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.

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Sleeping with my wife part the VI

February 8, 2011

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And everyone’s favorite little segment is back.

(I know I know you perverts like the TMI sex posts the most!)

(Settle down!)

It’s been a while since I’ve delved into the virtual treasure trove of blog fodder that is “Sleeping with my Wife”. I chose to do so today because it’s quite easy to blog about this than anything else. As of late the stress of not having/continually searching for a new job has bested me. Not only does the job search prevent me from writing as much as I like to but stress has crept in too.

I won’t bore you with the whines and moans. Stress can foul up a lot of things and writing is no different. So I wanted to keep this place flowing and get the feel for blogging/writing consistently. What better way than a short piece on something that generally writes itself?

(Laziness FTW)

So there we were sleeping as a happy little family. Rasputin was scrunched up on her pillow and Csonka was curled up in a ball by my feet. I’d slept a little bit and then got up to do some writing. I’d recently returned to the bed and had been dozing when she began to stir.

“Huh?” She said.

Then she got up and mumbled something as she swung her feet off the bed. She made her way slowly around the front of the bed and stopped.

“Meow” Csonka warned. A few shuffled steps later and she was next to me on my side of the bed. She stopped.

“Meow.” Csonka said a bit louder.

I shifted as the wifey bent over. Great she’s going to Kung Fu me again! Nope she felt around the small drawer next to the bed. She felt the side of the bed.

“Where?” She searched lower. “Where is it?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh no. Oh no.” She looked some more.

“It’s okay come back in bed honey.”

“Oh no.”

“Come on back to bed.” I rubbed her leg.

She quietly got back in bed. I got up and turned the light on and asked her what she was looking for. She said she didn’t know. I kissed her head and we went back to sleep.


the one with a job search monster

January 31, 2011

So it seems as always the job monster attacks. It ruins any and everything in sight. It makes cups of coffee go cold and writing not get done. After applying to job after job I really don’t feel like writing. The cheap seats here seems to suffer the most, but my poetry and plays do too. I’ve taken the liberty of making a horrible paint shop drawing of how it happens.

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Sleeping with my wife # 3: Things get poopy

December 22, 2010

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Today we return to that familiar pool of ideas. Yep that’s right my wife.
(Congrats you read my crudely made banner for it.)

I’ll warn you now like I warned my wife a long time ago: This will be a short one.

I’m just joking. Okay? I am huge. I mean HUGE. Jimi be packing some serious heat here. King Kong ain’t got shit on me!

(Woo Training Day reference!)

On a side note (I know when has this been anything but a side note?): I just realized the likelihood that the only people who will be reading the jokes about my general are my mom and my sister. Great. Fun times and all but shall we move on? This post will be a shorty.

Like a lot of these instances I stayed up later than she did. She went to bed around midnight. I stayed up taking care of some cleaning up. Also I hoped to get some good writing done before my sister was here for the weekend. So I was up pretty late. I think I ended up getting bed about 3am or so. I was as quiet as I could be and it seemed to work. I managed to get into bed without her shifting or waking up even a little bit.

(Hooray!)

Half an hour later I was still awake when she of course sat up. I looked over at her and she was just sort of sitting up on her knees. She wasn’t moving but appeared to be thinking something over. I was about to tell her to go back to bed when she said:

“Poopy.”

It was said with a sort of disappointed tone. Then there was silence. I waited. The radiator whizzed and then finally I rubbed her leg.

“Lay back down honey.” I rubbed her leg again and opened up the covers for her. She quietly got under them and went back to sleep. We never figured out (really) what the disappointed poopy was about.

Good times.


The one where I kill a man

December 7, 2010

It happened in the Alcazar. We were one of the first to arrive. Melvin sat on a couch and rose to greet us. I lied and said it was nice to meet him. His handshake wasn’t firm, but then neither was mine. He broke into the usual chit chat with Kat. I slid out of my coat and dropped it on a green chair. I reached out and shook the chair. It wasn’t something I normally did. I couldn’t tell you why I did it either. I moved it. I looked. I saw. My mind slipped down a rung.

