3rd leg
I Could Get in a Lot More Trouble Where I'm From...

Friday, June 25, 2004

Tony Pierce complained this weel about how "older" bloggers are "boring" because they don't talk about their sex lives enough, and the "college kids (especially boys)" are missing out on a great deal of wisdom as a result.

As almost always (hate Michael Moore) --- I agree. The problem is, "older" bloggers like Tony, that live in California have a helluva lot more sex than those of us not residing in California. At least that's my perception. People look sexier in LA, they stay up later, they drink more, and because of the sun --- they show more skin, more often, meaning there's a lot less hoops to jump through when the opportunity presents itself.

But I'm down with everything else the man said. Not only did I not care about a woman's physical needs and expectations in my teens and early to mid 20's, I lacked the knowledge and experience to even attempt to satisfy. But now? Shoot... I'm more than happy to spend an hour or more downtown, even if it doesn't lead to me getting mine. Because when you get good at something, you sorta dig doing it, so that others can appreciate and tell you just how good you are. Total ego stroke, but who cares when everyone wins? Unless of course they're lying, which while possible seems highly unlikely when the demand for repeat business remains increasingly high.

Of course being hung like a horse doesn't hurt either...

Sing Us a Song...

Friday, June 18, 2004

Damn, 4 months!?!?! A span which celebrated the return of Meeshness, and is currently mourning the retirement of MadPony. A span which started with Ben and J-Lo outsmarting the media while planning their nuptials, and ending with J-Lo and Marc Anthony possibly planning for a bun in the oven --- a spicy one, no doubt. Britney married Jason Alexander, had it annulled, wrecked the home of one of her backup dancers, and then wrecked her knee while messing with another backup dancer.

In 4 months time, Lindsay Lohan came, Lindsay Lohan saw, Lindsay Lohan got boobs, and Lindsay Lohan conquered...

And such is life... There is no pause button. Even if you take some time to smell the roses, people are going to keep doing stupid things, and average-looking/semi-talented chicks are going to keep looking a helluva lot better and getting a lot more work A.I. (after implants). With or without you baby. With or without me.

J.K. livin' or j.k. bloggin', that's the question at hand I suppose, because only a select few can seem to do both month after month after thankless month... If you look at my track record you can assume I'm good through the rest of the summmer, and then sometime between fall and winter will grow uninspired and seemingly fall off the face of the earth. That's my style, as much as it sucks to be disappointed, it sucks even worse to pack your bags and say goodbye. There are no goodbyes when you always keep your gas tank full and a couple of days worth of clothes in a duffel bag in the trunk. The rearview mirror is simply used to hang the fuzzy dice from, not to actually look back. No looking back, only forward and sometimes to the side when passing someone and trying to decide if they're worthy of a wink and a smirk --- or am I the only driveby flirt up in here?

I'm not drinking quite as much Red Bull these days, but nearly everything else you've come to love and expect from your frustrating-faceless-wouldn't-know-me-if-you-saw-me-ol-pal is very much the same. Still pumping, thumping and humping, though not always in that order ---- but always smelling nice while I do it.

Peace suckas, eternal optimists, and tireless surfers... Have an outstanding 5-0-free weekend full of hookups, Mojitos and memories...and maybe we'll see you next week and maybe we won't....

If we do, there'll be pics... Pics make the world (see: Web) a much better place, I know this man.

Little Strokes

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

I hate to break this to a couple of you dudes, but that kleenex/tubesock-worthy pic from last week was actually of my flat stomach.


I'm in just a feisty enough of a mood to wipe the dust off of the word Sike, and bring it out of the closet for a couple of days.


But, maybe we'll see. One source of my feistiness is a certain, golden-arched, mis-representin' fast food chain. If Muscle'll have y'all boycotting Quizno's, then I've got an even taller order. F- McDonald's! Yea, I said it. First we've got to deal with the spicy chicken sandwich's insane absence from the menu, then Justin's high-pitched badda, bah, bah, bah Lovin' It annoying, rebranding-jingle, then the commercials with the old lady bustin' out the debit card, and now this...

