I write this from my death bed. The long weekend is winding down and the family is recovering from another visit from Hawkman and his disease carriers. I am not blaming them for infecting my family with some sickness. It is probably a coincidence that the last couple of times they have been here, my family ends up yakking and sneezing and coughing. Pure coincidence.
Ask the Hawkman about this and he will claim that his family is not sick. Thus, carriers. They just happened to have been down in GA last weekend and picked up some kind of GA flu that they carry without symptoms.
Other than that, it was a good weekend. Hawkman brought his brother to the festivities. He has picked up the nickname, Uncle Monkey. I don't know if this is humorous or scary. I think there are some isssues there but I will leave that for another time.
Needless to say, the brats were cooked to perfection. RawBratMan was there and marvelled at the idea of having the ENTIRE dog cooked. There were 40 people at my house. Mostly children. It looked like a day care center gone bad. Being the good host, I was up on the trampoline jumping with the kids. I had to get down and finish cooking. That is when I jumped from the trampoline to the Little Tykes picnic table we use as a step for the trampoline. Well fatty just destroyed the table. I crushed it like it was cardboard. Guess the whole diet thing isn't working out like I planned.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
In the Name of Nick
Do you ever wonder how people get nicknames? I mean is there really any logical reason someone would call a 400 lb dude Tiny?
But the fact of the matter is when you get a nickname, like it or not, the name sticks. Sometimes you have nicknames your friends call you to your face like Hassan because of my Sand Moolie heritage. There are also nicknames you only find out about later like Sarge because obviously I was a little hard on my roommates about cleaning up the townhouse. The friggin slobs deserved being yelled at. Heathens.
Anyways, you have read about many of our friends here at superjiggye. I will try to clarify a few of the nicknames for you.
Hawkman - dude has eyes like a hawk. (OK really his last name has hawk in it.)
Lumpy - If you saw his overgrown slothenly body, you would know.
E-bone - Since this name was given by the Brotherhood, I can only assume it is some kind of gay pride thing.
Mr. Redneck - dude is a redneck. Sometimes it is just that simple.
Sandwich Artist - The guys major accomplishments in life to date is banging lonely Internet chicks and working at a Subway in BFE. That and making fun of customers. What kind of sad sap giggles at homeless guys that have trouble saying black olives? It is a sad world we live in.
Steeler Fan Boy - An overgrown man that lives and dies for the Steel City. At least when the rest of your life is meaningless you can live through your football team. Go Franco.
Bird Flu Man - He has many nicknames. Some known, some not. Mr. Moneymaker, Cultboy, Neckbone.
Which brings me to the topic of the day. Say two of your buddies went fishing. Say they also went camping together. Say they both had nicknames when they left but yet come home with more. Now I am sure Vito/Johnnycakes won't stick. Just like SevenSongSteve won't stick either. These are just temporary names. But, seriously, who drops a C note on a friggin seven song lap dance? Do you at least get to pick the seven songs? Personally if I was dropping enough cash on some backwoods skank to feed Sally Struthers for a day, I would want to pick the music. Say Stairway to Heaven seven times. Get my moneys worth. I also don't think I would spend a hunnie on a chick bouncing off my shlonggie and then rush back to the campground to sleep head to toe with my good buddie. But that is just me and they did call me Sarge behind my back.
So I am not saying that the boys really earned the Vito/Johnnycakes names. Nobody really knows what happened in that camper. I just know they put out the "If this rigs a rocking, don't come a knocking" sing on the door. And I know that Vito has an "Gas, Grass, or Ass, Nobody Rides for Free bumper sticker" and that Johnnycakes doesn't do dope, at least that's the story he is telling Poly, and he spent his last dollars on the coochie shake. Doesn't leave many options now does it?