He slumped in the chair the weight of the world ready to push down on his shoulders. As he sat his gray suit bulging at his stomach more than he remembered. With a sigh he pulled his hat off and hoped this night would end soon. The door barely made a sound but he heard it open nonetheless. The hat fell to the floor a distant memory. He spun out of his chair producing a small pistol as he did. Pop. Pop. He did all this without thinking. The man hardly out of the door way crumpled. Slowly he walked over. Carefully he toed the man’s gun away. He was dead. He knew this but checked anyway. It was time to go. Gunshots aren’t the sort of things you stick around after but he needed to say it. He needed to send this man off properly and with the reverence he deserved. Straightening up he glanced out the door and then he spoke in a hushed tone.

“Do you need anything young man?” he said in a shaky old lady voice.

Son of a bitch.

I looked up and sure enough I had wandered a little too close to the help desk. There was an older woman waiting for my answer. There was a younger man (which younger really wasn’t too hard to be) in the back office and he was staring at me. I matched their looks and then smiled. I lifted my notebook up allowing it once again to be my shield.

“Oh no I’m just looking and writing. I’m just waiting for the rest of the group.”

I fixed my ninja turtle stocking cap. Raphael met them head on. They’d be no match and I held back a laugh. I watched as he jumped over the desk and planted her with a kick to the stomach and a sai to the chest. Before the young guy had a chance to move he was downed with a sai tossed into his forehead.

I moved on. The lobby was warm and well lit. A couple of old ladies sat on one of the vintage looking couches. The décor was a mixture of wood pieces and thrift store chairs. The walls were a white faded brick. I circled the lobby. I walked past the couches and the bathrooms. I stopped at the rack with brochures with things to do in and around town. I searched for any sign of the man from earlier. I would take either one of the men—dead or alive—but they were gone. I fingered a community paper from last month. I hoped to find a headline that would catch his eye. I shoved the paper in his pocket but his coat was just a ghost like he was.

They were watching me now. Not necessarily with the eyes of hawk’s or any suspicion but more with a confused wonder. I touched the sign that told us all visitors had to check in at the desk. To the left was a table with a pot of water for coffee and some blueberry muffins. I wondered if he was hungry.

No of course not don’t be stupid. I looked to my right and there was an old work desk. Above it there were books and papers, and a puzzle box. On the desk sat a puzzle half made. I crossed the room. There was a pile of the pieces waiting to be used.

Begging almost.

He remembered begging. It was often a part of death. He kneeled next to the dead man who he didn’t know. For a brief instance he thought about looking for his wallet. He wanted to say his name to commit his name to memory, but that wouldn’t help anyone. Softly he closed the eyes of man he just killed. This wasn’t helping. He stood and whispered.

“vaya usted con Dios.”

Then he did the sign of the cross. He checked outside one last time and then picked up his hat. As he crossed the lobby a large black man entered the room. His voice boomed. “What is up everybody? What are all of you doing here?’ There was laughter and once again the man in the gray suit faded.

Unnamed.

However the large black man did have a name. It was Oatman or Michael. Which one depended on where you stood on the first or last name debate. He smiled and greeted everyone personally. The night was ready to begin. We sat down first in the lobby and then headed into another room. We sat around a giant conference table. Mints and water made their rounds. There was laughter. There was seriousness. Discussions were had. Ideas were floated. Everything was chummy. I sat in the background watching. Everyone was relaxed.

The violence that came did so swiftly from left field.

I said something. Nobody heard it. I said it a little louder this time standing up. The eyes of everyone fixed on me as I pushed forward. My target on the other side of the room and I was on him before he could react. I kicked him in his large gut. He toppled over. The rest of the group just watched.

One slap. He cried out.
Another slap. He mumbled and struggled. I kicked him. Hard.
A third slap produced a trickle of blood from his mouth.

He looked around but there was no help to be had. I kicked him some more and with a hand that didn’t feel like my own pulled out a sharp knife. He flailed and begged. His eyes locked with the group’s leader. I looked that way myself. One large black fist rose up and came back down as thumbs down.

