The Battle of the Bulge

The last thing I want is for my son, Lukas, to grow up to objectify women in the same sense that his father does. You objectify women, Michael? Sadly, I think I do. As pointed out by my loving wife, the last three posts on this blog have contained pictures of overly suggestive cleavage. I understand that women are more than sugary eye-candy, that’s why they have vaginas. Form meets function.

So to balance the massive amounts of mammaries promoted on this website, I present to you the male bulge. What better way to counteract your own sexist tendencies than to objectify yourself. And by ‘objectify myself’, I mean objectifying someone who has a much larger penis than me. And if Real Woman Have Curves, do real men have small penises? I don’t know, just ask Prince Gomolvilas.

And if real women have gestational diabetes, then I suppose I’m married to a dude. Thankfully my wife, Bekki, received a positive result from her glucose tolerance test. Now we can have our cake and eat it, too. She was still referred to a dietitian, but told to ‘take it easy’ until the appointment. Luckily, my wife responds to ‘take it easy’ the same way as I respond to ‘no, Michael, my feet hurt’- ‘thank God it’s just your feet because I really want your vagina’.

Breastfeeding at the Mall

Recently I read a story about Salma Hayek breastfeeding some African baby whose mother couldn't produce any milk. How disgusting. An American mother would never shed her modesty, even to help a hungry child. Modesty is a hallmark of American ideology. Just ask anyone at Fox News. All I had to do was ask a group of teenage girls hanging around Hollister. Who I only talked to, by the way, because I thought they were prostitutes.

With a wife that's seven months pregnant, I get alot of people asking me if we're going to breast feed. It's a serious question meant for a mature audience. I know this, because every time someone asks me I giggle. First off, I won't be breastfeeding the child. I've tried and I've failed. If my breasts could provide some sort of sustenance, trust me, I would. But even if I could, I wouldn't breastfeed in public. Pooping is natural, but you don't see me doing that in the middle of the food court. Right?

The point is, if you want to breastfeed in public, go to Europe. Or Sierre Leone. Or wherever it is people like Salma Hayek go to feed their children. But in America, we keep our shame and our breasts closely guarded. So will my wife breast feed? That's almost as intrusive as asking if we have sex. Which, of course, we don't. We're modest people.

The Butterface Effect

The other day, a friend and I were discussing the meaning of life. I know, what a heady topic, but it did get me thinking about the way religion influences what people put emphasis on in their day to day lives. For instance, a Christian (like the aforementioned friend) believes that this world is only temporary. That is why they could care less about the environment. It's like the rest of us are homeowners and they're the renters on the corner who never mow their lawn. Maybe if they cared a little more about the appearance of Earth, market value wouldn't plummet and God would think twice about the whole Armageddon thing. Just a thought.

On the other hand, Agnostics like myself don't believe in divine judgement. That's why I'm such a prick. I can say whatever I want to whomever I want and I'll never have to deal with the repercussions. Unless, of course, you have muscular friends. In that case, I take it all back. But what about atheists? When someone believes that their is nothing to believe in, what do they believe the meaning of life to be? Self-fulfillment? Helping others? Getting the chance to watch another season of Jersey Shore? Surely Snookie and the Situation are offshoots from some golden deity. Just look at their tan and sculpted bodies.

About this time in the conversation, my friend asked that if I had no written moral code how was I supposed to live a just life? I quickly thought back to one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces of the last 50 years, The Butterfly Effect starring Ashton Kutcher (yes, even greater than Dude, Where's My Car?). It's simple, everything you do effects everything else. If a butterfly flaps his wings in America, some little Asian kid gets brain damage. I don't know how exactly, but that's what I've been told. Look at Jessica Simpson. If her father Joe would have never made all those inappropriate comments about his daughters breasts, she would have never grown up with daddy issues and built such a sexually suggestive image to seek male approval. Joe, from all of Jessica's ex-boyfriends, thank you.

