The one where I’m Daddy Warbucks

June 9, 2011

The following post is sort of a TMI Thursday. I mean if it was true it certainly would be TMI for you dear readers. This (if real) would be a glimpse you’d really not want. I should clarify this DID actually happen but at no point was it serious. It was one of those things I come up with to mess around with my lovely wife.

Recently I decided to undertake the mission of cataloging all of our books. We have a ton of them—one of them is ‘The Cleveland Creep’ by Les Roberts—which I will be discussing on here soon. The wife has a bunch of Anne of Green Gables books. I knew this. She also has a TON of craft books. Then I came across: The Anne of Green Gables Treasury.

Me: The Anne of Green Gables Treasury? What the blue blazes?

Her: Don’t you make fun of Anne of Green Gables!

Me: No, no of course not. (I look inside.)

Her: You better not.

Me: What the…is this a book of Anne of Green Gables themed crafts?

Her: Yes.

Me: Wow.

So I of course tweeted about it. That’s just what I do—allow you to glimpse into our marital bliss. A few minutes later I decided I’d go in the bedroom and mess around with her. As I made my way I changed my mind, and settled on a kiss on the cheek instead.

(How sweet am I?)

Just as I reached the doorway she calls out: “See! Look at the support!” That was when the previous plan switched back on. She sat on the edge of the bed and I came in and spread out on my stomach next to her. She showed me the support.

Me: One person doesn’t mean a thing.

(I rubbed her back.)

Her: No, don’t touch me you jerk!

Me: You’re a big fan of Anne of Green Gables huh? I bet I know what you’d like.

Her: Ha!

Me: Now, is that anyway way to treat me?

Her: Yes.

Me: Oh come on Anne. I’m sorry.

(Rub her back.)

Her: What?

Me: Relax. What you’re feeling is natural Anne. (Kissing her elbow and arm.) You know you like Daddy

Warbucks doing this—oh wait that is Annie isn’t it?

Her: What the hell is wrong with you???

Daddy Warbucks: What?

Her: First off sick and second off that is NOT Anne of Green Gables.

Daddy Warbucks: I know I said that. Fine who would Anne screw?

Her: What?

Daddy Warbucks: Anne who would she get it on with.

Her: Gilbert I guess but he’s her age.

Daddy Warbucks: Well that is a dumb name. I think Daddy Warbucks should be allowed—yes actually Daddy Warbucks came to Green Gables on business. He likes what he sees Anne.

(Kiss her arm again.)

Her: You are gross.

(I get up to leave.)

Daddy Warbucks: Fine I’ll take my leave for now. I will return later to see if my little Anne—wait—that make it sound like you are underage. Young Anne—there because you’d be of age—Daddy Warbucks would bide his time till you were—

Her: What the hell is the matter with you?

Daddy Warbucks: You’ve upset Daddy young Anne. I shall leave but when I return I hope you are a little more shall we say loving. You don’t want to cross the Warbucks!

Her: Get out of here you sicko!

(Warbucks exits.)

A little bit later I returned.

Me: Hey honey…

Her: What?

Me: Now is that any to talk to your Gerald? He’s come to sex you up.

Her: Who?

Gerald: Being coy isn’t always sexy Anne.

Her: You mean Gilbert.

Gerald: Who the fuck is Gilbert?

Her: The dude in Anne of Green Gables is named Gilbert.

Gerald: Gilbert? What a weirdo. That’s just as bad as Gerald. You are forbidden from ever reading or watching Anne of Green Gables ever again!

Her: …

(Gerald/Gilbert exits.)

For the rest of the evening I peppered her with sexual innuendoes involving Anne and Daddy Warbucks. She’s a lucky woman.


Sleeping with my wife Part VII: The New Blood

March 1, 2011

Hello,
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?

I’ll give you a moment to recover from the vague Pink Floyd reference or the coughing fit caused by the dust of 10 straight days without a post. Go on take your time.

