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This will be short and sweet.


Here is a conversation I had with my Grandma Swafford a couple years ago. I thought it was funny… Especially if you grew up on a farm with a bunch of cats.


Me: Do you like cats?


Grandma Swafford:  No, not necessarily. Because well, they are so cute and funny when they are kittens but then they turn into, well…(long pause while she tries to think of a way to explain what she means to say)…… cats.


Haha…I knew what she meant. Not that I don’t like cats when they grow up…I grew up with thousands of barn cats over the years. You know the house I grew up in since I was 8-9 years old… Big, old, white farm house in the country….we’ve always had a few horses…and tons of cats…barn cats.


Growing up around these extensive feline societies (I swear, barn cats all have a very obvious pecking order/hierarchy), you realize that a lot of the cats are cool and a few of them are “meh,” and a few of them are just straight-up spooky…And that’s putting it lightly. Many people who have been around barn-cats their whole lives just really, really hate cats. Some love them.


I think some are awesome. Can’t stand the spooky ones though.


I don’t have a mullet-man pic for this one. This just came to mind and I want to post it on here because I don’t want to forget it. Hypothetically, when I am 50 years old…and my grandparents have been dead for years, it’s conversations like these…with them or anyone I loved who I haven’t seen in years… I dunno, I would just be grateful that this were a memory I did not forget…because I had it written down somewhere.


I wish I would have written more notes down about some of the cool memories I’ve had with my 3 grandparents and all great-grandparents who have died. I should probably just start writing stuff like this in a notepad or Microsoft Word. Whatever… for now, it’s here.


I have a few posts I want to get to…I just can’t ever seem to find the time or motivation to get to them.


There are two posts I have been putting off for 5 years or longer.  I think that will be the funniest shit I’ve ever posted, but I just can’t get to it because I know it will take forever, for I will want to make it look perfect.  One of these days, maybe….


Thanks for reading.


Everybody farts…I guess. I don’t necessarily like it. If I had the choice to not fart, I would select that choice.


As ridiculous as it sounds, I have a difficult time accepting the fact that women fart. I have a really difficult time coming to terms with the fact that my wife farts. I don’t know why…maybe it’s just a matter of not wanting to associate my significant other, who I am very attracted to, with something so notorious for having a rancid odor.


Farts spark many awkward situations. For example, have you ever been around a bunch of people and had to fart so you walked away to be by yourself where you could act like you were doing something on your own, but in reality you just walked away to fart and you didn’t want anyone to smell it… Then after you fart, someone decides to walk up to talk to you, while your fart is wafting in the air in a 5 foot or so radius surrounding you…which leaves the person who approached you either thinking you are a smelly person, you pooped your pants or you farted??? This has happened to me a few times. I am such a stickler when it comes to fart denial, that I actually have the audacity to ask the other person if they farted…knowing damn well that it was me who did it and knowing damn well that they know it was me who did it. Heck, I could be in an elevator with one other person and have a fart slip, and if it smells, I will act like I am repulsed by the other person in the elevator with me because they farted… I never, ever, EVER claim my own farts.  Farting embarrasses me.


To this day, I still remember from school, roughly 75% of the girls who farted in class to the point where I could hear it. Heck, I remember a girl farting in class when I was in Kindergarten and thinking to myself, “ewww that’s gross.” And I am 32 years old now. For some reason, those memories always stuck with me. Those memories…linger forever.


I think I’ve written enough to prove that I have a ridiculous, neurotic way of approaching and reacting to farts. I wish I could shake it, but can’t.


Have you ever been in a conversation with someone (one person) and had to fart? And the conversation becomes an overly lengthy one to the point where you can no longer hold the fart in any longer, so you decide to let the fart go, crossing your fingers that: 1.) It is silent and 2.) It doesn’t smell, for if it does smell, it would give you no choice other than to wrongfully accuse the other person of farting?  I’ve had a few of these situations.  I’ve been in both roles…I’ve been the farter and I’ve been the one speaking to someone who farted.  Always awkward…and I always end up asking the other person, “hey, did you by chance…fart?”


This story is about a situation I had with someone who farted while in mid-conversation with me. And to say the least, this was one of the most bizarre farts ever farted.


So one day, I went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few odds and ends we needed around the house. I wasn’t in a talkative mood at the time. I wasn’t in a hurry or anything, but I went there with the mindset of, “I hope I don’t see anyone that I know, for I just want to go in, pick up what I need, leave and get home ASAP so I can watch ‘The Wonder Years’ on Netflix.” It was all business.  Pick up my shit, nod and say “hey” to anyone I know and get out. I’m sure all of you know the type of mood I am talking about.


So I’m in Wal-Mart and I went about my business uninterrupted for the first 10 or so minutes.I browsed the CD/DVD section. I picked up my Right Guard, paper towels, trash bags, Oreos, etc. I was almost finished. Then, while walking through the condiments aisle, I noticed a dude I used to kind of know a decade or so ago. This guy was a middle-aged man with chubby red cheeks, a large gut, a goofy perma-smile and a hairline with hair color that didn’t match the age of his face…It was difficult to determine if he was 45 or 65 years old for he had the face and body of a man of 60-65, yet a hairline and lack of grey hair of a man who is…30. He also has a slight Southern accent. He is literally one of the last guys I want to run into when I am not in a “chatty,” social mood, for when he starts to talk to you, you can’t get away from him.


Now, what made this guy intolerable when I used to see him often was the fact that he always tried to get me to join this Jehovah’s Witness church which he was an avid member of. So when I noticed him in the condiments aisle that day, I thought, “shit,the last damn thing I want to do right now is have a long freaking conversation with some odd guy I haven’t seen in 10 years about how my only glimmer of hope for salvation is if I make a commitment to the Jehovah’s Witness religion.”  This guy was always barking up the wrong tree with me with that stuff and no matter how many different times or different ways I informed him that I had absolutely no interest in joining his religion, he always tried. And it was always an extensive, unavoidable conversation that was difficult, if not seemingly impossible to escape from. I always had to make up some crazy ass lie to get away from him. I’d blurt out the first crazy fib that came to my mind. Like, “oh dude, sorry to leave during your Jehovah’s Witness pitch, but I just received a text that there was a heard of baboons that escaped from the zoo and they are attacking our hogs with sticks! I gotta go!” That is an absurd excuse to begin with. Not only do I not own any hogs, but the nearest zoo with baboons is like 100 miles away…so it is unlikely that these baboons would have traveled all that way to beat my hogs with sticks had they escaped. Whatever, I didn’t give a shit how absurd it was…I’d say anything to jet out of those dreaded conversations with him.


Now, we will just pretend this guy’s name is “Dingledorf.” When I got near Mr. Dingledorf with my shopping cart, I kind of glanced at him, studying him, hoping that he wouldn’t recognize me and I could just walk on by and pick up the remaining couple-few items I still needed to pick up. Of course he noticed me right when he looked my way and in his Southern-ish accent was like, “well hi Josh, nice to see ya!” “Yeah, you too, Dingledorf,” I replied. I slowly crept my shopping cart by with hopes that maybe, just maybe our conversation would end there. “So, what are you up to in your life these days? How is life-a treatin’ ya?” he inquired. “Oh great, here comes the Jehovah’s Witness recruiting pitch. Ok, just try to make yourself come off as small as a target as possible,” I thought to myself. “Umm, I am real good. I am real content with life and I feel that every component and any potential void in life has been fulfilled. I am just incredibly happy,” I said. That was a total lie, but for Pete’s sake, I could see him slithering into a “pitch” from the second sentence that came out of his mouth. Honesty was not a top priority of mine at that moment. Escaping the conversation was the top priority. “Well, you know what could make you feel more content?” he asked. “UGH!!! Dingledorf is wasting NO time in discussing my salvation and how I can be saved by joining the Jehovah’s Witness church,” I thought. And then he followed with something that I didn’t expect. “Do you have life insurance?” he asked. Ha. So this was his kick now…selling life insurance. I responded, “yeah, I have two plans.” Which isn’t a lie. He replied, “well, I sell life insurance now and I think I can find something more suitable for you than what you have now.” This is when I put him into “total quack mode.” I do this when someone is either trying to sell me something or goes on and on about something that I don’t care about. Basically I just stand there, nod my head when suggested to, watch their mouths move and fail to process a single word they say to me. They can be quacking like a duck as far as I know, and I wouldn’t notice it, for I am not paying attention to what they are saying…at all. Just kind of going through the nonverbal stuff that makes me appear as if I am paying attention…when I am not.


So this guy continued to quack at me about life insurance and I stood there nodding my head, itching for the conversation to end so I could be on my way when suddenly, while he was speaking, a loud, high pitched squeal, followed by a “putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt” noise came from his pelvic region. When I heard the high pitched squeal, my immediate thought was, “what the hell?!?! What IS THAT?!?!”  However, when I heard the “putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt” noise, it was obvious to me that this guy had just let out one of the most bizarre sounding farts I’ve ever heard in my life…in mid-conversation.


