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If I were to say that Krystal and I have absolutely no luck when it comes to selecting the perfect, suitable pet for our family, it would be the epitome of understatements.  Our luck has been awful…

Our luck started out wonderfully.  Below is a picture of the first pet that Krystal and I ever took in and raised together. She was a female cat who liked to hang out in the garage. Her name was Lieutenant Butt-Cheeks.

lazy orange cat

Lieutenant Butt-Cheeks

 

Lieutenant Butt-Cheeks was perfect. She was lazy.  She liked to veg out as reflected in this photo.  Yeah, she was a perfect fit for us.

Unfortunately, Lieutenant Butt-Cheeks was run over by a truck when a dog pestered her and she scurried from the garage to the road.  Her spine was crushed and out of desperation, I took her to the vet with a wad of cash, hoping with all my might that they would be able to heal her somehow.  As it turned out, I needed that wad of cash I brought with me, but I wasn’t able to use it how I wanted. I had to use that money to “put her down.” The veterinarian informed us that there was nothing they could do to help her and that the most humane thing to do at that point would be to “put her down.”  With a stiff upper lip and rugged-tough demeanor, I paid the veterinarian and consoled my weeping wife as we both said our “good-byes” to Lieutenant Butt-Cheeks.  Well… shit, who the hell am I trying to fool? I was sobbing just as much or more than my wife was. I was really shook up. I loved that cat. That was a few years ago and to be honest, to this day, I don’t like thinking about it, let alone writing about it.

dawson creek crying

Following Lieutenant Butt-Cheeks, we ended up with the infamous Hamburglar. We found The Hamburglar from a facebook online auction and garage sale-type thing that many people are obsessed with called “Burlington Buy, Sell, Trade.” My wife is a Burlington Buy, Sell, Trade addict and I hate it because the majority of what people try to get rid of on that site is total shit.  You should see this basketball hoop I ended up with for $50 due to my wife finding an awesome “deal” via Burlington Buy, Sell Trade.  You can use it to play basketball with…but it requires an awful-lot of duct-tape applied to it in order for it to function as the basketball hoop that it’s supposed to be. Ghetto fabulosity at its finest.

evil cat

The evil Hamburglar.

 

I wrote a story about The Hamburglar that ended up being a reader-favorite. It was titled, “Meet The Hamburglar” and it chronicled a story about how the cat was so damn crazy that it was capable of chewing apart most of my infant daughter’s toys.  However, he met his match with one of those baby rings, when it got stuck in his mouth, as seen below:

 

crazy cat

The Hamburglar began playing with this ring and as a result, he accidentally got the thing lodged in his mouth and was unable to get his mouth free. He scratched the crap out of my hands as I spent 30 minutes of my life vigorously trying to free him.

Here is a closer look at what happened here.  It was one of the most absurd things I've ever witnessed.

Here is a closer look at what happened here. It was one of the most absurd things I’ve ever witnessed.

 

Unfortunately, we had to get rid of The Hamburglar. He kept biting my toes/feet when I’d walk around the house. He’d bite HARD. His teeth would sink deep and my toes would be swollen for days following. It was as if he were in a frenzy…like, it seemed like he mistook my big toes for a piece of hot dog and had full intentions of literally eating my toes. It really hurt. It pissed me off and made me nervous, since my oldest daughter, Kaiya, was learning how to walk herself.  I’d be one pissed off mother-scratcher if The Hamburglar gnawed into the flesh of my daughter’s toes/feet in the same manner as he repetitively and consistently gnawed into my toes/feet.

The final bite to my toes took place when I came home from somewhere, took my flip-flops off and the damn Hamburglar immediately ran towards me and bit deep into the big toe of my right foot. I fell to the floor, wincing and moaning in utter pain. As I laid down on the ground in the fetal position that I frequently seem to assume when induced with severe pain, The freaking Hamburglar ran a circle around our house and proceeded to approach me again and bit the big toe on my left foot. He bit this toe just as hard or maybe even harder than he bit the other one. Both of my toes immediately became drenched in blood and ended up ended up being swollen for a week following the bites. The pain was excruciating. Have you ever had a painful injury occur in both of your big toes simultaneously? It’s not only very painful, but it’s also bizarre, especially while attempting to walk in the days following. Shit, for a week, when I walked, it looked as if I were doing the “Crip-walk.” I’m lucky I didn’t get capped by a Blood on a day when I may have been wearing something with purple in it. Especially considering the rough neighborhood of Mediapolis, IA I reside in. Bloods and Crips occupyin’ my hood like whoa, yo.

Through a job I held for 5 years in Wapello, IA, I became familiar with a local trailer park and many of its inhabitants. Most of these inhabitants were pet-crazy…like, they’d allow 50 cats and 10 dogs to reside with them in their trailer…and they’d take better care of their pets than they took care of themselves.  The mere thought of a male cat being neutered and de-clawed (The Hamburglar was both) made most pet-loving inhabitants of this trailer park jizz in their pants because generally, they couldn’t afford for their pets to be declawed and/or splayed/neutered.  Therefore, when I showed up at the trailer park with The Hamburglar in my hands in an attempt to get rid of him, it didn’t take long for someone to claim him.  The man who claimed him was a person who I knew would take care of him, for he was efficient in caring for his other 8 cats, so I was confident that things were going to work out for The Hamburglar in this new situation.

About a year after providing this guy with the gift of The Hamburglar, I encountered him at Dollar General in Wapello. I asked him, “so how is The Hamburglar?”  He responded with smoking-induced raspy voice, “the Hamburglar? You talkin’ about that red-haired, jailed up, burger stealer from the McDonald’s cartoons?” I replied, “no man. I meant the cat I gave you.”  He immediately smiled and responded excitedly with, “oh you mean Dick-munch?!?!” I thought to myself, “apparently this guy not only gave The Hamburglar a new name, but also didn’t even remember what his name was when I gave him to him. Hmm… Dick-munch? That’s odd. I wonder if he named him that because he had his dick munched on by The Hamburglar??? It wouldn’t surprise me with his history of biting.  How on Earth would Hamburglar get to this guy’s dick to begin with. That is kind of weird.” As these thoughts were going through my mind, this guy began laughing hysterically in a form that resembled a bunch of uncontrollable, long gasps followed by dry heaves and coughing. When he composed himself to a state of being capable of speaking, he said with a smile that prompted me to ponder to myself about what kind of jackolantern I’d be carving for Halloween in a couple months, “Dick-munch is doin’ pretty good! He’s an ornery little shit, but we just love the hell outta that little hellian!” “That’s great, man! Glad he worked out for you,” I said.  I’m glad this guy is able to love and care for something presumably capable of munching his dick.

So a couple years passed by since we had parted ways with the Hamburglar, when my wife began browsing Burlington Buy, Sell, Trade and noticed a kitten that we HAD to have. I was immediately apprehensive about it. My reaction to her idea was:

rico terminator

Me: Krystal, seriously. We don’t need a cat right now. Plus, if we needed one, the last place we need to seek one out is on Burlington Buy, Sell, Trade!  If there is a pet listed for sale or free on that site, there is usually a REASON for it. This cat probably has rabies. In fact, The Hamburglar probably had rabies. Which means I probably have rabies because The Hamburglar bit my toes and feet so often!!

 

Annnnndddd my wife’s reaction to my reaction was:

silly wife pic

KRYSTAL: Ughhhhhh gawwwshhhh….. I am SURE The Hamburglar didn’t have rabies and you don’t have rabies either. Goodness sake!!! WHY do you have to make a big deal and argue about EVERYTHING!?!?! Especially when it’s my idea, you HAVE to argue!!! I’m sure there is nothing wrong with the cat, you are just argumentative and paranoid about everything!!! We are getting this kitten. Gawwww!!!!!

So we got the kitten. This was inevitable, for my wife generally calls the shots and I, whilst being argumentative, usually always end up taking the “yes dear” stance. It was an orange, female kitten. We traveled to a little town called New London to pick her up. New London is located roughly 20 minutes from Mediapolis. She was a barn cat and my initial thoughts upon first meeting her were that she was just cuter than hell. Krystal was in love. She was excited and had a big smile on her face the entire ride home.

Induced by her own excitement, Krystal inquired, “oh my gosh!!! What should we name her?!???”  I replied with, “up to you, dear.”  She said, “how about Snarflebunz?!?!”  Krystal and I both share an affinity for giving our pets weird names that we mutually consider to be funny. With that said, I thought this name was funny as hell and Krystal was brilliant for thinking of it.  Without thinking twice, I said, “that is perfect!!!”

