Skip to content

Month: February 2010

Every Time A Bell Rings

I know I risk upsetting many of you, but I can’t write this post without using the “F” word.


But the post really isn’t about football.

There’s a football player and a football game involved.  But it’s not about football.

It’s more about other “F” words like “family,” and “fetus,” and “full-of-yourself.”

The biggest football game of the the year, The Superbowl, is this weekend.  You can tell it’s the biggest game of the year by the word “super” in it’s name and by the fact that it’s watched by millions and millions of people, most of whom really have no interest in football and don’t watch any other time of the year.  It’s what Christmas and Easter is for folks who otherwise don’t go to church.

Apparently former college football superstar Tim Tebow – I say former because of both the fact he has finished his final season at University of Florida1 and his poor showing in the senior bowl – apparently he is going to be starring in a Superbowl commercial2 by an anti-abortion group called Focus on Family.  There is controversy surrounding the TV spot because the CBS network is breaking a non-political ad policy for the Superbowl by airing it.

I have a sort of unspoken non-political policy for this blog, too.  I try to never push my politics on someone else, and unlike CBS, I’m going to stick to it.  Besides, I have trouble focusing on the political side of it all because I can’t stop thinking about how Tebow is the very3 definition of self-righteous.

Outstanding athletes, right or wrong, are often deified.  Tebow, in his years at Florida, was given the full-blown idol treatment.  There was even the running joke that “Superman sleeps in Tim Tebow pajamas.”

Now, it seems Tebow is drinking hos own Kool-Aid.

The reason I say all this is because from what I hear is that the commercial features Tebow and his mother, who makes the point that if she had listened to others around her4 and had an abortion, then Tim would not be here today.


So there might have been a world without Tim Tebow. While I can understand how meaningful that possibility probably is to the Tebow family, it really doesn’t effect me.

What if there had been no Tim Tebow?  There might not be a sophomore player to ever have won a Heisman trophy?  The Gators might have had one less national championship? Old Man Potter would have taken control of the Savings and Loan?

Give me a break.

What is special enough about Tebow to make him the poster boy for anti-abortionists? 5 Tim Tebow is just a guy.  Just like you and me.  So, he may be a better football player than most of us.  But, I’m sure there are things that we are all better at than Tebow.  And we’ve had no less effect on mankind than he has.

So, where is my commercial?  I wasn’t aborted.  And I’m pretty damned sure that neither were any of you.

{ fin }

  1. look at all those “F” words []
  2. the chocolate rabbit of football []
  3. and apparently literal []
  4. because of where she was in her life at that time []
  5. Although it it makes a better poster than the usual bloody fetus. []

Valentine Kisses

I don’t like surprises, but The Attorney does.  So I didn’t call before showing up at his house Sunday night.

He put aside his book and gave me a quick kiss.  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I thought I’d cook us dinner,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “If I had known we were having a Valentine’s dinner, I would have been dressed better.  And I would have gotten you something.”

He looked fine.  Very fine, in fact, in an Annapolis sweatshirt1 and Adidas shorts.  There is something very sexy about The Attorney when he is not so buttoned down.2

“I don’t want you to give me anything,” I responded.  “And I’m not cooking dinner because it’s Valentine’s Day.  I’m cooking dinner because we have to eat.”

Besides, I had already had my Valentine’s Day experience a couple of days earlier.

There is always food at work.  Because one of the Phyllises3 or the other will bring in some home-made treat.  Especially if its fattening. And especially if they can justify it with a holiday.

So, one of the Phyllises showed up at my desk with a cupcake on Friday.

It was red velvet with cream cheese frosting and topped with a Hersey’s Kiss.

A Valentine’s Day cupcake.

As she placed daintily in front of me, I made a mental not of how odd it is that the size of a woman’s gestures is somehow always inversely proportional to the size of her body.

“Everybody should get a Valentine’s kiss,” she said, looking at me the way people look at a three-legged puppy pulled from a storm drain after a hurricane.

The implication was “you poor, poor, single boy.”

Then the other Phyllis, the one with little flecks of cream cheese frosting caught in her faint lady-stache, piped in, “Oh, I bet he has a Valentine, he just doesn’t say much.”

You would think that not saying much also made me invisible because they discussed me like I wasn’t sitting there.

But, no, they could clearly see me because the both of them just grinned at me, expecting me to give them a peek into my personal life.

“So, what did you tell them,” the Attorney asked.

I wanted to tell them I do have a Valentine, thank you very much, and that it doesn’t have to be Valentine’s Day to get kisses.  Kisses that give me rock hard boners, in fact.

But I didn’t.  I just ate the Kiss off the cupcake and went back to my work.

“So, is it true?” he asked, leaning in to kiss me.

Several seconds later he pulled away from me and reached downstairs. “I guess it is,” he said.”

I gave myself a tug. “Right now it’s only about half true.”  Then, leaning in myself this time, I said,  “It takes two or three kisses to make it completely true.”

But he brushed me off.

Erectus interruptus.

He wanted to get in a quick run before dinner.

So, he did.

By the time he was back and cleaned up, dinner was on the table.

Just before we sat down, he hugged me close and took my hand and slipped it into his pocket.

