Skinny Jeans & Sexy Tattoos! What does the future hold?

Just want to take a quick moment to discuss what the hell is going on with today’s fashion. I am by no means a fashion guru. As a matter of fact 90% of my clothing consists of paint stains and anal skid marks.

When I do go out I feel I dress appropriately.(Non/work related that is). I mostly wear a loose pair of jeans and a tee shirt or flannel. Very simple. Never seem to offend anyone. I keep the colors neutral. Just mind my own fashion business as I wander around Target in search of toothpaste like I’m Chris Columbus discovering America.

What In Gods name are these grown ass men doing wearing these pants that appear to be spray painted on their skinny little chicken wing legs? First off your knee cap is swollen. Second, how do you pull those bad boys down to drop a deuce and finally, where are your nuts during all of this?

I constantly wonder how these men remove these article of clothing at the end of the day. And where does one find such apparel? My guess is Kids Gap?

Then you come across the complete opposite fashionista. This fucking mess of life limps around aimlessly as he looks as if he just invaded Professor Klumps closet as he tops the scales at 113 lbs soaking wet. I am truly amazed on how these characters have mastered a way to keep their sagging ass pants perfectly secured to the bottom of the ass cheek. A belt is always part of the ensemble as I question my very existence on earth after trying to figure the purpose of this.

Ladies you are not off the hook. What is the deal with these coats and those hoods you all wear? You resemble a male lion in heat after a blowout of your fully mature mane at a Vidal Sassoon convention. And for the females who walk around with skin tight pants and a Slayer tee shirt as your exposed bright white spare tire of a belly gets “jiggy with it” in the tampon isle…yeah no. You should be the spokes woman for Mavis Tires. That is your destiny. Embrace it.

Last but not least. Tattoos. I love tattoos. I think they are cool, sexy, a part of our culture and many have so much personal meaning to the ones who wear them. I have a few myself. I’m just not sure some of us have thought this through in its entirety.

When you come across an older person today with tattoos they usually bear a faded anchor on the forearm or a naked grandmother with droopy tits on the bicep. Nothing crazy.

What’s gonna happen when Tito is 93 and his Iron Maiden tattooed balls turn 93? What is it going to look like when the beautiful woman turns 88 and her Mary Poppins tattooed boobies turn 88? How about the image of the man who turns 102 and the tattooed tear drop on his eye socket is now on his ankle? And finally the infamous tramp stamp.

First and foremost if you have one of these you better get your ass over to Staples ASAP and get some whiteout and cover that shit up.

Let’s say over the next 70 years you just couldn’t find the time to get to Staples and you now have to deal with a crinkly, rusted, hepatitis infused, hemoglobin clotted Justin Timberlake tattoo embedded in your rotten ass droopy coccyx bone area, good luck finding where your asshole begins and JT ends.

Damn those tats are sexy now!!!!

Valentines Day. True relationships should be above this!

Valentines Day.

What can I say. An event created by Hallmark. A brilliant concept and we are all guilty of falling victim to this meaningless holiday at some point in our lives.

In truth, do we really need a “special day” within the year to profess our feelings & love towards the ones we adore and care about?

I would hope the answer is no. For some of us this may be the only opportunity to express our deepest affection and gratitude in hopes our mates will possibly grab the willies or massage our bunion & gout infested big toe.

Perhaps your lover will purchase a cardboard red heart full of chocolate clusters that resemble undigested corn racoon turds that exceeds the expiration date and violates all board of health regulations that can land a fella 6 years in federal prison.

As I drove home from work today I noticed many men were freezing their nuts off as they wandered around aimlessly upon local streets with frozen flowers as lovers patiently awaited the arrival of these suckers.

What seemed to catch my eye was the fashion statement of these individuals. Most were bundled up in pink scarfs and perfectly trim beards paired with skin tight farlows and capezio footwear.

Bottom line is this.

I have nothing against the passionate obsession with this iconic holiday. If you feel the need to get motivated and kickstart your love for your partner, so be it.

Personally, does nothing for me.

I love my girl each and everyday. As a matter of fact Valentines Day is the only day I can’t stand my wife as I must spend $10.00 for a card engulfed in cellophane written by some pediphile who has the ability to express loving and caring words that most of us are simply not capable of accomplishing.

What truly tickles my fancy is when people say you married your best friend. Let’s get one thing straight. Your wife is not and will never be your best friend. Ever.

For starters my best friend growing up was a guy. We got arrested together. We robbed convenient stores together. He was the one who did everything in his power to try and prevent my wife and I from getting married. He introduced me to drugs and alcohol and held my mullet back as I threw up pork fried rice and fried wontons.

So to conclude, my wife is not my best friend and if any of you dudes out there think the woman you are married to or your partner is your best friend you need to take that teal green mini-van you’re driving along with your chucky cheese gift certificates and get your head examined by Dr Phil.

Most couples feel this “Invented” special day is a day to become intimate with each other.

It is just the opposite in my relationship friends.

My gift I presented to my wife this Valentine’s Day was deeply thought out and executed with precise concentration and careful planning. I offered to sleep on the couch so she can rest peacefully without my snoring. I also presented her with a gift card that stated I will not attempt any sexual advancements towards her until this coming Saturday evening.

She was so happy. I couldn’t help but notice a look in her eye I haven’t seen since we were snuggled up in the backseat of her navy blue sun faded Pontiac Sunbird on our first Valentines Day together.

Love each other everyday. No matter what. If you need “Valentines Day” to make your situation feel special you are in the wrong relationship. Just my opinion.

When you reach the point where “Valentines Day” makes you and your partner absolutely miserable and causes the both of you to cringe and throw up kidney beans, you are heading in the right direction and are truly in love!