So we started on our way home. I jumped in the back middle seat and sat between my 1 and 2 year old daughters. I did this because I wanted to hold Snarflebunz for them because they were so eager to play with her. The ride was a joyous one which consisted of a lot of excitement and laughter from everyone in the car excluding Snarflebunz, until the final 5 minutes of the ride when this occurred:

kid crying cat poop

As you can see, the ultra cute “Snarflebunz” decided to take a shit and piss on my crotch 5 minutes prior to arriving at our house. The smell was dreadful. Which obviously pissed me off and grossed my 2 year old daughter out so much that she began sobbing hysterically.And to think we were having the time of our lives in the seconds leading to this moment. My daughters and I were NOT HAPPY. Krystal, on the other hand thought this was absolutely hilarious, which prompted her to take this photo.

When this unfortunate event unfolded, my initial thought process was something along the lines of, “yup, with Burlington Buy, Sell Trade there is ALWAYS a catch when you are dealing with animals. Hmm…they say that when a cat selects a spot to piss and shit, it is impossible to break them from the habit and they will continue to piss and shit in that designated spot.  If this cat has decided that my crotch is THE place it wants to piss and shit in the future, it may ignite enough fury inside of me to the point where I physically mutate into a beast with large sharp claws similar to Wolverine, and in a state of simultaneous rage and impulsiveness, I may end up forcible clawing at and ripping my own crotch off. Man, that would suck…I don’t want to be forced by my own rage to rip my crotch off!!!”

Snarflebunz got off to a shitty start with us and her stay with us ended up being a short one that lasted approximately a week and a half (how about those puns…”shitty” and “short”). At home, we couldn’t get her to go potty in her litter box. She insisted on shitting and pissing on our dirty laundry. So a couple days after picking up Snarflebunz, Krystal found another cat on Burlington Buy, Sell, Trade that we HAD to have. I actually approved of this one, for it was a Siamese kitten and I love Siamese cats and their unbelievable wisdom.  We named the Siamese kitten, Penelope. Sounds like a pretty normal name for one of our pets, especially when compared to the likes of “Lieutenant Butt-cheeks, The Hamburglar and Snarflebunz.” We named her after Dan Aykroyd’s snooty, snobby girlfriend at the beginning of the movie “Trading Places.” The reason for naming her after this snobby brat was due to Penelope appearing to act “snobbish” towards Snarflebunz in the few days they lived together (combined with the fact that I am a huge “Trading Places” fan and was watching that movie every day on Netflix around that time).

Following a week and a half of having our laundry shit and pissed on, we ended up dropping Snarflebunz off at my parents’ farm, in which she established her new residency. This was more suitable for Snarflebunz, considering she was a farm cat to begin with. Not to mention, the feline society at my parents’ farm has gradually become more and more incest over the years. Therefore, my parents’ feline society at the farm was in need of a cat like Snarflebunz for purposes of making their cats less incest. Incest cats are obnoxious.

Penelope still lives with us. In my opinion, we actually managed to defy logic and find a keeper via Burlington Buy, Sell, Trade. Krystal freaking HATES Penelope though, but that’s a different story.

white trash kitten

In the story, I failed to mention that the person I gave The Hamburglar to, was indeed, Rick “The Mullet Man.” Rick is a HUGE lover of pussies. He just loves to tickle them.

* NOTE: My next post is going to be a collection of puns and/or captions of the photo of Snarflebunz pooping and pissing on my crotch. If you want to add your own puns/captions, feel free to do so by commenting on this post, posting your comment via facebook, emailing me, etc. and I will include your pun/caption in my post and credit you for it. Feel free to have fun with me with this!!!!

 

 

So far today, I’ve noticed 2 of these types of phrases after they spewed from my mouth.  One directed towards my 2 year old daughter, Kaiya and the other one directed towards my 1 year old daughter, Phaedra.

Let’s start with Kaiya.

indian for oceans

Kaiya

 

“KAIYA!!! YOUR MOMMY’S THONG IS NOT A SCARF!!! PUT IT BACK ON THE LAUNDRY PILE SO I CAN FINISH FOLDING THE REST OF THESE SCARFS! I MEAN THONGS!! UGH, I MEAN LAUNDRY!!!”

Pretty self-explanatory. I was folding some laundry and looked up to see Kaiya with her mommy’s thong wrapped around her neck like a scarf. It was kind of cute, for she was looking in the mirror, posing, scoping out how she looked with what she seemed to think was a scarf… Therefore, it was a bit disheartening putting a damper on things for her…but still, she needs to learn that her mommy’s thongs are NOT scarfs. To make things worse, I couldn’t seem to spit out the word, “laundry” until after I had already accidentally spewed the words, “scarfs” and “thongs.” Haha, it cracks me up, thinking about folding a big pile of scarfs and a big pile of thongs.

Now for Phaedra.

some velvet morning

Phaedra

 

“PHAEDRA!!! HOLY SHUCKY-DARNS!!! PUT DOWN DADDY’S MEDICINE BALL RIGHT NOW BEFORE YOU GET HURT!!! That is NOT a toy!!! That is a fitness ball for working out! You are only 1 so you are WAY too young to be working out!!! Plus, it’s dangerous, sweetie!!! PHAEDRA…SERIOUSLY!!! PUT….DOWN…DADDY’S….MEDICINE BALL!!!”

So I’m watching the Chiefs vs. Raiders game (GO CHIEFS!!! SET THE RECORD FOR LOUDEST STADIUM EVER TODAY!!!) and I glance to the left side of the couch to see 1 year old, Phaedra holding a 15 pound medicine ball (which I had hidden behind the couch, but she had gotten to it and drug it out somehow) as if it were nothing. My first reaction was panic, which was reflected in my initial word, which was, “PHAEDRA!!!” The following thought/feeling was utter shock and amazement.  My 1 year old daughter is a beast. Just unbelievably strong for a 1 year old girl.  She gets it from me…not to brag, but I am so naturally strong without having to give any effort that it’s just weird. As strong as I know Phaedra is though, I didn’t expect her to be merely capable of budging a 15 lb. medicine ball, let alone holding it as if it were light as a feather.  That is where the “HOLY SHUCKY-DARNS” came from… it was a combination of being shocked at her strength along with my attempt at trying to not say the word, “shit.” Then I followed by being too verbose in trying to explain things, which I’m guilty of often, by stating “PUT DOWN DADDY’S MEDICINE BALL RIGHT NOW BEFORE YOU GET HURT!!! That is NOT a toy!!! That is a fitness ball for working out! You are only 1 so you are WAY too young to be working out!!! Plus, it’s dangerous, sweetie!!!” I think a more appropriate response would have been to just run towards her and grab the medicine ball from her, but no, I had to over-explain things…as I am ironically doing right now, in this post.  When I noticed that she was still standing there holding the ball, motioning as if she were going to throw it, that is when I panicked again, as reflected by, “PHAEDRA…SERIOUSLY!!! PUT….DOWN….DADDY’S….MEDICINE BALL!!!”  Unbelievable…

And yes, I put the medicine ball in a more secure place (a storage room).  When I put that medicine ball behind the couch, the thought of my girls being capable of dragging it out, let alone picking it up and holding it, didn’t occur to me…I didn’t think it was physically possible.  Golly-golly-golly, I have some doozies for daughters on my hands.  I love them so much. 🙂

 

WTF Google Searches Part 2

I have done one of these before, but it’s been a while.  In fact, it’s been since May 3rd, 2011 in an article titled, “WTF Google Searches Part 1.” I think I may start doing these monthly or bi-monthly, but I probably said the same thing 2 years ago. We’ll see.

So, some of you who do not own, operate and/or maintain a blog may not know that there is this program that enables you to track which sources lead people to your site.  For example, if I posted an entry on facebook today, this program will allow me to view how many people visited my site via clicking on the link I posted on facebook.  This program is called, “Google Analytics.”

Google Analytics also allows me to view, not only how many people reached my site via google search, but WHAT they actually searched that resulted in them landing on my page.  This is good and bad.  It is good because it is interesting, gives me a better grasp on the basic concepts of SEO associated with my site and it always gives me a good laugh.  However, while browsing some of the google searches, I can’t help, but think to myself, “holy shit, almighty google. You literally provide me with the strangest audience imaginable.”  I’ll be the first to admit that my site can definitely be considered strange.  It is intentionally crude, warped, offbeat humor.  But holy shit, some of these google searches make me wonder about people.  I am not kidding when I state that 90% of the google searches that lead people to ricoswaff.com are fucking weird.  So weird, that I HAVE TO periodically fill you in on some of it. 

