My lady and I have great email exchanges over the course of a day. Today, I threw this gem her way:

While in the midst of map drawing, the Black Eyed Peas song 'Where is the Love?' began assaulting my eardrums. I had forgotten I ripped this song and stored it in on my computer long ago. The song is your typical beat-driven, hip-hop funk mantra the Black Eyed Peas are known for. In the rap, the following topics are covered: wars being waged by crooked politicians, poverty-stricken children starving in the streets, people smoking crack atop urine soaked mattresses in abandoned houses and the claim that terrorists are not only fundamentalist Muslims wishing to wage jihad on American soil but top ranking officials in our own government. So I pose the question to you, my lady, where IS the love?

With the scant bit of knowledge and understanding I have acquired in my twenty eight years on this earth, I have been grappling with this question all day and I have come to only one logical conclusion:

The love is in my pants.

Labels: music, pop culture, tomfoolery, wife

Kaye: We were on the road Saturday afternoon and we saw a clown driving in a car.
Me: Oh yeah?
Kaye: Yeah. It was some funny shit. I am glad clowns have to drive around all dressed up like fucking morons.
Me: Ha! Goddamn, you are fucked up.
Kaye: It is a prejudice I have. I hate clowns. There is something seriously wrong with you if that is your job.

Labels: im convos, kaye, tomfoolery

Saturday night my lady and I attended Nels and Kerry's third annual pumpkin carving party. It was her first experience combining gourds, stabbing implements and hard alcohol. My pumpkin was voted best in party (The design on my jack-o-lantern can be seen at most truck stops across America). I was finished carving in fifteen minutes and left to drink hot cider laced with rum* while my lady worked her ass off implementing a creative idea she read about in a home living magazine. Many jack-o-lanterns looked far better than my own, but my victory is proof positive of one indisputable fact: sex sells.

* Hot cider and rum are a lethal combination. One has difficulty tasting rum in hot cider, so after drinking five or six cups, inebriation hits you like a pimp who has not received his cut of the money. At one point, I filled a standard twelve ounce plastic cup half full of rum and half full of cider. I gave the drink to my lady, who at the time was completely sober. She took one sip and said, "Did you put any rum in this? I do not taste anything." Needless to say, we stumbled home from the party as if we had been drinking at a mixer at the Kennedy compound.

Labels: drinking, halloween, nels, pumpkins, wife

Back during my hardcore boozing days, I drank at some pretty rough joints around the Denver metro area. Many of those hellholes were similar to this. Thankfully, the older I have become, the more I value my life and would rather drink my own urine from a rusty oil pan at home than patronize any of the places I wasted time at during my early twenties.

Labels: denver, drinking

Watch this. I may be flying to Korea to steal this child and bring her back to the United States to start a xylophone school. Or sweatshop. Which ever comes first.

Labels: music, tomfoolery

People are spiritually dead in America. I know this because idiots are seeing the likeness of the Virgin Mary in a tree stump and thinking it means something. In more New Testament related news, an actor depicting the messiah has been smote. I think Jesus is tired of being depicted as an Aryan poster child.

Labels: pop culture, religion

"I don't know nothing about God; but I'll take your word for it."

Labels: drugs, quote of the day, religion, sex

Nothing says guilt and crazed like a shit house rat when a suspected serial killer chooses to represent themselves in court. Do us all a favor, John Allen; lay back on the gurney, take your lethal injection like a man and spare us all the media circus that will surround your trial.

Labels: pop culture, serial killers

Me: A story that is right up your alley
Gay Joe: Die Puny Humans? Love that site name!
Me: Totally.
Gay Joe: Or something.
Me: Fuck you, you silly little queer.
Gay Joe: Hey! I may be little and queer but I am not silly.
Me: Um.
Gay Joe: Okay maybe a little silly.
Me: I am surprised you have not faggoted up that cubicle with posters of Julie Andrews and the Depeche Mode.
Gay Joe: I have not done that because I am more of a dark fag.
Me: You are like the Darth Vader of the gay community. Or the grim reaper. Take your pick
Gay Joe: Vader. He had a huge helmet.
Me: The grim reaper has that giant scythe though. You could do some cool gay shit with it.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gay, gay joe, im convos, pop culture

After watching the Chicago Cubs blow a three games to one lead over the Florida Marlins in the 2003 NLCS and missing yet another World Series opportunity, it is my opinion that the franchise should end as of three o'clock today. Lock up Wrigley Field, cut the players severance checks and end the fucking ball club's existence. The Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908. That is 95 years and ample time for any professional sports organization to get a title. For those Cubs fans blaming mystical forces, I assure you the Cubbies postseason collapse had nothing to do with a goat or an over zealous fan, and everything to do with allowing your opponent to score 8 runs in one inning and your pitching ace giving up seven earned runs in the final deciding game (tying only four other pitchers in history for most earned runs against in a game seven). Congratulations to the Florida Marlins. Good luck in the big dance.

