelson for coming out to see the whole thing. I am indebted to you men for all time or until this coupon expires in April, 2010. But seriously; thanks.   And thanks, Steve, for the beers…you’re the guy…that got me beers for a dollar a piece

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My mother is a big, hairy gorilla.  That’s right, stay with me.  She’s an ape.

If you ask her about it, she claims to be of a young evolutionary age. Her name is Simeon.  She was born in a jungle, she fishes ants out of logs with sticks and she has a hairy back like all the other gorillas.

She talks to me using the monkey sign language that she learned at the institute.

You’re probably wondering where I came from and why I don’t look much like a baby gorilla.  First of all, you haven’t seen my hairy back and secondly, my father was a run of the mill banana salesman.  Mom was his best customer and paid in full with premium primate lovin’.

Come 'ere, Gorilla Baby...mmmuuah

Thankfully, I only got Dad’s good looks and not his lust for monkey meat.

Dad died when I was just a boy of ape.  During one of her sh&t fits, mom accidentally suffocated him with poop.  I tried to figure out why she was so mad I got confused when she tried to use her monkey sign language while hurling feces.

I found out later that Dad was cheating on mom with some overgrown chimp named Buttons.  After that they sent her to sit behind bars at the zoo.

The zoo keepers try to get her to mate by putting male gorillas in her cage.   She mates, but I can’t bear to watch.  I can see the pain in her eyes when she’s getting aped from behind.

She told me that she misses Dad and that no other gorilla can take his place.  I said, “What about another man?”

A switch flipped.  She got so excited that the zoo keepers tazed her.  I went to the only place I know to find an ape loving man…the “Miscellaneous Romance” section on Craigslist.

I found my gorilla mom a human man.  He is ironically named Evolution.  He and my mother, Simeon, have fallen in love.  She is going to remarry.  I am happy for my monkey mom, but I’m disturbed by Evolution’s motives.  It’s a sick thing for a man to lust for a gorilla.

I’m not going to their wedding.  My mother went ape shit when she heard this and sent Evolution to come talk to me.

Evolution said to me, “Marriage of man and ape is the natural progression.”  To which I replied, “Evolution, you can take your love a step farther, but I won’t have you as a step father.”

100 blogs are like 100 mL of kitten in that people eat them up so quickly no one is really counting

This article ranks as my 100th blog post.  Yippee!  I’m excited in a fun kind of way.  I never thought I could do anything more than once, but here I am sitting atop a mound of progress.

I’ve found that blogging is stimulating, relaxing and stressful all at the same time.  While I try to maintain regularity in my posting schedule, I avoid posting filler material.  I specifically design each article to stimulate and excite my readership (that’s right…you’re gonna get tickled!).  If I feel a post is sub par or lacks creativity and humor, I won’t post it.  ”Forget the schedule!” I scream through the flow of tears.  I find that blogging is as fulfilling as any dream job or sex act.  I encourage all interested parties to start blogging.  Here, then, are 10 reasons that you should blog:

10. Bloggers do it for twelve hours a day.  Now that’s Tantric!

9. It’s free and will only cost you your time and money.

8. You’ll make people feel better about themselves when you reveal your incompetence and insecurities.

7. It’s a great way to expel a lifetime of knitting knowledge without pissing off your last remaining friends.

6. There is more money to be made on the Internet than you could ever imagine…I’ve heard.

5. Blogging is guaranteed to make you a social media marketing expert over night and, also, I insist.

4. Blogging is a great way to look busy while avoiding real work.

3. Some people may or may not like you no better nor worse.

2. Fame and fortune will instantly greet you within your first five-thousand posts, give or take.

-and, finally-

1. If I can do it, surely, you can do it much better.

Thanks for reading along for all this time.  I appreciate your feedback.  I especially like hearing you express what you like and dislike.  My wife and mother did not like a post I wrote that explained the timely process of shaving my genitals.  Other people thank me for giving them a good laugh every so often.  As nice as it is, I’d like to thank you again for entertaining yourself with these foolish antics.  I plan to continue forever and always or until something better pops up.  In case you’ve missed it, here is a short list of my favorite posts in no particular order…

Misleading Wikipedia Information Or “Duh” For Short

New Tattoo For You Plus Two A.K.A The Jackalope

Excalibur

My Life

A Letter To Mrs. Stransard

You Kissed Your Step-Brother’s Sister

If these or any other posts strike your fancy, tell your friends.  Thanks for having me.