Now, when I said that this was one of the weirdest sounding farts I’ve ever heard in my life, I meant it. Since it happened, I have tried to come up with an accurate comparison as to what it sounded like and the best I can do in terms of describing the sound is this: that the squealing noise sounded like a high-pitched black man, like Chris Tucker (from the movies; Friday, Rush Hour, The Fifth Element, etc.) yelling, “sayyyyyy whaaaaaaaaat” with his hand cupped over his mouth. The “putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt” noise sounded like someone trying to start a moped with a very low battery and a faulty starter. Ok, so imagine the notoriously high-pitched Chris Tucker standing next to a moped. Chris Tucker puts his hand over his mouth and in his high-pitched voice yells, “sayyyyy whaaaaaaaaaatttt!?!?!” And then Mr. Tucker tries to start the moped, which has a faulty starter and a very low battery.  That is what this guy’s fart sounded like. I was in total shock of how this guy’s fart sounded, I couldn’t believe he let such a powerful, odd-sounding fart escape his sphincter while he was in mid-conversation me and I REALLY couldn’t believe that he continued to go on about this life insurance shit after he farted without taking the time to say, “excuse me.” He just kept going on like nothing happened.


Then the smell hit the air. It was disgusting. The smell was just as rancid as the sound was weird. It smelled like a dead mouse doused in sauerkraut juice. It put me in a daze. It was a daze similar to the one I was in when we had our family photo taken in 1986. I was:


stupid kid


I just stared at him with that stupid, befuddlefucked expression on my face that I still get today when something absolutely floors me. And this guy just kept on “quacking” about this life insurance policy that he thought would suit me. “If only I would have bought into this life insurance policy before being exposed to this fart of his,” I thought to myself…because that fart was so rancid and gross, I thought I could die.


After another minute or so of him quacking and me staring at him with my mouth wide open, he finally acknowledged his fart. He must have noticed how thrown off I was by it. He paused for a second and said with his semi-Southern accent, “I’m sorry about my flatulence. I ate me some cheese.” Without thinking, I replied, “you ate you some cheese?” I couldn’t believe I uttered those words…it was like I was talking like him…..”you ate you some cheese?” Ugh. It does kind of explain the dead mouse smell. Maybe a mouse crawled into his ass on a mission to find that cheese and ended up dying.  Anyways, he replied, “yeah, I ate me some cheese. I’m sorry bout my flatulence.”  Then he went right back into his life insurance pitch like nothing happened.


After another couple minutes of this guy’s continuous quacking about the life insurance policy combined with the lingering scent of a dead mouse doused in sauerkraut juice, I made the decision to try to slyly flee from the conversation and this guy in general. I came up with the first lie that came to my head. I said, “well hey man, I gotta go. My wife is in the hospital giving birth right now and I probably need to get back to her hospital room.” “Oh your wife is having a baby?’ he asked. “Yes. She is having twins,” I replied. I figured this excuse would be understandable. He would at least let me leave now, right? WRONG. He responded by informing me that I can take out life insurance plans on both of my children that were being born that moment. Holy shit…these people stop at nothing.  I ended up just looking at him and saying, “I’ll see you later, Dingledorf.” Then I walked away.


Out of all of the bizarre, cringe-inducing, awkward situations involving farts that I have experienced in my lifetime, that particular fart sticks out as being the worst. It was preposterous.


When I told Rick Dickulous about how much I dislike the smell of farts, he was:


dumb white trash

Rick can’t fathom the fact that someone actually dislikes the smell of farts, for he is so fond of that odor.



disgusting hillbilly

One time when I spoke to Rick Dickulous, he farted mid-conversation like the guy in the story did. The only difference was, he said, “I am sorry bout my ‘fartulence,” I ate me some stink bait.” That kind of explains why Rick doesn’t catch very much fish to feed his family…because he eats the bait.


A couple months ago, a bunch of people noticed a meme of ol’ mullet Rick appearing on their facebook newsfeeds via several shares. I thought it was funny, for the meme was spreading like wildfire and I had absolutely no clue  who created it.  When that happened, I decided to write a post, asking for people to make their best “Rick” memes and send them to me via email ricoswaff@ricoswaff.com and I would publish the best ones. This didn’t catch on as I would have liked. I only received a few of them and one of them I couldn’t post, for it was a meme of Rick’s brother, Rootbeer…who is played by my actual brother, Justin. The meme was a bit obscene and I wasn’t too sure my brother wanted to be connected to it.


You remember Rootbeer, right?  Story: Rick the Mullet Man’s Brother, Rootbeer


Maybe this will refresh your memory:


root beer trash

Rootbeer on the left, Rick on the right. Rick is pissed because Rootbeer is wearing his clothes and is using his prized “butt-scratcher.”


Fun times. I need to make another Rootbeer post…Justin is funny.


There was one meme that was sent to me that I thought was worthy of being posted, for I think it’s pretty funny. It was created by my cousin, David “Superbeast” Swafford.


mullet meme



Good work, Cousin Superbeast!!!


Rick has been randomly spotted and pointed out to me by my friends on numerous social media websites, created by complete strangers, usually in the form of a meme, but also in advertisements… One of my favorite advertisements was with a fishing lures company called 5X3 Fishing. They posted the following pic of Rick fishing off of a busy bridge as seen in the story, “Dingleberries Who Fish Off Busy Bridges.”  Their tagline was, “Don’t Be Like This Guy! Buy Our Fishing Lures for 30% Off Today!!!” Funny stuff…


white trash fisherman

You definitely don’t want to be like THIS guy.


Well, so semi-recently, another Rick meme surfaced. This one was created and posted by “itsajeepmeme” on Instagram. Similar to past random Rick sightings, this meme was discovered by one of my friends who called it to my attention. I have no idea who “itsajeepmeme” is…I just know they have a lot of fans on Instagram.  Check out the meme they posted of Rick:


jeep meme white trash

Well done, itsajeepmeme. Very funny stuff.  I think the last time I looked, the pic had well over 2000 likes…close to 3000, I think. I don’t know shit about Instagram, but it sounds like a lot…?


I wonder how many memes, advertisements, etc. the mullet man has been used for that I am unaware of…?


Man…I’ve got a funny mullet man picture story in the works… It’s called, “Rick The Mullet Man Writes an Alphabet Poem.”  That post will probably be my funniest one to date, IMO… I have been putting it off for 5 years…I have a ton of stories that I have put off for 5 or more years. I have the poem written as well as the back story… I just need a few more pics to be snapped. And I think I may create a video for it. This will be the first time that I will be posting a mullet man video…so I need to work on getting his voice right… I think the voice I have in mind for him will work…a deep, husky, gravelly voice with a hill-rod accent?  Sound good? I’m up for suggestions…



So a few weeks ago, we stayed at a hotel for a few days for state wrestling. On the final night, I had a very awkward encounter with a lady who inhabited the room across the hall from our room.

State wrestling was a 4 day event and I was accompanied by my wife for the trip. My youngest two brothers both qualified for state and wrestled in this tournament. They both did well and placed. I was very proud of them. I was also very proud of our home town wrestling team…the Mediapolis Bulldogs. For the first time in the school’s history, we not only won state in wrestling, but our wrestling team also became the first boys team to win state in any sport in the history of the school’s athletics.

Needless to say, on the last night we were there, which was also the day in which it was officially decided that our team won the state title, we celebrated.


Now, although we did celebrate the state championship at the hotel bar that night, I didn’t personally over-do it or anything. In other words, I didn’t guzzle down enough beer to kill a couple dozen woolly mammoths like I used to do in college. However, I did put down a few beers. It was a fun, happy night. It had been a long time coming for my beloved Mediapolis Bulldogs wrestling team.


After a couple hours of hanging out with the other fans, relatives, coaches and affiliates of the team at the hotel bar, Krystal and I ventured back to our hotel room at about 1:00 AM. It was the conclusion of an exciting, adrenaline-filled week and I was tired. When we settled into our hotel room for the night, I stripped down to my underwear, which is what I sleep in most nights, burrowed underneath the covers and fell asleep almost immediately. I was down to my last packed pair of underwear…my whitey-tighties. They were white Fruit of the Loom briefs, to be exact.


After laying down in bed, the next thing I remember is opening my eyes while laying down in the fetal position, shivering. My face was buried in a puddle of slobber, which is normal for me. I slobber in my sleep. However, something wasn’t right. I felt cold and my body was uncovered. When I reached for the covers to cover myself up, I noticed that there were none. “That’s odd,” I thought, as I the deep-sleep induced fog I was in was slowly beginning to clear up a bit. When I moved my face away from the slobber puddle, I noticed that my face was resting on a surface that felt like the soft, cloth side of Velcro. “Ok, that feels like hotel carpet on my face,” I thought to myself. “Did I fall off the bed or something? The surface I am laying on sure seems firm.”  I finally raised my head up and opened my eyes. The situation was worse than I realized. I was laying down in the fetal position, wearing nothing, but my whitey-tighties, shivering due to being cold, my face caked with slobber…AND I WAS IN THE FREAKING HALLWAY OF OUR HOTEL, WITHOUT A ROOM KEY TO GET BACK INTO MY ROOM!!!


I panicked and jumped to my feet. I experienced rapid, panic-induced thoughts such as: “How in the hell did I get here?! How long have I been passed out in this hallway in my whitey-tighties?!?! What time is it?!?! Oh crap, will Krystal wake up if she hears me pounding on the door?!?! Will she let me in?!?!?!”