Snookie from Jersey Shore and the Epic Gynecologist Appointment

The wife and I spent over three hours at the doctor’s office this morning. She went in for her second round of testing for gestational diabetes. I’m so excited. A highly restricted diet and health concerns are a huge negative, sure, but imagine how fun introductions would become. “Hi, I’m Michael and this is my wife, Bekki. She has diabetes”. I would pronounce diabetes with a soft e at the end, strictly as an homage to actor Wilford Brimley.

The long wait as the wife got blood drawn four different times did allow me to catch up on pop culture. Luckily there was an issue of People Magazine lying around and I was able to read all about television’s latest craze, Jersey Shore. What better way to eradicate racial stereotypes than by casting people who fit them to a t and then giving them their own show. That’s exactly the same strategy that BET has been using for years. You’re welcome, black community.

After reading the article, the wife and I spent the next two hours and fifty five minutes judging the receptionists lack of courtesy and professionalism and wondering how our experience would have been different if Snookie was in charge. Towards the end of the ordeal, I noticed that the light bulb directly over me was burnt out. I said to Bekki that if Snookie worked here, this never would have happened. I don’t know what’s worse; giving Snookie fictional reign over the doctor’s office or taking three hours to notice I was sitting in a darkened corner.

9 Chubby Nerds and a Black Guy

Urinating is a very important ritual for me. Where I go, how I go and with whom I go matter greatly. For instance, if I'm going to go in public, I wash my hands prior. It's not that I'm afraid of the outside world; it's that I realize my penis is cleaner than most people's hands. Do you really think your coworker washes his paws after every bowel movement? Hardly. When I'm at home, however, it brings me great joy to pee in the backyard with the dogs. Allowing them to pick up on my scent helps to unify the pack.

It's also important that my pee not touch someone elses pee. A small part of me insists that this is nothing more than my racist subconscious. I am, after all, from the South. And what is more discerning than having my healthy fluid mix with inferior urine? I thought that the online dating service I signed up for would help to ease my troubled subconscious. That's why when the questionnaire prompted me to select the nationalities I was most interested in dating, I proudly clicked 'African American'. Sadly, all I got were 9 white chicks and an Asian.

Luckily, my wife also signed up and took the aforementioned questionnaire. Who was she paired with? Nine chubby nerds and a black guy. I didn't even know she was into black guys. That tells you how much I pay attention. Hell, I didn't even know that I liked Asians. In fact, I was so sure that I didn't like Asians that I left the 'Asian' tab unclicked. I was so positively and undoubtedly sure that Asian women were so far removed from my preference that I would never in a thousand years have romantic feelings for one. Fortunately for me, I took the Chemistry.com questionnaire and now know otherwise. Apparently, I'm quite fond of them.

On a side note, this post is a few days late due to a few more battles with the now slain computer virus.

Hello, Heather

As promised, I signed up for an Internet dating site. I took the personality test at Chemistry.com and it matched me with some pretty hot numbers. Unfortunately, I refused to pay the $26.65 sign up fee, so actually contacting and talking with these women is out of the question. Instead, I'll just look at their pictures and pretend we had long meaningful talks about life and love. Hey, Heather, remember when you made that really charming and introspective comment about how people treat one another? Of course you don't. But you might ask yourself; if you're just looking at pictures of women and fantasizing, how is that any different than looking at pornography? Well, when you look at porn you stroke your penis. When you look at Chemistry.com, you're just stroking your ego.

I did find out a bit about myself through the websites personality test. For instance, did you know that I'm interested in sex? "Of all twelve (primary/secondary) types, you are also the most sexual-because both dopamine and testosterone stimulate the sex drive". I had no idea that I was such a sexually driven person. I should probably tell my wife this. My unstoppable sexual appetite has less to do with me being a pervert and more to do with my genetic makeup. It's not my fault. It's sciences fault. You can't blame me for hunting for strange ass in a grocery store than you can blame a lion for playing piggyback with a gazelle.