Happy Valentines Day!

Personal Evolution of Unwanted Body Hair

Body hair. It has been a staple in our DNA since the beginning of time. Whether you were blessed with the hair follicle genes of a Woolly Mammoth or that of a chiseled smooth Greek God, you must accept your fate. This was the hand you were dealt.

Considering there are a few living & breathing homosapiens who walk amongst us who happen to resemble that of the Cro-Magnon Era,  most people have evolved over time. Before I get into this, I must talk about my own personal experience within this epidemic.

Meeting new people in life is exciting and tends to keep us on our toes socially in a world where it is easy to lose your sense of existence at times.

With every new friendship comes new curious questions. One of the most common topics I personally find myself engaged in is family heritage. When I am asked, I speak the truth. My mother is half Italian and half Irish. My dad is 100% Yeti

I remember growing up and having this nightmarish vision tattooed in my brain of my dad exiting the shower. He resembled a St. Bernard on a “slip and slide” at Action Park. He made the endangered “Chia Pet” list in 1982. This guy had hair coming out of his pupils. Well the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

As a young man growing up, I  always had a nice full head of blonde hair. On my head that is. My surrounding body hair was minimal during my teens and throughout my twenties. Once I turned 30 that shit changed. Rapidly.

One day I awoke and took a peak in the mirror and noticed my hair on my head was getting a bit thin. Thought nothing of it. Just accepted it and said to myself “It is what it is”.

Then on my 32nd birthday I started to notice hair growth on my shoulder blades and triceps. I did not like this scenario one bit but there was nothing I could do.

By the time I turned 33 I had a full patch of hair growing on the top of my foot. My elbow looked like a poison ivy bush and my thumbs resembled a shower drain after a women’s shower.

So naturally I was concerned as most of the hair on my head disappeared. I won’t get into that Japanese maple tree that sprouted above my ass crack. That shit keeps me insulated in the cold winter months.

After several conversations with local scientists they confirmed that the strands of hair on my head were falling out and landing on various parts of my body and germinating. So now I look like the the son of a 70’s porn star. It’s terrible and my wife and I must schedule appointments to have me hop up on the kitchen table periodically so she can “sheer me like a lamb.” It’s for a good cause as I donate all clippings to “Locks for Love.” Enough about me.

Let’s talk about the love of my life!

My wife is a relatively hairless being. She has a few stragglers but nothing to be concerned about with the exception of her legs occasionally. I get it. It’s natural and I never complain. We been married for a long time. She’s comfortable with me. I actually use her hairy arachnid legs at times to dig out splinters I accumulate during the work day. It’s a bonding experience.

Here is my dilemma.

My wife decided to go to a local massage parlor the other day to get her foot and calf rubbed for 30 minutes. I said “Enjoy babe. You deserve it.”

She comes home and pulls her Lue La Roe pants up and shows me her legs and says “Can we hire a Chinese women to massage my feet whenever I want?” I said “Sure babe. Whatever you want”

I was curious so I stroked her knee cap and felt the smoothest surface on earth. So I ventured down to her shin and it was as soft as a baby’s ass. It was like a piece of polished granite. Even smelled like “White Diamond.”

Now here is a women who hasn’t shaved her legs since prom. When she wants her leg rubbed by Bruce Lee she orders a Flobe and a weed wacker and polishes her fibula off with cocoa butter.

The following evening we were on a date and began to get intimate. I stroked her leg and I felt like I was getting to third base with “Harry and the Henderson’s.”

To sum things up. My kids are “up shits creek without a paddle”  in the body hair department.

Hopefully by the time this will affect my offspring there will be and App for that.

Is it “Shoprite” or “Shopwrong?”

ShopRite. I would like to take a moment to petition and reach out to my fellow food shoppers and change this misleading name to its appropriate title. “ShopWrong!”

This cluster fuck of a food store chain begins as soon as you pull into the parking lot. Sixty people fighting for the first available spot other than handicap. Every other parking spot seems to be open but humans refuse to walk an extra six feet.

Next you attempt to choose your shopping cart. It’s 106 degrees in August and hasn’t rained in three weeks yet every cart is filled with rain water and wet coupons with a saturated produce bag containing a crushed cherry tomato. Never fails to include a Prudential Rand real estate team trying to sell you a 900k house and you can’t afford a head of lettuce.

So you begin to push the cart and the left front wheel is always jammed. As you approach the front door there are three Mexican gentleman with rusted brass teeth, suits off the clearance rack of Peddlers Mart and rain boots handing you flyers in the hopes to gain your vote for the next US presidency.

The door opens and you are consumed by the stench of raddish and rotten broccoli . First stop is produce. You grab that plastic bag and unless your a NASA engineer, you cannot open it. Arrows on the bag clearly point in the proper direction but you assume ShopRite has it wrong and try the bottom for “shits and giggles.” After many attempts, the damn bag just won’t open so you walk around staring at bell peppers hoping for a miracle.

I always heard a supermarket is great place to meet someone. I love my wife and kids with all my heart. Never the less, there is this small part of me that cannot wait until the day a beautiful women arises from the eggplant booth and sweeps me off my feet.

You get to the meat section and there’s twelve people dressed like astronauts and Eskimos wandering around aimlessly stocking the shelves with outdated product.

You had it. You head to check out. You are on the express line (15 items it less.) You must become Dustin Hoffman in Rainman and count your items as the 103 year old women is waiting impatiently behind you.

Very stressful! “Shopwrong” is a more appropriate name. Don’t ya think? Continue reading “Is it “Shoprite” or “Shopwrong?””