I kicked him hard one more time just for the fun of it and then slit his throat in one long quick motion. It slurped and sucked and blood sprayed up. He chocked and fell silent. I pulled back blood on my face and neck. The knife fell from my hand. I was his executioner and I didn’t even know his name.

“Vaya usted con Dios.” I whispered.

Just then a lady came into the conference room. She was slim and aging. Her glasses hung around her neck. She asked something. The group startled and mumbled at her. Oatman asked her for two more minutes.
The play reading was about to start. The actors and playwright quickly scribbled in new additions and well one big cut. The blood of that cut was on my hands. I had spoken up. I spoke honestly and from the point of view of another playwright. The body in the corner was that of the psychiatrist and meant its actor would have 1 paragraph of dialogue at the end of the play. When I say the end of the play I mean it literally. It is on the last page. They are the last words heard.

All in all it was an interesting experience. The reading was well received. I always enjoy seeing the wife do theatre stuff. There isn’t a time where she seems happier than when doing stuff like that. She is never as beautiful as when her passion flows like that.

Danger Will Robinson. Danger! Wow that was sappy huh?

It’s my blog and I can be sappy if I want to. Sappy if I want to. You would be too if it—

I know. I know.

(Shut up)


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.


Excuse me maam: Virginia Style

November 9, 2010

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Yep. It already happened again. This time it took place in the lovely mountains of Virginia. The Three Shillelaghs were up there on our traditional trek. The last time we were up there a brewery was being built. This year it had been up and running for a while.

Everywhere I go I like to try a local beer. So we immediately made plans to head up to The Devil’s Backbone Brewery and Restaurant. After a beautiful and relaxing morning we headed out. We stopped at an awesome place named Graves where I chased down that elusive Choco Taco! Yeah!

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We headed up the mountain—Blue Ridge Parkway. This is also a tradition. We do enjoy our traditions, you may have noticed. Anyhoo we get up there and park. There be some optimal picture taking area. The area is beautiful and pics to come—maybe.

Oh come now (That’s what she said!) stop your whining this is another kind of post.

The day was nice. The sky bright blue and had a few puffy white cotton balls floating around in it. It wasn’t too chilly down below (TWSS!) but up on the mountain it was nippy. We enjoyed the view and snapped pictures before heading back down

Devils Backbone had a pretty full parking lot. The restaurant was no different. The sun was slowly creeping down as was the temp. There was an option given to us. Wait for who knows how long to sit inside or have dinner on the patio. It was a nice patio and a nice view too.

It was cold though. The patio did have heat. It consisted of a very lovely fireplace, two hanging heaters and then two moveable heaters. They also offered blankets. The wifey enjoyed the fireplace because she was right next to it. I was to the side/behind of it and Pelvic Joann was across the table of it. The two hanging heaters only helped the tables they were above. Those were the prime seats. The moveable heaters were not on.

In their fairness we didn’t ask about why. Eventually (as we neared the end of dinner) one was turned on and brought over to us. I sat with my hoodie on and up. The ladies took advantage of the blankets.
They were the cause of the post. I mean the blankets not the ladies. Dinner consisted of delicious meatloaf (kat), coffee braised steak (me) and the bone smoker platter (hahaha) for Pelvy. They had bread pudding for dessert.

During the meal some woman sat at the prime table in front of the fireplace AND under a heater. They eventually left and were replaced by some raucous men probably in their 50’s. I made eye contact (my face and beard clearly showing) several times. They were fans of really bad jokes and ribbing one another with even worse jokes.

As we left the ladies left the blankets on their chair. One dude tried to stop them I think. I vaguely remember hearing “hey” as I made it to their table. My front was facing them before turning my back to scoot between their table and the fireplace. My hoodie still up and my hair tucked into it. I get this tug on my arm.

“Miss. I think you ladies left some…oh never mind.”

I turned to face him at this point. Now either he noticed the blankets weren’t ours or that I had a beard and was clearly not a lady. I kept going and he turned back to his table of mid life crisesers.


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