But the fact of the matter is when you get a nickname, like it or not, the name sticks. Sometimes you have nicknames your friends call you to your face like Hassan because of my Sand Moolie heritage. There are also nicknames you only find out about later like Sarge because obviously I was a little hard on my roommates about cleaning up the townhouse. The friggin slobs deserved being yelled at. Heathens.
Anyways, you have read about many of our friends here at superjiggye. I will try to clarify a few of the nicknames for you.
Hawkman - dude has eyes like a hawk. (OK really his last name has hawk in it.)
Lumpy - If you saw his overgrown slothenly body, you would know.
E-bone - Since this name was given by the Brotherhood, I can only assume it is some kind of gay pride thing.
Mr. Redneck - dude is a redneck. Sometimes it is just that simple.
Sandwich Artist - The guys major accomplishments in life to date is banging lonely Internet chicks and working at a Subway in BFE. That and making fun of customers. What kind of sad sap giggles at homeless guys that have trouble saying black olives? It is a sad world we live in.
Steeler Fan Boy - An overgrown man that lives and dies for the Steel City. At least when the rest of your life is meaningless you can live through your football team. Go Franco.
Bird Flu Man - He has many nicknames. Some known, some not. Mr. Moneymaker, Cultboy, Neckbone.
Which brings me to the topic of the day. Say two of your buddies went fishing. Say they also went camping together. Say they both had nicknames when they left but yet come home with more. Now I am sure Vito/Johnnycakes won't stick. Just like SevenSongSteve won't stick either. These are just temporary names. But, seriously, who drops a C note on a friggin seven song lap dance? Do you at least get to pick the seven songs? Personally if I was dropping enough cash on some backwoods skank to feed Sally Struthers for a day, I would want to pick the music. Say Stairway to Heaven seven times. Get my moneys worth. I also don't think I would spend a hunnie on a chick bouncing off my shlonggie and then rush back to the campground to sleep head to toe with my good buddie. But that is just me and they did call me Sarge behind my back.
So I am not saying that the boys really earned the Vito/Johnnycakes names. Nobody really knows what happened in that camper. I just know they put out the "If this rigs a rocking, don't come a knocking" sing on the door. And I know that Vito has an "Gas, Grass, or Ass, Nobody Rides for Free bumper sticker" and that Johnnycakes doesn't do dope, at least that's the story he is telling Poly, and he spent his last dollars on the coochie shake. Doesn't leave many options now does it?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Damn Dummies
Mr. Redneck has a way with words. Just this week he referred to the Sandwich Artist as a Damn Dummy. Now this was all in fun, fun for me at least. Kind of reminded me of ole Fred Sanford's term of endearment for Lamont, Big Dummy.
Speaking of damn. I made the mistake of using the word at home over the weekend. This is not a good thing to do when children are around. It no sooner had slipped from my pie hole than my two year old was hollering Dammit, dammit, dammit. Great. The wife was none too pleased. Her anger was intensified when I slipped a second time the following day and he was again heard singing, Dammit, dammit, dammit. Fortunately there have been no more outbursts for either of us.
I got to meet a friend of Lumpy last week. DJ we will call him was a nice enough guy. There might be issues with his drinking habits but we all slide into the bottle once in a while. Don't we? The problem I have with DJ is his perversion of reality. He seems to think everyone is out to get him. This could come from his desire to constantly play online games. Now I know most of my readers are known to frequent adult web sites, but that is just good clean fun. Online pay-to-play web games are the root of all evil and, truth be told, latent homosexuality. I am not saying that Sandwich Artist, Steeler Fan Boy and the Schweetness are all homos, surely one of em is not. But, the disturbing underbelly of this situation is online gaming tends to bring out the feminine side in some people. This is an actual dialog I read on the screen as DJ was trying to close the laptop.
DJ - What are you wearing?
Online loser - I am wearing a cloak and pixie dust, you know that Embalah the Great. Why would you ask me that?
DJ - No reason.
Online loser - You have your pants off again don't you?
DJ - Hold on, someone is knocking at the door.
