Nine Sharp

Coach Strudel said,
“Gather round, men, and, listen up. If I hear that any player is at the Fair tonight: automatic one game suspension.”

We knew that Strudel was going to yell at us again, and, when he yelled, spit flew in all directions. We kept our helmets on, and that blocked some of the spittle.

“Go home, have a good meal, in bed by nine sharp. Be ready for the game tomorrow,” he said.

My quarterback said that we would meet in front of the Hoochie-Coochie tent at the Great Frederick Fair, nine sharp. At the fair you could see farmers with arms missing, two-headed cows, and, at the Hoochie-Coochie tent, beautiful naked women.

There were ten players from my football team at the entrance. Having chugged beers and a little recreational smoke, we were ready for the show. It is amazing what peer pressure will make a kid do. We filed into the tent. We huddled behind a tall fence meant to keep your hands off the ladies. We waited, and then Moley, our fullback, let out a tremendous fart. Moley was always doing this, so the laughter was minimal.
Then the stage lights went up, and a huge round woman swayed her hips to the beat of some Elvis tune. She dropped her red kimono. She was massive. What a show!
Moley yelled, “She has more rolls than a bakery!”
We laughed and saw some things I will never forget.

The next day we got beat 32 to 0. I think the Fair affected us emotionally.
After the crushing defeat, we went back to the Fair.

Bring me a woman, Lord.

Why me, Lord?
I am fifty-five years old, and I have no wife and no children.
I now realize that holding out for a beautiful woman with big breasts was a big mistake.
Lord, at my age I would settle for any women with two nipples. Three nipples would be fine too.
She can have a short beard, be mentally ill, or even a yeast infection. I’ll work it out, lord.

I’m ready.
I’m going to start praying next week, Lord. I may go to church.
I used to get some of my best sleep in church. I know they do a lot of kneeling in church, and I already have knee pads.

Bring me a woman, Lord.
I will take good care of her. I would run her bath, massage her feet,
and take her to the pub on cheap wing night.
I don’t even care if she’s lousy in bed.
I’m not as good in bed as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.

Lord, we would always be together, and, if anybody asks why she is always with me,
I’ll tell them straight out, “She is too ugly to kiss goodbye.”

Just joking, Lord.
I have loved children for almost an hour once. Give me some kids, Lord, and, maybe if they are my own, I could learn to love them longer. I’ve always thought the best part about kids was trying to make one. I see differently now.
Please help me, Lord.
And, if there is anything I can do for you, just drop me an e-mail.

The Tractor, My Death, and Saint Peter

I was mowing the grass, and my mower blade hit a tree root. The tractor jerked. I fell off, hit my head on an Oak tree, and then I died. I saw a bright light at the end of a tunnel. So, I got up and headed toward the light. There was a handsome white bearded man in white robes.

“Are you Saint Peter?” I asked.

“Yes, I am Saint Peter the Rock, and welcome to the gates of heaven.”

“You mean, I’m going to heaven?” I asked.

“Not quite yet,” he said, and he motioned toward an elevator. As we boarded the elevator, he explained that I would have to do fifty years on the hot basement floor. He said that fifty years was but a blink of an eye in eternity. Then he blinked his eyes and smiled.

The elevator opened, and, outside, it looked like a big casino. There were topless dancers. I saw Adolf Hitler, Richard Nixon and Mother Theresa knocking back shots of whiskey.

“Mother Theresa stays here?” I asked Saint Peter.
“Yes. She was a saint during the day, and a devil at night,” he said. “That black-haired one over there, she likes to have her breasts fondled,” he mentioned and smiled again.

“Hey, Saint Peter– it’s OK if you sign me up for one hundred years.
You know that’s just a wink of an eye in eternity,” I said, and I winked at him.

Then I woke up.
It was all a dream. I had to get up and do another day,
with maybe a little less fear of dying.

Louie

I have learned a lot through the care and observation of my dog Louie.
When Louie is not sleeping, he is very active, usually eating or foraging for food.
Watching him in the back yard, I noticed that when he approached anything–a bush, the cat–his first reaction was to try to screw it, than he might try to eat it, and, if this didn’t work, he would piss on it.

I thought that this really simplifies life, and I’ve caught myself mimicking his actions.
Louie loves affection. You can pet him two or three times, and, to show his pleasure, he might lick himself for quite some time.
I haven’t tried this yet– I am working on my flexibility.