(Don’t take your time we haven’t got all day. I’m sure YOU should be working.)

(Slackers!)

As you know (from the title) it’s time for another installment of slepping with my wife. You also would see that I’m still awesome at making vague horror movie references!

No my wife is not Jason Voorhees.

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Today we return to the fertile ground that is my lovely wife. It’s her birthday tomorrow so wish her a happy birthday on twitter!

Last Friday night was a very weird night. I want you to know I resisted the urge to quote the Katy Perry song ‘Last Friday Night’ there.

It was hard though.

(That’s what she said!)

Swoon. So hot.

(Shut up)

Okay so last Friday (during the day) was mostly uneventful. I was mostly searching for jobs and battling the gloom bug. Around the time the wifey came home (about 4:45 or so) I decided I’d be taking a nap. That really turned out ugly and I slept essentially till 8. Grub and tv time followed.

The time came to get into bed.
(Bow chikka bow wow)

The wifey (as most usually) was asleep pretty much as soon as her head hit the pillow. I had a bit more trouble, which of course made sense. I after all did sleep like 4 hours during the afternoon. The only problem was I was VERY sleepy. I felt like I could sleep for days but sleep never came. I was a lump of wide awakeness on the bed. The kitties joined me but they too quickly went right to sleep.

I was alone.
All alone.
(You say awwww now.)
(Do it.)

I listened to sports radio. I got up and had some water. I tried my left side, I tried my right side. Nada. I got up and watched some bad TV and did a little bit o writing. A very little bit. I got back in bed. I was still just a lump of sleeplessness. Then as I tried to plunder dream land the wife sat up.

Then she got off the bed. She stood there for a split second and then began to chuckle.

Me: Something funny.
Her: Yeah.
(Chuckles.)
Me: Gonna share?

(Now she’s on the move. She went around the bed and stopped near the door. She laughs some more.)

Her: I can’t believe I forgot. So much to do. (Laughs.)
Me: What are you doing?
Her: I forgot about it.

(She goes out of the bedroom and looks back in. Then she slowly closes the door.)

Me (to one of our cats): Should I go get her Rasputin?
Rasputin: ….
Me: Good answer.

(About a minute or so later she came back in.)

Me: What were you doing?
Her: I don’t know…I thought….

Then she was in bed and back to sleep. I however didn’t sleep again until about 9 in the morning. She apparently had a dream that people from work were coming over and she forgot about it. She thought she needed to get busy cleaning because they’d be there soon.


TMI Thursday: Brownaconda Attacks

November 18, 2010

I’m weird. This is something the wife tells me all the time. People’s eyes tell me this all the time too, but my doctor said I should stop saying stuff about talking eyes.

(I’ll be here all week.)

Oh look the parenthesis are back. I don’t know why that started. I don’t know when either so don’t expect an answer or a link.

(Mostly too lazy)
(Shut up)

Whatever. You stopped reading after the title I’m sure. Now I’ve developed a fun (depending on who you ask) habit of naming my pooping ventures. Sometimes I announce the names to my wife as I head into the bathroom. Sometimes it doesn’t get a name until after the fact. This is usually based on amount, size, difficulty and or color. Oh and generally (read always) these excursions are named for some movie. For example:

Off to film The Hunt for the Brown October.
I just got done shooting Pooptanic.
Just got off the set of Brownaconda.
Indiana Jones and the temple of Poo.

The best instance had to have happened in Florida. After filming I come into the bedroom where kat and Pelvic Joann are and say:

Me (very seriously): “Have you seen Alec Baldwin?”
(Now after some initial ignoring I finally get a response)
Me: Yeah just finished shooting the sequel to Hunt for the Red October…Hunt for the Brown October.

I don’t do this every single time and I try to mix it up and not use the same one. Carissa—which if you aren’t reading here you should be—has convinced me to create a list. I am and so thank her for that disgusting list when it happens.

