When my wife looks at me like I’m crazy she gets these lines across her forehead. I love those lines. In fact, I think those lines are downright sexy.
If you’re an LA chick you probably read that, thought “O-M-G! That is sooooo gross!” touched your own forehead and called your Botox dealer.
I remember when Nicole Kidman was beautiful.
Then she decided, “I think it would be a great idea if I absolutely killed every fucking muscle in my motherfucking face!” It makes me sad because the point from where she was easily one of the most beautiful things to grace this planet to the face abortion she is now is so vast as to be almost immeasurable.
Hey Hollywood, something gets lost in translation when your leading ladies can actually express a fucking emotion! How about knocking that shit off!
Maybe I’m just getting old but, I love women. Women are supposed to be imperfect – blemished even. A woman who can own those imperfections unapologetically… that’s a woman I wanna do bad, bad things to.
I remember busting my face open when I was little hombre. I think I was around four or five. Definitely no more than five.
Her name was Kim and she was my favorite woman not named Shirley Temple.
As runner up to my heart, Kim had way more of my attention than she should have. Mostly because I was too stupid to have figured out that whole Shirley Temple is a grown ass woman now and that would just be gross and lead to jail time thing.
I had a habit of showing off for Kim. I loved walking on the rail of our wood fence; concrete walkway on one side, thorny rose bushes on the other. Dad caught me doing it once and told me to get down or he would beat my ass.
I got down.
Until dad was out of sight. Then I climbed back up. Then fell right off. Into the rose bushes. Suddenly there was a hole where a part of my face used to be.
Kim didn’t respond. In fact, she rarely responded to much of anything. In hindsight I wonder is she wasn’t a little daft.
I responded by screaming like a little girl and running into our living room. Dad was not amused. It was bad enough that I did the very thing he told me not to, but the fucking Dodgers game was on.
He got up, grabbed a towel, slapped it on my face and growled, ‘get your jacket boy.’
A few stitches later and long after Vin Scully called the last out, we were back home.
Except, we weren’t done.
“Where’s your jacket?”
Dumb little Rudy shrugs his shoulders.
Back to the hospital to scour the place for my jacket. It was gone.
Let’s see what the tally is thus far:
Ignored dad and climbed fence.
Fell into a rose bush and got a hole in my face as a result.
Interrupted dad’s Dodgers game so he could rush me to the ER.
Left my jacket at the hospital.
I dreaded the drive home.
“Go to your room.”
“Okay.” Whew! I thought for sure… fuck. Dad walked in with his belt.
I keep thinking about umbrella gate and all the other assorted gates of the current Administration. Now, I am of the mind that every problem the President is facing is due to petulance more than anything else.
That is not to say that the President is blameless. Far from it. But the reality is the GOP has been trying to pin anything they can on the guy while hoping everyone forgets that they aren’t doing their job.
It’s all bullshit and we all know it – whatever side you happen to lean towards politically.
If you don’t believe that then ask yourself why the GOP won’t hold the President accountable for the things he hasn’t gotten right.
The answer, as far as I can tell, is because the GOP led Congress equally complicit in the President’s missteps. That’s why they don’t scream about Monsanto, Gitmo, or the Keystone Pipeline to name a few. They are in lockstep over those and more. So they stick to made up shit or massively blown out of proportion shit.
Shit, I tell you. Washington, DC has become a fucking litter box.
One more thing…
A couple of weeks ago Jason Collins came out as the first openly gay athlete in any major American sport. There was the expected jibber jabber on all sides but, it also happened around the same time Timmy Tebow got cut by the Jets. That gave it an interesting twist. There were A LOT of so called Christians who took issue with those of us who saw Jason Collins as brave while the world at large had told Tim Tebow to keep his faith to himself.
In essence, to them, Jason Collins was no hero and Timmy T was practically a fucking martyr.
Now, the obvious should not need to be stated but, to some the obvious is a difficult thing to grasp so…
In the good ol’ US of A Christians make up the majority. They always have. There is nothing about calling oneself a Christian that is brave or dangerous in this country. This isn’t the Middle East. You’re not only safe here, you run shit. And part of that reign of running shit in the country has meant oppressing those who do not share your faith or who live a lifestyle your faith does not condone.
That includes homosexuality.
Even today being a homosexual can get you killed. In the last two weeks in NYC alone there have been four attacks, including a murder, because the victims were homosexuals.