Louie eats very little dog food, but he eats lots of snacks like maybe an old burrito. This may explain why such a small dog can poop like a St. Bernard. I can’t poop at all sometimes, and, after serious pushing and pain, there will be something in the toilet that looks like a peanut. Go figure.

Make no mistake, from Louie I have learned a little about love, and, for that, I will be forever grateful.

How to Meet Gorgeous Women at the Gym

Going to the gym is not only good for your health, it is a great way to meet gorgeous woman.

Follow my easy advice, and you might meet the girl of your dreams.

First start with the front desk employee, who at my gym is often a young vivacious woman.  When she asks me for my membership number, I am always cordial, and once I said, “My number is 007.   I’m Bond, James Bond.”

I then compliment her, maybe saying her eyes look like two coconuts on fire.  This could lead to further serious conversation.

 

Always get on a resistance machine that has women nearby.  Just to get their attention, put maybe five pounds of weight on and do ten reps with loud grunting and excessive heavy breathing.  Let these women know you are a strong man, and you have stamina.  Remember women love to smell sweat.

 

After three short years at the gym, I’ve gotten one woman’s cell phone number.  It did turn out, though, to be the number for Weight Watchers, but that’s ok.  In this battle of the sexes you take your blows head on and persevere.

 

In conversation I let them know that I am a chef and I love the nightlife,  although last night I watched Storage Wars re-runs and ate a bag of pork rinds.

 

Bottom line: if you like watching women work out, and you are a little lonely, head to the gym, and be ready for love.

Colonoscopy Report

I’ve been through some tough moments in my life, but getting a colonoscopy ranked right up there with circumcision, gall bladder pain, and my last date– very painful.

Getting prepped means taking enough laxative to make a statue move. I won’t say any more about this except I lost five pounds and used three rolls of toilet paper (Charmin extra-soft). My water bill was up that month.
I arrived at the surgery center the next day feeling drained, hungry, and parched. There were maybe twenty other people waiting. They all looked as if they’d been through the bombing at Hiroshima. I sat down, and, directly in front of me was a pot of coffee brewed, sitting on a hot plate and giving off a delicious aroma. I couldn’t remember if this was on the short list of beverages permitted.

After forty minutes waiting I got a cup of joe.
I was sipping on it when a nurse came into the waiting area and called my name. I walked toward her, coffee in hand. Her pleasant smile quickly changed to the face of a monster, and she said loudly, “Did you drink coffee?!!”
I said, “just a couple sips.”
She grabbed my wrist and led me into the hallway of this rear-end probing factory. My doctor and four cohorts were standing at the end of the hall. The nurse said, “Doctor, he drank coffee.”
The doctor and four cohorts glared at me, and he yells, “What were you thinking?!?”

Again, I said, “I only had two sips,” and showed them my cup, still half-full.
He said, “You have delayed everything. Nurse, his procedure must be delayed two hours.”

The nurse finally came for me, and, when they were wheeling me into surgery, I told the nurse that I had to go, one more time. She said, “Everybody says that and you have already delayed us all.”

I know when they put that camera in my rear end, they got more than they bargained for. Those first few pictures must have been a dark shade of brown.

Grandma’s Last Car Accident

“Watch out grandma!” I yelled, as she mindlessly switched lanes, running another car off the road. The driver pulled up beside us and gave grandma the finger. She didn’t know what it meant and probably thought he was giving us a turn signal. Usually her dog, Butchie, sat in the passenger seat, and he had many bumps and bruises from hitting the dash board at high speeds.
Grandma was dangerous.

One evening we were having dinner. The phone rang, and my father answered it:
“Bobby– Help! I’ve hurt myself!” she screamed.
Dad said, “Ruth, is that you? Ruth? Are you OK?”
She screamed, “Bobby, come help me. I’m bleeding!”

Grandma lived right next door, but it was a good three hundred yards away. My dad ran over and followed a small trail of blood from the front door to grandma’s bedroom. She was lying on the floor. Butchie was by her side, obviously upset. She was calm, but she was in pain and quite relieved to see her son-in-law, Bobby.
She told us that she fell out of the car while driving down the lane, and the back tire had run over her leg. Her car was down in the field with the driver’s door wide open. She had dragged herself back to her telephone, maybe five hundred feet. This topped all accidents she had had to this point. Finally we were able to persuade her to stop driving.
She gave up her freedom for the safety of the public.