Online loser - OK. WTF. OMG. RFLMAO. IAMGAY.
Strawberry update: After eating some, giving some away, there are still over 25 pounds of strawberries in my freezer.
Speaking of damn. I made the mistake of using the word at home over the weekend. This is not a good thing to do when children are around. It no sooner had slipped from my pie hole than my two year old was hollering Dammit, dammit, dammit. Great. The wife was none too pleased. Her anger was intensified when I slipped a second time the following day and he was again heard singing, Dammit, dammit, dammit. Fortunately there have been no more outbursts for either of us.
I got to meet a friend of Lumpy last week. DJ we will call him was a nice enough guy. There might be issues with his drinking habits but we all slide into the bottle once in a while. Don't we? The problem I have with DJ is his perversion of reality. He seems to think everyone is out to get him. This could come from his desire to constantly play online games. Now I know most of my readers are known to frequent adult web sites, but that is just good clean fun. Online pay-to-play web games are the root of all evil and, truth be told, latent homosexuality. I am not saying that Sandwich Artist, Steeler Fan Boy and the Schweetness are all homos, surely one of em is not. But, the disturbing underbelly of this situation is online gaming tends to bring out the feminine side in some people. This is an actual dialog I read on the screen as DJ was trying to close the laptop.
DJ - What are you wearing?
Online loser - I am wearing a cloak and pixie dust, you know that Embalah the Great. Why would you ask me that?
DJ - No reason.
Online loser - You have your pants off again don't you?
DJ - Hold on, someone is knocking at the door.
Online loser - OK. WTF. OMG. RFLMAO. IAMGAY.
Strawberry update: After eating some, giving some away, there are still over 25 pounds of strawberries in my freezer.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Never Enough
One day a wise man told me something I will never forget. He said you will never please a woman, she will never be satisfied with what she has. Of course, he was saying this because of my incedibly small unit. But I took deeper meaning from his statement. Crazy doctor, what does he know.
Anyways, yesterday was strawberry picking day. I took off Monday to assist with strawberry picking day but it was rained out. So I missed it. And what a financial mistake that was. So my thousands of children go out with their mother and pick strawberries. They are dropping a berry or two in their buckets and the wife steps away for supposedly only a couple minutes. When she returns, they have amassed a pile of strawberries that would impress a mountain climber. Think a pitcher's mound full of berries. Think a car full of berries. Think $2.00 a pound. Think how frigging long was she gone from the berry patch. So they managed to pick 35 pounds of strawberries. I know not all of you are DBAs, so I will calculate the damage for you. $70 worth of friggin berries.
****
On a lighter note, there has been rumors spreading rampantly around the ole watercooler about two particular dudes in the office that might, um, be, um, flaming homos. Don't worry it is not a rumor, Sandwich Artist and Steeler Fan are engaged. Contrats to them and their future together. New rumor is that Schweetness will be the best man. Check back for updates.
Anyways, yesterday was strawberry picking day. I took off Monday to assist with strawberry picking day but it was rained out. So I missed it. And what a financial mistake that was. So my thousands of children go out with their mother and pick strawberries. They are dropping a berry or two in their buckets and the wife steps away for supposedly only a couple minutes. When she returns, they have amassed a pile of strawberries that would impress a mountain climber. Think a pitcher's mound full of berries. Think a car full of berries. Think $2.00 a pound. Think how frigging long was she gone from the berry patch. So they managed to pick 35 pounds of strawberries. I know not all of you are DBAs, so I will calculate the damage for you. $70 worth of friggin berries.
****
On a lighter note, there has been rumors spreading rampantly around the ole watercooler about two particular dudes in the office that might, um, be, um, flaming homos. Don't worry it is not a rumor, Sandwich Artist and Steeler Fan are engaged. Contrats to them and their future together. New rumor is that Schweetness will be the best man. Check back for updates.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Anger Management
Yesterday the stress got to me.