So in “10 list” fashion, here are some of the weirdest google searches that led people to my site in September of 2013.  Keep in mind, today is only the 21st of the month, so a large portion of the month and inevitably tons of strange google searches still remain for this month.

IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

1.) “turtle biting my cock”

In the entry, “My Biggest Fear,” I disclosed that my biggest fear is going skinny-dipping and having my penis bit by a snapping turtle.  I hope, for this guy’s sake (and maybe for some innocent pet turtle out there’s sake) that this individual conducted this google search because they share the same fear as me. I hope I don’t have some Chronicles of Rico reader out there who sits around and lets his pet turtle bite his cock all day and felt compelled to google search it in an attempt to see if it is normal behavior or not. Well, in case this person doesn’t know yet, it ISN’T normal behavior to sit around all day with a turtle biting your cock. Maybe this person has a pet turtle that he can’t get to stop biting his cock and has become so frustrated that he turned to google for possible solutions to his problem.  If this is the case, my biggest fear of penis-biting turtles is officially multiplied by a thousand now that I know they are actually capable of behaving this way. 

2.) “this thing is going to impale me”

Ummm… if this truly is this particular individual’s situation, then it sounds like a serious one.  Should I report it?  If so, BOOM!  Reported.  If you are anything like me, you are wondering what “thing” is going to impale this poor feller and why this “thing” is going to do so.  It also makes me wonder if I have gained a reader who is experiencing delusions/hallucinations and is literally thinking that various harmless items around their house are going to impale them…and is frightened to the point where they decided to utilize google for help and presumably landed on an article, written by me, titled “These Justin Bieber ‘Beliebers’ Want to Impale Me.” I hope my article was helpful to this “about to be impaled” reader of mine, but I have my doubts.

3.) “hanging balls out of hole in underwear”

Ok, so you encountered a situation in which your balls escaped your undies through a hole.  That’s never a good situation. That same thing happened to me a few years ago and I wrote a story about it titled, “To This Day, I Wonder How Many People Saw My Balls that Night,” which I am 99% sure is the story this weird google searcher landed on.  What the hell prompted this person to google search it?  Insecurity?  Is this person embarrassed that this happened to them and needed assurance that he isn’t the only person this has happened to?  If so, glad I could assist.  I have my doubts though… It’s probably some strange mouth-breather with some strange fetish. 

4.) “would you die if you hit a cow with your car?”

Well shit, I don’t know…Why don’t you give it a try and find out for yourself and get back to me?  Hopefully my article, “In the Past 2 Weeks I Have Almost Hit 2 Cows With My Car” provided you with some clarity.

5.) “grandson rubbing grandma’s large ass cheeks”

My…goodness.  Ok, Chris Hansen, you’ve taken on and exposed the internet pedophiles…if you need any help tracking down, catching and exposing these sorts of internet goofballs, then I will gladly assist you. I have NO idea which story this person landed on after google searching this.  Probably “Grandma and Grandpa Earthquake Buns and Their Grandson, Big Fat Rico.”

6.) “can someone die from getting their dick bitten off?”

I’m assuming this person was just bored one day and thought about this, which prompted their google search.  I have no idea which story this google search would have led them to and I doubt they found the answer they were looking for on my site, for I have no idea what the mortality rate is of someone who has had their dick chomped off and don’t recall ever writing about it. Well, it was probably the “My Biggest Fear,” penis-biting turtle one that I mentioned earlier that this guy landed on.

7.) “reel pourn skrew my waff”

Who the hell is this?  Freaking Borat?  Some funny spelling. I always get a laugh when I view google searches from people who were obviously looking for some sort of porn site and ended up on my site.

8.) “did cavemen have bigger penises?”

This google search officially has me thinking. I have done my share of wondering about the potential behaviors, lifestyles, physiology, etc. of cavemen myself, which can be evidenced by the two stories, “How Did Cavemen Work Their Swerve?” and “Did Cavemen Beat Their Wives?  So… I wonder if cavemen did have bigger penises.  Interesting thought, bruh!!!

9.) “nick breuer mediapolis iowa (57 hits in 21 days from this google search)”

Nick Breuer is one of my best friends and I think it’s fair to say that he either has a stalker or someone who is extremely interested in what is going on with him right now.  57 freaking hits in the past 21 days.  Unbelievable. Maybe this person googled this and liked my page and can’t remember the URL to my site, so they continuously google “nick breuer mediapolis iowa” to reach my site.  I have no clue which entry this person may have landed on after conducting this google search…

10.) “is the hamburglar from mcdonalds white or black?”

mcdonalds hamburglar

NEITHER!!! THE HAMBURGLAR IS A GINGER-KID, YOU IMBECILE!!!!!  Well, and he is also a cat…as chronicled in one of my more popular stories, “Meet the Hamburglar” which is certainly the page this google searcher landed on.

 

A good 90% of you people who reached and read my site via google search are some weird mother-truckers.  Nevertheless though, thanks for reading!!! I hope my site could be of some sort of assistance to your warped inquiries!!!

So a couple months ago, we held my daughter, Phaedra’s first birthday party at our house.

Phaedra Daddy

Phaedra and I

I’ve mentioned and posted a lot about my 2 year old daughter, Kaiya. I wrote about her and posted pictures of her in recent entries and even wrote a lot about her while my wife was pregnant with her. However, I haven’t posted much about Phaedra so far. I was kind of taking a break from this site when my wife was pregnant with her. I also wasn’t writing much the first few months following her birth. It ended up being a pretty lengthy break. Heck, some of you may not even know that I have a second daughter. Anyways, in a nutshell, this little gal has brought a lot of happiness to my life. She is beautiful, goofy, loving and is always smiling. She smiles and laughs almost every time I look at her. She’s a doll.

Phaedra’s 1st birthday party was set to begin at noon on a Sunday around the end of May (her birthday is May 23rd). Krystal and I had a lot of preparing to do for the party. Some of these tasks included; picking up the cake, setting up tables, cooking food, buying a gift, cleaning the house, etc. Unfortunately, this made for a hectic morning on the day of her birthday party due to the fact that Krystal and I are both notorious procrastinators. In fact, the night before the day of the party, we didn’t have ANYTHING done in terms of preparation. We had originally planned on having everything done and prepared a couple days in advance. YEAH….RIGHT. I don’t know who we thought we were trying to fool. Well, ourselves, I guess, but that’s not difficult. It seemed like every time we had some spare time to prepare for the party in the days leading to it, something ultra important and therefore distracting would come up, like new Investigative Discovery shows/episodes being added to Netflix.

On the night prior to Phaedra’s party, our house was an utter disaster and we had done ZILCH in terms of preparation. We hadn’t picked up the cake. The tables were still in my kitchen. Hell, we hadn’t even purchased a gift yet. Krystal and I discussed the possibility of getting some late night cleaning and preparation done before going to bed that night, but ultimately we decided that it would be best for us to wake up at 8:00 AM and attempt to cram everything in prior to when the party was scheduled to start, which was at noon. We figured this would be enough time. However, this led to another problem that we failed to properly prepare for, which is the fact that Krystal and I are NOT morning people. We are unable to refuse to abuse the alarm clock snooze. We didn’t drag our asses out of bed until 10:30 AM, a mere hour and a half before guests were scheduled and confirmed to arrive.

So we had an hour and a half to somehow find away to pick up the cake (which was located in a city that is a 30 minute drive from where we live), prepare the food, clear out the garage, move the tables to the garage, buy a gift, clean the house, etc. When Krystal and I finally dragged ourselves out of bed, she informed me that she was going to drive to pick up the food, cake and gift and that it was my responsibility to ensure that the tables were set up and the house was clean. She followed this statement by designing a “honey-do” list. This “honey-do” list was quite extensive. In an hour and a half, I was expected to clear off the counters, do the dishes, vacuum the floors, pick up toys and put them away, sweep the kitchen floor, mop the kitchen floor, dust various surfaces in our living room, pick up clutter, fold the blankets on counters, clean and organize the bathroom and organize our DVDs. Along with this, I had to care for our 2 and 1 year old daughters, which meant changing diapers, feeding them, watching them, etc. In terms of my personal agenda, I also needed to take a shower and get ready for I didn’t want people arriving at my messy house, in which I, the host, looked and smelled as if I had bathed myself in chicken noodle soup.