Self-medicating

At age eighteen I was certain my life would come to a horrible end.
A continuous pain in my right ball was the culprit. For six months I told no one, wore new looser underwear, took long hot baths and enjoyable self massages, but nothing worked. A fear of going to the doctor, and the dread of anyone seeing my fat body naked, kept me from seeing a doctor. Then one night I happen to watch a movie about a world class runner who was stricken in his prime with something called testicular cancer. He suffered a horrible death, after they cut off the cancerous ball.
I was not one to cry after a movie, but late that night, I cried like a baby, all alone.

The next day I looked in the phone book under “testicles,” but no doctors were listed. I didn’t know what to do, and I finally confided in my wise buddy, V____, at school.
V____ said, “go see Dr. Krotchy.”
“Hey, man, this is serious! I might have cancer”, I said.
“No, that’s his name, for real. If you need your balls cut off, I would call him,” he said.

I found his number and set up an appointment. He was an old man, and, peering over his glasses at me, he said, “How can I help you young man?”
I told him that I had an ache in my right testicle. He said, “I will have to examine you, so turn around, pull down your pants, and put your elbows on your knees.”
The doctor was a long-fingered man, and no one had ever prodded and squeezed my body like he did that day. After a long hand-washing, he sat back behind his desk and said, “Stephen, I think what you have is what we call a ‘nut ache.'”

I had just told him I had a ache in my ball– Why go through the rigorous examination?
“You mean, it’s not cancer?” I said.
“No, it’s not cancer, and it is not something I could take care of,” he said.
I left his office feeling a little better but quite confused.

It wasn’t until a day later that my wise friend V____ told me that I had to jerk off, wax my candle, spank the monkey.
So my pain was taken care of, late at night, all alone.

Grandma and Butchie

“Hi, Grandma, how are you?” I yelled, as I entered her house.
I knew she would be in the next room, playing solitaire at her card table.

She lived right next door, and, after I ate lunch at our house, I would walk to her house and eat again. I knew she would have Pop Tarts, ice cream and soda pop, all the good stuff we never had at home. I’d sit down next to her on her couch which was always covered with a thick plastic cover. This cover came in handy the time I dropped a bowl of ice cream on it. When I made a mess she would yell “Ookie pooks!” and have a fit until it was cleaned up.

Butchie, her dog, might waddle into the room. Butchie got snacks all day and all night; his stomach touched the floor.
“Hey Grandma, can I get something to eat?” I asked with a smile.
“Stevie, you’re getting so fat, but, I did get the chocolate-filled,
chocolate-covered ones you like so much.” She said mixed up things all the time. I didn’t care– I lived for those Pop Tarts. Then she’d hug Butchie, and say, “I love my little ootie-bootums, yes yes yes.”
Grandma was Jewish. I knew this because she ate bagels with cream cheese and some lousy crackers called Matzo. Sometimes a man with a very small hat would visit. Grandma would give him money and say that it was her Rabbi. Grandma would say something funny and, when you looked at her, she would be making a silly face. I’ve never met anyone quite like her, but, I do catch myself acting just like her sometimes.

My Start Down The Road Less Traveled

In 1972, my hippie sister got married. The wedding was in our front yard, on a hillside overlooking Frederick valley. I was twelve years old then and quite naïve.

So, when my cool cousin, who was eleven, asked me if I wanted to get high,
I said, “yeah, you want to climb some trees?”
He said, “no, lets catch a buzz.”

I liked this cousin. He lived in McLean, Virginia, in a big cool house next to a United States senator. I was not going to let him know that I had no idea what he was talking about. He said, “come on,” and, we walked down the lane into the woods. He got out a little pipe, flipped his Zippo lighter and started smoking. I had never smoked anything, never tried alcohol, but, I hit that pipe like I was Popeye. Some things just come naturally.

Exhaling smoke was fascinating. I was hooked.
He said, “I’m wasted,” and I said, “I am too,”
although I didn’t know whether I was buzzed or not. My eyes felt funny, and later, I did eat four pieces of wedding cake. A couple weeks after that my best friend told me that he smoked it, and, shortly after that, I became a young pothead. I can’t say what happened that day was a bad thing. I do know it’s been a factor in my taking the road less traveled. I have been high for most of the journey.