Not all of the McDonald's can even take your debit or credit card just yet! What the hell?!?!?! I thought I was could've been swiping and enjoying for like 3 months now, and upon my first attempt I'm greeted with "Coming Soon" flyers and "Sorry, sir but we don't have the machines, yet"?

What a load of crap. I'm not asking Ronald to take Grimace and the Hamburgler to colonize Mars, I just want him to make good on his offer. I'm ready to swipe and enjoy----is that too much to ask? And I certainly don't want to see that card-carrying, sanctimonious old hag on my screen until you're ready. Until everybody's ready.

Anybody know anything about Eggburger 3? Yeah, me either.

But I do know that I think it's cool as fug that Dorf has capitalized on his instructional golf videos and parlayed it to the latest reality bride-hunt. I'll give you 2 to 1 odds he picks a normal sized chick. Cuz even little people know there's nothing better than a long set of legs. Unless Bridget the Midget makes a guest appearance. Then all bets are obviously off. Hell even the Bachelor would consider giving her freaky, acrobatic azz a rose.

Want to know what else is on my mind? Of course you do. Already in the early part of 2004, I've done things that I didn't do in all of the last three years combined.

Ate sushi.
Purchased flat front pants.
Tried to throw the let's-go-out-for-an-early breakfast mack.

Yep, that last one is how I spent the early portion of Valentine's Day, and let's just call it a bad idea, never to be repeated. It's never wrong to explore every opportunity to keep the evening from ending, but once you throw a couple of pieces of french toast down a half-drunk girl's throat, stick a fork in her and watch her crawl under the covers. Fully clothed. Even if it means inviting her back to your place (assuming you keep your fridge stocked), something that I don't normally recommend. That's better than wasting 2 hours in a greasy spoon thinking your glass of O.J. is half-full. Because it's not. And there's probably something floating in it anyway. And orange juice just tastes weird without vodka.

Show Me the Way Home

Friday, February 13, 2004

As often as Muscle68 drops musical references in his posts, isn't it a travesty that you've got to come here to read: Smack it up, flip it, rub it down?

Speaking of... I've got my flightsuit on, and I am making my climb to the cockpit as we speak. In less than five hours time I'll be in the air speeding towards a target-rich environment, alongside an unlucky fellow fresh off a 6-month relationship that everyone else knew wouldn't last.

Then again, maybe he's not so unlucky. His impeccable timing (see: her timing) has spared him at least one lengthy, unpleasant trip to the greeting card store. And he's certainly not unlucky to have the privilege of flying alongside one of the most capable, loyal and accomplished wingmen in the history of manned flight---at least for one evening.

Maybe the biggest factor in my recently flawless record is my strict criteria related to mission selection and personal rules of engagement. There may have been a day when I was a reckless cowboy in the air, shooting early and often at targets of various sizes, shapes and appearances. There might also have been a day when I was simply too selfish and unable to share my airspace with others. But with age comes experience, and with experience comes ridiculous levels of excellence. At least in my case.

After countless hops, fly-bys and near misses over the years, there is no longer a doubt in my mind of what constitutes ideal flight conditions. I not only know what to look for, but I can see it well before my peers, and possess the moves and ability to maneuver quickly and efficiently in to close range for a better look and a target lock if I'm feeling so inclined.

Tonight on this Valentine's Eve, I will get ballistic, the need for speed will be both embraced and surpassed with spectacular results, there will be no points for second place, my ego will confidently write checks that my body will be able to cash (maybe even twice or thrice), and most importantly I will not leave my wingman. Even should that mean an initially awkward threesome is in my near future---one that is somewhat less than "ideal". Unless of course our target has an unbelievably (an un-pierced) sexy little tummy, like the one above. In that event it's every man for himself for the obvious reasons, and my boy will just have to figure out how to get back to the carrier on his own. Then again our evening is in K.C. and not D.C., so he should be alright.