This was a lot of shit to tackle in an hour and a half. To make things worse, Krystal gave me the vibe that if I didn’t get everything done, I would be in the doghouse for the day.

I started with clearing off the counter. Finished in a jiffy, no problem. I followed this by vacuuming, sweeping and mopping the floors in our house. I had the girls help me out with picking up their toys and putting them in their toy box. I was rushing through these tasks so frantically and erratically, I probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil on Walter White’s blue (Breaking Bad if you don’t get the reference). Which is ironic, for our house was so cluttered and messy at the time, that it appeared as if it were the home to a bunch of ruthless Tasmanian Devils.

I began chipping away at the mound of dishes that needed to be done, when I felt the urge to take a piss. After this urge slowly crept up on me, it increased vigorously and at a rapid pace. At this point, I had only been doing the dishes for a couple minutes, and the gigantic stack of dishes that had piled up, appeared to be at least a 15-20 minute job.

My need to take a piss seemed to increase every minute, but I refused to stop working on my “honey-do” list to relieve myself. Ya see, I’m the type of person who is very goal-oriented and when I have a particular goal set (which in this case, it was finishing the honey-do list before Krystal came home), I become very tunnel-visioned in my approach to successfully accomplishing/completing my goal. In other words, I had to take a piss pretty badly, but wasn’t going to give in to the pressure of taking one until I had thoroughly accomplished my mission of cleaning my house to the point where Krystal would be satisfied with me or at least able to justify that my efforts were efficient enough that I did not deserve to be placed in her metaphorical “bad Joshua” doghouse. I’ve been in that house a few times before…it’s not my preferred habitat to reside in, to say the least.

I had no idea at the time, but my stubborn attitude/tunnel vision in terms of completing tasks would ultimately lead to a sequence of 4 catastrophic events.

Now, before I go any further, I need to note one vital piece of information about me, which is HOW I piss. I piss sitting down and I’m not ashamed of it. I prefer to do it this way. My wife, mother, grandmother, mother in law, any female who spends extensive time with me LOVE this about me for they never have to worry about me pissing all over the toilet seat if it is left down nor do they ever have to worry about me leaving the toilet seat up because I never have a reason to prop it up to begin with. I’ve pissed sitting down for years and it has gotten to the point where I truly share the stereotypical female frustrations with men who piss standing up. I hate it when I accidentally sit on the cold, grimy, piss and pube-covered rim of a toilet because I sat down to take a piss without looking at the toilet first. Not to mention, there’s nothing worse than noticing that some lazy-aimer, dude pissed all over the toilet seat and failed to wipe their urine off the seat after doing so. This is especially appalling if you don’t notice it until AFTER you have pissed. No one that I know of LIKES to have some dude’s piss on their ass cheeks. It’s gross. So I literally can relate to the stereotypical female complaints of men doing these sorts of things and I can’t really explain why I prefer to piss sitting down, other than the fact that it’s more comfortable and relaxing. Also, my pisses seem to carry on forever, so it provides me with a few minutes to sit down and reflect on whatever is going on in my life. It’s just way better, but there are exceptions in which I do pee standing up, the main one being in public restrooms. I’m somewhat of a germaphobe. Enough said.

So back to doing the dishes. I had been doing the dishes at a rapid pace for roughly 10 minutes when the urge to piss became borderline intolerable. While doing the dishes, I was simultaneously dancing around, grunting, whining, etc. I had to piss so badly that I came to the realization that if I didn’t eventually give in and relieve myself, I was going to piss my pants. I began bargaining with myself. I thought to myself, “ok Swaff, you have GOT to get these tasks done, but it’s not worth pissing your pants over. Just finish these dishes and then you can take a piss, but IMMEDIATELY move on to the next task when you are done. YOU CAN DO THIS! Gotta make Krystal happy!!!!”

I danced around, while simultaneously doing the dishes for another 5-10 minutes when I finally finished them. The urge to piss led to discomfort that was just absolutely excruciating. I was straight up suffering those final few minutes. A microsecond after drying and putting away the last dish, I dashed in a dead sprint towards the bathroom. Usain Bolt would have been blown away by my speed. When I burst into the bathroom, I didn’t proceed to calmly and gently sit down to piss. I basically jumped, Michael Jordan style in the direction of the toilet. In mid-air, I gracefully pulled my pants down to my knees and maneuvered my body and legs horizontally in an attempt to land on the toilet with finesse and efficiency. I did a good job at doing this. Shawn Johnson has nothing on me in terms of my mid-air finesse in that particular moment. However, this wasn’t a good thing. In fact, it was horrible. It was cata-freaking-strophic. It was catastrophe #1. Ya see, prior to jumping on the toilet, I failed to actually look at the thing. For God knows what reason, Krystal decided to put the toilet lid down after she had last used the toilet. Because of that, when all 215 pounds of me (plus gravity from the jump) landed on the toilet seat, the first anatomical structures of mine to make contact with the toilet seat were my testicles and penis, which had somehow become tucked directly beneath my ass. In other words, with assistance from the toilet seat being left down, I had literally stomped on my own twig and berries (branch and grapefruits, but whatever), due to them being sandwiched between the solid, immobile toilet seat and my plump ass which supported a 215 man landing from jumping into mid-air. Catastrophic.

For the first couple seconds, I didn’t feel anything. I think I may have been in shock, for I knew what had just happened and I was scared shitless that my balls resembled a couple of smashed Cadbury eggs. However, after about 5 seconds, the pain began to set in and it began in my stomach. I had stomped on my entire unit so hard, and the pain was so indescribably excruciating, that I literally thought for a split second that my unit had been jammed into my stomach. The pain expanded from my stomach, to my balls, and to go along with it, the tip of my penis stung and was beginning to bruise.

From a distance, in pain-induced psychosis, I swear I heard Scorpion from the Mortal Kombat games yell in his notoriously gruff voice:

devil mortal kombat

 

And “assuming of the fetal position” is exactly what I did. Right then, right in the middle of my bathroom (which still needed to be cleaned before Krystal got home), I laid down on the ground in the fetal position and whimpered. Oh fuck it, I admit, I CRIED. It HURT, dammit!

dude hurt bathroom

How is this for a pathetic? Well, this is an accurate depiction of what I looked like at that moment.

So things couldn’t possibly get any worse than THIS, right? WRONG. This was only #1 of 4 subsequent tragedies.

Remember my explanation of how badly I had to take a piss, to the point where I was fearful of pissing my pants? Well that urge/feeling doesn’t go away when your balls and wiener are stomped on. In fact, your ability to control it becomes distracted, due to your attention being shifted towards the pain you are enduring. With that said, catastrophe #2 occurred. Shortly after assuming the fetal position on my bathroom floor, I uncontrollably began pissing. By the time I was physically able to recover and regain enough physical strength to put the toilet seat up, crawl, pull and hoist myself on to the toilet seat to finish my piss, I had drenched my entire mid region of my body along with a large section of the floor in my own piss. It was the first time I had ever pissed all over myself while in a sober state since I had been potty-trained. “Great, another mess to clean up before Krystal gets home,” I thought to myself while sitting on the toilet and finishing my piss, still in a physical state of excruciating pain.

This was a long piss. I sat on the toilet and pissed for what seemed like 4 minutes, which if you add that to the time I spent pissing all over myself on the bathroom floor, it would approximately be a 5 minute piss.

So I’m in a state of horrible pain, but with an exception of still having a lot of tasks on my “honey do” list with an addition of the task of cleaning an unplanned piss mess, things couldn’t possibly get any worse….right? WRONG!!!

Catastrophe #3 occurred after I had finished pissing and lifted my buns off the toilet seat. Immediately after my buns departed from the toilet seat, I heard a faint, “slapping” noise followed by more pain. This was burning pain located on my right ass cheek. I thought to myself, what in the wide world of fuck was that?!?! Did something just freaking bite me?!?! Was there a freaking spider or bat underneath that toilet seat and if so, did it just bite my ass?!?!?!?” I momentarily thought I was losing my mind. My stomach ached, my frank and beans (brat and walnuts, but whatever) were throbbing and now my right ass cheek felt like it was on fire. I looked at my ass in the mirror and there was a very noticeable red line that extended roughly 2 inches throughout the middle of my right ass cheek. In the middle of the line, blood was drawn. “What in the hell just happened?” I thought.