I might have mentioned here before that I have a few kids, kinda like America has a few illegal immigrants. So meal time with my herd is a little hectic. One of my lovely little angels always tries to take the insanity up a level. And yesterday, I let it get to me. She was asked her lunch preference for the day. Actually, most of the kids were eating bagels with assorted toppings. Now, normally, I might make them all sandwiches and this particular little angel needs a bagel instead. So I have that knocked out because I was already making bagels.
Me: So what can I put on your bagel, honey?
Devil-Child: Do I have to have bagels?
Me: What? Oh, no sweetie pie, you can have something else. What would you like?
Devil-Child: Um....................................(Seconds tick away), I don't know. What do we have?
Me: Same stuff we have every other day. You just think for a sec, or maybe look in the fridge.
Devil-Child: Can I have chicken salad sandwich? (Knowing damn well, we have no chicken salad)
Me: ARRRRRHHHHHH
Then I proceeded to throw the bag of bagels at her. She looked at me with horror and started crying. Most people with souls would have felt bad but they don't ask the same lunch question every day and receive the same blank stare that I do. After the crying and carrying on, lunch was served. The angel finally chose her normal bagel choice.
****
Over the weekend, I attended a cookout. Now, I am not the greatest cook in the world, but I have learned a couple things from Lumpy. Boil the damn brats before you cook em. So here I am at this party and dude is plopping the Johnsonvilles right out of the wrapper and onto the grill. I am not close enough to the dude to freely speak my mind, so I enjoy a cervaza and vow not to partake. Later, as my belly is grumbling and I see the host dining on a brat, it looks done enough. I gaze long enough at the weiner in hand and decide to venture into the fray. After loading up the dog with mustard, onions and peppers, I dive into it. A little pink but not bad. Until bite two when I notice the middle is still raw. The next several minutes are spent trying to maneuver myself toward a trash can to dispose of the bacteria sausage. I settled on a hamburger that was done enough. Stick to your gut. Don't eat the raw weiner.
I might have mentioned here before that I have a few kids, kinda like America has a few illegal immigrants. So meal time with my herd is a little hectic. One of my lovely little angels always tries to take the insanity up a level. And yesterday, I let it get to me. She was asked her lunch preference for the day. Actually, most of the kids were eating bagels with assorted toppings. Now, normally, I might make them all sandwiches and this particular little angel needs a bagel instead. So I have that knocked out because I was already making bagels.
Me: So what can I put on your bagel, honey?
Devil-Child: Do I have to have bagels?
Me: What? Oh, no sweetie pie, you can have something else. What would you like?
Devil-Child: Um....................................(Seconds tick away), I don't know. What do we have?
Me: Same stuff we have every other day. You just think for a sec, or maybe look in the fridge.
Devil-Child: Can I have chicken salad sandwich? (Knowing damn well, we have no chicken salad)
Me: ARRRRRHHHHHH
Then I proceeded to throw the bag of bagels at her. She looked at me with horror and started crying. Most people with souls would have felt bad but they don't ask the same lunch question every day and receive the same blank stare that I do. After the crying and carrying on, lunch was served. The angel finally chose her normal bagel choice.