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

Hotter than a fat chick at a holiday sweater party. Yee Haw!

From Cat Photos

Tookie is my cat.  When it gets cold outside (subzero temps and other temperatures ), Tookie hides in the warmest part of the house.  Normally, he lays on our guest bed underneath a heat register that rains warmth upon him when the furnace kicks on.  That rarely happens.

Because I’m out of work and JDubs and I don’t like wasting money on energy, the furnace is set at a cool 62 degrees F.  That invariably means that our house is f-f-f-freezing.  I can get by with an extra layer or ten.  But even with a thicket of cat fur and a big F.U.P.A., the cat can’t get warm.  He is cool to the touch even when balled up in his spot under the heat.

Every once in a while, I’ll cave.  ”It’s too cold,” I’ll say.  Instead of turning up the furnace, however, I’ll turn on a little space heater that JDubs bought.  She got it at an after winter sales event at Target (we’re talking 90% off this heater…what a Jewy kind of deal!).  The money saved on the device warrants splurging on electricity.  So, that’s what I do.

All of a sudden Tookie has a new favorite spot…where ever the space heater is.  It’s really hot but he curls up in front of it anyway.  Here’s a video to show how comfortable he is:

Sorry for the sideways filming, porno-style handy cam work and the water mark…I’m only pretty good at this stuff, not really good.

Yesterday I was riding in a car with my friends Ty and Chris. Everyone knows Ty and has called him Tito since high school. One time his dad f*cked up and called him T-Bone. Luckily it never stuck. In college, Ty proclaimed himself as the Spoon and then eventually the Mayor. This came after he Youtubed three hours of old McDonald’s commercials featuring Mayor McCheese. He loved it. These days, I call him Ty D but he prefers T. Jackson or The Hate F*ck (it was his facebook name until it was censored) or The Ol’ Boy. Whatever you call him, he is a lovely and fair skinned gentleman.

Chris, who was also in the car, was once known as Dolph Lundgren after his uncanny resemblance to the Siberian Bull from the movie Rocky IV. Recently and unknowingly he was nicknamed Carrots by my wife, J-Dubs. J-Dubs has been called Wooten or Hot Pants and J Maz.  She has a myriad of friends like Skirt Steak and Droopy Nipple. Droopy Nipple used to work at Applebee’s where she rated highest in customer satisfaction. Apparently, her tips reflected her performance and she became known as Boosty Tipple or BT for short which evolved into Burny Tits and then Swink.

My other friend is Sizzle Bok who dressed as a Mexican named Johnny Gomez for a costume party. My brother is Milhouse, Milkill, Milshoe, Shoe, Shoehouse, Millie and, from a misspelling on his high school letter jacket, Millhouse.  I know Jim Jam and Rik.  I have a friend Jake the Snake.  One named J. Pa. and Blum (sounds like bloom).  Blum hangs out with Nelson and Steve B.  Gary is one.  Teens is another.  Goldy, Chesty and Slitty Wrists.  S Mas and his son, X Mas.  J Leezy for sheezy.  Drary.  The Boss, Champ or Curty.  Petey and Wheels and Lamby Poo.  Jay Nev. Teddy Po.  I saw J.R. Swish on TV.  Oh, and for me…they call me Wolsamnoraa (not really, though) which is part Russian and, as I found out today from my mother and her husband, Papa Paul, part French which translates as Special Boy.  And that’s all I can think of right now.  Did I miss one?  Fill me in.

This is where I got the name McStainy. My dry cleaner, Mr. Wong, is such a goof.