But the first time I did it I was led, literally by the hand, to where the new houses were being built. They were almost finished and were carpeted and everything.

“What if it’s locked?” I said.

“We’re going to find out.”

I was really apprehensive about the whole thing. I didnÂ’t even like the chick and she wasnÂ’t particularly good looking. But she was determined. I was pretty much in a cold sweat as we walked up the driveway. It was late and I should have been home hours earlier and now I was being dragged into an empty house by this girl who was not about to take no for an answer.

I will admit I was terrified. I didnÂ’t picture it like this and I was trying my best to weasel out of it. ItÂ’s funny, but I was one of those clueless guys when I first entered high school. I never really got the hint that chicks liked me; someone else always had to point it out.

“Are you sure?”

“Dude, she had her hand down your pants in public.”

“Yeah, but still…”

Or the girl would just give up and have at my private parts after getting tired of waiting for me to make a move. That all changed when I turned eighteen and had developed some confidence and experience, but at the time? I was pretty much walking around innocently while a string of girlfriends kept trying to get me to do stuff. Eventually theyÂ’d just come out with it verbally, completely frustrated. Often pissed off.

“Oh! Okay!” I was such a dimwit.

So anyway this girl leads me up the drive way and it’s my first time and all, so I’m scared shitless and she tries the doorknob and it opens. The place was nearly finished and she led me into one of the rooms and starts unbuttoning her jeans while I stood there dumbfounded. And when she finally got down to nothing she pulled me down on the carpet and we had at it. I’d say it lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thrusts. Having finished, and not knowing what else to do, I simply continued. Back then I didn’t know guys lost their erection after they finished, because I didn’t. At the time I had no idea it was unique to like 20% of the population. I found out later that there’s a technical name for it, but it’s not important, because I found out later it gave me a huge edge over people with normal metabolisms. So anyway I keep going and then I said to myself, “Christ, I’m having sex! I need to try it with her on top!”

And IÂ’ll leave out all the details but I attempted several positions from various magazines and movies, some of which worked and some of which didnÂ’t, but on the whole it was a really great time. And IÂ’ll tell you yet again how naive I was. When I put my underwear back on my thing was absolutely covered in liquid and it soaked my underwear through. I found out much later that she was an ejaculator. A woman, that you know, squirts when she finishes. So me being an idiot and all thought that all women did that and as I say, much later I found out that that was not the case at all.

So I guess that ends my tale, which was probably way too much information, but I had nothing again and itÂ’s the only true story I could think of that IÂ’ve never told anyone before. Until now. I predict regretting this in 5Â…4Â…3Â…2Â…

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 04:13 PM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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Not that it matters. IÂ’m under the impression that there over 3,000,000,000 blogs on the web and one million more spring up each day. Of those, probably one thousand of them are worth reading, to me, and I will probably never find them. I made the numbers up, but you get the point.

And here I sit. I could have been a contender, but that would have involved me caring about the hits and the numbers and doing the side show act to draw attention and somehow that all reeks of work and ambition. And in the end I would have been “Whack –a-mole’d” anyway, because I’ll never be part of the mainstream anything. When I get too close to the herd I panic and flee, fearing I’ll be swallowed up by the general mediocrity.

If youÂ’ve read this far you will have realized I have nothing to say of any relevance. Again. That makes 2,999,999,999 of us. Yet I keep typing, like one of those assholes at party that corners you and keeps talking and talking about his fucking angina or whatever. And thatÂ’s another thing. I have come to dislike parties. In the old days when I was single I had a reason to be at a party. I was there to work the room. Nowadays, I know who IÂ’m going home with so IÂ’m stuck with the shitty part of the party. The small talk.

It wouldnÂ’t be so bad if people were more interesting and told tales of adventure, but I just donÂ’t give a shit about the Atkins diet or Everwood, or whatever else is sapping the life blood from most people. I donÂ’t want to hear people talking unless they have something interesting to say. Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something. People donÂ’t have to be secret agents to be interesting, but most people live in a soft, wet bubble of banality. LotÂ’s of interesting things happen inside the bubble but they refuse to notice. They donÂ’t have the eye or the imagination to polish up a mundane episode or anecdote and relate it with any gusto.

I’d love to be at a party one day and have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just wrote a book on the migration of American Indians in the 15th century.” That would interest me and I would engage Phil in conversation, but that’s not likely to happen in the circles in which I travel. I would be just as happy to have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just stocked my above ground pool with rainbow trout.” That works for me.

Unfortunately, what I usually get is, “I’m Phil, and I’m getting over a nasty cold.” Or, “I’m Phil…did you see the cover of the new TV Guide?”