Anypooping back to the tmi. This happened late at night (like 2am) so there was no announcing of a shooting schedule. The wife was sweetly tucked away dreaming of sugar plum or murders. More likely she was dreaming of murders and kidnappers but that’s another story. Check one out here. So I went to the bathroom without being able to say some witty movie name.

(Poor jimi)

I’ll spare you the details of the actual event. I will say that there was quite a lot of it in the bowl afterwards. Now above the toilet on a rack sit her collection of duckies. You know the little rubber duckies? They have different versions. You know like punk rock duck, bad girl duck, Hitler duck,devil duck, irish duck, Jean Bonet Ramsey duck.

(Horrible jokes jimi)

So they’re up there. I finish my business and wipe and all that. As I finish I happen to put my hand up there. I knock poor Chicago duckie off balance and he falls. I like Spider-Man grab out for it. I catch it but the Green Goblin comes along and distracts me and Chicago duckie falls out of my hand. I almost catch it again but instead as it falls out into the air leaps the fabled Brownaconda and snags it into his jaws.
Sorta like this:

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Yes we apparently pee and poop into a misshapen bucket. We classy like that. It was horrible how angry it sounded as it grabbed poor poor Chicago duck. It fell pretty much directly into the poop and sunk in too.

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So I don’t know if it was because it was late, I was sleepy or the trauma of the brownaconda attack but I without hesitation reached right into the misshapen bucket the toilet. You know brownaconda and all. I grabbed Chicago duckie (sunk in a bit more as I did) and it I swear made a sort of plop-pop sounds as it pulled free. I managed to not get anything on my hand. I’m still not sure how because there was a ton in the bowl and poor Chicago duckie was covered in it. I tossed it into the shower and turned it on. After it was all gone I dried the poor fellow off and replaced him. I thought about not telling her about it but I did first thing the next morning. For 2 reasons I knew I’d use it on here and I wanted to gross her out. So I told her about the spin off to Anaconda.

Brownaconda: Dead Duck

I of course embellished some of the details of the story for her. I may or may not have said something about
pieces of food sticking to her duckie.
You’re welcome.


The one where a guy gives me a present

November 4, 2010

The night started with a whole lot of indecision. On the television was some sports show that I had long since forgotten about. To the right sat my iphone. To the left there was the unfinished cup of coffee. In the middle I slumped into the couch. It seemed to be pulling me into its old cushions. On my lap a notebook laid open. A poem finished darkened its pages.

Words and inspiration hit fast and faded faster. When the phone called out I hesitated. I looked over at it and waited. Perhaps it would just tell me the text message. Maybe I wouldn’t have to move. Its robot voice would just calmly state:

“So and So said blah, blah and blah.” I waited.

It would hopefully throw in a bleep bloop bloop too. It did none of these. I slowly reached over breaking the moment. It wasn’t laziness that argued I leave the text to itself. Not exactly. It was the drained despair of creation that would be disturbed. At that moment it was just me, the words on the page (and my head) and the couch’s embrace. But the poem was written, what would be the harm? I reached over just as it honked angrily again.

“Fuck you Iggy.” That was the name of my phone.

I closed the notebook confining the infant words to darkness. I knew who it was. It was Williams. There had been plans semi made. That was before the words. Before the despair and before the winds of creation had knocked me back a few steps.

Eventually we made our way down to the Coventry Winking Lizard. The inside bulged with people. The doorway was an obstacle course of jacketed guys and girls. We snaked around them a few nods and acknowledgements tossed about like business cards. The blonde asked us all the pertinent questions. As she waited for our I.D.s she wiggled her nose just a bit. It was a cute little nothing.

“Ah HA! I’m on to you with your witchy ways! I’ve seen the show!” I could yell. For just a split second it seemed a doable thing to yell. It would (could?) end in a rousing rendition of “Witchy Woman” sung by the three of us. Satisfied she walked us to our table. As she left I felt a sadness fill her void.