“Oh, we’re going to throw down before dinner,” I thought.

But that wasn’t what he had in mind.  Because even though I felt nuggets rolling around in his pocket, they were too small to be his balls.  I grabbed them and pulled my hand out to find three soft Hershey’s Kisses in my fist.

Apparently he had made a stop on his run.

“You said two or three more kisses would do the trick,” he grinned.

“They’re warm,” I responded.

“Warm kisses are the best kind.”  And with that he backed me against the counter and proved his point.

You know what? When it’s a warm kiss, it only takes one.

{ fin }

  1. No.  He is not a Naval Academy grad.  Just has the sweatshirt for some reason. []
  2. Showing some leg doesn’t hurt none either. []
  3. the women in our office []

Swingin’ and Rockin’

I’m not a clothes person.

I’m not talking in the fashion sense.1 I’m talking in the wearing sense.

If I could go without clothes and not get arrested, I would.

Despite my Internet history, it’s not an exhibitionist thing.  It’s comfort, plain and simple.

As much as I have hated to see Granny’s physical decline over the years, the bonus is that ever since she has had trouble climbing stairs, I have pretty much lived my life on the second floor bare-assed.

I read naked, watch TV naked, blog naked2 …If I can do it naked, I do.  Even if I get chilly, I will put on only as little as possible to make me warm.

I don’t do it so much when I’m at The Attorney’s place.  That’s because he isn’t the bare-ass type.  Maybe because he spends his days all buttoned up in a suit and tie, stripping down to his underpants feels like nudity to him.

Speaking of underpants, he doesn’t understand why, if I like being balls-to-the-breeze, I don’t go commando.

Look inside a pair of pants and you’ll see why.  The part were you deposit your junk.  It’s nothing but a snarl of rough seams and fabric edges.  I don’t need3 all that rubbing and pinching up against the Beauties and the Beast.

If my stuff is gonna have to be on lock down, on house arrest, I need the softness and support of a good pair of underpants.  And boxers don’t do the trick.  When I want to swing, I want to swing like Tarzan, not like Granny’s glider.

That’s why I want a kilt.

Yep. A kilt.  I’ve been giving it serious thought.  All the freedom of being naked while staying within the boundaries of decency laws.

I think I could get into wearing one.  From banging around the grocery store to Sharon Stone-ing fellas at the barber shop, I could totally get into rocking a plaid skirt4 …and whatever that thing is that hangs down in front.5

I wonder if a wife-beater is considered improper attire with a kilt.  Because that’s the way I plan on wearing it this summer.  Swingin’  it and rockin’ the beater and kilt look.

I’m not even sure where to get a kilt.  Not sure how it will go over in East Tennessee, either. I guess I could use the excuse that I’m honoring the Scottish side of my Scots-Irish6 heritage.

Honoring my Cherokee blood would not help me.  They were not a tribe that wore loin cloths.

Too bad.  Because I could totally rock that, too.

{ fin }

  1. Which I don’t have. []
  2. Like right now. []
  3. or want []
  4. I hope my clan has a nice looking tartan. []
  5. Something to keep your boner down? []
  6. From where most folks around here descend. []

Is There A Docker In The House?

I don’t know who the official czar of English slang is.  But I want to challenge the slang usage of a word.


I’m going to be showing my ignorance here, but for the  near twenty-two years that I have been sticking my pecker in warm, wet, tight1 places, and doing a lot of the activities that sometimes go along with it, I have thought that “docking” was just another way of saying “fucking.”

As in “HDP.”

Human Docking Procedure.

Until recently, I had no idea it had anything to do with foreskins.

Maybe because I don’t have much experience with them.  Foreskins, that is.  Granted the doctor left me with a little extra skin, but only enough extra enough to make my stuff  handle a bit thicker.  Not enough to be pulling it over the head of another man’s pecker.

So, inexperience makes my ignorance at least a little bit justified.

Even if it doesn’t, the actual process of what is currently known as “docking” completely does.

From the way I understand it, two fellas put their heads together2 and one slides his foreskin over  the others dong.

That’s not docking.  That’s throwing a tarp over the woodpile.

So why not call it “tarping?”

“Docking” is putting something inside something else, not covering something with something else.

You bring the ship a ship into the dock.  You drive the truck into the  factory dock.  Something goes into the dock.

And then you unload.3

I have to say fucking sounds a lot more like it should be called “docking” than eskimo kissing your dongs inside a sleeve does.

Even the frightening practice of “sounding” is more like docking than “docking.”  Although, it doesn’t seem like a very sound practice if you ask me.


That’s a better word for it.  Even better than “tarping.” I mean you have to tie a tarp down.  “Tarping” is better saved for the BDSM version of  the act.

So, I’m sending out an appeal to the Secretary of Sexual Slang, and the uncircumcised of the world, that from now own, for the sake of clarity, that “docking” be called “sleeving.”

But, then, what if you have a fella back the eye of his storm up to you and wraps his innards around your meat.  Could that be “sleeving” too?

Nah.  That’s just what it’s always been:

A damned good piece of ass.

{ fin }

  1. hopefully []
  2. And I don’t mean to brainstorm. []
  3. To loading dock, which is always in the rear. []