After I hopped back up to my feet, I began knocking vigorously on the door of the room that I was lying down right next to, which I figured was my room. I knocked for about 3-4 minutes with no answer, while standing there in my undies, screaming, “let me in!!! Let me in, please!!!” Then finally, the door slowly opened. I felt a brief sense of relief. “Finally Krystal woke up to let me in!!!” I thought. This happy thought came to a abrupt end when I noticed that the person who opened the door was someone I had never seen before in my life. I knocked on the door to the wrong damn hotel room. The person who answered was a woman who looked to be in her mid-40’s or so and she had a terrified expression on her face as if she was gazing at a bright white ghost, when in reality, she was actually staring at my bright white body, covered only by my skimpy, bright whitey-tighties. I made eye contact with her, her face appeared more and more horror-stricken every passing second, and without thinking, I blurted out the first and only words that went through my mind at that particular time… I said, “ohhhhh SHIT!!!”


I proceeded to skee-daddle away from this petrified woman. I half-hobbled, half ran to the nearest staircase in an attempt to regain my composure and reassess the situation so I could successfully make it back to my hotel room bed and not be running around the hotel in my whitey tighties. And when I ran, I did so with such bliss that Nancy Kerrigan herself could only wish to be capable of moving as graceful as I did. Well, actually…imagine the exact opposite of being graceful. You gotta remember, I was mentally out of it and confused from just waking up in the hallway and I was panic-stricken to see someone other than my wife’s face open the door. I had also been drinking that night. Not to mention, I have hip dysplacia in my left hip that causes me to walk a bit pigeon toed…to add on to that, I have a sore knee. I truly believe that I tore my ACL about a year ago when I attempted a back flip on a concrete surface. My knee has had major issues when bent at certain angles since that failed back flip attempt. With that said, when I scurried off, it was certain that I didn’t resemble a more graceful version of Nancy Kerrigan. In fact, I probably resembled a zombie, who had it’s toes eaten off on one foot and it’s entire heel ripped off on the other foot, struggling to chase someone down. Not to mention, this zombie is wearing nothing, but whitey-tighties. Not pretty.


When I reached the staircase, I sat down and began thinking about how I was going to successfully escape this situation. I couldn’t remember what my room number was. I had no problem remembering what that number was all week, but of course when I was sitting in a hotel staircase in my undies, looking like some junky-male prostitute, I couldn’t retrieve my hotel room number anywhere in my memory bank. As I sat there thinking, I caught myself almost falling asleep AGAIN on the staircase. I was extremely exhausted.


Since I couldn’t remember what my hotel room number was at the time, I decided to peek my head down the hallway and try to guess which room was mine, based on the distance I remembered the hotel room being from the staircase. I selected my target and approached that particular room door. I glanced at the room number to that room. The number sounded familiar. I began pounding on the door while screaming, “Krystal!!! Wake up!!! Hurry up!! I sleep-walked out here and I’m stuck in my freaking whitey-tighties!!!!”  After a couple minutes of me yelling these sorts of things, the door opened. Thank God. It was Krystal’s confused face looking at me. She asked, “what the hell are you doing out here in your underwear at 5:30 in the morning?” “5:30 in the morning? Is it possible that I was lying on the floor, shivering in the fetal position for 2 or 3 hours?!” I thought to myself. I replied to her, “I have no idea what happened other than I obviously sleep-walked out here.”


I instantly hopped in bed and covered up with the blankets I had been searching for when I first woke up in the hallway. Prior to falling back asleep, I began scouring my brain, trying to retrieve any sort of memory I had of doing all of this. In the depths of my memory, I somehow recovered what had happened. I vaguely remembered waking up and having to go pee. In my attempt at locating the bathroom, I failed miserably. Instead of opening the door to the bathroom, I accidentally opened the door to the hotel room and walked completely outside. The door shut behind me and when it did, I was locked out, for I was not carrying a room key with me. When I came to the realization that I had accidentally locked myself out of my hotel room, I vaguely remember being in a haze and thinking, “ah, well this sucks.” I then nonchalantly proceeded to just lay down and go to sleep. I was so out of it that it didn’t even occur to me at the time that I needed to find my way back inside my room prior to curling up and going to sleep. So I just fell down like a wet noodle and fell asleep…in the hallway…wearing nothing, but whitey tighties.


I can’t help, but wonder how many people walked by and saw me.  I wonder what went through their minds. I wonder if they thought I was some passed out homeless guy. I also can’t help, but wonder if I sleepwalked and peed somewhere in the hallway because having to go pee was what led me to that situation in the first place…yet when I woke up, I didn’t have to go pee anymore.


I am 32 years old and still finding myself in these painfully awkward situations…unbelievable.


cowboy trash pony

Every time the mullet man sleep-walks, he finds himself at his ex-girlfriend’s place. This makes him happy for he is able to catch up on old times he spent with her. Rick and that horse sure were in love.


gremlins trash

Rick needs to be careful, messing around behind his wife, Roxy’s back like that. She doesn’t take to kindly to Rick’s cheatin’ ways. She had a conniption when she caught him cheating on her with this stuffed Gizmo doll.





So roughly a year ago,  ran into an old friend of mine that I hadn’t seen in a while and we had the following conversation:

Friend: Hey Rico! Long time, no-see dude! How have you been!?!?

Me: I’ve been breathing, I guess. How about yourself?

Friend: I’ve been AWESOME! My kids are growing up and I am having a blast! So where are you living now? Are you living in town?

Me: Yep, I own a house on the East side of town.

Friend: Oh yeah? Where’s that???

Me: I own the house that always has that dog running around on top of the roof. That is where I live.

Friend: Ohhhh, ok!!! I know EXACTLY which house you are talking about. My wife and I drove by a couple times and saw that and we laughed our asses off about it. That’s freaking hilarious!!! You always have a ton of cars in your driveway, right?

Me: Yep…that’s the one…my garage door is acting up and I can’t get my cars in there.


*** This was a real conversation. No joke. As you probably noticed, this guy knew exactly where I lived, not by me disclosing my address, but by describing my place as “the house that always has that dog running around on top of the roof.”


So for a few months, I was known around town as “the guy with the dog on his roof.” EVERY town has one of THOSE guys, right?!?!  Yeah…I didn’t think so. This stupid shit only seems to happen to me. Is it just me, or do I have some of the most atrocious luck with some of the pets I have owned? I don’t ever witness any dogs running on any other peoples’ roofs. Why is there one running on mine? And if you’ve followed this site, you probably know that this dog is far from the first pet we’ve owned with strange tendencies/behaviors. You may recall the posts; “My Dog Loves the Smell of Her Own Ass,” “My Dog Hates Mullets,” “Meet the Hamburglar,” “Meet the Cat Who Pooped and Peed on My Crotch, Snarflebunz,” “50 Nifty Puns about the Buns of Snarflebunz,” etc. All of these are examples of posts about some of the pets I have owned that turned out…strange…and in most cases, didn’t work out for us.


So for a few months, I owned a dog that I couldn’t get to stop jumping and running around on our roof. Her name was Pippy.  Here’s the story:


One night in the Summer of 2013, I had to run some errands in town and didn’t return to my house until it was dark outside…it was probably around 10:00 PM. Many things were weighing heavily on my mind at that time; school, my kids, work, wrestling, the Kansas City Chiefs training camp and roster moves, this blog and whether I should keep it up or take it down, hotel reservations for Lollapalooza, student loans and how I’ve ruined my life by digging myself into the depths of debt with them, my future, etc. Ya know, the regular stuff that I am always pondering and/or worrying about. I worry all the time about this shit…way too much.


Driving home, I was in a trance that was at a level presumably classified a small notch or two above full-fledged highway hypnosis.  I was functioning in doing what I had to do, going through the motions, but my mind was elsewhere…in deep thought about whatever. I pulled into my driveway, grabbed the grocery sacks in my front seat and exited my vehicle, all while remaining in the “heavy thought” trance that had handicapped me since I began driving home.


When I began walking towards my front door, I remained in this trance until something abruptly forced me out of it by frightening me to the point where I thought I was going to have a heart attack. When I was roughly 10 feet away from my front door, I heard a deep, intensely loud and ferocious growl. Whatever it was that was growling at me, sounded like that MGM Lion that you see/hear growling before movies pumped with steroids with the volume at the theater set to the maximum  times 10.  It was LOUD…and it was SCARY….And it sounded like it was coming from 5-10 feet above my head, so therefore it was CONFUSING. I briefly thought to myself, “what the hell!!!?!? A lion hasn’t escaped from any zoos and made it’s way to my house, has it?!?! And if so, this lion hasn’t been trained to freaking fly, has it??? For that growl sounds like a lion that is hovering 5-10 feet in the air!?!?!”


My fear-induced, knee-jerk reaction was to run the hell away…so I did…I ran all the way through my yard and into the street and stood next to my mailbox, which is right next to the neighbor across the street’s driveway. When I was able to calm down a bit, I began looking towards the sky, which was where I heard those terrorizing growls coming from. This is what I saw:


dog barking on roof


It was Pippi, barking and growling like a freaking grizzly bear. Pippi was a 10 month old female white boxer dog that resembled a pit bull. We had purchased her the night before on a site that I am not fond of when it comes to pet-searching, called Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade on Facebook. I take that back, WE didn’t purchase that dog. My wife did…without me knowing about it. She knew that if she asked me if we could get a pet she fell in love with because she saw a pic of it on Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade, that my reaction would be, “hell no! That is where we got the Hamburglar, Snarflebunz and those two English Terrier/Boxer mixes that tore our basement up!!! We will only end up just getting back on that site and trying to sell the dog to someone else because there is ALWAYS a catch when it comes to Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade pets. There is obviously a reason why their owners are so adamant to get rid of them for such low prices or in many cases (in Pippi’s case) FREE!!! There is ALWAYS a catch with animals on that site!!!” 


