Me: The wife and I are moving out of the hood, Joey.
Gay Joe: No way. Are you moving over to Castlegate to run your meth dealing ring from within?
Me: No. We got a house. We put an offer in last Wednesday, got countered on Thursday and we accepted. We now have three mortgages and can officially be called "slumlords." We may own the whole goddamn town home complex if you are not careful.
Gay Joe: Want to buy my place?
Me: Maybe. Think we can wash the gay off the walls?
Gay Joe: No. That is the selling point, jackass.
Me: "For rent: 2 bedroom suburban town house. Doubles as homosexual circus tent and semen repository."
Gay Joe: "Home already part of metro area orgy circuit. Ideal for those already suffering from syphilitic dementia."
Me: Awesome.
Gay Joe: Replace "suffering from" with "enjoying."
Me: Depending on who we are targeting.
Gay Joe: "Bush-bottoms welcome at double rent."
Me: "Bear lovers encouraged."
Gay Joe: I would actually prohibit bear lovers and pets. Too much hair. Anyway, congrats on the new house. Looks nice.
Me: Thanks, killer.

Labels: gay joe, im convos, real estate, the fairways

The wife and I have spent the past month and a half looking for a house all over Denver and her surrounding suburbs. We have seen our share of some awful, filthy and disgusting properties. Any one who has ever shopped for real estate knows the market is rife with run-down hell holes, terrible design choices (such as flowered wallpaper and faux wood paneling), homes that haven't been updated since the Kennedy administration and box elder bug infestations that would make the scene in Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom look like amateur hour. This past weekend we finally walked into a house and felt like we were "home". We made an offer on Wednesday and the offer was countered last night, being upped a few grand and the sellers agreeing to cover the closing costs (buyers market, yo). We gladly accepted because the house is the tits; 2500 square feet (3100 if you count the unfinished basement), updated dumpers, counter tops and lighting, over sized two car garage and air conditioning. Assuming the inspection goes well we move in on March 31. I intend to do a naked moonlight ass-walk on the deck off the master suite on night one. You know, to set the tone.

Labels: l-i-v-i-n, real estate, the greens, wife

Nothing could capture my childhood and relationship with my father more perfectly than this.

Labels: childhood, dad

Nameless Ex Coworker: Hey, do you know the login and password to that thing on the corporate website you designed? I need to do something with that.
Me: Yes. It will cost $80 an hour for that information. That is my going design rate for for-profit corporations. Or we can work out a flat fee.
Nameless Ex Coworker: Seriously? Even for me?
Me: For you and for anyone who represents your company.
Nameless Ex Coworker: Wow.
Me: It's a pleasure doing business with you.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, im convos

• Mr. Belding (Dennis Haskins) and Tony Romo singing a cover of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" with Metal Skool. Good times. I think I will email Metal Skool and offer to redesign their site. Yeesh. What they got there now looks like an aborted fetus.
  
• Behold the model index of the 2007 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. Enjoy wasting the rest of your day, boys. (Except for you, Gay Joe. Go find a homosexual site where dudes are dressed in SS uniforms and whipping each other or something).
  
• Jake's half sister is a transient pervert that likes to tie people up and drink their blood.

Labels: boobs, jake, link goodness, pop culture, swimsuit issue

Meet Bob Keeler. He was born on Valentine's Day, received the Distinguished Service Cross after some dirty Krauts blew his legs off in WW-Deuce and when he dies, he wants to go out dancing. I would pay money to see Bob hand a pack of Emo kids their asses with a prosthetic leg.

Labels: valentines day, war

Minutes ago I heard sirens nearby and instantly thought the authorities were raiding another meth lab in the neighboring apartment complex or that another unit in our town home community was on fire. I set foot outside to witness paramedics wheeling out a dead body four units down.'Burb livin' is hardcore, yo. Represent.

Labels: death, l-i-v-i-n, the fairways

Anna Nicole Smith is dead from popping a handful of sedatives and choking on her own vomit. Glamorous. Is anyone shocked? Anyone besides other drugged out bitches with balloons surgically implanted in their chest cavity? It was just a matter of time before Anna Nicole's major organs exploded due to heavy narcotic intake. I am done with the major news outlets already; especially those comparing her to Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn was a smoking hot sexpot and had talent. Anna Nicole had a big rack and a penchant slurring her way through interviews. Marilyn had a stable that was the envy of most straight women of her era: JFK, RFK, Joey D and Arthur Miller. Anna Nicole's stable included a billionaire that looked like an exhumed corpse, a Jewish lawyer that weighs a buck twelve and random strip club patrons that paid her $200 for a champagne room hand job.

Labels: death, drugs, pop culture

• An astronaut love triangle sponsored by Depends brand adult diapers. Because when hunting down crazy bitches that look suggestively at your man, there is no time for a bathroom break.
• In Malcolm X's auto-biography, he wrote about taking large doses of nutmeg to get high in prison. While its not as glamorous as hand sanitizer, it does the trick all the same (read firsthand accounts of nutmeg highs here, here and here).
• Ron Jeremy gets some behind-the-dumpster action from a random skank at a Saddle Ranch Steakhouse. All this while said random skank's date waited patiently for her to return. And she did. With cum in her hair.

Labels: drugs, link goodness, pop culture

Today while meeting with a client at the downtown Tattered Cover, an unsavory character with crack pipe burns about his hands stopped me while exiting the store and asked for spare change in exchange for reciting one of his poems. I am opposed to giving street urchins any form of compensation (it is not in my nature to enable) so I agreed to the transaction with the caveat that if I did not like his poem he would receive no payment. He agreed, pulled out his mangled spiral notebook and began reciting prose. The poem was surprisingly good, rife with inflections of loss, pain, happiness, despair and hope. I gave him 47 cents, told him to stay off the rock and to keep working the poetry angle. He said thanks and then told me he had to catch a bus that was taking him to a drug test. After his drug test I am sure he was meeting up somewhere with his nymphomaniac girlfriend that has 'Fuck My Whore Ass' and 'Fuck My Whore Pussy' tattooed on her hips.

Labels: denver, drugs, homeless, whores

I am tired of your attitude, Winter. This is not the cabin scene from Dr. Zhivago. This is Colorado and we revel in living at high altitude. We are used to eight inches of snow falling one day and then melting by sundown the next. As it stands now, the mountain of plowed snow in the town home parking lot is just growing in size and I am dangerously close to losing the bet I made with the wife in regards as to when it will melt. Granted, it was a friendly wager but just once in this marriage I would like to be right.

Labels: colorado, l-i-v-i-n, snow, the fairways, wife