Hunting for Strange Ass at the Grocery Store

Flowers. Hallmark cards. Heart-shaped candy and boxes of assorted chocolates. Is there anything that sums up February more than Valentine's Day? Well, besides black history? I doubt it. The fact is, February is for lovers. And why should I be denied love just because I'm married? That's why I've decided to throw my hat into a couple of the better known dating sites; Match.com, eHarmony.com, ect. I'm hoping to find someone who looks like the Sun Maid Raisins lady. And if that doesn't pan out, I wouldn't mind having lunch with the girl from the Santitas bag.

The wife is strangely unopposed to this idea. Perhaps she's too distracted by the ungodly creature that's tap dancing on her bladder. Whatever the case, I'm overjoyed by the opportunity to bring disappointment and regret to a new generation of women. I say women, because I was under the impression that these dating sites are strictly heterosexual. I'm just waiting for a few queens out there to prove me wrong and point me in a more flamboyant direction. I wonder if the Brawny guy is available.

Oddly enough, my son is also for sale. The wife and I have been pimping out his baby registry info to anyone and everyone who will listen. Well, are you listening? #43691882 at babiesRus . And if unrewarded generosity is as unappealing to you as it is to me, I'm offering the consolation prize of naming my son. The first person to buy something from our registry will get the honor of naming our son. I'm not just talking abut the first name, either. I'm talking about the whole shabang. How does Louise Larsen, Jr. sound? Or Prince Gomolvilas, Jr.? And, Prince, if the Brawny guy is available, I'll take the one from the 1980's. I can't resist a guy with a moustache.

Sarah Silverman and the Toyota Death Trap Recall

When I first saw the movie Speed, I never imagined that it would play out in real life. I'm speaking, of course, of the massive number of Toyota's that are being recalled due to sticking gas pedals. There have been reports of some automobiles reaching speeds of 130 mph before being stopped only through collision. I can't tell if I'm watching CNN or a Jason Statham movie. As Toyota releases recalls and apologies, I have only one logical question: where the hell is Dennis Hopper?

Another unstoppable force is comedian Sarah Silverman. Season 3 of the Sarah Silverman Program airs tonight. Some people might be put off by her confrontational comedy, but it's satire. It's supposed to make you think a little. She's like a female version of Larry the Cable Guy. Only cuter. And more Jewisher. Oh, and her comedy act is totally different from his. So I guess she's not like him at all. But she is like these new Toyota death traps. She's shiny and fast.

Whores, Girlfriends and Guys Named J.D.

I was saddened to hear of the recent death of author J.D. Salinger. When I was a child, I often dreamt of running away to New York and paying for a prostitute. Salinger's novel, the Catcher in the Rye, gave me hope that my dream could one day be fulfilled. The only difference is, I wouldn't have pussed out like the fictional Holden Caufield. I would have given that whore six and a half inches of American made reality - 3 minutes of sex followed by 57 minutes of crying, 'cause all be damned if I'm paying for the second hour.

Another J.D. to recently pass is the main character from the ABC comedy Scrubs. The network execs didn't exactly kill him off, but he might as well be dead with as few 'guest appearances' as he makes. Ever since ABC bought the show from NBC and Zack Braff walked, the show just isn't the same. Watching the show now is like staying with your hot girlfriend after she gets really fat. Sure, the sex is still good, but her self-esteem issues are a total drag. If I wanted that type of bedroom talk, I'd just have sex with my wife.

Vagina Envy (The Vagina Trilogy: Part III)

With this being the third post in the past week and a half relating to the female reproductive organ, one might say that I am a leading authority on the subject. Sadly, I'm no more a spokesman for vagina as Steve-O is a spokesman for universal health care. Sure he's been to the hospital more times than Michele Duggar, but I heard he got his doctorate from a clown college.

No, I'm what you would call an amateur enthusiast. My heart's in the right place, but I lack the knowledge and field work to be a true professional. I honestly don't even know what a vagina looks like in the wild. What are its migration patterns? What is its life span? What is its natural habitat? -Possibly a bottle of Tylenol, because every time I go looking for it my wife gets a headache.