And I DID say that to her, possibly word for word… after she had already purchased the dog and brought her home. Her response to me was this:


silly wife pic

Duh Joshua. This one is different. It is soooo cute. Plus your favorite dog in the world is a white boxer just like her. The owners say she is a good dog and the reason they are giving her away for free is because their son was the primary caregiver and he just moved.


I would have rebutted with something along the lines of, “if this primary caregiver raised such a good dog, why didn’t he take the dog with him when he moved out?!?” I didn’t say anything, though. I knew it was a fight I would not win and I had no dog in the fight, matched up to this dog Krystal brought home that I knew was likely to be a disaster waiting to happen.


So I entered my house, my face stained red with steam surging out of my ears. I was pissed. “ANOTHER pet with issues purchased via Burlington: Buy, Sell, Trade. Unbelievable!” I thought to myself. Krystal was sitting on the couch. I asked, “so how long has this new dog been on our roof and how the hell did she get there?” She replied, “I don’t know, I just let her outside to go potty and when I went inside, I heard a bunch of plopping around on the roof, followed by scratching on our window.” Krystal then pointed at the living room window and motioned for me to look outside. There she was…Pippi was staring right at the window and when she noticed me, she began scratching at the window profusely while barking and growling.


This is the view outside my living room window. This is where Pippi would camp out on the roof immediately after being let outside to go potty. She knew we were there, so she would scratch at the window to ensure that she had our full attention at all times...She ended up tearing the webbing of the entire screen and cracking the window.

This is the view outside my living room window. This is where Pippi would camp out on the roof immediately after being let outside to go potty. She knew we were there, so she would scratch at the window to ensure that she had our full attention at all times…She ended up tearing the webbing of the entire screen and cracking the window.


After one day of owning this dog, she had discovered a way to jump on top of the roof and had scratched a gash into the screen of our living room window. We were not off to a great start with Pippi. And things never improved. She continued to do it. And I couldn’t stop her…she was way too quick and seemed to know that I wasn’t going to chase her on to the roof to get her down. She was also bull-headed and regardless of how many times I had scolded her and begged her not to jump on the roof, she would still do it. It seemingly became part of her routine when she was let outside. As soon as the door opened, she made a bee line to the ledge of our deck and jumped from the deck to the roof…and that was her playground outside. Here are a couple pictures of Pippi in the act of doing this:


flying puppy

This is in reverse when compared to how she actually got on top of the roof…this is a picture of her stepping down. However, with this pic, I think you probably get the drift of her roof jumping tactics.


crazy roof puppy

And to make things worse, she became cocky about it. She knew we couldn’t stop her. Right when she would jump on top of the roof, she would turn around and start barking at us…as if she were taunting us.



Then she began making some substantial damage to our house, primarily our roof. She started out by clawing and scraping all of the windows, ultimately ruining every screen and cracking a couple of the windows in the upper level of our house. She also started scraping the shingles off the roof so she could chew on them. To top things off, despite the fact that she had a nice, decent sized fenced in back yard that she could use as her personal playground and toilet, she chose to use the bathroom on top of our roof. After a couple weeks of owning Pippi, our roof was littered with numerous piss spots and dog poop nuggets. People driving down the freaking street would be able to notice that I had dog shit all over my roof. How is that for classy?


This dog was a major problem.


After a few weeks, not only did my neighborhood notice that this had been going on, but the entire town seemed to know about it. I couldn’t go anywhere without somebody approaching me to talk to me about it. The gas station, the restaurant, the grocery store, the barber shop, the post office…everywhere I went I would have people approach me and ask, “hey Rico, did you that your dog has been jumping on your roof?” This question always annoyed me, not only because I had someone asking that exact question 10 times a day, but also because I’d sit there and think to myself, “HAVE I NOTICED THAT MY DOG CONSTANTLY JUMPS ON MY ROOF?!?! SERIOUSLY?!?! HOW DUMB DO THESE PEOPLE THINK I AM FOR IT TO EVEN BE REMOTELY POSSIBLE NOT TO NOTICE THAT MY DOG IS ALWAYS RAISING HELL ON MY ROOF AND GROWLING AT AND SCARING EVERY INDIVIDUAL WHO WALKS DOWN THE STREET BY OUR HOUSE?!?!?!” Most of the time, I responded unenthusiastically, “yes, I have noticed…we are trying to find a solution.” However, sometimes for fun, I would act like I had no idea what they were talking about and would respond with, “WHAT?! MY DOG HAS BEEN JUMPING ON MY ROOF?! I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!!!”


About 3 months after we brought Pippi home, we began searching for a new home for her. The breaking point came when I woke up to my doorbell one morning and when I walked downstairs to open the door, I was greeted by a cop who had received a complaint from a woman who was walking down my street with her toddler who alleged that she was growled at by a pit bull on top of my roof. To start, I explained that the dog wasn’t a pit bull, but a boxer and that while she sounded like a rabid Grizzly Bear when she growled at people walking by, she was just silly and wouldn’t harm a kitten. I also ensured that I was looking for a solution to the problem, which at that point was finding a new freaking home for Pippi. Problem was, it was difficult to find people who hadn’t caught wind of the roof-jumping, crazy dog Pippi in my community and our surrounding area. About everyone around the area was aware that my dog would jump on the roof of my house and terrorize people walking by our house as well as vandalizing our house via breaking windows, eating shingles and shitting/pissing all over the roof. Therefore, no one wanted her. It seemed borderline impossible to find someone willing to take her…for free.


We finally found one guy who is the father of a guy my wife works with who lived out in the country and seemed a bit interested. He was a bit lonely and wanted some company. We pressed him hard to take Pippi and he teeter-tottered around with the idea for quite a while prior to committing. It took him about 2 weeks to make the decision to take Pippi.


Unfortunately, during that final 2 week stretch in which we were pressing Pippi’s future owner to accept her, another Pippi-induced tragedy occurred which temporarily caused a large percentage of my neighbors to be upset with me for a few weeks. Right in the middle and at the excruciating peak of an awful heat wave, the air conditioner for my house chose an absolutely perfect time to stop working. For 3 days, my house did not have air conditioning during a stretch where the temperature did not fall below 95 degrees. My two young daughters, my wife and I all had to stay with my grandma and aunt who lived down the street from us from the time our air conditioner stopped working until someone was finally available to come fix it. While we were gone, Pippi had to stay outside on a chain in the shade under a tree. This was the coolest spot on my property. It was more hot inside the house than it was outside the house. I planned on stopping by and checking on her once every couple hours to make sure she had food and water and was ok.


I had tried chaining Pippi to this tree before in an attempt to prevent her from jumping on my roof, but this was a failure, for immediately after I put her on her chain and began walking away, she leaped in the air and almost cleared a nearby tree branch. If she would have cleared this tree branch, she would have accidentally hung herself, which would have been awful…Pippi was a personal problem for us, but she was nice and meant well…I didn’t wish the dog any harm. Therefore, I spent a couple hours configuring the leash/chain in a manner in which it would be impossible for her to jump over the branch. This ultimately proved itself to be ineffective.


Pippi was restrained to the cool shade for a day. When I came to check on her at around 11:00 am on the second day, I noticed a couple of my neighbors giving me some unpleasant looks when I exited the vehicle. I was confused. Many of my neighbors were outside, for the community wide garage sales that were being held that morning. Roughly 80% of my neighbors were hosting garage sales that morning. I noticed that if my neighbors weren’t giving me the stink-eye, they were staring at me. Something was up…and I had a feeling that it was probably somehow affiliated with Pippi. I hoped she was safe… I didn’t want anything happening to her while I was gone, making me come off as a negligent pet owner. I went to the back yard, to the shady spot underneath the tree that Pippi was tied to. No Pippi in sight. “How in the hell did this happen?” I thought to myself. Then I looked down at the chain. Pippi had tried escaping the chain with such force that she actually managed to break the freaking thing. A chain link was just torn to shit. I figured Pippi was on the roof…she wasn’t.


I began worrying about Pippi. So she escaped…and if she wasn’t on the damn roof of my house, where the hell else would she be? I walked to my front yard. Many of my neighbors were still staring at me with strange, mostly angry expressions on their faces. I approached my next door neighbor to the South and asked if he knew what was up with the dog. He informed me that my neighborhood was upset with me because while they were trying to host their garage sales, Pippi had jumped on top of the roof of my house and barked, snarled and growled at anyone who attempted to attend any of the garage sales in my neighborhood. Pippi had managed to negatively affect the attendance of the garage sales in my entire neighborhood due to instilling fear into the souls of the customers who walked by my house. Potential garage sale customers purposely avoided garage sales near my house because they were scared shitless of the beast that resided on my roof.


And it gets worse. My neighbor informed me that after about an hour after the garage sales began, Pippi actually became excited to the point where she jumped off the roof and began chasing a couple of people with their children down my street and jumped on them enthusiastically while simultaneously licking them…this was after she had growled at them like she wanted to eat them and steal their purchased garage sale items.