Labels: rage, sports

My sort of lady is now officially my lady. So if you are a young, barrel-chested, boxer-brief adorned male brimming with semen I urge you to bark up another tree because the bitch is all mine. Luckily for her, I will not act upon my animal instincts and piss a circle around her. At not until I get ten drinks in me.

Labels: l-i-v-i-n, wife

Last night, I drank $2 Coors products with my Fantasy Football compatriots at a local watering hole. Humorous events unfolded. Here are some highlights from the evening:

• I mention to Tyler, the David Blaine lover, that the British were planning a flash-mob event underneath his stunt over the Thames. I proclaim that Blaine is just a poor man's Harry Houdini. Tyler proclaims, "Fuck you and the limeys," and begins a staunch defense of the man he no doubt wants to experience sexual intercourse with. Just like every other Monday night, the entire table ridicules Tyler immediately after he opens his mouth.
• The bar has televisions displaying numerous sporting events. Last night, Monday Night Football, game four of the ALCS and WWE Raw were on simultaneously. At one point during WWE action, Stone Cold Steve Austin offers his wrestling rival's old lady a beer. She refuses said beer. Stone Cold persists. She finally sips the beer and it disgusts her. Upset by the turn of events, Stone Cold grabs her by the nape of the neck and power bombs her tee-totaling ass to the canvas. A great lesson can be learned from this and that is if your bitch does not like beer, than you should power bomb her.
  
• Conversation turns to Denver Bronco running back Clinton Portis. Wife of CH cracks off a slew of comments about the man. He is an idiot. She saw him at a bar once and he ordered a glass of White Zinfandel. She delivers the big funny when she utters, "His goatee looks like a goddamn pussy on his face." (Wife of CH is a master of random comments. She once said of identical twin NFL athletes Tiki and Ronde Barber: "Tiki is more attractive because he has caramel skin." During a Monday Night game between Denver and St. Louis (and after drinking an excessive amount of wine) she called Kurt Warner's wife, "A fucking dyke" and summed up the pathetic Denver Bronco defensive performance with the simple comment, "Bitches").

Labels: ch, drinking, sg crew, sports, tomfoolery, tyler

Once before on this site, I directed my rage at Jehovah's Witnesses. The reasons for my anger were threefold:

1. They cruise my town home complex with complete lack of respect for the no-solicitation ordinance.
2. They ring my doorbell early on Saturday mornings.
3. They bring their Jesus shit to my front door, inches away from where I eat, fuck, sleep and shit.

While the methods of Jehovah's Witnesses piss me off, I still love me some Prince. If he appeared on my doorstep, I would invite his little ass inside and tell him to hurry up with the Son of God rap and ask him to sing Purple Rain for me and my sort of lady.

Labels: pop culture, religion, the fairways, wife

Last night after my hockey game (a 10-3 victory in which I tallied 2 assists and Mark was denied on a sick Temu Selanne-esque backhand chance) my sort of lady made a scrumptious dinner of Mediterranean chicken, fresh vegetables and wild rice. After we ate, we retired to the sofa and watched the Chicago Cubs win their first post-season series in 95 years. I enjoyed most aspects of the game except for the constant camera coverage of Kerry Wood's wife sitting in the stands. After almost every pitch Kerry threw, Fox would cut to her crying and clutching her delicate little hands in front of her face. By the seventh inning, I had enough:

Me: (camera pans to Kerry Wood's wife) Here we fucking go again. I am sick of seeing that bitch.
My Sort Of Lady: I know, Matty.
Matt: We do not need to see the gold-digging gutter trash Kerry married every time he strikes a guy out.
My Sort Of Lady: I agree. They probably would not put the camera on her if she were ugly.
Me: True. But how many professional athletes wives are ugly? Aside from Kurt Warner. His wife looks like hammered shit.
My Sort Of Lady: Good point.
Me: Look at all those player's wives. They are like those high school cheerleaders that lettered only in cheerleading.
My Sort Of Lady: I do not think I could ever be a professional athletes wife.
Me: Me either. My tits are not big enough.

Labels: /mark, hockey, sports, wife

For lunch, I got my sandwich on at Subway. Everyone always seems pissed at that place. The customers are agitated because they are in a hurry. Subway employees are either stoned college students with bad attitudes or middle-aged functioning alcoholics that hate their lives. It always seems that my sandwich is being rushed through the construction process, too. I am always getting yelled at from the toppings station: "What do you want on the spicy?" I am sorry, but I do not feel good about my sandwich unless I see the toppings being applied. One of those fucking junkies could be out of their mind and slip some onions or olives into my sub. Then, when I pull out my credit card to pay and ask for stamps, the people in line behind me have conniption fits. Hey mister and misses irritated corporate executive, a credit card is a widely used monetary unit and I collect sub stamps in order to one day obtain a free sandwich. I am poor, I do not carry cash and I like free shit, so quit getting your panties in a twist. I should have just gone to Quiznos with Jake.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, food, jake