And if given the chance, Phil will bring you down with him. His banality will eat away at you until you can get away from him, only to be cornered by another robot with tales of his high school track and field accomplishments back in 1980. ItÂ’s a slow, painful death.

Now is the point in a post where I count up the words, 517 to this point, and think about slashing 250 of them. I’ll look it over to see if it rambles (yes), look at the pacing (which is dreadful in this case) and look to see if I’ve jumped from topic to topic with no theme and no direction. This is where I would start the re-write or trash the entire post. I might pick one small phrase, for instance, “Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something,” and write a new post around that one line and send this one to hell. But not today.

Today IÂ’m going to post this just as it came out, with no re-write, no pacing and no theme. If youÂ’ve read this far I commend you and I apologize in advance, because IÂ’m dedicating this to Phil, the guy who cornered me last Saturday night to talk about his fucking plan to landscape his yard this year. When I walked, he walked. There was no getting away from Phil. He waited OUTSIDE THE BATHROOM DOOR while I peed so he could continue to tell me about his future koi pond.

HeÂ’ll never know how close he was to a full on, Sonny Corleone beating.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:06 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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Last night I sent Shank and his future bride a wedding gift. I was telling my wife what we got them and my wife said thatÂ’s all fine and dandy but asked what I wrote on the card.

IÂ’ll admit that IÂ’m walking on thin ice with things like this. I have enough class to know whatÂ’s appropriate and whatÂ’s not, but I still freeze up.

She was reading my mind, obviously, because just moments before, I was upstairs staring at the blank field where I was suppose to write something wondering what the hell to do. My natural instinct is to write something funny. Or obscene.

IÂ’m not a touchy feely kind of guy. IÂ’m not one of those guys that hugs other guys all the time. IÂ’m not afraid of turning gay or anything, itÂ’s just that I grew up in the firm handshake school. When I grew up there wasnÂ’t a lot of hugging in the family, even with women. I think a lot of it had to do with putting on airs. IÂ’m pretty sure my family was preparing me for a Princeton education where proper fellows didnÂ’t show emotion.

Once when we were in Los Angeles we went to see a band at a well known club. My wife was talking to some friends and when she turned around there was a guy hugging me. He was the lead singer of the band, and as such, he was wearing arm length opera gloves with the fingers cut out. So she turns around and there this guy with opera gloves hugging me and she has no idea who the guy is but thinks itÂ’s hysterical. I was nonplussed, but I had officially been hugged by a friend. I would have rather been hugged by the guyÂ’s girlfriend who was a hotty. ThereÂ’s always the chance sheÂ’ll squeeze your ass and then wink at you when she breaks the embrace, but it didnÂ’t look like that was going to happen. Neither did the Princeton education, but thatÂ’s another story.

All that was some years ago. Friend hugging has now encroached upon my life in a huge way. ThereÂ’s way too much hugging in the world. I donÂ’t like hugging my friendÂ’s wives. I donÂ’t like kissing women on the cheek. I donÂ’t like human contact at all unless itÂ’s with my wife or my kid. Or a hooker. Okay, so IÂ’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean.

Meanwhile, my old lady still wants to know what I wrote on the gift card.

“I think I wrote ‘best wishes’.”

“That’s totally wrong! You’re supposed to say or write ‘Good luck’ to the groom and ‘Best wishes’ to the bride. You should have written both. Don’t you know anything?”

Apparently not. So, Shank and Mrs. Shank, Good luck and best wishes on this joyous occasion.

***Update***

IÂ’ve just been chastised for getting it wrong again in this post. Apparently, itÂ’s:

To the bride, best wishes, and to the groom congratulations.

###

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:25 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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IÂ’m at a loss. Nothing has enraged me to the point of posting in several days. In lieu of anything of substance I offer you my thoughts on booze.

IÂ’m partial to Macallan 18 year old scotch. No ice, no water. ItÂ’s pretty close to perfect. If I canÂ’t get that IÂ’ll go with Lagavulin. If neither is available IÂ’ll move on to one of the Glens or even a Johnny Walker.

If I canÂ’t get scotch IÂ’ll go with MakerÂ’s Mark bourbon. Moving down from there, in no particular order:

Grey Goose Vodka, Harp Lager, Vanilla extract, Nyquil, Hobo-tastic red-flavored wine, Tanqueray gin or one of the fine products reviewed here (a most excellent site).

As you can see, I have a refined palette.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:29 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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I get the feeling no oneÂ’s reading this stuff. Have I driven away all the decent folks with my low-brow drivel? There was a time you know, when I pulled big numbers. No matter, I will not be dissuaded.