The Christmas Ale came in pitcher form. It was cold and warming at the same time. The talk swung toward writing. It was fast and furious. The brakes were ripped out and a hill loomed. Projects were—

“Yes! Nice shot.” I interrupted on more than one occasion.

“How are the Cavs doing?” I’m not sure he cared all that much, but I was interrupting enough.

“Down by one now. It’s a game again.” My glass was filled again. And again. And again. The evening passed quicker. Soon there were plans with other people, other writers.

We found ourselves at the Old Angle Tavern. Or actually we found ourselves walking in the chilly Cleveland air on W. 25th. The warmth the Christmas Ale provided felt good. We looked. We went in the wrong direction. When found our co-conspirators they sat at a filled table. They weren’t co or even conspirators at this point. They weren’t later in the evening either. They were just people, writers, and students. Drinkers. Revelers if revelers reveled in a respectful way. Could they really? Names were had and mostly forgotten.

There was the girl who appeared out of nowhere and pulled up a chair. She was of the touchy feely kind, putting her arm over shoulders as she spoke to you. Closeness was not a problem for her. She was drunk when she arrived. As the night wore on (and the drinks piled up) the weirdness did too. Francine (as I soon named her in my head) began to pick up our empty bottles. After stealing the miniscule drop from the very bottom she’d hold onto the bottle. It was her drink. It was an empty but it was her drink. She’d bring it to her mouth every now and then. She’d part her lips and drink the nothing. It was an oddly sexual thing, but did not seem directed toward anyone.

As quickly as she appeared she disappeared. Out the door she fled. The whole table dwindled but not before Iggy spoke up again. A text.

47*-06**: What’s going on down there. Anything worth driving down there for? R*** from 4square.
Me: I’m here so you know it’s always popping.
Well first it was, Me: What the hell? Who the hell is R**** from 4square and why are they texting me? And then drunkenly I responded with the always popping bit.
R****: Cool I’m gonna stop in.

“Hey Williams I think I just got myself murdered. You can’t let that happen. My wife will kill you if I get killed.” I drank some more. He promised to not let me get killed. After some more time and a “Old Angle Jameson High Ball” we headed into the chill. The moon winked at us. We said our goodbyes and marched to our car.

As we rounded the corner of the Garage bar another pair of dudes made their way to the parking lot. They came from the side opposite of us. We ended up at the very same spot. Their car pointed in at us.

“Hey” Guy one called as they reached their car.
“Yo. Yo”

Williams was still moving. I don’t know if he said anything. I imagine he didn’t.

“You know what? I got something for you. This. Here this is for you.” He reached into his car.

“Run. Go! Get to the choppa” it was what I was going to warn Williams with. Then the black jacket guy brought out a pink stuffed animal.

“Sure!” He handed it to me and disappeared into his car.

I got in the car. I looked at the pink pig or hippo or whatever the hell it was. “That was weird, right?”

“Weird things happen to you a lot don’t they?” He started the car.

I guess that is one way to put it.

His name is Bobo:

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New Poem: Blueberry Ale

November 2, 2010

Here is another poem. It is part of the book titled: Love is a Donkey. Now for some interaction (should you choose to accept your mission.) from you all. The poem is titled Blueberry Ale (right now) but the wifey thinks it should be titled “The Art of Giving Blow Jobs”. What say you dear reader? As always any comments appreciated.


After the third bottle the topic turned to sex.
This was usually the case but never with so many people
mulled and munched veggies. The party should’ve been over.
Rick finished off the hummus by himself. It was thick and homemade.
We found him on the toilet a joint in one hand and the other knuckle deep in the bowl.
“At least he’s not jacking off again” Johnny offered. He was right.


Two years from now he’d jump off a highway over pass.
His body smashed through the windshield of a brown Taurus.
He always had to take someone down with him. A pocket full of peach schnapps’
I got drunk at his funeral. “I always hated smooth tongued Johnny Ray.” I quipped
to the pretty girl at the bar. I undressed her with my eyes.
It turned out to be his sister.


