Tonight on our drive down to south Denver for a floor hockey game, the Ghost of War smashed into an errant sofa on I-25 at about 75 mph (the sofa conveniently lay on the highway less than three hundred feet from Furniture Row). I am guessing that a new sofa purchaser, unskilled in the art of twine and furniture hauling, dropped that big bastard on the road upon merging and failed to look in their rear view mirror to notice that their load was lost. The sofa lay in the far right lane as we sped along in the far left lane. An eighteen wheeler barreled through said sofa and sent it careening across the highway. The Ghost of War happened it be directly in its wake. I swerved enough to deflect the brunt of the blow, but the old girl still got tagged pretty good. The damage included the passenger side mirror being shattered into oblivion, a large dent on the passenger side door and the passenger side headlight being bashed to pieces (click here for some hot Flickr action). Being as the Ghost of War still gets 35 miles to the gallon and is paid for, I am running her for at least another 100K. I plan on hitting the Yota Yard at lunch tomorrow for some replacement parts as it is close to the office and located directly across the street from the Walnut Room (which makes a mean meatball sandwich). May the parts be with me, indeed.

Labels: denver, ghost of war, l-i-v-i-n, tomfoolery, wife

Long time friends of the MB, Mark and Sara, ruined their lives over the weekend. It was a lovely affair that went down at Red Rocks Amphitheatre and included Apache Wedding blessings, drinking and revelry, an R2D2 cake and a slideshow of two fine-looking youngsters in love. I understand your reasoning for putting us at the Smashing Pumpkins table, Mark, but were we at least considered for The Clash table? I must know. Congratulations (again) from the wife and I. Enjoy England/Scotland/Ireland. Also, something for you to consider.

Labels: /mark, colorado, wedding, weekend that was, wife

• Alamosa, Colorado. Home of the Great Sand Dunes, a college where slightly above average suburban high school athletes go to die and now, free salmonella!
  
• McDonalds sack 1, Brandon Marshall 0. Brandon Marshall joins the esteemed list of other Denver professional athletes who obtained an injury under strange circumstances (read: getting caught in a lie). Congratulations Brandon! You will now be held in the same esteem as Clint Barmes breaking his collarbone while carrying deer meat (read: being flipped off of a four wheeler) and Brian Griese tripping over his dog, falling down the stairs and spraining his ankle (read: taking a tumble while sloppy drunk). Look on the bright side: almost losing an arm is a better thing to be remembered for than talking about practice.
  
• Mirror gets thrown from Colorado University dorm room window. Hijinks ensue.

Labels: colorado, link goodness, sports, stupidity

A response to the five things I supposedly do not know about my penis:

1. My dick does not make chicks fat. While I make no argument that nature gave women the raw deal with the subsequent carrying and birthing of children (and "fucking with their metabolism") I am certain that my dick was not the catalyst for your weight gain. Perhaps its the fact that your children (the ones you probably nagged your husband for because your biological clock was in overdrive) keep you too busy to work out for five hours in a week. Or maybe its because you have not adjusted your diet and are eating like you are still pregnant. Or maybe its because when women get older their metabolism naturally slows down. Or maybe you are just lazy and in need of an excuse for looking like a whale.
   
2. It does smells bad when it is not clean. Going down on a guy after he played in a pick-up basketball game and his cash and prizes were a tad gamey, eh? I am really sorry about that. I am guessing it is akin to going down on a woman two days after she is off her period. I mean, you could have stopped sucking it, right? Maybe asked him to take a shower? But no, you just kept going at it. Thanks for confirming that you are, indeed, a dirty cocksucker.
3. It does want to go in your butt without permission. First and foremost, my penis is not a gentleman. He is a scandalous, immoral, evil piece of shit that is usually the root of my problems. While I do not always agree with those decisions (read: my ex-girlfriend), we tend to compromise and present a unified front. I am with him on this one. We are not going to ask for sodomy approval because the answer is invariably going to be no (unless you drank enough wine). Most women outside of pornography do not ask for anal sex, so it is always better for me (and my penis) to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
4. It does not mind a helping hand. Within reason. As an owner of a penis for over thirty years, I can assure you I have learned how to handle my junk. I also learned to steer clear of greedy bitches like you who cannot go one minute in or out of the bedroom without wanting to be pleased. While rubbing your moose knuckle is a good move (and one which I am glad to perform), it is also only doable from a few positions (none of which I am guessing you are into). So instead of complaining about it, maybe you should acknowledge the fact that you are clitoral rather than vaginal with your orgasms and ask for stimulation before or (gasp!) after I release the hounds.
5. It does stay hard with a condom on, but it sucks. I will wear a viking hat and a wet suit if it means I am getting in there, but condoms kill all sensation (try making out with someone while wearing a trash bag over your head to get an idea). Still, I have common sense. I would definitely not de-rubber with a self-proclaimed dick professional such as yourself.