I was mortified. No wonder my neighbors appeared as if they wanted to impale me. I then looked at my neighbor and asked, “well, where did Pippi end up going?” He looked at me with an apprehensive expression on his face and said, “well Rico, that’s the bad part. After Pippi chased a bunch of people down the street. She took off in a dead sprint and ran right into your house.” “Into my house?” I asked. “That isn’t even possible. I didn’t leave any doors open.” My neighbor slowly lifted his hand up and pointed at my basement window. It was shattered. The freaking dog, in a dead sprint, ran right through my basement window. She ran right through the screen AND the glass window and was presumably inside tearing the inside of my house up.


I panicked and thanked my neighbor and quickly ran into my house. The house was trashed. Pippi seemed to get her paws and/or teeth on every single item in my house. The furniture was messed up, the blinds were torn apart, the carpet was ruined at the edges, the baseboard trim had been tampered with, clothes were everywhere, etc. The worst part of the house was the kitchen. She tore out a corner of the floor. She toilet-papered a few rooms in my house and sprinkled the TP decoration with my wife’s tampons that she ripped out of their packages. She managed to open the refrigerator and cupboard doors, sample every food item that wasn’t canned and she seemed to have mixed all of these food items together on the kitchen floor. She was in the kitchen, chewing on my Swiffer when I found her. Instead of putting her tail between her legs, she acted as if she expected that I would be happy to see her and she immediately started jumping on me and licking me. This dog was not very intelligent. I didn’t know what to do…I didn’t know how to act around my neighbors, I didn’t know where to begin cleaning my house and I had no idea how to try to get through to Pippi in terms of her being a bad dog.


A few days later, we dropped her off at her new owner’s house. This guy had spent a week or so, building a dog house for her. I only saw her one time after we dropped her off there. We drove by his place once and guess what we saw her doing?  You guessed it, she was standing on top of her dog house, barking at us while we drove by on the highway.


We kept in touch with this guy to see how she was doing. The guy freaking loved Pippi. His place was evidently a more compatible environment for her. He went as far as saying that he had never loved a dog so much and that he would never own another dog in his life that wasn’t a boxer (something that I used to and sometimes still say…I love boxers when they aren’t totally insane). Pippi brought a lot of joy to his life and I assume, she was happy there.  Good fit.


With that said, this guy and Pippi went on to live happily ever after… Until Pippi was mauled senselessly and killed 8 months later by a large truck that was driving down the highway. Which made us all sad… really. As mentioned, she meant well.


Pippi: Long gone, but will never be forgotten. Crazy bastard.


dog meme


I don’t quite know what to think of my website.


I know that many people seem to really like it. I am guessing there are people who think I am ridiculous for maintaining it, which bothers me, but I am more appreciative of the people who find humor in it than I am worried about the people who find it appalling. I can’t help, but wonder who to be embarrassed around, though… Sometimes I don’t know whether to feel awkward around certain people or not.


I do know that this website isn’t absolutely huge in terms of notoriety. However, I know it’s not small, either… sometimes I feel like it’s on the tipping point of going viral. There are reasons for this. When I went to Lollapalooza in Chicago, Illinois this past Summer, I was approached 5 times by complete strangers who asked me (with beaming smiles on their faces) if I was “Rico” from The Chronicles of Rico. One person even asked me if I was going to get drunk to the point where I was going to piss myself…which indicated to me that they read my story, “My Sleep Pissing Career,” which I wrote 5 years ago…maybe longer. 2 of them were groups of 5 or so people. So 3 individuals and 2 groups of people recognized me in a city that is located 4-5 hrs from where I reside. I already knew that people from the area I reside in were aware of this site. When I am updating regularly and/or go out, it is guaranteed that I have 2-3 people at least approach me and tell me that they have read the entries on this site…and laughed. Sometimes I suspect it’s a guilty pleasure for some people. I had NO clue that it had spread all the way to Chicago.  So what did I do immediately when I got home? I put this site on private so nobody, but me could see it. Honestly, being recognized in a big city, a long ways away from home…it freaked me out a little bit. I am now convinced that I don’t maintain this site because I am an attention whore…I’ve wondered about myself in that regard plenty of times. The attention makes me skittish. I genuinely do just like making people laugh.


And get this… there have been several occasions where the mullet man has been used for something by total strangers, and it ended up getting back to me. The mullet man has been featured in 2 advertisements that I know of…one of them from a successful company that sells fishing merchandise. They ripped the pic of the mullet man fishing from a bridge (from the story, “These Dingleberries Who Fish Off Busy Bridges” and used the tagline, “don’t be like this guy. Buy our fishing lures for 30% off today!!!” I wouldn’t have known about any of these adds if it weren’t for my friends randomly stumbling across these ads and telling me about it. CRAZY!!! LOL!!


Another thing from my site that has made rounds on the web and has ultimately made it’s way back to me is memes…of the mullet man…created by total strangers. There have been several occasions where I have received a text from someone saying, “yo Swaff, check it out, there is a meme of your mullet guy being shared all over the internet.” Sure enough…people have been doing this…and they’ve been getting shared all over the place on Facebook.


The latest meme that made it’s way to me, really cracked me up. I don’t know who created it, but props to whoever it was!!! Here it is:


american mullet man


Perfect. Whoever created that meme is hilarious.


This gave me an idea… there are several self-deprecating pics of me on this site via the mullet man, so I decided to make a gallery of all of the mullet man photos that have been posted here. If you look at the bottom right corner of the screen, under the title “THIS IS RICKDICKULOUS!!!” you will see a link titled, “The Mullet Man Photo Gallery.” This link will contain all of the mullet man pics on this site… You will have plenty to work with, trust me. If you are unable to locate this, here is the link: http://ricoswaff.com/blog1/?page_id=2487  


OK, SO HERE IS THE THING. The pics in that gallery have a TON of funny meme potential, like the meme I posted above. Here is what I want you to do…I want you to browse through those pics and select a photo or photos and create a funny meme. Send the meme to me as an attachment via email… ricoswaff@ricoswaff.com. The funniest ones I receive will be posted on this site and you will be given full credit for creating the meme…unless you want to remain anonymous…which if that’s the case, state that you want to be anonymous in the email. I may start doing a “Best Meme of the Week” type of deal if I receive enough emails. 




I hope to hear from you! I have more stories coming… I have a set of stories that will be part of an “e-book” called, “The Misadventures of Pooperman.” I’ve wanted to write these stories for years, but they are so self-defecating (literally) that I refuse to write them without either being paid to write them or at least having some privacy with them…the stories are embarrassing. I have other free stories that will be posted on this site in the near future.


I HOPE TO RECEIVE A TON OF FUNNY FUCKING MEMES FROM YOU!!! I have funny readers and I love that. Keep it going!


So Christmas came and went…like 3 months ago. While doing my Christmas shopping this year, I noticed in the “Christmas cards” section that there seems to be a fad of “awkward family photos” that grace the covers of various cards, whether it be Christmas cards, wedding cards, birthday cards, whatever. Every time I noticed these cards, I stopped and looked at them for a while and kind of chuckled to myself, for some of them are pretty funny. However, I couldn’t help, but simultaneously think to myself, “yeah, these toolbots in these photos have nothing on my family when it comes to having a horrendously awkward family portrait taken of them.”


And I meant it. You wouldn’t believe how ridiculous my family’s 1986 family portrait turned out.  You ready for it??? WHOOMP, HERE IT IS:


awkward family portrait

The Swafford Family Portrait of 1986.


Well shit…


In the front and to the left is my brother, Justin. I believe he was 1 year old or so when this photo was taken. In the front and to the right is me. I believe I was in the 3-4 year old range at the time. In the back are my parents.


Now, this family portrait turned out weird to the point where it is pretty freaking hilarious.


To start, my mom. She looks pretty normal, for the most part. She does look like she was making a very strong effort to maintain that smile she has on her face. This is probably because she had been keeping that smile on her face for freaking ever because we, as a family (especially me), weren’t doing her any favors in terms of posing in acceptable fashion. Her mouth muscles were probably getting tired. Also, she does have a bit of a female mullet, also known as the “chicklet cut.” You gotta give her a pass on that though. This pic was taken in 1986. I think 1986 was around the time where mullets became cool. To my younger readers out there, think about that for a few seconds. Mullets, once upon a time, literally were cool…and I think my mom’s “chicklet” cut may have actually been a bit ahead of her time when that pic was taken.


Then there is my dad. Ol’ Marky Mark and his funky bunch. If you are a parent of a young child in this day and age and saw that mustached man walking down the street, you’d probably advise your child to not get within a mile of him. If you are a porn industry executive, you may feel inclined to approach this man and say, “hey man, how big is your penis?” However, it is 2014 now…this pic was taken in 1986. Times have changed. What is now considered a pedo-stache or a porn-stache, was considered pretty bad ass in 1986. For realzies. Hell, Tom Selleck who starred in the television show, Magnum P.I. was a freaking sex-symbol in that era. And one of his trademarks that defined him was that mustache of his that I think he still rocks out to this day. Hell, my grandma still insists that the ultra masculine Tom Selleck from “Magnum P.I.” is the sexiest man who she has ever seen grace this planet. My dad gets a pass in this one, for this was 1986…his mustache was acceptable back then.


Then there is my brother, Justin. He is the smiling, 1-2 year old baby. Hell, he gets a pass.  Until I was 11 years old or so, I was totally jealous of my younger bro and all the attention he received for being so perfect, cute and awesome at everything he ever attempted to do. Jealousy aside though, deep down, I knew he was one of the cutest babies ever. Not to mention, he was always a multi-talented kid and I was proud of that. I was proud that he was my little brother and still am. Don’t be mistaken though…at that age, I couldn’t stand him…he stole my little spotlight.