Hopefully, y'all will be alright too, finding yourselves in good hands during the next 48 hours of romantic and amorous possibilities, whether they be commercially-driven (see: Hallmarks) or heart-felt. And does it really matter which, when you do find yourself in good hands? Didn't think so.

Speaking of good hands, this dude uses his to sponge bath old folks, "or something...." Funniest thing I heard all week, Trevor...

Back in the Saddle

Monday, February 09, 2004

What a crazy week! GM gets a dog, followed by mad hits when JT and JJ have a WM (see: wardrobe malfunction) at the SB, not to mention the all-important launch of Lick.

It's not that I didn't care or wasn't aware, but I was blissfully relaxing in the thin air of Keystone, Colorado, getting my ski (and hot tub) on. Sorry sports fans, no sign of Meesh---though I admittedly never got as far as Aspen. And upon returning from 7 days with no internet/email access, I've finally gotten rid of the shakes. I also returned 7 pounds lighter somehow. Too bad that skiing can't be a normal part of my exercise regimen.

Other things I did during the course of the week, not that you asked:

Had my first delectable taste of chilled liquid, minty perfection (see: mojito).
Had no less than four more delectable tastes.
Consumed tasty sea scallops not once, but twice.
Welcomed 13" of snow, but only because I didn't have to drive in it.
Grew a Timberlake-lookin' beard to be shaved off before Friday.
Watched the Disney Channel with my nephew for no less than 4 hours per day (Kim Possible, you had me at hello, you green-eyed, naval-bearing vixen. Bunny should totally play her in the live action movie).
Real all 736 pages of Eszterhas' Hollywood Animal, where I learned that Elizabeth Berkley wasn't cast as the lead for Showgirls based solely on her acting ability (seriously?) and legendary producer Robert Evans is a legit P-I-M-P. An impotent pimp, but still. Doesn't make him a bad person, and doesn't mean his house isn't the place to party down. Just make sure you're not doing anything regrettable when the Polaroid cameras bust out.
Hot tubbed twice, with snow flakes landing on my clean shaven head both times.
Once only after getting on a treadmill for 15 minutes, with a plastic cup full of Moosehead (see: no glass allowed in pool area) in the drink holder, while I impatiently waited for two middle-aged men to leave the hot tub so I could have it all by my self.

And now that I'm back I'm thinking of the best place to get screwed like 50 (see: Grammys' Best New Artist - Evanescence?) on Friday night. Because the last place I'll be on Valentine's Day is In Da Club. But that's just how I do. So let me know if you're gonna be in town on the 13th, and I'll make ya scream like Jason.

Finally, because I'm feeling especially chatty, and I always feel a little bad when I go 7 days without a post here's a bonus...

I used to go to school with a Christine R. She had long straight hair that nearly reached her butt and was a head taller than all the boys. In the 3rd grade she had the misfortune of coughing in to her hands, with a full on ensuing upchuck that cleared the room and forced the janitors to come in with their special concoction of sawdust and birdseed to soak up the nastiness. That is my last and lone memory of Christine R., and sometimes I wonder if she ever got over the stigma attached to her day of infamy.

I also went to school with an Ann Cooper. Some guys I knew, cool kids of course, nicknamed her Ann Pooper Scooper. I don't think I ever personally called her that, namely because she was bigger and meaner than me, but I won't say I didn't giggle anytime the nickname was used in my presence. I wonder if she ever married a non-Cooper and was happy to welcome a new last name, and if she ever told her new beau about her poop-scoopin' days. I also wonder if I'd even recognize her today, and if the ugly duckling stayed that way, and if she ever finally broke down and washed her nappy hair that we were sure we saw a live cockroach crawl out of one day.

I do not however wonder if I'll bump in to either girl on Friday.

First B2K, and Now This?!?!?

Friday, January 30, 2004

Airborne Express 'dude' called me 'guy' today while making a delivery, and that wasn't even the start of today's bad mood.