And that is why Jason Collins is brave. Timmy Tebow can shove his faith in our faces all he wants. But in this country he never has to worry that his fellow countrymen and women would seek to hurt him for that faith. No one is going to tell him who is allowed to love because of his faith.
We’ll make fun of him for being a shitty quarterback, sure. But he’s earned that.
I love that I upset a group that the Southern Poverty Law Center listed in its misogyny list, the subreddit group Mens Rights. Apparently, they were particularly butthurt by my recent standupshot on Reddit. As always, I have fun with them. And to my surprise, I actually had a few men come to my aide.
Anyway, enough of that shit.
Why is okay to have ugly men host the news/sports broadcasts but, not ugly women? Don’t get me wrong, I love beautiful women but, I wouldn’t mind it if they retired fat old white guys like Chris Berman and brought in someone I could stand to look at.
How is it that Timmy Tebow was praised for leading a mediocre team to the playoffs that was carried by the DEFENSE while Mark Sanchize was reviled even in the midst of taking his team to back-to-back AFC Championship games?
I have to go now. Enjoy this:
Make one joke about women choosing to be lesbians after spending ten minutes with a man and find out just how fragile the male ego really is. I learned that yesterday after posting my little picture on various social media sites. The one to your left. Yeah, that one.
Seriously, is there anything more fragile than the male ego?
There was actually a dude who was livid and pointed out that if a comedian made a joke about gays or reversed it so that women were the butt of my joke people would be rightfully offended as they should be now.
I think Louis pretty much covered all of that AND race. I know some people still find this offensive and … well, fuck those people.
Of course, there was the requisite “this joke sucks!” comments. I tried to engage those types but, apparently making allowances for people who don’t like your joke just makes you more of an asshole. Ah well.
The saddest thing to me though, is that so many people (read: men) were pissed because they thought it was a joke about men. Jesus McFuck you morons, it’s about homosexuality not being a choice.
Here, try it out this way:
If being gay were a choice every man would be gay after ten minutes of dealing with a woman PMS-ing.
Does it soothe your male ego? Oh, you can identify with that, can you? Less butthurt are ya?
Or – and here’s an idea – be a fucking man and learn to laugh at yourself. Think back to all those times you’ve wondered ‘why the hell did my wife ever marry me?’ Lighten up, Francis.
My guess is that if I did the joke that way you’d still miss the point.
I’m a man. I have a penis. That qualifies me.
Some of you still have your doubts. Okay, I am typing this from the shitter.
“Yep, he’s a man.”
As a man I am acutely aware of just how fuctarded we are. Hell, we actually do think it is perfectly acceptable to blog from the shitter. Every man who read that line is nodding in agreement.
Every man is a twelve year old trapped in a grown up body. No matter how refined a man may seem, when he’s alone he loves to smell his own farts and tug on his dick like a recess monkey. Every man.
Women know this about us. And yet, they still love us, marry us, let us stick our thingy in their various holes, and have our babies.
And THAT is how I know being straight is not a choice. No woman – none – would ever choose this life if she could avoid it.
I woke up a little cranky with the world this morning. That’s not to say I am in a bad mood, because I am not. I was as giddy as I always am about the Gorgeous Blonde throwing her long legs on the counter to lotion them up. One at a time, of course. But…
I dunno. Something is off in my head this morning.
It happens sometimes. I wake up and read the news and realize… fuck it, I’m going home.
Only there is no home to go to that doesn’t include all these shitheads I share the planet with. They’re like the dog shit you step in – you can wipe your foot in the grass all day long but the smell will not leave you. Yep, I just equated most of the human population to the smell of dog shit.
Me: I read that there is a correlation between a nation’s ratio of chocolate consumption per capita to the the number of Nobel Laureates it produces.
The Gorgeous Blonde: I knew it! You should write a song (I heard ode, but she swears she said song) to chocolate – Chocolate Boogaloo.
Me: Challenge accepted! (This was when I still thought it was an ode as opposed to a song) I will make tomorrow’s Morning Dribble all about it.
I couldn’t sleep last night so I spent hours playing NCAA Football while thinking about all things chocolate.
Milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate… few people love all of them but, fewer people don’t like at least one of them.
All the double entendres about chocolate… loving a mouth full of dark chocolate… the way it feels deep inside of you… how chocolate makes everything you put into your mouth better… you get the gist. It was going to be fun.
Fast forward to this morning…
Me: What was it called again… Chocolate What?