I proceeded to examine the toilet to see what had caused this slapping noise and butt-burning and immediately discovered the cause.

toilet of death

Unbelievable. When I landed on the toilet lid, I had cracked the toilet seat beneath it. When I sat on this crack in the toilet seat, some flesh and skin from my right ass cheek had become caught in this crack so tightly, that when I lifted myself up, it cut a nice 2 inch, bloody line on my right ass cheek.

And “assuming of the fetal position” is exactly what I did. Right then, right in the middle of my bathroom (which still needed to be cleaned before Krystal got home), I laid down on the ground in the fetal position and whimpered. Oh fuck it, I admit, I CRIED. It HURT, dammit!

housework husband

I mean, seriously. My sexy ass has been on the cover of a romance novel…that my wife wrote…that she really didn’t write…in which the cover photo was fictional and created by me. No way in hell the ladies can handle seeing this sexy piece of ass’s injured ass.

After standing for a couple minutes to regain my composure from what I assumed would be an infinite physical state of intolerable pain, I proceeded to take my piss-drenched clothes off, scrub the floor and take a shower. Immediately after exiting the shower, catastrophe #4 occurred…my wife called.

I answered the phone, unsure how to explain to her the unfortunate, physically painful events that I had endured. It didn’t matter anyways that, for I didn’t get a chance to get a word in edge-wise. Immediately after answering the phone, she informed me of how stressed out and rushed she felt. She quickly followed this explanation, by asking me about each individual task from her “honey do” list that she had created for me and whether or not I had finished them. I replied honestly, which in turn meant, I broke the news to her that I hadn’t finished 3 or 4 tasks yet.

Catastrophe # 4: After informing Krystal of the tasks I hadn’t completed yet, I was officially in the doghouse, which was not where I wanted to be with a burning ass, sore stomach, throbbing, pulsating and bruised penis, crushed testicles and wounded pride due to pissing myself while in a sober state for the first time since being potty trained.

Our guests did end up arriving when I was in the middle of completing my last couple tasks. Therefore, I didn’t accomplish my goal. However, it still ended up being a wonderful day with wonderful people celebrating the first birthday of my wonderful daughter, Phaedra. So proud of my cute little pipsqueak. Here is a recent picture of Phaedra and Kaiya:

baby phaedra

2-CUTE. 1 year old, Phaedra is in front, 2 year old, Kaiya is in back. Random facts: I came up with the name, “Phaedra.” I heard it in a relatively obscure and awesome song called “Some Velvet Morning” by Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra. Check the song out, there’s nothing else like it. Phaedra is a Greek name meaning “bright,” I think. Kaiya shares a name with Willow’s wife from the movie, “Willow,” but we didn’t notice that until after we named her. Krystal came up with “Kaiya” and I loved it. It’s Indian for “oceans.” I love Indian names. If I had another girl, I’d love to name her “Priya,” pronounced, “pree-uhh.”

dumb mullet guy

After telling Rick this story, he responded with, “I don’t ever wanna hear any more shit about why I purposely CHOOSE to piss my pants instead of use a toilet. Those things are painful.” He probably feels this way because whenever he has used something toilet-ish, it has been in a bat-infested outhouse…and he wiped with poison ivy. SPEAKING OF RICK: I think I’m gonna give him a name change. Instead of Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave, he will be Rick “The Mullet Man” Swat-turd. More fitting. I should have done that from the start, but I always HATED it when people called me “Swat-turd” as a kid (jokingly) because it sounds similar to my last name (Swafford). I have thick skin, but that was the only name that got to me. I’m over it now though and might as well apply it to Rick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The month of August is approaching. This is an exciting time for me.  Ya know why? Lollapalooza and preparation for fantasy football. Fun…times.

If you’ve kept up with my blog in the recent and distant past, most of you know my dad, Papa Swaff aka Papa Suave and presumably love the guy by now. One thing you may not know about him is that he is a very competitive player in my Yahoo Fantasy Football league.  His team in my fantasy football league is called “The Swaffinators.”

As commissioner of my league, it is my responsibility to set things up in terms of who is in the league, who owes money, various settings, etc.  I told my dad that I would renew his team in my league.  When I asked him if he wanted to be the “Swaffinators” again, he replied, “yep.”

So I registered his team and even created a custom image for him.  Here is the custom image I created for him:

terminator dad

My dad is a Swaffinator. He will Swaffinate you. Hasta la vista, baby.

Now that’s a pretty freaking awesome team logo, in my opinion.  And it hasn’t been modified at all!!!

Ok, I lied.  It has been modified a little bit. Are you able to immediately pick up on where the modification of the photo took place?

Is my dad a Swaffinator? Damn straight.

Is my dad a Terminator? You better believe it.

Does my dad wear his leather jacket without an undershirt, thus exposing his chest? Hell yeah…wouldn’t you do the same if you were fortunate enough to have a sexy body like Papa Suave?

Does my dad carry and/or flash a revolver? Oh yeah, no doubt about it. As you may have read in past entries, my dad is freaking crazy, yo. He’s always carrying and flashing a piece. Papa Suave = gangzta.

Does my dad have a chin-butt? Nope.  The chin-butt is the ONLY thing about this photo that I modified via GIMP aka poor man’s Photoshop.

* What makes the chin-butt on my dad’s face in this photo funny, is how I did it.  My method of hooking the “Swaffinator” up with an awesome chin-butt began with me google searching, “pics of hairy butts.” I browsed through the results and found the most fitting hairy butt to suit my dad’s chin. I then saved the hairy butt to my computer. When it was time to modify the butt and place it on my dad’s chin, I began by making the butt smaller, cutting the butt from it’s original photo, posting the butt on the “Swaffinator” photo and tried my best to blend the color of the butt with my dad’s skin tone, which unfortunately included spray-brush painting my dad’s skin tone over the hair on the butt (which is why you can’t see any hair on the chin-butt).  And then, BAZINGA!!!! My dad is not only a terminator, but he also has an outrageous chin-butt!!!

It looks good on him.  He looks like one intimidating, sexual freaking Tyrannosaurus.  I pity the fool who has to face him in fantasy football this year and dread the weekend that I have to face him.

Written on 9/2/2008

QUESTION: Do you know anyone who seems to consider you to be one of their best friends, but you just kind of consider them to be nothing more than a mere acquaintance of yours? I mean, you like this person, but you don’t really consider them a good friend of yours, in fact, you may not even sure what their name is. However, every time you see them they go on and on about how awesome they think you are, how important your friendship is to them, about how you are one of their best friends, a bunch of stories/memories between you and them that you have no recollection of, etc.?

SECOND QUESTION: Have you ever thought someone was dead, but they really weren’t? For some reason, you either heard it somewhere or thought you heard somewhere that this person had passed away, but then you unexpectedly found out by encountering them or hearing otherwise, that they weren’t dead after all?

Well, one night I was partying at Fun City in Burlington, IA and I has an awkward interaction with someone who fits both of those categories.

So I arrived at Fun City one night and sat down in a chair by the bar next to the dance floor when this dude comes up to me and is like, “holy shit RICO!!!!! I haven’t seen you in ages!!!! How ya doin,’ buddy!?!?!?!”

I turned my head to see who it was and was surprised to see the person’s face. For some reason, I was under the impression that this person had died while I was away at college. In a state of confusion I impulsively responded to him with, “hey man, I thought you died?” He perceived this statement as a joke at first and was like, “ahh RICO!!! You’ve always been a goofy fucker!!! Hell, remember that time we caught that flat-head catfish and you kissed it on the lips?! Omg, you are crazy, Rico!!!”

I thought to myself, “I went FISHING with this dude? I am not even 100% sure who this freaking guy is!!!??!!” Immediately following this thought, and without thinking about how what I was about to say could be perceived, I responded with, “no seriously dude. I seriously thought that you were dead, dude. I seriously heard that somewhere. I heard….that you died, man.”

The dude became quiet and his expression shifted from being excited to see me to appearing extremely sad or as if his feelings were hurt. He responded solemnly with, “that’s weird, Rico.” I replied, “well it’s good to see you man, considering I thought you were dead and all, I mean, this makes my night better knowing that you are alive and well. Ya know what I mean, dude?”

I didn’t realize how hurtful my words were to the dude until he said something that made me feel so awful that I wanted to crawl into the hole I thought had been dug for him.

Sadly, as if he looked capable of breaking down and crying at any moment, he said to me, “well, if I had died, I would have thought you would have been one of the first ones at my funeral. In fact, I thought you would be a pall bearer.”

“Oh shit,” I thought. It totally didn’t occur to me that this guy who obviously thinks the world of me would perceive that comment the way he did. Hell, with the mere sight of my face, the dude appears as if he is so excited that he wants to whip it out and start jerking his Gerkin on the spot.

I felt awful and resorted to doing the only thing I could to get my ass out of this cringe-infested, awkward situation… I lied my ass off. Fueled by desperation and good-intentioned fabrication/deceit, I blurted, “dude I looked all over for your funeral!!! I even drove two and a half hours home from college to attend, but I couldn’t find it anywhere, dude!!!! I checked every church in the county and I couldn’t find shit!!! THIS….EXPLAINS…EVERYTHING!!!! Now I know why I couldn’t find your funeral anywhere, and it’s because your actually alive dude!!! Thank goodness!!! I was freaking scared, man!!! I was crying for days. It SUCKED, man.”

Douche move? Maybe. I don’t like having to resort to lying about anything, but to my defense, I was literally lying to the dude to make him feel better…so it’s not THAT douchey, is it?

The dude bought my story. He lightened up a bit and was like, “well at least you tried your best, man! And I want you to know right now, that if I really do die, I want you to be a pall bearer!!!” I responded with, “ok dude” while simultaneously thinking to myself, “what the hell is this guy’s name again? I seriously went FISHING with him???”  I believed him for his story sounded consistent. Back in my late teens/early 20’s, I did make out with a few flat-head catfish in desperate attempts to achieve cheap laughs from my peers. In fact, I did this, the first night I met my wife…she thought it was hilarious. I responded to his request saying, “I appreciate that man and I’m honored, but let’s just hope you don‘t die….again.” “Haha….ohhhhh RICO!!!! Goofy bastard!” he said.

Goofy bastard…heh.

For the remainder of the night, I couldn’t get this out of my head and felt like a greasy scrotum pouch. Here is this freaking guy who I consider to be a mere acquaintance of mine to the point where I was having a difficult time remembering his name. And this dude INSISTED that I be a pall bearer at his funeral someday despite me making it obvious that I didn’t attend his funeral when I thought he died a year or so earlier. (SHUDDERS)

 

mullet shark attack

When Rick was chewed up and swallowed by a giant great white shark, I thought for sure he was a dead man. However, somehow he managed to survive the attack. Next time I saw him, I said, "hey, I thought you died, man?" Can't blame me for that one, although I should have figured, considering Rick is virtually immortal.

 

One day, I woke up, took a shower, got dressed, brushed my teeth and headed to work. On this particular day, I made the decision to “free-ball,” meaning I didn’t put any underwear on. I free-ball every once in a while…usually in instances where I haven’t done my laundry in a long time and am low on clean undies or I am just plain and simply having one of those days where I think it will feel nice to free-ball. The decision to free-ball that day ended up resulting in utter embarrassment.

So I left for work in Burlington, IA. When I arrived in Burlington, I remained loyal to what my usual daily routine which consisted of stopping at a gas station to pick up a mocha Frappuccino. I drink one of those almost daily. I waited in line for a few minutes, while eavesdropping on the gossip of local farmers who like to loiter at gas stations in their free time to talk about corn, beans, beef, hogs, tractors, trucks and Trace Adkins.

So after roughly 2 minutes of listening to the farmers gossip and waiting in line to purchase my Frappuccino, I noticed a middle-aged female clerk behind the counter who sort of resembled Roseanne’s sister, Jackie, from the show “Roseanne.” Out of nowhere, I noticed her taking a glance at my crotch region. I thought to myself, “hmm, I think that lady just looked at my penis. Well, I don’t blame her…I am, in fact, pretty freaking studly.”

My suspicions were confirmed when the clerk blatantly glanced at my crotch again for a longer duration of time. When she saw that I noticed her looking at my crotch, she quickly looked away. However, less than a minute later, she did it again. This prompted me to think to myself, “heh, this woman is really intrigued by ol’ Studly.” I was momentarily seething with bravado. Not that I was personally interested in or attracted to this woman. It’s just that when you feel as if you are slowly passing your physical prime and out of nowhere, catch the vibe that someone considers you to be nice to look at, it’s not necessarily an “unflattering” feeling.

While still standing in line, I caught her glancing at my crotch region for a 4th time. After the 4th time, I proceeded to put my hands on my hips and look at the ceiling, with a proud look on my face. “Man, I must be super studly,” I thought. My posture and way I was standing probably made me appear as if I were posing as some sort of Greek God. Imagine me posing like the Greek God Zeus with my hands on my hips looking at the sky. In the sky, I have my eyes fixated on a flying object. This flying object is an airplane and the overly proud expression on my face indicates that I am so important and so studly, that my face and name is painted on this airplane that I am staring at. And better yet, following my name on the plane, is an “=” sign and the word “studly.”

I remember cockily thinking to myself, “yup, you are in the presence of Mr. Studly,” when the woman finally broke the silence and said to me, “excuse me sir.” I abruptly popped out of my “studly trance” and was like, “yeah?” She pointed at my crotch region and said, “you might want to take care of that.” I looked down to see that my freaking fly was down. As mentioned earlier, I was free-balling that day. Therefore, the majority of my penis was in plain sight and exposed to anyone who walked by or faced me until that point of the day. I was embarrassed as hell.

My little “studly” trip was shattered. I thanked her for pointing out to me that my penis was hanging out of my pants, for I felt lucky that I didn’t go in to work and speak with any of my supervisor/co-workers in that condition. She laughed and said, “no problem.” Despite looking up towards the sky with a proud expression on my face, Mr. Studly exited the gas station with his head hanging low, and confined behind a zipped up zipper for that matter.

And to think that the entire time, I thought I was being gawked at because I was so freaking irresistibly studly. Oh well…I have other moments in my life to make up for that embarrassing situation. (Update 2013: I wouldn’t be married to the girl I am married to if I weren’t super studly).

studly mullet man

Rick has always had a difficult keeping his penis from being exposed. The difference with him though is that this is usually due to his jean shorts being too short. Not to mention, he isn't studly...like me.

 

Written in 2007

So I met and hung out with some new people over the weekend. These 6 or so people were friends with my cousin, who I was hanging with that night. Some of these people I had kind of known before, some of them I hadn’t ever even seen before. We were all hanging out at this bar in Burlington called The Buffalo.

One of the women in the group had a young son. In the limited interactions I had with this woman, she spent the majority of the time telling me various stories about her son. She was obviously very proud of him, which is great! All parents should be proud of their children.

Eventually, she dug into her purse, grabbed a picture of her son and proceeded to show me the picture. In this picture her son, who appeared to be 2 or 3 years old, had a toy of some sort and had a huge grin on his face. He was obviously bewildered by this toy and was having the time of his life. He looked like the type of kid who has a lot of personality and has a funny sense of humor. My first impression of her son by looking at the picture, was that he appeared to be the type of kid who may grow up to be the “funny kid” of the group or the “life of the party.”

I genuinely got a kick out of her son in this picture, so while I was looking at it, I say to her without thinking, “haha, that’s neat. Your son is a real funny lookin’ little kid.” And her son did look funny, but not in a bad way. He just looked like he was the type of kid who had the ability to make people laugh. Ya know, “funny,” as in “haha, that kid is a funny person.” A compliment.

(There was a noticeable awkward silence in the group following this statement, but I was too air-headed and drunk to connect the dots as to why there was one).

This woman’s expression changed from proud and happy to disgruntled, butt-hurt and agitated as hell. She replied with, “excuse me? Did you just my son is funny looking?” Still too naïve to catch on to what she meant, I responded enthusiastically with, “yeah!!! He looks funny!!!” And motioned to her with my face/eyes in a manner that implied, “funny!! Isn’t that awesome?!?!”

(The awkward silence among the group continued, but the majority of the group had, “WTF?” expressions on their faces. I still hadn’t caught on as to what was going on. What a dumbass).

Her expression painted the face of a woman who was blatantly pissed off and she responded angrily while pointing her finger and swaying her head back and forth with, “well, to ASSHOLES like you, he MAY look FUNNY! However, to me, his MOTHER, he happens to be a very, very beautiful kid and his personality makes him even more wonderful! You know what? You can fuck off, you asshole!! Fuck you!!!”

I was surprised by her outburst. However, it finally hit me as to why she was wigging out on me so badly and why the entire group were giving each other, “WTF is that guy doing?” expressions.

I thought to myself, “Oh shit, this woman thought I was insulting the appearance of her son when I referred to him as ‘funny looking’ when I really meant that he appears as if he has a funny sense of humor.” Panic-stricken, I said to her, “no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO!!! I didn’t mean it THAT way!! I didn’t mean that your son looks funny, as in has a funny or strange appearance!!! I meant that he looks as if he has a funny sense of humor!!! Look at the expression on his face when he’s playing with that toy! It looks to me as if he’s having the time of his life and is being silly. He looks like he has a funny personality!!!”

She didn’t buy it. I was being honest with her and she still wasn’t buying it. She replied, “yeah right, I’m sure that’s what you meant.” She walked away from me, and throughout the remainder of the night, although we were hanging out in the same group of 7-10 people, she made sure she stayed a comfortable 10 foot distance away from me at all times.

That one stupid statement which led to a tragic misunderstanding resulted in a pretty freaking awkward night.

 

* PROPS to my youngest brother Brennan for playing the role of young Rick below…funnier than probably anyone else in the world could make it.

Believe it or not, when Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave was known around the area he grew up in as “funny looking kid.” Due to his crazy exploits growing up, he actually got his picture taken and put in the newspaper on many occasions. In the newspaper, he was always referred to as “funny looking kid.” Whether he made the paper for something heart-warming like trying to provide food for his family or disobedience usually related to dumpster diving, he received his fair share of attention from the local newspaper and as a result, the community knew him as the “funny looking kid.”

Below are some old newspaper photos of Rick as a kid and their captions which referred to him as “funny looking kid.”

sick mullet kid

A local farmer saved the life of a funny looking kid who he found nearly dead in his garage. It is reported that the funny looking kid is currently in critical condition due to consuming large amounts of rotten food he gathered from local dumpsters.

white trash kid

Poverty in the region is believed to be at an all time high in current times. Due to the region becoming poverty-stricken, this funny looking kid has been forced to search for roadkill in ditches in a heart-warming attempt to provide food for his family.

white trash dumpster dive kid

A funny looking kid was caught and detained by authorities for climbing into a neighbor's dumpster and stealing a turkey.

wanted mullet kid

WANTED: A funny looking kid who was caught on camera stealing a plastic tennis racket from a local resident's dumpster. REWARD: $1000 CASH

white trash cat

A local funny looking kid has been working hard to accomplish his goal of becoming a teen heart-throb by singing to neighborhood cats, while using a hot dog as his microphone. When asked about his future aspirations, the funny looking kid stated, "I want to be the next Leif Garrett."

trashy dog kid

Controversy struck the community when this funny looking kid was mistaken for a stray dog and transported to the dog pound, where he was confined to a cage and forced to live on a diet of dog food and water for 3 months.

white trash tennis kid

A local funny looking kid reportedly aspires to be the next Andre Agassi. The funny looking kid polishes his tennis skills by playing tennis against his imaginary friend, using an imaginary tennis ball.

This was written on 9/2/2008

 

One day, when I was a sophomore in college, I spent a substantial amount of time pondering why my life seems to be infested with cringe-inducing awkward moments. I decided to go to my dad for advice. I asked my dad, “hey dad, why does weird, strange and awkward things always seem to happen to me? Why doesn’t weird shit happen to other people as much as it seems to happen to me?” His response was unforgettable. He responded with, “because son, you have a tendency to be kind of a dipshit all the time. You naturally create tornados concocted of shit. Shit-tornadoes are attracted to dipshits like you.”

I thought it was a logical explanation and still do to an extent. In life, the way you act and the decisions you make define who you are in a way, and definitely seem to play a role in the weird obstacles and knee high pile of shit you may always seem to unexpectedly find yourself stuck in.

So why do weird and awkward things happen to me? Because in my own subtle and subconscious way, I invite the awkwardness. I tell the weird and the awkward things in life to bring it the hell on.

So one of the most awkward things imaginable happened to me one day while I was in my car attempting to leave the parking lot during lunch break at work.

That day, I drove a red Buick that belongs to my parents. I was not used to driving this car. My own car was being worked on that week, so I was stuck with this Buick until my car was fixed.

When it became time for lunch break, I eagerly hopped into my car, excited to munch out on some “Happy Joes” pizza. I started the car, cranked up the radio and attempted to pull out of the work parking lot. This attempt was cut short when a hearse slowly drove by. This hearse was followed by string of other cars filled with people who were all sporting extremely sad expressions on their faces. The hearse, followed by the long string of cars driven by a bunch of sad looking people indicated to me that there was a funeral line driving by and I had to wait for it in the parking lot until they passed by. I thought to myself, “well this is shitty timing. I was all happy to go to Happy Joes, now I have to wait for these sad people to drive by. This is going to take forever.” Sympathy for sadness evidently isn’t my strong suit while hungry for Happy Joes. I decided to put the car in park and rest my arms on the steering wheel while I patiently waited for the funeral line to pass with the tunes blaring.

As the second car in line drove by, the passenger gave me a death stare (pun…intended). I thought to myself, “hmm that’s odd, wonder what that dude’s beef is. Surely he’s not taking his friend or family member’s death out on innocent bystanders like myself. I hope he doesn’t go home and kick his dog.”

The passenger in the third vehicle in line gave me the middle finger. After this I became a bit confused. I remember thinking, “wow, this group of people handles the losses of their loved ones in anger-induced, misdirected fashion.” I just kind of gave them a sympathetic look, nodded, and mouthed, “I know man, losing someone is hard.” The guy kept his middle finger up until he had passed me by at least 3 car lengths.

The next car drove by and both the driver and the passenger gave me a similar death stare (pun…intended). Both of them proceeded to shake their heads at me. This REALLY made me start wondering about these people. “I thought, what kind of people are these and who the fuck was it that died that is pissing these people off so much?!?!?! Was it the Macho Man Randy freaking Savage that died?!?! If so, are these people pissed because they’ll never be able to slap into a Slim Jim again?!?!?!” I felt like telling them to calm down, even though Randy Savage is gone, the Slim Jim company will likely continue to make Slim Jims. (Interestingly enough, I posted this in 2008, prior to the death of Randy Savage. I thought it was weird because as most of us know, he didn’t last much longer after that before he actually did die).

After heavy contemplation, I theorized that it probably wasn’t the Macho Man Randy Savage whose funeral they had attended, otherwise I would have seen something on TV. However, it was probably someone very similar to him due to the volatility and anger his loved ones were showing towards me.

The next car drove by and the driver gave me the finger, and the passenger mouthed the words, “shame on you, asshole.” By this time, I finally had it. I desperately needed to find out why these people were hating on me so much. It was just weird. I decided to calmly get exit my vehicle and somehow inquire as to what the deal was (other than the death of their loved one). I began to maneuver my way out of the vehicle. I began this process by taking my elbows off the center of the steering wheel, followed by turning down the radio with my right hand before readying myself to open the door and hoist myself out.

The moment I turned the radio down, I discovered why these people were so appalled by me. Turns out, as I was resting my arms on the steering wheel, I was accidentally honking the horn and had no idea that I was doing so. I did not notice this because I had the radio turned up loud enough to where I couldn’t hear the horn. I had my arms rested on the horn which is located on the steering wheel (which I had no idea was the case) for at least a minute, maybe two. Therefore, I was honking at this funeral line, continuously for a minute plus and had no clue. I was mortified.

I covered my face with my hands in embarrassment and waited for the next few cars to pass before I showed my face again. I covered my face until the cars who probably were too far away to hear me honking my horn began passing by.

I can’t imagine what these people were thinking. They are in the process of mourning a loved one and some impatient asshole who wants to leave the parking lot is honking his horn at them because he wants them to hurry their asses up. That’s literally what they were probably thinking…that I was such an asshole that I was actually pissed off at this funeral line because it was preventing me from leaving the parking lot. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. Heck if I would have been on top of things, it would have occurred to me that if I wanted a hole to crawl into, all I had to do was follow the funeral line to the cemetery. So..freaking…awkward.

 

mullet funeral

Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave doesn't handle death of his loved ones very well. This is Rick when his 2nd cousin/great aunt/great grandma Candypants died in an unfortunate dumpster-diving accident. She accidentally got herself trapped in a Country Kitchen dumpster and died as a result of eating too much of the leftover buffet food that had been thrown in there. Well, at least Rick dressed sharper than usual for the funeral. Unfortunately, he had to resort to stealing the suit jacket from the funeral home at his 2nd cousin/great aunt/grandma Candypant's wake the evening before.

 

This was written in 2007.