I do know that it's where babies come from, and this fact is constantly held over me by the old ball and chain. "Until well after this child's born, it's 80/20. I'm invested 80%, you're invested 20%" And a small amount of vagina envy has definitly been brought to the surface. Peeing while standing up and having an external sack are dwarfed by the awe inspiring magnitude of child birth. Her breasts will become larger. Her stomach will expand. The bones in her hips will actually move. It's almost like I'm married to Optimus Prime. Sadly, their's only one thing on me that can double in size, and that's my waistline.

The Good, the Bad and the Vagina

Along with a strew of other baby books, my wife recently purchased and devoured the book Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy. It's all about the good, bad and ugly little details of her pregnancy with son Evan. One anecdote was found so utterly amusing by my wife that she had to indulge her penchant for toilet humor and share the story over dinner. In the book, Ms. McCarthy gives specific details about the changing consistency of her vaginal discharge since becoming pregnant. She describes the discharge as "thicker and slimier" and lovingly refers to the residue it left on her underwear as a "snail trail".

I'll give you a minute to digest that image. It's like staring into the sun, where the longer you think about it the more permanently burned into your retina it becomes. I even shared this story with a male friend of mine who reacted with horror. "Jenny McCarthy's centerfolds helped me enter manhood! Why would she say that?" Whatever mystery or magic McCarthy's vagina held over my friend is now gone forever. It is replaced by the knowledge that what lies behind that tuft of blond bush is not only for sex, but also for creating babies (and pee).

I suppose the glitter fades with every new experience, not just McCarthy's vagina. The best we can hope for is that some things in life actually live up to the hype- unlike Bruno, which totally blew (insert pun here). Or we can just realize that nothing is perfect and that the rainy days are just as beautiful as the sunny ones. Hell, even Humphrey Bogart shit his brains out on occasion. Does that make you like Casablanca any less?

Death of a Socialite

Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson empire, has passed away at the age of 30. She has left behind her adopted daughter, a celebrity girlfriend and two pampered pooches who have, apparently, pissed alot of people off. Los Angeles police were called to the home of Johnson's fiance, reality tv star Tila Tequila, to settle a dispute with friends Bijou Philips and Nicky Hilton as they came to collect Johnson's two dogs on behalf of her family. Tequila claimed that the two wanted to put Johnson's elderly dog, Zoey, to sleep and bury it with her. Luckily, Johnson and Tequila had not yet wed. Under heiress custom, all legal property must be buried in the tomb with the deceased.

And celebrity gossip columnist Perez Hilton can bad mouth her all he wants, but my heart goes out to Miss Tequila who, sadly, has only a few hundred thousand Twitter followers to comfort her. Sure her completely random and emotionally charged Tweets are skeptical at best, but if he has never lost a friend who was also doubling as a pawn in a strange and strategic career move, then how can he possibly judge her? Perez, don't hate. It's not flattering.

And get ready, Perez, I've heard that these things happen in threes. First it was Brittany Murphy, then Casey Johnson, so what next? Tila's career? Soon to be ex-wife of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, Jenny Sanford? We all know how vengeful those politicians can be (California congressman Gary Condit, anyone? For the moment, though, Mrs. Sanford is not dead. She is, however, extremely pissed. Fortunately for her, and her publicist, she has bottled her rage in the form of a tell all memoir, Staying True. The memoir is being released in early February months before it's previously scheduled date. Mrs. Sanford, people don't read books anymore. If you really want someone to connect with your words of pain and betrayal, I suggest you channel them into a series of Tweets. Has the death of Casey Johnson taught you nothing?

Guy on a Red Couch

Yes, the couch is red and the guy is me. Enjoy:

Young Pussy and Old Vagina

With society placing more emphasis on youth, it's not surprising that the standard of beauty is somewhat less than mature. I remember fondly looking at my grandfathers old Playboy's and marveling at the lush and curly bushes. These girls weren't the 12 year olds I was too nervous to talk to, they were beautiful grown women with a dense underbrush. Now it's commonplace to shave your wiffer and throw some baby powder between your legs. Kinda reminds me of those 12 year old girls I was too nervous to talk to.