All week I have been most concerned with keeping my windshield and rear window de-iced, but stopping at the gas station on my way to work to refuel, I learned I had a much more serious and painstakingly time-consuming problem. My gas cap door (is that even what it's called?) wouldn't pop open. Why you ask? Because the white 1/4" of ice enveloping the rear end of my car was keeping the black door down. And for some reason I could not for the life of me find my ice scraper. Which meant I had to resort to a CD jewel case. The problem is the ice was too thick for the modest plastic and I shattered three cases before I had chipped enough away to finally gas and go. In the process I left numerous scratches on the side of my car as well as somehow cut up two of my knuckles. Today's high temperature by the way---9 degrees.

Please keep this story in mind the next time Tony or Muscle is whining about sub-60 degree temperatures.

More importantly while Omari Gets Served, or Does the Serving, in theatres tonight in his first 'meaningful' work since the B2K split---Atomic Kitten is apparently no more either.

Since I live in the States, I have absolutely no idea if these two lovely birds and one whos only half as lovely, have any talent or are simply a Spice Girl trio wannabe, but I will say this... Daddy likey the brunette. Me-ow!!!

The Great Escape

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Have you ever woken up to something so scary and indescribable that you immediately prayed to your maker for invisibility or lightspeed to allow for a speedy and undetected exit?

We're not talking about 'giving back' or 'slump-busting' experiences involving a temporary lessening of standards so that a big, toothless and/or ugly girl could have a moment of bliss. We're talking about a "Oh-dear-god-what-was-I-thinking-and-how-in-the-name-of-all-that-is-holy-can-I-fix-it-and-erase-it-from-my-memory" moment of shear and utter horror?

For me, ninja/jedi-esque escape patterns begin the second she dozes off, still with a satisfied smile on her face of course. That's because nothing good can ever come from sticking around. Once you came, saw, conquered (though not always in that order), the gig is up. The love of your life (see: the one) isn't going to be that easy, and you'll actually be as interested in minor details like her last name and marital status (and when her significant other gets back in town), before you actually verify that her carpet matches the drapes. I'm talking interior decorating people, get your minds out da gutter!

Seriously, the only thing that awaits you during the morning after, is something that doesn't look half as good as it did in the bar's poor lighting right around last call (no telling how many hours or paid professionals she employed prior to leaving the house), and don't even get me started on the breath. Forget the morning wood, because that's not going to get any better during an awkward-remember-me session, trust me. What you vaguely remember through your blurry vision (having kept your contacts in all night) and pounding head (damn you mojitos!) was in fact as good as it gets.

If you're still living with mom and dad, or have just been lucky enough to avoid such a dilemma, then pay close attention. The key is not unlike any Nightmare on Elm Street scene, Don't Fall Asleep. Freddie Krueger's got nothing on this girl's bedhead and pre-shower/makeover session. Though the first key to your success, staying awake is not the only one. Some other things you're going to need to consider BEFORE the deed is done:

-Don't bring her back to your place (she'll know where you live and she may still be there when you get back)
-Don't let her set a security alarm, and if she does pay attention to the code she inputs
-Cell phone (check), cab money (check)

You may think that you were sly and no one saw you leave, or who you left with. But you can never be too sure. So you've got to come up with a damn good reason you were AWOL for a post-midnight 4-hour time gap. Never ever admit that you left with anyone. It wasn't you, or yes it was you, but it must have only looked like you weren't leaving alone. Some early morning explanations you can utilize; car trouble, temporary incarceration, blackout, amnesia, dead cell phone battery, out of town, doppleganger/evil twin.

Notice that nowhere herein were you ever judged for what you did. Big uglies need love too. In fact, sometimes they even appreciate more. Beggars can't be choosers----whatever your case me be, it's cool. But that doesn't mean everyone is as understanding as your ol' pal 3rd Leg.

That said, have yourselves a happy, guilt-free hump-day!