I was just thinking that if you know who HR Puffinstuff is, itÂ’s probably time for some sort of middle-aged rectal exam. I vaguely remember the theme song and IÂ’m pretty sure HR was a guy in shabby, B-class baggy animal suit of some kind. Maybe I should schedule a physical.

I think about my childhood a lot. I was a happy kid. I recently came into possession of my baby book. An entry on page six, when I was two or three years old sums it up:

Paul is a happy baby and can sing many songs.

God knows what went wrong. I read that entry to a friend of mine and he just started belly laughing. “Well,” he said, “You’re a sour son-of-a-bitch now!”

Who knows what went awry. Things seemed pretty good up until my twenties. I guess thatÂ’s when responsibility beats the shit out of you and leaves you for dead. Responsibility has sucked the very marrow from my bones.

Now I find myself reliving my childhood in mini dream sequences throughout the day. Who knows, maybe IÂ’m not the only one.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:13 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Phillip:

YouÂ’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. More importantly, what the hell have you done in the last twelve months? I think a list of your accomplishments could be written on the back of business card. With a Sharpie. In addition to lackluster performance, you have an extremely limp handshake that creeps people out.

Janet:

You are, without a doubt, the most talked about person in the whole company. Dumb as a stump with a great body. Very attractive. A solid nine. There is no finer sight than that of you bending over in the copy room picking up paperclips. I love you Janet. I love you with all my heart.

Toby:

Please get out of panic mode. Nobody can be that panicked all day long, every day. Considering what you actually do here, itÂ’s uncalled for. Just pick up the phone and say the name of the company. ItÂ’s not like you have stock options at risk.

Arthur:

No one believes you. Every Monday morning we have to hear about your conquests and skills with women, skis, cards, darts, et. al. ad nauseum. You walk from cube to cube with that fucking mug of coffee like youÂ’re the second coming. And you just donÂ’t get it. IÂ’ve told you before to keep your voice down. IÂ’ve told your manager I was going to take it out of his ass if I found you walking the floors again. I have kicked my office door closed in your face and you still donÂ’t get it. You are universally despised.

Martha:

Stop. Fucking. Cooking. This is a workplace, not the goddamned Waffle House. YouÂ’re stinking up the whole floor with that shit. You know what? IÂ’m the guy that had microwave popcorn banned here. Me. And IÂ’m proud of it. Little did I know it would be replaced by you cooking full fucking meals. You put fish in that microwave one more time and I swear IÂ’ll pee in that thing. You go ahead and try me.

Albert:

You are one seriously confused mofo. LetÂ’s forget for a moment the magnitude of your stupidity and talk about whatÂ’s socially acceptable. Asking if you could borrow someoneÂ’s newspaper and then proudly walking into the shitter is justÂ…justÂ…I fucking donÂ’t know what it is. It horrifies me.

To be continuedÂ…

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:47 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 402 words, total size 2 kb.

I dislike all of you. Immensely. The lot of you are boorish and mundane, without an original thought amongst you.

Specifics

Theodore:

What the fuck do you do in the bathroom all day? ThereÂ’s a fucking pool going now on how many minutes per day you spend in there.

Deb:

YouÂ’re a serious skank. YouÂ’re stinking up the whole floor with the smell of Benson & Hedges and cheap-ass perfume. You must swim laps in that shit. I suspect youÂ’ve had group sex in a moving car whilst smoking a cigarette. Please refrain from speaking to me.

Leo:

If you say, “Think outside the box,” just one more time, I will personally throw you down the stairs. I’ve warned you numerous times.

Carol:

You are way too heavy to be wearing clothes that tight. YouÂ’re not fat, youÂ’re not unattractive, but youÂ’re going to bust the seams on that shit. Please comply, as you seem to be very nice.

Anthony:

YouÂ’re a real asshole and the guy IÂ’m most likely to attack physically. You need to lower your goddamned voice. ThereÂ’s nothing I dislike more than a loudmouth braggart. And you really need new shoes. I would be totally embarrassed to wear those old ratty dogs to work.

James:

YouÂ’re a special case. You love meetings, and I know why. While the rest of us are trying to escape and do actual work, you love to sit there and think in the abstract. I see the way you light up when the brainstorming starts. You know what? There are bad ideas. LotÂ’s of them. And the next time you defend or advance some retarded idea in that conference room I will personally stand up and give an oral history of your fuckups like a griot reciting the 1,000 year history of a village. You will be able to walk under a closed door by the time I get through.

Sam:

I donÂ’t know how many shirts you own, but IÂ’m guessing three. I see you every day and I only count three shirts. ThatÂ’s either very heavy rotation or you need some kind of help.

To be continuedÂ…

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:58 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I have to admit IÂ’m not big on answering the phone. In our house, 95% of all phone calls are for my wife. SheÂ’s on the phone so much the fucking thing gets hot.