Former 12 year old and Disney star Miley Cyrus seems to be the unofficial spokeswomen for our Lolita-lust. Not only does she prance around in full makeup and short-shorts, she poses for Vanity Fair with no shirt on. More shocking was the photo from the same series with father Billy Ray Cyrus. In the photograph, Miley is apparently using her elbow to keep her father's ballsack warm.

Remember when all the comedians and late night talk show guys were blabbering on about the Olsen twins and the countdown until their eighteenth birthday? How long until we start counting down to the time where it's socially acceptable to start the aforementioned countdown? First we'll have to establish an age we find appropriate to start said countdown. This age, of course, will drastically reduce as time goes by. Let's start with 15. 15 will be the age where it's acceptable to think about having sex with a girl, but not to actually go through with it. That age is still set at 18, as outlined by your state law enforcement agency.

I think I'll start cruising the local nurseries. That way I'll have 15 years of anticipation and 3 years of sexually depraved fantasies before I can actually start pursuing her. Then, one lucky night I'll find myself removing her pink Care Bear panties only to find a woolly and unkempt bush staring back at me. Upon seeing this pubic hair, I will surely lose all interest. I think I might just skip all that and think about Anita Ekberg.

Ernest Ruins Christmas

Did you ever watch those Ernest movies growing up? Ernest Saves Christmas was always my favorite. So much, in fact, that we named our first dog Ernest in honor of the film. And, yes, Ernie has saved Christmas on several occasions, but this year was not one of his better performances.

My mother and father trekked the icy roads to visit us this week. My mother was in the room during the ultrasound to play witness to the teary eyes and gasps of joy when the doctor announced that we would be having a bouncing baby boy. Few times in my life have I been happier than at that moment. I can't wait for all of the wonderful father/son bonding experiences. We can hike. We can fish. We can tell girls we love them just so they'll show us their boobs and then we'll never call them again. It will be truly magical.

After the ultrasound, we drove up to Asheville for some heavy duty baby shopping. My mom promised to buy us a crib, but went all out with a 4-in-1 convertible crib, bedding, a mattress and baby clothes. It was more than we were expecting, but we didn't protest too much. The bedding has a jungle theme which can only mean one thing: I have free reign to paint tigers on our walls.

On the drive home, we decided on an evening of pizza and television (none of us were capable of much else). But before I could even turn the lights on as I walked in the front door, I slipped on a huge puddle of brown grossness. Once I flipped the switch, we noticed four more piles of brown grossness. Then as we marched through the house, we were met with three more huge piles of grossness on our brand new couch. Then I found another pile on the old couch, and two more piles on our new area rugs. Just as we started to put the pieces together, Ernie comes walking into the room with a paper Christmas bag wrapped around his neck.

Ernie is fine. After Bekki going into hysterics and calling the emergency vet, Ernie is fine. Apparently, he got into some chocolate my mom had brought me. You see, Terry's Chocolate Orange is a Christmas staple for me. So my mom, being the superb gift-giver that she is, brought us up two. Ernie wasn't aware they were for us and decided to eat both of them and most of the tinfoil that they're wrapped in. The piles of brown grossness weren't poop after all, they were piles of orange flavored chocolate and orange flavored stomach bile. Thank you, Ernie, you saved Christmas.

Happy Black Friday

Is this black enough for you?

I Hear There's Good Money in Hurting People's Feelings

On last Friday's episode of the Joy Behar Show, pop icon Robert Pattinson was the subject of public ridicule. Not only was Pattinson viciously mocked, he was done so by Danny Bonaduce. Fans of Pattinson will undoubtedly riot. There will be panic in the streets and mayhem in middle schools everywhere. To add insult to injury, Bonaduce made the slanderous statements while apparently dressed up as a pirate. That or some sort of transgendered gypsy.