P.S. Peen? Really? Are you writing in your girlfriend's junior high yearbook or something?

Labels: rage, sex

A recipe for Guinness ice cream. Before that tattooed freak Jake turned the wife and I on to Guinness Floats (two scoops of vanilla ice cream and one pint of Guinness Stout) at the Exchange Tavern one hazy evening, I would have cringed at the thought of a Guinness-based ice cream. Now all I have to say is, "Fuck yes."

Labels: decadence, drinking, jake, wife

DJ: The Elliot Spitzer prostitute flow chart.
Me: See, now this is why I hate society. I mean, who cares if he buys a whore? Aside from killing her I am cool with it. Even then, it is circumstances such as these that killing a hooker seems acceptable.
DJ: So basically you just want a class of disposable people?
Me: Have you ever been inside a Wal-Mart Super Center on a weekend? I would say we are already there.
DJ: Nice.

Labels: dj, im convos, pop culture, whores

• The comics deal that put Mile High Comics and Charles Rozanski on the map.
  
• The 20 biggest record company screw-ups of all time. Number one? The killing of Napster. Also ridiculous yet notable; the selling of Motown for peanuts, letting Bob Dylan go for a thousand bucks and the Guns N' Roses Chinese Democracy debacle.
• An image gallery of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue covers from 1964-2008.

Labels: comics, link goodness, music, swimsuit issue

• George Clooney is a bitch. All the deviants on my Thursday night ice hockey team judged me a few weeks ago for not having seen Two Girls And 1 Cup. So I gave into peer pressure and watched the scat sickness unfold before me. I am convinced the two girls were eating chocolate soft serve ice cream and not engaging in actual corpophilia. I need footage of the poop in question being shat into the cup, not the cup going off camera and than magically re-entering the frame filled with poop. Who are you judging now, Thursday night ice hockey team?
  
• In California, science dorks are getting their panties in a twist over the first substantiated wolverine sighting since the 1920s. Yee-haw! It is a large, ferocious weasel!
• Erotic Falconry is a great idea with poor execution (Read: birds of prey Photshopped into pictures of hot chicks). I was expecting topless shots of hot chicks with falconers gloves and assorted raptors affixed to them. I guess my standards are just too high. You disappoint me yet again, internet.

Labels: chicks, link goodness, perversion, poop, pop culture, porn, science

I was saddened to learn today that Patrick Swayze has pancreatic cancer and may not have much time left. Damn. Some of my favorite films include the be-mulleted Mr. Swayze. Whether he was waging a guerrilla war versus the Soviets in Red Dawn, kicking some drunk redneck ass in Road House, robbing banks and surfing the edge in Point Break or pulling Baby out of her corner in Dirty Dancing, Patrick Swayze taught a generation American boys how to be men. So, in order to honor his struggle to beat cancer, I have created some Save Swayze gear. Fuck you, Patrick Swayze's pancreatic cancer.

Update: Upon the creation of my Save Swayze gear, Cafe Press immediately flagged and took down the shop items due to a violation of their content usage policy. My infraction of Cafe Press's content usage policy makes even more sense after viewing nearly 30,000 Barack Obama illustrative likeness designs. In short, Cafe Press sucks.

Labels: disease, pop culture

Moses was tripping balls? That explains the whole wandering in the desert, Egyptian army is chasing us, parting the Red Sea, Burning Bush, Mount Sinai/Ten Commandments and Golden Calf business. That right there describes a fairly strong yet garden variety acid trip. Granted, the Exodus story is not as twisted and psychedelic as Fantasia what with the dancing elephants and hippos, but it definitely ranks up there.

Labels: drugs, religion

• The man who quipped "The name is Dalton..." after his set/bar fight at the Double Deuce is no more. Godspeed, Mr. Healey. I thought you would be bigger.
• Bacon cups. I may have the wife whip me up some bacon cups so I can pack them full of bacon bits and have a heart attack upon consumption.
  
• A photo essay about Uncle Dirty (NSFW). Uncle Dirty has a hog, friends. Enjoy the thong photo (near the bottom) which displays Uncle Dirty's skid marks. You are welcome.

Labels: bacon, death, link goodness, perversion, pop culture, wife