The only scenario I can imagine of an individual not approving of my brother in this pic, would be if the individual, for some odd reason, had some sort of vendetta against baby orangutans. Because that’s always what Justin reminded me of when he was a baby…a baby orangutan.


orangutan young smile


Now, if that little shit doesn’t resemble my brother in the family pic, I don’t know what does. Too cute.


Baby orangutans are fucking awesome and so was (is) Justin. If you hate baby orangutans, you are a douche-basket. Justin gets a pass.


Then there’s me. Good….God.  In this picture, I am the poster boy for “mouth-breather.” The absolute epitome of “mouth-breather.” And to boot, I had a haircut that resembled a helmet that Speed Racer would use (that’s my mom’s fault).  Ironically enough, the term, “mouth-breather,” has become one of my favorite terms to use and I usually use that term to describe people who I consider to be total dumbasses. Therefore, if I = mouth-breather and mouth-breather = total dumb ass then I = a 3-4 year old, total dumbass mouth-breather in that pic. I realize it is in bad taste to harshly criticize a 3-4 year old kid like that, but come on…this is my dumb, mouth-breathing ass we’re talking about. Plus, just look at the picture. There is no excuse for basically photo-bombing your own family’s family portrait in that manner via excess breathing from the mouth. And if there is an excuse, how do I explain myself.  Well… I don’t really know, but I’m going to try.


To start, from the fragments of memory I have of this family portrait being taken, I was scared shitless when this photo was shot. I remember being instantly frightened the moment I sat down and saw the camera. For those of you who don’t know, back in the 80’s, the cameras used to take studio pictures were freaking huge. Or at least, it seemed that way to me back then. Maybe it was the stand that was used to prop the camera combined with the camera itself. Who knows. All I know is that when I saw that camera, I was immediately thrown off because of how much it resembled that robot from the “Short Circuit” movie previews.

80s robot movie


The robot from the movie, “Short Circuit” scared the crap out of me when I was around that age and given the cunning resemblance it shared with this camera that I was ordered to smile at, it’s fair to say that the camera and I did not get off to a very good start. The sight of the camera itself initiated my facial expression to make the transition from casual, to serious and wide-eyed. I wasn’t quite breathin’ out the mouth yet though…


Moments later, the photographer arranged us in to our designated positions for the photo. As I sat there in front of my mom wondering to myself if this robot looking thing was going to extend it’s arms and attack me, the photographer encouraged us to smile and SNAP, the first shot was taken. The flash from that camera was downright painful. I mean, I felt like I couldn’t even see for at least 10-15 seconds after the photo was snapped. It hurt and made me even more scared than I already was.


The photographer said something along the lines of, “we need to take a couple more shots because I want you ALL to be smiling. The older boy needs to smile.” This was devastating, for at that moment I wanted to run away and when I began kind of making a pitiful effort to do so, my dad immediately yelped, “Joshua, stop being a pansy-assed dingle-berry and sit down and smile for the family!” As my dad yelped this at me, my vision was slowly beginning to come back, but only in the middle of my visual field. In other words, all I could see was a circle of whatever my eyes were focused on, and this circle was surrounded by a substantial amount of vision-blurring fuzz. With that said, the only thing I could actually see when my dad told me this, was his mouth region, which sucked because back then, my dad’s mustache used to remind me of  a couple of hairy caterpillars I’d find while playing in our back yard. So in a way, it kind of seemed like I was being told to “stop being a pansy-assed dingle-berry and smile” by a couple of hairy freakin’ caterpillars. At this point, my mouth officially opened… wasn’t quite breathing from it yet, though.


Suddenly, the photographer said, “smile!” and SNAP! The second shot was taken and the pain in my eyes from the flash had doubled. The photographer unenthusiastically said, “we didn’t get a smile out of the older boy.”


My dad, a man who has never been known for his patience began getting frustrated with me at this point and in annoyed tone said, “smile, dumbass!” I could only see his mouth and his mustache and in my imaginative 3-4 year old mind, I could have sworn those mustache caterpillars grew Roy Scheider/Chief Brody faces from the movie, “Jaws” and angrily yelled at me:


smile son of bitch


“Oh great, so not only am I getting barked at by my dad, but the freaking caterpillars are talking shit too,” I thought to myself.


I can’t accurately describe the state of mind I was in at that time. I was frightened….I was confused….I was in pain from the camera flashes…I was mortified…I was befuddled.  I KNOW!!! I WAS:


stupid kid


I was totally…befuddlefucked.  If that isn’t an actual word, then well, it should be…because that is the only way I can describe the state of mind my 3-4 year old self was in at that moment.


My mouth opened even wider and I was officially breathing from it. And all the while, my perfect baby brother was smiling, having the time of his life like a baby orangutan.


Seconds later, the photographer advised us to smile again and abruptly snapped the photo. Immediately afterwards, she said, “well, I think that is the best we are going to be able to do.” The end result = the infamous family portrait.


So that explains why I appeared so befuddlefucked in that family photo. It was a combination of; the camera resembling the “Short Circuit” robot, the flashes from the camera burning my eyes, my dad’s frustration, the caterpillars from my dad’s mustache chiming in and having to experience this 3 consecutive times.  It was horrifying…and painful.



mullet family portrait

At least I’m not alone. The mullet man’s family has taken some doozy family portraits as well. Not that I am in good company or anything, but still.


BTW: I am thinking about renaming the mullet man. I think I am going to rename him Rick Dickulous. I think that has a better ring to it.

Fat Swafftard

Propped on a ledge above the couch in my basement where I’ve been lounging lately, is this framed picture of my dad and I:




I like the picture. My dad are pretty happy in it. I like that. However, the other night I lounged out on that couch and watched a bunch of ESPN 30 for 30 documentaries on Netflix and eventually fell asleep and crashed there for the night. When I woke up and opened my eyes the following morning, my eyes just happened to be peering in the direction of that photo. My immediate thought, literally 5 seconds after waking up was, “holy shit, my face was so puffy in that picture, it resembles Fat Bastard’s face.” I’m assuming that 90% of my readers are aware that Fat Bastard is the grotesque, morbidly obese villain who appeared in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me as well as Austin Powers: Goldmember. Waking up to the epiphany that you share facial similarities with Fat Bastard isn’t the most flattering way to begin the day, but nevertheless, I still thought it was kind of funny and decided to GIMP my face from that photo into a photo of Fat Bastard. This is what I came up with:


fat tard


Unfortunately, the facial resemblances are undeniable…in fact, I bet the majority of you are probably unable to distinguish that it’s my face in that pic…you probably can’t tell that the original Fat Bastard pic had been modified. Ugh. I have lost some weight since then…I’m not Richard Simmons by any means, but I’m not AS puffy-faced as I was a year and a half ago when that picture was taken.


All this shit is unflattering, but at the same time… I’ve had it coming for a while. Over the years, I’ve clowned on a lot of people who are closest to me. I’ve repeatedly clowned on my dad. Just a couple entries ago, I clowned on my wife. A few months ago, I clowned on my wife, my brother and one of my groomsmen in a photo that was taken of us on the X-Scream ride located on the top of the Stratosphere in Las Vegas…


So yeah, I’m due and deserving of some self-deprecating humor. And my dad thinks it is hilarious. When he saw the pic, he responded with an obnoxious, “in your face” evil laugh. Here is a pic of him laughing at me. This is what Dad looks like when he is carrying on with his notorious “evil” laugh:


randall patrick mcmurphy


When Dr. Evil saw that pic of my dad, he was all like, “that Randall Patrick McMurphy has a good evil laugh!”


Speaking of Austin Powers, I heard a couple days ago that a 4th Austin Powers movie was announced. I don’t know if there is any legitimacy to that rumor, but man I hope there is. I love those movies.


Some of you who have been reading my blog for a long time, may remember a few posts which pertained to my lack of trust, discomfort with and outright paranoia associated with male Gynecologists.  These posts were titled; “Male Gynecologists Make Me Feel Awkward Part 1,” “Male Gynecologists Make Me Feel Awkward Part 2,” and a spin-off/Rick story titled, “Null Sehx uff Eeenie-Kind.”  They were written when Krystal was pregnant with my daughter, Kaiya who is now 3 years old.

In a nutshell, the following paragraph from M.G.M.M.F.A. Part 1, generally sums up my negative feelings and apprehension I possess towards male gynecologists.

Is it weird to feel a tad bit jealous or uncomfortable knowing that a male Gynecologist is doing his Gynecology thing to your girlfriend/wife/fiancée? I know it probably sounds ridiculous to some of you and I realize that these men are licensed practitioners and probably see dozens of vaginas every day, but I have never heard of them being neutered prior to becoming licensed Gynecologists. So when a male Gynecologist becomes a licensed practitioner of vaginal health, does he all the sudden lose his attraction to women? I mean, I personally have never met an abundance of men who had a fascination with fallopian tubes, uteruses and cervixes, who weren’t total perverts. Are they all gay? I have always wondered at what point in a male Gynecologist’s life he came to the realization of, “ya know what? I want to work in a field where I literally get to scope out a ton of vaginas and get paid well for it!!!”  That doesn’t sound like too bad of a gig…for a presumably intelligent pervert.