****
Over the weekend, I attended a cookout. Now, I am not the greatest cook in the world, but I have learned a couple things from Lumpy. Boil the damn brats before you cook em. So here I am at this party and dude is plopping the Johnsonvilles right out of the wrapper and onto the grill. I am not close enough to the dude to freely speak my mind, so I enjoy a cervaza and vow not to partake. Later, as my belly is grumbling and I see the host dining on a brat, it looks done enough. I gaze long enough at the weiner in hand and decide to venture into the fray. After loading up the dog with mustard, onions and peppers, I dive into it. A little pink but not bad. Until bite two when I notice the middle is still raw. The next several minutes are spent trying to maneuver myself toward a trash can to dispose of the bacteria sausage. I settled on a hamburger that was done enough. Stick to your gut. Don't eat the raw weiner.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Money for Nothing and Your Chicks for Free
There is always that one guy. You know him. I know him. We all know someone like him. He is the one that doesn't want to work for a living. He always has a get-rich-quick scheme at hand. Today his name is Bird Flu Man. His latest attempt to thwart working an honest day is to sell stuff on ebay. Now this is a novel idea. Novel, that brings me to his last scheme, selling e-books online. Notice the trend here. Next, he will be selling organs online. Oh wait, I think I have it. He goes in for elective neckbone surgery. Gets the corpse bone and then sells it for a profit. Sweet. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
This weekend I had a couple of Nosajisms. First we were at the barber and he was discussing his haircut options with the woman of non-English speaking origin. She nodded a lot and said "Cuttee?" quite often. The whole scenario was made even more ludicris by the fact that he is losing the battle with male pattern baldness. He talked more about 2 strands of hair than Bush talks on immigration. Give up the battle. Kojak almost rhymes with Nosaj. Get a lollipop and be happy, baldy.
The second Nosajism happened at a Japanese steakhouse. He was inquiring as to whether I ordered the double deuce. The twenty-two ounce Kirin. Of course, I had. He was proud of his use of double deuce to define the 22 in twenty-two. Which led him and his wonderful bride to inquire about why I use the phrase 'Dropping a deuce' for a bowel movement. This was still at dinner of course. I explained that deuce meant going 'number 2' or 'numero deuce'. They were both gleeful in their new-found knowledge. Then the obvious question of whether 'dropping a double deuce' was going twice. As everyone knows, a double deuce is just a really horrible, bowel-shaking bowel movement, not a multiple movement which is refered to as 'having the shits'.
I often find myself surrounded by friends of the wife. I find it amusing when they drop their not-so-subtle hints at how they want me. Lines like, little JiggyE (my two year old son) is so handsome, followed immediately by 'he looks just like his daddy'. I have no other recourse but to assume they think I am equally as handsome. I was disturbed, however, to hear the same phrase from a MAN at my friendly neighborhood post office the other day. Am I to assume, all those women were just being polite? They are not really hot for me? This is just two phrases together that have no tie-ins with my beauty. Bullshit. Mailboy must be a flaming Vito.
This weekend I had a couple of Nosajisms. First we were at the barber and he was discussing his haircut options with the woman of non-English speaking origin. She nodded a lot and said "Cuttee?" quite often. The whole scenario was made even more ludicris by the fact that he is losing the battle with male pattern baldness. He talked more about 2 strands of hair than Bush talks on immigration. Give up the battle. Kojak almost rhymes with Nosaj. Get a lollipop and be happy, baldy.
The second Nosajism happened at a Japanese steakhouse. He was inquiring as to whether I ordered the double deuce. The twenty-two ounce Kirin. Of course, I had. He was proud of his use of double deuce to define the 22 in twenty-two. Which led him and his wonderful bride to inquire about why I use the phrase 'Dropping a deuce' for a bowel movement. This was still at dinner of course. I explained that deuce meant going 'number 2' or 'numero deuce'. They were both gleeful in their new-found knowledge. Then the obvious question of whether 'dropping a double deuce' was going twice. As everyone knows, a double deuce is just a really horrible, bowel-shaking bowel movement, not a multiple movement which is refered to as 'having the shits'.
I often find myself surrounded by friends of the wife. I find it amusing when they drop their not-so-subtle hints at how they want me. Lines like, little JiggyE (my two year old son) is so handsome, followed immediately by 'he looks just like his daddy'. I have no other recourse but to assume they think I am equally as handsome. I was disturbed, however, to hear the same phrase from a MAN at my friendly neighborhood post office the other day. Am I to assume, all those women were just being polite? They are not really hot for me? This is just two phrases together that have no tie-ins with my beauty. Bullshit. Mailboy must be a flaming Vito.
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