Bonaduce, former child star and current hack, compared Pattinson to a blow fish and expressed fear of Pattinson because "he would definitely see me coming". More hurtful than comparing Pattinson to a fish, apparently, was comparing him to actress and celebutante Tori Spelling. I'm not sure about blow fish, but I'm pretty sure Tori Spelling has feelings - and probably cable.

So where does this trail of tasteless taunting lead us? Right to Conan O'Brien's doorstep. The host of The Tonight Show has finally woken Kirstie Alley from her deep slumber. And she's pissed. After numerous jokes about her weight, Alley responded on her Twitter account with, "I'll tell you ONE BITCH I'm gonna knck out next time I see her is CONAN O'BITCH O'BRIAN..that guy acts like I bit his dick off".

Jokes about some one's physical appearance can be found in any heckler's repertoire. So why all of a sudden is there such a surge of angry recipients? Come on, Kirstie Alley, can't you take a joke? It was all fun and games until you got your feelings hurt.

Castration Ruled as Mandatory Procedure

Alot of different people have been pleading their case for us to circumcise our child. I've been a strong opponent of circumcision, but I'm starting to understand the rationale behind it. If I have a boy and opt for him to be cut, he will have a penis that is easier to clean and, therefore, less likely to suffer from infection. From a purely medical stance, it makes sense, right?

Why stop there? I'm sure there are numerous other body parts just waiting to fowl up. If we removed the testicles from every male child then there would never be another case of testicular cancer. Oh, there are other organs that people get cancer in? Well, remove them, too. And if we end up as nothing more than a head in a formaldehyde jar, at least we won't have to worry about cutting our fingernails.

Another place people often get cancer in are breasts. It's like a cruel joke that God plays that something so wonderful can be so deadly. Oh, I can't catch breast cancer by simply squeezing and/or motor-boating a pair of breasts? Well, then who cares? And that's obviously the position the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force is taking. They just released their recommendation that women should start receiving mammograms starting at age 50, as opposed to their previous recommendation of age 40. They're saying that the insurance companies will continue to cover mammograms before the age of 50, but that they shouldn't be viewed as mandatory. I'm as confident that the insurance companies will cover an unnecessary procedure as I am that there's probably a lobbyist on the PSTF board.

Now all I need is a rubber band and a hacksaw.

No Women, No Gays, No Jews

How gracious of the Pope to extend open arms to the splinter sections of the Episcopal Church. It's wonderful that they can create unity through exclusion. I'm speaking, of course, of the Catholic Church welcoming conservative members of the Anglican faith who are unsatisfyed with how their church sanctions gay unions and ordains gay and female members. Who would've thought the Catholic Church would be common ground for the social elite?

New York Bishop Suffragan Catherine Roskam replied with, "We appreciate the welcome the pope extended to those in the Anglican Communion who are disaffected. We for our part continue to welcome our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters, both lay and ordained, conservative and liberal, who wish to belong to a church that treasures diversity of thought." That's Anglican for "bitch, please".

Read the full article here.

Netflix and the Richmond High School Gang Rape

Recently, I have played witness to a string of vicious sexual assaults. I witnessed these assaults via my Netflix subscription. First, it was an episode of the award winning HBO series Six Feet Under where a young girl, under the impression that she would be raped, ran into traffic and was killed. Then there was the 1995 drama Leaving Las Vegas starring Nicholas Cage and Elizabeth Shue. Shue's character, a lonely prostitute, is gang raped by college students. Finally, we watched Boys Don't Cry, the true story of Brandon Teena, a transgendered man who was viciously raped and murdered. Hillary Swank won an Oscar for her portrayal of Teena.

And I'll be god damned if art doesn't imitate life. It makes you wonder if people are inherently evil. How could two dozen people all find this morally reconcilable? None of them objected. None of them called the police. None of them tried to help in any way. A small part of me hopes that the child growing in my wife's stomach is not a little girl. I couldn't imagine a lifetime of worrying and a lifetime of protecting someone from these wolves that roam our streets and, apparently, our public schools. Watch: