Looking for the Doorway into Summer

Howdy folks, Miss me?

So far, any updates since the last real entry? Ummm...Worked way, WAAAYYY, too many hours at the cracker factory. Still don't have my golden ticket to Willy Wonka's freedom factory. Car has been broken, and fixed, and broken, and fixed, and finally left it to rot in my driveway, where it sulked for a few days and then decided to be good, and thus has been fixed for a couple of weeks. Been drunk a time or two since the last update (I know, alcohol is not the answer to heavy work stress, but damnit, it is fun), and generally being bitter and pissed off with the world.

On that note, let’s talk about something fun. I've talked about it before, but what the hell, let’s talk about it again. I enjoy talking about it, almost know what I'm talking about (most of the time...Phuck it, all of the time, you people just don't understand), and seeing that it has been about a year since the last time I rapped about it, it is time.

Don't look Mom...It's going to be nasty.

Let’s talk about sex, or rather porn.

Shudder, the horror, the horror.

There are a few fallacies the world should be made aware of, right now, by me, because I know. Trust me. I know.

First off, there are two kinds of people in the world when it comes to porn. The first are those who enjoy it, and the second are those who lie (both to themselves and to others). Porn is fun, and should be treated for what it is. Cheap thrills. Whether it is the Baby blue flicks on late night Friday that we all remember seeing as a kid and being confused, yet strangely compelled to watch, or the full on, hard-core DVDA, gonzo, body fluids flying everywhere kind of films, we all like one or the other, or something in the middle (ar-ar, pun intended I suppose). Of course, the topic of porn leads to a few other conversation ideas, which you can be damn sure I'm going to talk about.

Really...Look away now. It's only going to get worse.

Besides the variances in porn (not DVDA or pretty little vanilla, you poke me, I poke you kind of stuff), there are what I like to think of as two different major kinds of porn that one would have in their collection. If you don't have a collection, why not? Cuz you don't like it? You're lying again. Roll with it, you'll like it, trust me. Anyways, in the collection of afore mentioned porn, there will be the "This is actually really cool" or "Wow, I can't believe they made this" kind of porn. This the first major category. This is the shit you'll share with people and say "Dude, you gotta see this flick I seen last night".

Station break for one second before I get carried away. Women Like Porn Too. Sometimes more then men. There. I've said it. Now all my female friends will report me to the grand poo-bah and I'll be taken away to the depths of the Amazon where I'll be fed to the alligators. I hope you're all happy. Return to the last paragraph now.

This is the stuff that your aren't even ashamed to say you own. Almost, but not quite, real films. The second category is the "I can't sleep, it's 4AM and I have to get up for work tomorrow, (significant other) isn't around, or is asleep, so I'm not gonna wake them. I gotta go do something so I can sleep” kind of porn. This is the nasty, dirty, 15 minute film, magazine, diving into Google and searching for anything that's quick, sears catalogue undergarment kind of break I'm talking about here.

Don't blush or look away. We've all looked at porn when there is absolutely, positively, no reason to, and we know we shouldn't because of other obligations, or responsibilities.

Don't lie...you have.

Which leads us to the last topic...yeah...the uncomfortable one, at least for most people, but not the REV.

LAST CHANCE...Look Away.

We all know why we want that 15 minute fix, and it's not because you are waiting for the pasta to cook downstairs. It's for pure physical gratification purposes. Just admit it. It's easier, and stop being a prude...

And this will get me eaten by the alligators even quicker...wait is it crocodiles in the Amazon? Shit. Don't matter.

Women do this too. Ok guys, you can calm down a sec. Pick your jaw off the floor. There we go. Now I'm outta the club and won't have any more secrets to share.

We all do this...If you don't, your lying.

Really, if you don't, you're lying to your self. Just stop. No one likes a lier.

What we really need for this occasion is a self service menu like at the buffet at the Golden Corral. I'd like a little bit of this and maybe a little of that, but none of that, and DEFINITELY none of that. Ok, maybe a little of that, and GO. With a click of the button some magical porn hound goes off and finds exactly what you are hankin for a spankerin for, delivers it to you with a nod and a wink, and goes off to find some other perverts dream for the next 15 minutes.

Life is short folks. Calm down enjoy those fleeting couple of minutes...It's the short little things that makes the days tolerable.

Boobies.

Tee hee.

What the Hell????

It's now Wednesday night (nope, Thursday morning) and again, I'm just getting home from work. Lets see, whip up some quick math skillz (applications -> accessories -> calculator, lets see how many geeks can figure out what OS I'm running from that) and it looks like, well, lookie here, 79 hours since last Friday...I'm reasonably sure I didn't sign up for this. I mean, I'm a sucker for punishment, but this is ridiculous. Someone, come steal me away like a thief in the night and take me to Ibiza. Please?

It's 7:00 in the Morning...

...the birds are singing, the sun is rising and reflecting off of the snow, and Newt and I just got done work. What the phuck is wrong with this picture? I'm getting to old for shifts like this. 21 straight hours of work is just about long enough for this cat.

Salami Salami Baloney.

I know, I know. It's been a long time since I updated, and with just cause, which I'll go into further down this entry, and although it's no excuse, I'm sticking to it. That was about 38 too many comma's in the past sentence. Anyways, on to the meat of the entry.

I was seriously considering shutting down the blog a few weeks ago. You see, I started it back in Oct of '05 with a clear reason of why I did it. As I've stated a few times before, blogging is (was) therapy for me. I started it up after the marriage thing took a shit all over my life. Well, as much as that chapter of my life has been done for a long time now, after a long wait, it was to be officially done as well. You see, I was to be getting a document to sign and officially call it done. I was actually giddy when I heard it was coming. I was like a kid on Xmas morning running around, smiling at the world, and anxious to see the birth of every new minute. This is what I was waiting for. I was going to write the next entry with the monumental finalization, but like everything else with my (pseudo) marriage, nothing is working out as expected. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am anxiously holding that pen, waiting to sign (once I make sure there is nothing shady written in-between the lines) off on it and call it good, but alas, it has still not shown up. Big surprise there...A delay where my ex-wife is concerned? Never.

Shut up Bitterman.

Newtie desperately wanted me to write down some of the nightmarish (albeit incredibly funny) aspects of my marriage, but I don't think that is going to be put down on proverbial paper just yet, but I will share with you all a couple of things.

There are a million reasons to get into a relationship/married/fuck-buddies, but I have noticed there isn't really a good list of reasons not to get into one. Don't misconstrue this, I think a good relationship is a wonderful thing, but it isn't really the end-all be-all of existence. Lets put it this way, I don't spend my evenings listening to queen and wondering why nobody loves me, but if opportunity was to arise, I may take it, maybe, possibly...

Phuck it, I really wasn't going anywhere useful with that last paragraph. Here are some things I will never have to do again now that I am (almost) no longer married.

I will never have to go to a Golden Corral as long as I live. Forever, double stamped, no erasies. There was a strange addiction to this place that I had to deal with during the dark ages. First off, I am not big on buffets. If I'm paying for my food, it better be served to me damnit, but factor in buffet, plus discount meat, and trailer park heaven, you gots a recipe for a meltdown of biblical proportions. There is nothing better that asking the guy with the runny nose to cut you off a slab of grey roast while the kid with pink eye is rubbing up against you trying to see that you are not getting the end piece. You'd swear that everyone in this place was related and at their families christmas dinner the way they were acting. Table manners? Gone. Polite public voices? Gone. Any hope of future civilization? Gone. If you look in the corners of restaurant you can see the scuttling cockroaches running toward the dawn of a new era. I swear, if you were to nuke all the Golden Corral's at peak business time you could see the average IQ jump up by 40 points.

I'm going where? When did I agree to this? 'Nuff said.

What do you mean I have to come home from work because there is someone at the door? Answer the frigging thing FFS!!!

I'm not making this shit up kids...

I love having to go out just when I'm starting to get into the mood to fall asleep to buy cat treats. Yup, you read that correctly, cat treats. There is nothing better than just getting into that relaxed state and finding out you have to go out, let alone for stupid funking cat treats. Hell, I'll go out to grab coffee, snacks, even flowers on occasion completely sporadically and at obscene times, but not for a fucking cat. It wouldn't even be that bad if it was once or twice, but how about a weekly occurrence. Even if you are so lazy you won't go out through the day to get them while I'm at work, just ask me to get them on the way home...End of problem. Of course, I did agree to it, so what does that say about me? Fucking cat treats.

I will never, ever spend more than five minutes in a shoe store again. As long I shall live. Amen. I lost a large part of my soul listening to some salesman blather on about the quality of this type of shoe compared to another. And you know what? Once you've looked at three pairs of shoes, they all look the same, because, like the majority of most males, we really don't give a shit about shoes. Just let me go and look at the video games next door. No, I don't care what shoes you get. Truly, I don't care, and my opinion is so jaded at this point by Franz over there that I'm not even seeing the shoes anymore. I'm already playing Half-life2 or mind fucking that sales woman over there, just so I don't have to look at anymore shoes. Buy the lime-green ones with pink bows on them. I don't care. My shoe selection is Converse. Chuck Taylors. Done. The most thought that goes into it is which color do I want with this pair.

Now, you maybe thinking of how much of a bitter dick I am at this point...And you might be partially correct, but at least I'm happy most of the time, and if this is the stuff I would share, you can only imagine what I didn't write down.

Hereafter anytime I refer to the ex-wife she shall be known as "The Unpleasantress". I can't even take credit for that one. A friend came up with that. Absolutely no prompting on my part either, but I like it so I'm marking the occasion with it.

Here's to hoping I get the papers to sign before this gets out...