A long time ago, I posted an entry titled, “The Phantom of the Awkward,” in which I chronicled a bunch of awkward personal experiences in a single entry. After reviewing that one, I decided that not only does that entry need to be revised in terms of typos and paragraphing, but I think it would work better if each story were segregated into their own entries. So that’s what I am going to do. I am going to segregate the stories into their own and repost them. I did a spin-off of the original “Phantom of the Awkward,” later on titled, “When the Phantom of the Awkward Struck Wal-Mart” (recently renamed: “The Phantom of the Awkward Part 1: When the Phantom Struck Wal-Mart.”) I am going to consider that story, “Part 1.” That is why I am starting out with this one being labeled “Part 2.”

Keep in mind, this one was written in 2007. I no longer habitually get drunk every Friday as I chronicled in this story.

Here it is:

My life would not be complete without some of the crazy, uncomfortable and straight up awkward situations I have consistently created for myself. No joke. If I were to duplicate my life, as it is and how it’s been until this point and if I were to take away every crazy, uncomfortable and awkward moment that I have encountered and seemingly subconsciously created for myself throughout the years, my life would resemble a block of Swiss cheese. In other words, my life would have a substantial amount of holes in it. My life would not be anywhere near complete without these moments.

As mentioned, I have encountered these moments consistently my whole life. However, I had never really thought about why I seem to experience these situations so frequently in depth, until recently. In my pondering of this, I came to the conclusion that I find myself in these situations frequently because deep down, subconsciously, I must like them. Somewhere inside my soul, I love getting myself into these situations because they entertain me and those who I tell about them for weeks afterward. Therefore, I believe I subconsciously prompt myself to say and do things that make me more vulnerable to the crazy, uncomfortable and awkward situations.

One by one, I’ll fill you in on some of the awkward moments in my life, beginning with this story:

This story took place about a week ago (remember, this was written in 2007). I was on my way to a gas station because it was a Friday and I was planning on throwing some beers down. I have habitually been drinking on Fridays for quite a few years now, and one habit within this habit that I have developed, is buying a 40 oz. of Bud Light to start off every Friday night. It just seems like the proper serving prior to hitting the bars. Sometimes I buy 2 of them before hitting the bars, and this usually ignites a fire of a night that results in waking up in strange places without having the slightest clue as to where I am.

So I pull my car into a gas station to buy my forty oz. There was a parking spot open in the front row, so I proceeded to take it. I pull about half-way into the spot when I realized that it was a handicapped parking spot. Now, for as long as I can remember, I have always had a bad habit of referring to these handicapped parking spots as “paralyzed parking spots.” I think the reason for this is because of the “handicapped parking spot” logo. As we all know, the “handicapped” basically consists of a stick-figure drawing of a dude in a wheelchair. I’ve always figured this dude was paralyzed, considering he is wheel-chair bound and all.

So I stepped on the brakes with my car about half way pulled into the spot and actually considered pulling out and finding another place to park. Ultimately, I ended up just thinking to myself, “screw it” and I proceeded to park there. Finding a new parking spot just seemed like way too much work for something that I didn’t anticipate being too much of a problem to begin with. I was only going to be in there for a minute and besides, I didn’t think a paralyzed person would be pulling in at that time of the evening. How’s that for considerate? The possibility of there being a potential fine for parking there didn’t bother me, but the thought of a handicapped person possibly coming to the gas station and needing that spot, did make me reconsider. I’m a real class act, yo.

When I walked in to the gas station, I noticed a tall, scrawny, dark-haired bastard with a snooty, negative demeanor and was wearing thick-rimmed glasses and skinny jeans.  He had probably spent the majority of his day to that point, hanging out at a coffee shop discussing how many ways he could inadvertently conform to non-conformity. He was probably one of the first “hipsters” I have ever seen in person. I don’t consider myself a prejudiced, hateful person, but I sure as shit have hated some fads in my day.  First there were the “emos” who ran rampant while I was in college.  I was bitter for years that the emo craze was so popular during the years I spent in college.  I hated that fad. Hated “emos.”  Now we have these “I feel the need to force irony on everything, even when it isn’t there” hipsters.  I hate that fad too. These ass-wipes need a hot iron forced upon their faces. How’s that for irony? It is literally a toss-up as to which fad I loathe more, which loathing a fad more than I loathed emo is something I thought would NEVER happen.

Anyways, fuck hipsters. This guy was one of them and as expected, he ended up being a self-righteous prick in my short, goofy, awkward exchange with him.

I stroll into the gas station and grabbed my beer. I walked to the desk to purchase the beer and said to the hipster gas station clerk, “yo dude, I’m sorry that I parked in that paralyzed parking spot. I hope it’s not a big deal.” The dude scowled at me, and shook his head while he was ringing up my beer.

“Apparently this IS a big deal,” I thought to myself. So me, being the impulsive and somewhat confrontational dude that I am asked this noticeably butt-hurt clerk, “Oh, I take it there is a problem?” He looked at me and said sternly, “it’s called HANDICAPPED parking. It’s not PARALYZED parking” “WELL EXCUUUUUUUSE ME,” I thought. I responded with, “oh sorry about that man, I always get that mixed up because those signs always have the little paralyzed dude in the wheelchair. Ya know what I mean?” (Crickets chirping). He gave me a blank stare. Evidently the situation wasn’t ironic enough for him.

Then thanks to my own social stupidity, things became even more awkward. As he stood there silently with this snooty “I have a pine cone wedged deeply in my anus” expression on his face, I inquired without thinking, “you appear upset. I am sorry, are you handicapped, sir?”

This popped out of my mouth before I even thought about how offensive it would actually be perceived. He scowled again and snickered and rolled his eyes is disgust and was like, “do I LOOK handicapped?” I replied innocently and impulsively, “well no…not really.” Although this was a freaking lie, if anything is a handicap, it’s being a hipster. He responded with, “Ha! Not really. Anyways, I just thought it was offensive that you referred to the parking space as paralyzed parking. Like it’s supposed to be some sort of joke.” I was just like, “Oh…ok dude.”

He put my 40 oz. of Bud Light in a paper bag and handed it to me. I thought this was a good opportunity to make some more small talk and attempt to redeem myself as being someone who isn’t just an inadvertently offensive slur-spoutin’ jackass. So I said the first thing that came to my mind again (which obviously isn’t a good idea, ever). I said to him, “haha dude, every time I buy a 40 oz. and they put it in one of these paper bags, I feel like a homeless person walkin’ around with it.” Sir High and Mighty McHipsterclerkpants scowled, snickered and rolled his eyes through his thick-rimmed glasses at me again.

“Oh great, I struck another nerve,” I thought to myself. You’ll never believe the social idiocy of my response to this. I responded with, “oh, you are obviously upset by that comment. I am sorry, are you by chance, homeless?” He was royally butt-hurt by this point and said, “You are ignorant and I don’t feel obliged to answer that. Goodbye sir.”

I stood there silently, staring at this butt-hurt clerk and began thinking about this abortion of a conversation that just took place between he and I. I thought about how I actually asked him if he were handicapped followed seconds later by asking him if were homeless. It suddenly hit me how stupid I can be, yet how hilarious my own stupidity make things. I proceeded to straight up laugh hysterically in this dude’s face. And by “laugh hysterically,” I mean high-pitched giggling. I couldn’t help it. Everything was just was so awkward and well, hilarious as a result. I continued giggling all the way to my car. Hell I bet if the little paralyzed dude in the handicapped parking sign had a face, he would be giggling also.

I caught a glimpse of the clerk as I was pulling out of the gas station. He still had that stupid scowl on his face and was shaking his head. Pretentious douchebag. What a dick, seriously. Some people take the little technicalities of life way too seriously. Hipster bastards are notorious for it. I remember drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon was something I did because I liked the taste for it being such a cheap and generally “scoffed” at beer for everyone used to think it was disgusting. They were missing out.  Then these hipsters began drinking it, not for the taste, but to be “ironic.” Considering this hipster fad is quite a big one right now, it goes without saying that the prices on Pabst Blue Ribbon went up.  Yeah, thanks for ruining Pabst Blue Ribbon for all of us who knew it wasn’t a bad tasting beer to begin with, you skinny jeans wearing, mouth-breathing hipster.  Ugh, I should have said that to him.

So as I pulled out of the parking spot, I noticed the little paralyzed dude in the handicapped parking sign and thought about how funny it would be if that little dude unexpectedly burst out of his chair and started hittin’ some M.C. Hammer dance moves. I have been watching the movie, “Don’t be a Menace While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood” quite a bit, which probably inspired that thought.

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