Me: Right. Like Breakin’ 2, how could I forget?
TGB: I dunno baby.
Me: So, does it have to be a poem or can it just be prose?
TGB: A song.
Me: A song? You said an ode!
TGB: I said a song. Then you said you would dedicate this morning’s Morning Dribble to it so, whatever.
TGB: You said you needed music for your movie.
Me: Challenge accepted!
So now I have to write an ode to chocolate and fit into the shittiest movie ever made.
I got kicked out of rehab. The day before completing it. That’s rock star shit right there.
As I was being escorted off the premises I was told by the woman running the facility that I would never get sober.
I’m so bad ass I proved her wrong for six and a half years.
That’s the thing about sobriety – you only have to fail at it one time. But I figured, ‘why fail a little bit?’
I decided I could handle it. I couldn’t.
Almost cost me my life once. Maybe twice.
A few years ago I read The Tender Bar and thought, I should get sober again. I didn’t.
My friends who knew me when I was sober will tell you I was a much better human being back then. And it’s absolutely true – I am a fucking awesome human being.
Until I drink.
When I drink I am every fucking cliche ever invented. Drunk asshole? Check. Drunk pervert? Check. Drunk happy guy? Check. Drunk melancholy guy? Check. Drunk loud fucker? Check. Drunk getting into a fight guy? Check. Drunk pissing out the window of a moving vehicle guy? Yep, him too.
My point is, I’m a drunk. An alcoholic. A lush. And I come from a long line of drunks. Both parents. And at least one granddad who died in large part from his drinking.
It killed my old man. He was so drunk he thought his head was harder than a tree. He was wrong.
Like I said, I became a cliche. I was a shit husband, a shit big brother, a shit friend. Basically, a shit human being.
I could hear that fucking doctor laughing her cackle laugh in my head. Twat.
Back when I decided to go to rehab I knew I was killing myself. While I was there I didn’t fuck around. I did the work. I poured myself into doing the steps, making amends, all the requisite stuff.
I am not making this up – when I decided to get my ass into rehab the voice in my head was Red from Shawshank: Get busy living or get busy dying. Over and over, everyday before and everyday in rehab. I wanted to live. That wasn’t always the case before, nor has it always been the case since. But it drove me.
Despite my genuine belief that most people are shit, I do think life is good. I think there are enough wonderful people to create an army of friends to help me take on the ugly in life.
I’m sure there is some sort of convoluted point in my head but, even I can’t figure what that point is now.
I’m forty years old. I didn’t get to die in a blaze of romantic bullshit at 27; I was left to fade away like any sad rock star (I’m looking at you Rod Stewart).
No rehab this time. But, I’ve been sober 116 days. It’s not a lot. But it’s a starting point. It’s not a guarantee that I will be sober even 117 days.
But I am sober today – this minute. And I have friends, family and a fucking amazing wife. I almost lost the lot of them.
Lately, when I go to bed and I text my goodbyes to friends or family I look over at my wife, who is usually trying to rape my nipples (that’s a whole other story) and I realize just how fucking close I came to losing it all. And I think, “fuck you, demons.”
And I laugh til I almost cry as I fend off the attacks on my nipples. And as she tires and fades into sleep I can’t help but think about how close I came to blowing it all; how truly fucking lucky I am.
Rod Stewart needs to retire and NBC owes Justin Rivers an apology.
Yeah, I watch The Voice. Yes, I am a grown ass man. If it’s good enough for Blake Shelton, it is good enough for me.
Isn’t Rod Stewart a septuagenarian by now? He’s got a fifty year old kid for fuck’s sake! And watching him out there trying to shake his flabby ass like it was 1976 was more than a little sad. He definitely proves the adage: It’s better to burn out than fade away. Ugh, that hurt my soul.
Justin Rivers got fucked by the producers of The Voice. As the Gorgeous Blonde and I watched his performance and pre-preformance we realized we never knew he was married or, frankly, anything about his story. I get it, his story isn’t compelling. His momma’s not dying, his daddy didn’t leave him, he isn’t a cute 16 year old taking the stage for the first time.
He’s just a decent singer with a normal, happy life. So we NEVER saw him, before this week. So while all the other participants were being crammed down our throats (really, their cliche stories are the same ones we hear every season) we never got the opportunity to get vested in Justin. That is simply unfair.
I’m not even saying he deserved to win. I am simply saying that the producers and the network screwed the poor guy out of a fair shake.