At one point I must have met her. She may have even been at the party.
Pieces of poetry and scraps of art were thrown about.
It was the last of its kind. The only one where we were all friends and artists
If we had known that it may have changed things.
Of course in the end we’d still be high and debating the art of blow jobs.


Excuse me maam: Game time

November 1, 2010

First go check out the latest Monday’s Maniac over at The B Movie Brigade.

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Yep. I get called “miss”, “maam” or “her/she” so often that I’ve turned it into a reoccurring segment here. Hooray for easy peasy posts to bore you with. Because if jimi is one thing she’s lazy

Damn. I mean he. Crap. Moving on.

The Cheap Seats is littered with posts about being called a girl. Sift through em if you like.
No? Yeah I feel ya, I was too lazy to get em for you too. Oh well. Hooray lazy. What was the point of this again? I mean other than me wanting to make a stick figure have my head on it.

(Horribly done by the way) Oh there he goes with the parenthesis again. What are those suppose to be an aside or something?

Notice the prominent beard?

Don’t worry nobody else does either. The Rizza, the pole smoker and yours truly had just walked into the crowded lobby area of the Q. She (The Rizza) went off to the “you have a purse so need to be checked out line. We being men went to the quick lanes.

A side note: The Q (Quicken Loans Arena—where the Cavs, Monsters and Gladiators play) and its staff appear to enjoy holding me up. Almost every single time (or actually whenever I attend with the Rizza) they’ve found another reason to slow me down. The pens in my pocket, my belt buckle, a notebook and etc etc.

This night was no different. In terms of holding us up I mean. I walked self assuredly (but with a manly brisk walk!) to the ticket scanner.

“Good evening my dear.” Ticket in one hand pointed at the scanner and keys in my other hand for the security to see as I pass through the detector. I left all pens and belt buckles at home. Success!

Scan.
Blrrrrrp.
Scan.
Blrrrp.
“Hmm.” She pulls the ticket into her hand. Scan.
Blrrrrp.
Scan some more.

“I knew I should have brought my personal ticket scanner.” Flash my hairy smile. Her face does not brighten however. “Damnit Jimi did you flash the grimace again instead of the smile?” I thought as she pointed over to the side.

“I’m going to need you to stand off to the side over there sir.” And then she was already on to the next customer.

Soon a squirrely looking guy walked over to her and she talked to him and pointed over at me. “Could you see him please sir.”

“For you anything.” I walked over. He smiled. I smiled (perhaps grimaced?) and the dance began. He took the ticket. He used his big boss ticket scanning scanner and of course our old buddy

Blrrrrp.

Yeah, so he looked at the ticket some more. He scanned it again. Nothing but blrrrp. He looked up into my face and presumably my hypnotizing dark brown eyes. He chuckled.

“HMMM.” A stronger version of their go to answer. He read the ticket and then ripped the bottom part of and handed it back to me.

“Well okay that was fun.”

He looked up at me from the scanner and then tapped “Florence” which is probably not her name but I don’t really care.

“Okay you can go on and let her through now. She’s good to go.”

I tugged my beard once. I tugged a second time. He stood there. She stood there. “Well thank you Flo.” I said as I passed through her line one last time.


The one with Vodka and hate

October 18, 2010

The night progressed as every other night fueled by free vodka would. This is to say much quicker than normal. It started with me not going and then somehow ending up on a bar stool drinking Finlandia next to the two people I’m always drinking with.

On my left there was an open seat and the bar was occupied by my star wars bag which I instinctively held anytime someone, not refilling my empty glass came near. The bartenders were nice, attentive and generous with the vodka. I made two new friends that evening.

Finlandia Tangerine and Finlandia Mango.

Mr. Grapefruit wasn’t too bad either. We only met through other acquaintances though.