Anyway, last night we had an aunt and uncle from out of town come over for dinner. Very conservative and a lot older than us. So weÂ’re sitting there dipping bread into the artichoke pesto when the phone rings. I looked over at my wife and told her to let it ring.

“You know it’s not important,” I said, “You can call them back later.”

She nods in agreement and we go back to chatting in a reserved manner. Just then the answering machine clicks on and a loud voice booms through the kitchen. And at that moment I realized my error.

“Hey asshole!”

It was an old friend of mine. He was hammered. I instantly knew that this would end badly.

“Dude, get your hand off your cock and answer the fucking phone!”

I looked at our guests. They were stunned. Ashen.

“C’mon fuckface, I know you’re there!”

At that point I didnÂ’t know what to do. I realized I was holding my breath. My old lady was looking at me, her eyes pleading. But there was no solution. We were already mortified.

I didnÂ’t know if I should run over and pick up the phone or what. I was about to declare it a wrong number when he addressed me by name, cementing forever the already tarnished reputation I hold in the family.

“That’s Paul’s old college roommate,” my wife offered, “You know how it is…”

But they didnÂ’t know how it is. Or how it was. And we went back to the pesto and I poured more wine and thought about my buddy. And how heÂ’d screwed me royally, and the joy it would bring him when I eventually called back. Somehow, it made me feel better.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:09 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
Post contains 330 words, total size 2 kb.

Phone numbers always used to have the area code in parentheses, like this:

(555) 123-1234

Now, however, I have noticed a trend where all the numbers are separated by the dash and the parentheses have gone the way of the dodo, i.e.:

555-123-1234

There you have it. I am so worth the click.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:09 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Out of three authors on this blog, nobodyÂ’s had the decency to post anything in a week or so. I was on vacation so IÂ’m exempt from criticism. Is this any way to run a railroad?

Meanwhile, IÂ’ve got nothing of substance. Again.

I am completely barren of ideas, thoughts or observation of any kind.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:01 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I set aside some time today to post something of substance; unfortunately, IÂ’ve got nothing and it canÂ’t be forced. So in lieu of that, hereÂ’s whatÂ’s going through my head today.

Mark Twain was an overrated, mean-spirited shitbag. He was a newspaper hack who never really understood the novel, though he talked like he invented the damned thing. Yes, they say he had charisma, but so do many arsonists, motivational speakers and con men, all of which I hold in the same regard.

I never forgave Twain for his idiotic and exaggerated criticism of JF Cooper. He came off looking like the nasty bastard he probably was. Aside from my unexplainable contempt for Twain today, my thoughts have been relatively shallow.

I donÂ’t like Poptarts; they just donÂ’t appeal to me.

I never had a proper lunch today and now IÂ’ve got the urge to stuff big fistfuls of dry cornflakes into my mouth. I do that sometimes, late at night, when IÂ’m lying on the couch alone. I lie there like a bum with the TV volume low, so as not to wake anyone, and stuff big fistfuls of cornflakes into my mouth. IÂ’m careful not let the crumbs get on the couch or fall in between the cushions, because thatÂ’s tantamount to killing kittens in my wifeÂ’s view. That and IÂ’m not a pig. I donÂ’t wish to wallow in filth myself.

And I lie there in my underwear and a wife-beater, flipping through the channels, looking for salvation.

Some days you have it, some days not so much.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:02 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 270 words, total size 2 kb.

I donÂ’t know what to say.

I was standing at the counter with bottle of Coke. I reached into my pocket and out came some crumbled up bills and a handful of coins. I look down at the coins and IÂ’ve never fucking seen them before. I thought they were Canadian or some other worthless currency and then realized they were nickels. All different kinds.

I had a regular nickel, a new version of a buffalo nickel and yet another one with half of JeffersonÂ’s head on it. I was dumbfounded.

WhatÂ’s up with all the new nickels? ItÂ’s bad enough theyÂ’re minting new quarters with Newark and Detroit on them once a month, now the US mint is changing the nickels every week. I just donÂ’t get it. I donÂ’t know what the national debt is, but how the hell can we be spending our resources changing the goddamed coins every week? ItÂ’s got to cost money drawing the designs, stamping the plates and all of that crap. Does this make sense? We should be getting rid of the fucking dead wood in these agencies and theyÂ’re hiring by the busload down at the nickel division.

How many nickels do we need? Are they even worth five cents anymore? Are we going to have nickels from every state? WhatÂ’s next, fifty new dimes? This is fucking criminal! I havenÂ’t been this enraged since they canceled The Rockford Files.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:03 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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