With that said…

Through the entirety of Krystal’s pregnancy with Kaiya, I thankfully didn’t have to suffer through many appointments in which Krystal’s Gynecologist was a man.  I think it happened only once.  The Asian student from M.G.M.M.F.A. Part 2 (“College Student Dan”), didn’t catch a glimpse of Krystal’s vagina from what I could tell. I think the only doctor who did, was the one referenced in Part 1.

However, Krystal and I didn’t wait very long in terms of creating our second child. Approximately 9 months after Kaiya was born, my 2nd daughter, Phaedra, was conceived. So it wasn’t long before I had to accompany my wife to those dreadful appointments with male Gynecologists again.

Speaking of Phaedra, she is now one and a half years old. So obviously, it has taken me a long time to get around to writing this entry. The outline has been completed for almost 2 years now. Also, to avoid confusion, Krystal is my wife, but in this story, I refer to her as my fiancée because we weren’t married when this all took place.

baby phaedra


Phaedra and Kaiya, are so much different than each other in almost every possible way with an exception of them both being girls. One difference between the two of them was determined early.  Krystal’s primary gynecologist when she was pregnant with Kaiya was a female.  Krystal’s primary gynecologist with Phaedra, was a male. And to be quite honest with you, I hated this guy’s fucking guts.  My hatred for this dude was ignited during the first appointment we had with him, which was the only appointment I attended in which Krystal was scheduled to meet with him.

I arrived at the appointment, already on edge. I already knew what this appointment was supposed to consist of and it made me grouchy. At this appointment, Krystal’s vagina was going to be probed and inspected by a male gynecologist. Not fun for me. Well, how selfish of me. Not fun for her either, I’m sure.

We checked in with the receptionist and sat down in the waiting room.  We sat in the waiting room for roughly 10 minutes. While waiting, I noticed the general lack of hygiene sported by the majority of the other ladies who were waiting for their own appointments. It was bad to the extent to which I almost began feeling sorry for the Gynecologists who had to investigate their vaginas. There was a late-teens/early-twenties gal who came there with her mother. She spent the entire time speaking loudly to her mother about how she was CONVINCED that she wasn’t going to test positive for Chlamydia during this appointment as she apparently did in her previous appointment. Her mother didn’t seem to agree with her, which increased the octave of this gal’s voice in the argument. If there was a single person in that waiting room at that time that didn’t know that girl had issues with acquiring Chlamydia, then that person was either deaf, a young child, sleeping or stupid. I couldn’t believe how loud, obnoxious and OPEN this girl was while talking about her chlamydia infections while surrounded by a dozen strangers in a waiting room.

There was another gal who sat across from us. This was a heavier woman who appeared as if she hadn’t showered in days, sporting short grey soiled shorts that exposed her tapioca pudding-looking thunder-thighs. She was accompanied by her skinny, mustached significant other, who I caught attempting to obscurely move his hand up the tapioca bumps and in to her vaginal region. Without thinking, I sighed when I noticed him doing this. My sigh was noticeable enough for this dude to get the point that I was sighing about what he was doing, for he quickly moved his hands out of his lady’s vaginal region and into his pockets and proceeded to call his 3 children over to them. These children were behaving erratically in the waiting room the entire time we were there. They were running around, yelling, throwing shit, stepping on people’s shoes without apologizing, just being rude and disruptive and general. It wasn’t shocking that these kids all belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Public and Grotesque Display of Affection who were seemingly oblivious to the fact that their stupid kids were in the waiting room with them, stealing my Sports Illustrated magazine from me and pulling Krystal’s hair as well as other disrespectful behaviors.  “There are some unbelievably stupid people in here,” I thought to myself. “My God, this gyno is going to breathe a sigh of relief when he comes into the room and sees that he will be probing Krystal’s vagina, considering the appearance of his other clients in this waiting room as well as Krystal’s hotness. What a DOUCHE!!!” I thought to myself.

I’ve thought about this topic a lot and I’ve concluded that Gynecologists do have their preferences in terms of the vagina’s hygiene as well as the efficiency and convenience of working with them. For example, I guarantee a physician prefers it when the woman’s vagina does not smell like tuna helper, which was exactly what I thought I smelled in the waiting room. Not to mention, I assume they prefer to be efficient in their work, which means they won’t have to sift through rolls of flab, gunk and possibly the patient’s family’s long-lost television remote controller, while simply just trying to locate the damn vagina. “This guy is going to come into the office, glance at Krystal and be pumped up that he gets to scope out a hot chick’s vagina,” I thought.  Ugh, I hate gynos.


So the receptionist eventually called Krystal’s name and directed her to an office down the hall. This was the office that belonged to the male gynecologist who was about to probe my fiancee’s pussy.  As I sat in a chair in the office, I immediately tried to distract myself from the inevitable agitation I knew I’d be experiencing soon, by silently thinking of tongue twisters. For some reason, the first letter that came to my mind, was the letter “F.” I began thinking to myself, I’m freakin’ fixin’ to feel out this physician fart-knocker who’s about to feel my fiancee’s fresh, fantastic fallopian tube.” I kind of chuckled to myself and thought, “haha, that’s a good one.” Then it hit me that my tongue twister was actually a good idea. I thought to myself, “you know, I probably should do that. Maybe look around his office and get a feel for who this guy is. After all, he’s about to see more of my fiancee’s female anatomy than I ever will…might as well see how pissed off I’m going to become to potentially alleviate the negative anticipation.”

The first thing I noticed in his office was a large poster in which he photoshopped his body pumping his fist and put it in place of Tiger Woods sinking a shot in front of a cheering crowd. I knew this was what he did, because the name, “Woods” was visible on this scoreboard looking-thing in the poster…and this Dr.’s last name was not “Woods.”  “Yeah…this guy is a royal douche,” I thought to myself. I am not a golfer and am definitely not a fan of people who idolize golfers or themselves to the point where they photoshop a picture of themselves, paste it over Tiger Woods’s body and make a fucking poster out of it and post it in their office.

First impression: total douche-nugget. I knew he was a douche just by looking at that poster. However, one cool thing I did notice about his physical appearance was that his hairline was identical to mine. I’ve never seen anyone’s hair resemble my own hair so much. Cool hair, brah!

I decided to shift my eyes to other areas of the office. The next thing I noticed was his book shelf. The entire book shelf consisted of an array of various books pertaining to vaginal science.  “That’s pretty cool, I guess. By the looks of his collection of books, it appears as if this guy genuinely is interested in vaginas and is probably pretty knowledgeable when it comes to them. It’s good to know Krystal will at least be well taken care of. He must really know the “in’s and out’s” when it comes to vaginas. At that moment, my eyes inadvertently shifted to a portrait of his family. He had 7 freaking children. My next thought was, “well, apparently this guy is not only familiar with the ‘in’s and out’s’ of vaginas, but he definitely likes to go in and out of vaginas as well. Otherwise he wouldn’t have produced so many children.” It was abundantly clear that this man loved pussy. He liked to study them and he liked to fornicate with them.  He liked to make babies come out of them…lots of babies. This was not a gay Gynecologist as I would have preferred, but a very, very straight one despite the despicable golf poster.

Suddenly, we heard a knock on the door. It was Dr. Pussy-probin’ Parent of a Posse.  He entered the room looking all goofy and shit and in an equally goofy voice to match his goofy physical appearance, introduced himself and asked Krystal how she was feeling. He proceeded to ask her a few basic interview questions before explaining to us the procedure that he was about to perform. In great detail, he explained the ultrasound procedure, in which Krystal’s belly was going to be lubed up and a Doppler was going to be used to listen for the baby’s heartbeat. Fun times, really. I love that part.

He followed his elaborate explanation of the ultrasound procedure by stating something that pissed me off beyond comprehension. He said, “after we’re done with that, you will have to remove your undergarments and I am going to pick at you.”  PICK at her?!?!?!?!? “He seriously just told us that he was going to ‘PICK’ at Krystal, meaning he is going to examine and probe her vagina?!?! PICK…AT…HER…?  Are you fucking serious?” I thought to myself. “What the fuck does he think she has between her legs? A fucking banjo? Is he gonna pick at my fiancee’s vagina and try to play it like a fucking acoustic guitar? FUCKING DOUCHEBAG!!!”

This doctor continued to flap his lips about God knows what, while I sat there and stewed about how appalling I thought it was that this dude just told us that he was going to “pick” at my fiancee’s vagina. I began thinking of all the things that are generally “picked” at and became increasingly infuriated. I thought to myself, “You pick your nose. You pick at scabs. You pick your nails. You pick the lint out of your belly button. You pick your zits. You DON’T pick at another man’s fiancee’s freaking vagina and if you are picking at a vagina, what the hell are you picking at!?!? I suppose if a person had crabs, they’d pick their crabs off. In fact, after seeing some of the troglodyte women in the waiting room, I bet this guy picks crabs off of his patient’s vaginas on a daily basis. Wait a second, does this guy think Krystal has crabs? Oh hell no. I hate this guy.”

I forced myself to try to think about something else. The first thing that came to my mind was picking those disgusting fennel seeds out of rye bread prior to eating a reuben sandwich. I despise those freaking things. Almost immediately, I caught myself and knew exactly why I began thinking about picking fennel seeds out of rye bread in reuben sandwiches. It was because of that old joke about how vaginas resemble the inside of a reuben sandwich combined with my anger-fueled fixation with how this guy said he was going to “pick” at Krystal…as if she had something on her vagina to pick off. It’s funny how your mind independently makes associations.