There were shots. Plenty of them actually. I know that the number of shots I had was plenty because the guy in the bathroom told me so. Me and the nice warmth slowly filling my head made our way to the bathroom. I pushed the door open with what felt an inappropriate amount of surrealism. It swung open too easily and with a force that bolstered my ego. The music the DJ refused to let die faded just a bit. My thoughts were once again free.

“I am superman” I thought! Shook my head strongly no, not superman he is a douche nozzle.

“Why would you choose Superman?” damn you thoughts and your warm blanket of vodka. First you choose my arch enemy and then you try to overthrow my mind and accuse me of the horrible crime you in fact committed.

“Did I ask that out loud?” Damn.

Oh man did I ask the Superman question out loud? No I couldn’t have, because surely if I had there would be someone in here to hear it. Of course there was nobody in there with me. It was just me, my rebellious thoughts, the Finlandia and the sticker of someone’s face inside the urinal.

The room was one step from the bathrooms with one weak light bulb swinging from a chain you see in horror movies. The walls sported the typical bar restroom graffiti. What would we do if there weren’t any drunken sentences scrawled on the walls? The thing that always gives me pause (and did yet again that night) is the words carved into the mirrors. This act would involve effort. Said “artist” would have to crawl up in some instances and at the very least leaning over an endlessly wet sink. Plus the work it has to take to cut into it.
I stood in there soaking the entire room up. Not that there was much. Said mirror with all sorts of meaningless things etched into it. A pink flyer leaned on the side wall like a drunk. I kicked open the stall door and I’m still not sure why.

Nothing of note.

Just a bit of toilet paper looped lovingly over the handle. Suddenly the stall was filled with sex. I could see the shoed foot pushing up against where the stall and its door connected. It pumped. The leg bent and lengthened. Her dress pulled up and tucked with a neatness not matching what was happening.
I was writing a poem starring into the stall at bar on Coventry. Was this actually happening? My notebook was out and I was scribbling away. I heard the music start to get loud and turned. The poem would have to wait. I stepped up to the sink and slid my notebook into my bag. It thumped in against my leg and a line screamed out.

“Hey buddy nice night huh?” That was the dumbest line I ever heard.

“Deep in thought?” the intruder continued. He was wearing skinny jeans and a “Killers” shirt. Over this he wore a button up shirt, unbuttoned and yet somehow still tucked in. I explained off that I was lost in a poem. He nodded and grunted an approving-esque sound.

“Hey we shared a shot together didn’t we?”As I dried my hands he made his way over. His eyes were brown and he wore beat up Adidas. I knew he’d be the guy banging the girl in my poem. He’d let her pay for the shots and then fuck her talentlessly in the one dirty bathroom stall of a men’s room. She’d have to finish herself in the parking lot after the two minute warrior was long gone. I hated him. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted out of here. I wanted my glass refilled, and the warmth in my head to burn brightly instead.
The free vodka hour was over though.

“Uhm yeah I think the whole bar got shots.” I said.

“Right. Who was the girl that did it?” He shifted. I really hoped he wasn’t getting any that night.

“The bartender?”

“She bought them?” It was a gargley voice. It was as if each letter poured out of his throat. Did he whisper wet nothings into her ear as he used her? Surely she’d vomit all over his checkered shirt?

“Well the bar bought them.” I hate you. “The girls on the other side of the bar asked for them and the bartender included us all.” I hope yours was poisoned!

“Oh.” He washed his hands with a violence that was almost pretty. Water splashed the floor, the mirror and him. “I only got one shot. What about you?”

“4.” I felt the warmth being taken over by the coldness in my chest. I would not write the poem if he was portrayed in a good light. Muse be damned.

“That’s plenty.” He wiped his fucking hands on his jeans. “Don’t you think?”

“I could always use more.”

I pulled my ninja turtle stocking cap down tight around my head. I’d trap the disdain inside there if I could.


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