I needed to think about something else, for this thought about reuben sandwiches was not alleviating my anger at all.

While Gyno-man continued to flap his lips about whatever, I resorted to thinking of tongue twisters again.  And guess what the letter was this time? You guessed it, the letter “P.”  Here are a couple of the tongue twisters that grazed through my mind at that time:

“This perverted pussy Practitioner thinks he’s gonna pick a piece of pizza from my precious pregnant partner’s punana.”  Ugh, gross.

“Practitioner Put-Put Poster picks at polyps on pussies all day.”

“Proctologist Practitioner Peter Piper picked and patted his poopy pickle. How many picks, pats and poopers made Proctologist Practitioner Peter Piper’s pecker poopy?”

“Pompous practitioner of pussies plays with his pickle while peering at his put-put poster.”

“Practitioner Perverted Pussy-pants probes and prods at pussies in hopes he’ll pick a pepperoni and throw a pizza pie and Pabst party.”

“The thought of Pussy practitioners not being perverted, pompous pigs puzzles me.”

 “This practitioner of poontangs wants to play put-put with his penis while he picks at my pregnant partner’s prized pink pussy.”

Ok, that was enough. Distracting myself with tongue twisters pertaining to practitioners performing procedures involving picking at my pregnant partner’s precious pussy while playing put-put with his pulsating penis, pushed and prompted me to become even more pouty, paranoid, protective and profusely pissed off to where I wanted to punch the practitioner in the pecker and pull down his prized poster that he presumably pats his plump pickle to.

At this point, I needed to just calm down, clear my mind and try to not think of anything. However, I was incapable. I began thinking about where Dr. Pussy took his wife for Gynecology appointments when she was pregnant with his own 7 children. I assume that he worked on her pussy himself. I doubt he’d want one of his co-workers to do it, considering he presumably knows what goes through a gynecologist’s mind when procedures are performed. I assume he specifically scheduled her appointments for days where he was working. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to work with someone who probed and prodded and “picked” at my wife’s pussy either. It would be awkward.

Then I began thinking about female gynecologists. Who performs their procedures when they are pregnant or have vaginal issues? Certainly not a male co-worker, right?

Various thoughts such as these sailed through my mind for a few minutes until it was finally time to get the show on the road. Krystal was advised by Dr. Pussy to remove her panties, sit on a table and position herself sitting spread eagle while this guy grabbed a flashlight out of his drawer. He proceeded to prod, poke, probe and “pick” away at my wife’s vagina with his flashlight beaming directly on it, while I sat there with my arms crossed and a pouty expression on my face. “I don’t know if I have ever hated my life more than I do now,” I thought.  That thought entered my mind too soon, for the doctor, while probing my wife’s vagina prompted me to hate my life even more when he looked at me and said in a monotone voice, “yeahhhh, things are looking great. Things are just looking so good. No problems. No polyps. Yeahhh…this is going well. This is so good.”  “I KNOW HER PUSSY IS GOOD, YOU IMBECILE!!!” I shouted silently to myself.  He continued saying these sorts of things for the remainder of the pussy-probe procedure, which thankfully, only lasted another minute or so. If this was his method of trying to comfort me, then well, he achieved the opposite of the desired outcome, for I was incredibly angry and uncomfortable.

I was in a moderately pissy-pouty mood for a couple hours following this dreadful appointment. I made it clear to Krystal that I was never going to attend one of those appointments with that doctor again, and while she thought I was behaving immaturely (and she was probably right), she acknowledged my concerns and reluctantly agreed to not make me attend appointments where she was to have her vagina probed by a male gynecologist ever again.

I realize this may come off as neurotic, immature, ridiculous and possibly just straight up stupid, but I’m just going to come out and say it. I….HATE….MALE….GYNOS.  I hate the fact that I feel this way about a group of people based on neurotic speculation and what they do for a living, but I just can’t help myself of being apprehensive of these people…especially considering the fact that the ones I have had experiences with have generally been eccentric individuals. I don’t want these people probing my wife’s vagina. I don’t want any other man, except me, having access to my wife’s vagina. Go ahead and think I’m an idiot for feeling this way, for you are probably right. This may just be one of those quirks of mine that are irreversible, no matter how ridiculous it is. Male Gynecologists make me feel awkward.


When I told the mullet man about how annoyed and confused I was by the male Gyno telling me he was going to "pick" at Krystal's vagina, Rick replied, "I don't see what's so difficult to understand about it...he's obviously going to help pick her butt.  Golly, I wish I had me a doctor to help me pick my butt!"

When I told the mullet man about how annoyed and confused I was by the male Gyno telling me he was going to “pick” at Krystal’s vagina, Rick replied, “I don’t see what’s so difficult to understand about it…he’s obviously going to help pick her butt. Golly, I wish I had me a doctor to help me pick my butt!”

Rick “The Mullet Man” and his family struggle financially during holidays. Thanksgiving is one of the most financially strenuous holidays for Rick’s family because when the local schools go on Thanksgiving break, there aren’t any kids walking past the abandoned shed he resides in. This is tragic for Rick because as mentioned many times before, beating up little kids on their way to school and stealing their lunch money is Rick’s primary source of income. For hours, Rick will stand outside the shed waiting for children to walk by in hopes of wrasslin’ them down for their lunch money…With that said, every year, Rick and his family are in a state of financial turmoil during Thanksgiving.

hungry white trash

Since Rick never has the financial means to purchase a turkey for his family on Thanksgiving, he has been forced to try alternative methods of attaining a Thanksgiving turkey over the years. His initial method was his expertise…dumpster-diving.


white trash turkey

Rick began dumpster-diving for Thanksgiving turkeys at the age of 10. When young Rick found this particular turkey he was like, “oh hot diggity damn! It’s a Thanksgiving Hy-Vee Butterball!!!”


Little Rick gobbled down the “Thanksgiving Hy-Vee Butterball” in one bite and afterwards, became gravely ill. He ventured off to a local farmer’s garage to sift through some of his trash, but stopped short and passed out in the leaves, feeling more sick than he had ever felt until that point in his life.

Little Rick gobbled down the “Thanksgiving Hy-Vee Butterball” in one bite and afterwards, became gravely ill. He ventured off to a local farmer’s garage to sift through some of his trash, but stopped short and passed out in the leaves, feeling more sick than he had ever felt until that point in his life.


farmer white trash boy

When the farmer discovered little Rick, passed out in a pile of leaves in his garage with cat piss all over his face, he was immediately disgruntled, for little Rick resembled the types of kids he commonly spotted trying to steal the anhydrous fluid from his tanks. He knew this kid was bad news and was up to no good stinkin’ around in his garage.


cross eyed white trash kid

Although the farmer was annoyed, he decided that he still better help the kid seek medical attention. He carried little Rick to the emergency room at the hospital.


caged white trash

To make things even worse for young Rick on Thanksgiving, after the farmer dropped him off on the sidewalk leading to the emergency room, the hospital staff mistakenly thought he was a sick dog and they shipped him off to the dog pound. When young Rick awoke from his rotten turkey-induced coma a few weeks later, he found himself penned up in a dog cage with another dog. He freaked out and understandably so….it took young Rick 6 months to convince the staff at the dog pound that he was human and not a junkyard dog.


cross-eyed mulletman

It is difficult to imagine the atrocities Rick experienced while caged up at the dog pound for 6 and a half months. Although Rick was born with a screw loose, I think it’s fair to assume that the already loose screw in Rick’s head was forcibly given another couple turns to the left as a result of being traumatized by being penned up in the same cage as other dogs at the dog pound. When you merely mention the topic to him today, his eyes become even more crossed than they usually are and his double chin becomes more prominent. These horrifying memories obviously still haunt Rick.


roadkill trashy kid

After experiencing the unfortunate consequences of dumpster-diving for Thanksgiving turkeys, Rick surprisingly learned his lesson and developed a new method for finding the perfect Thanksgiving turkey. He began scouring the area ditches for roadkill-turkeys that had been mauled over and killed by an automobile. He considered this to be a safer, healthier alternative to dumpster diving for turkeys.


roadkill white trash

This is the method that Rick uses in attempting to find a Thanksgiving turkey to this day.


jorts white trash

Unfortunately, in 20+ years, Rick has never found a dead turkey in the ditch. Turkeys sure are elusive bastards.


drunk white trash Hamm's

Due to the stress that Rick endures on Thanksgiving, he generally tends to chase this stress away by consuming more Hamm’s beer than his usual amount. How he is able to afford numerous 12 packs of Hamm’s beer, but consistently fails to provide his family with a proper meal on Thanksgiving is a mystery.


candy wrapper trash

Since Rick has never had any luck in terms of finding a road-killed Thanksgiving turkey, he and his family usually have to resort to eating a scrumptious Thanksgiving dinner which consists of candy bar wrappers that he finds while dumpster diving. His family sits down and takes turns licking the excess chocolate off of these wrappers. Rick and his wife, Roxy, constantly fight over who gets to be the lucky one to lick the Snickers wrappers.


white trash baby

Despite Rick and Roxy’s Thanksgiving bickering, at the end of the day, they are both grateful to have each other, for they don’t know what they’d do with themselves if they didn’t have each others’ buns to smack. They are also thankful for their baby and the fact that she was born with such nice teeth compared to them.