Rich men can afford to get into heaven

A room divided

Fundamentalist Swimwear

Stephanie sent me an e-mail with a link to www.wholesomewear.com. What a treat! Who knew that there was such a resource for my Fundamentalist swim needs!

Culotte Swimmer

Here’s the Culotte Swimmer on what looks to be that girl from “Full House.” It’s for the more active swimmer. Culotte roughly translates to "virgin until thirty-five."

Skirted Swimmer

The Skirted Swimmer looks to be a bit racier. Probably for the Louisiana Fundamentalists. You can make your own "Blossom" comments on this one. (I also like the girl running the dynamite wire from the abortion clinic on the WWJD pink spool.)

Extended Slimming Swimmer

Finally, the Extended Slimming Swimmer for hiding those naughty, naughty calves. Or for covering up the “dinner was late” bruises.

And we laugh at the Burka…

Which reminds me of… the Burkini!

Jesus cartoon phase

I am sorry for my recent Jesus cartoon phase. I can't seem to get the big guy out of my head.

Give me a few days to get out of this rut and I'll try to get back up to speed.

Thank you.

Love,

HolyJuan

Jesus was a carpenter

Jesus at the company picnic

Jesus on a rollercoaster

The Snowball Fight

Here is an entry for Handsome Joe, though you all have my permission to take a peek.

Joe, remember this night? See below for a translation.




2/25 - 2/26/93
Tonight was snowball heaven. Joe hit the dude that crossed over to the South Side and I hit the guy with the hat and knocked it off. We saw 2 or 3 guys arrested. We hit cops and went sledding down Music Building Hill. Who is the girl with the braces? We had a good time. Where's your bra. (I think it was about Lil' Deb.)

I'll re-tell this story tomorrow once I collaborate with Handsome Joe.

Skinny Dipping on Both Coasts

I used to love to go skinny dipping. Usually with a drink in to get the inhabitation out. Usually with some girl I was after and sadly some other guys who were after the same girl. And usually in a dank pond or Lake Erie or both. In 1994, during the Perseid meteor shower, I dipped in the Atlantic Ocean just outside of Boston. No story there. I was in and out just to say that I had been in both the left and the right oceans. It was in 1992 while working in Alaska that I went skinny dipping in the Pacific Ocean and lived this story.

Taylor was a big guy. He was genetically large and worked out on top of that. I only saw him get red once and that was resolved quickly when the cause of the red left the bar at a faster than medium pace. Taylor worked with me in a salmon canning factory in Ketichikan, Alaska. Taylor’s job at the fish cannery was to pull the full carts of freshly steamed canned salmon out of the retort ovens. He’d push around a whole series of loaded carts like they were empty. Dude was big.

We were drinking on the barge one night after work. We drank on the barge every night and this was just another one of those nights. Taylor took a lot of vitamins and supplements and he was sharing his niacin with me. I took a few and washed them down with some beer. He said, “You might start to feel hot.” In about ten minutes I thought my skin was going to peel off. He laughed and said that was normal. I haven’t taken any niacin since. Later in the night when we were all a bit more drunk than normal, Taylor suggested we take a drive to the beach. Three of us said yes, which would make a total of four except that on the way out we grabbed one more. I forget her name, but she was the second best looking girl at the cannery and I drunkenly thought I had a chance. (Sue was the best looking girl. She won’t be mentioned again.)

Taylor had a late 70’s Suburban. He had driven in up the Al-Can from California. I’m pretty sure 25% of the Suburban is still on the Al-Can in bits and pieces. We all got in and drove about five miles to the beach. We had to wind down the South Tongass Highway to the end of the island. In route we mistakenly turned into an empty lot beside the road that Taylor thought was the gravel road to the beach. In that dirt lot was an abandoned car with doors. He spun back out, drove on and got to the end of the road which happened to be the beach.

The beach was actually sandy. I was expecting jagged edges and boulders. We drank beer and ran through the waves. With my shoes off, I could drag my bare feet thorough the sand and scare up the microbes that glow in the dark. Though I didn’t know the word at the time, it was a bit surreal. Which of course is the best time to go skinny dipping. I tried to talk 2nd best looking girl into stripping down, but she said no more than once. So I stripped down and ran in the waves thinking that others would follow. About fifteen feet into the water, the absolute cold snuck its way past the beer and leftover niacin and tickled the little bit of sense I had left. Squealing like a little girl or a twenty one year old boy with shriveled testicles, I splashed to the shore. In my earlier haste to strip down, my clothes ended up getting wet. At this point I realized that I was very, very cold from the water and the warm beer feeling from earlier was very, very replaced by the knowledge that it was only about sixty degrees out. I put on my wet clothes and ran to the Suburban.

More realizations were handed out when we started driving back and Taylor said the heater in the Suburban didn’t work. I forgot about 2nd best looking and curled up just trying to keep warm. Maybe I should have thought about niacin, but I didn’t have the opportunity with Taylor slamming his Suburban into the abandoned car. On the way back to the cannery, Taylor remembered the abandoned car in the huge dirt lot and decided to crash into it. He did several times and then things got fun. One of the guys jumped out and opened the driver’s side door. Taylor drove into it from behind at about 20 mph. It snapped off more than a lot. I got out of the back seat to watch the passenger side door get bent impossibly backwards, but not broken off. We three tried to push it into a slammable position, but it wouldn’t budge. Taylor nudged the mighty Suburban right on the door edge and tried a bit of horsepower on it. That didn’t do anything but shove the car, stiff wheels protesting, backwards. That gave Taylor a great idea. He positioned his truck front bumper to the front bumper of the abandoned car and pushed it backwards, faster and faster. At a point, all the wheels stopped resisting and started to roll. Taylor slammed on his breaks and the car flew solo across the road and slammed, with a satisfying, glass breaking crunch into some trees. I had forgotten I was cold.

This story ends with me remembering I was cold. Taylor had fucked up his transmission in all the pushing and destruction. He spent twenty minutes between the driver and passenger seat, drunkly fixing the problem as I regained my shivers. He drove in first gear all the way home. Standing in the barge showers, fully clothed, I thought to myself that at some point in my life I should go skinny dipping in the Atlantic Ocean. Hopefully during warmer weather. Possibly during a meteor shower.

Bolt meets windshield

Check out this photo from www.piaze.com.


Ouch. That made me want to look for other windshield debris:

Bike
www.flickr.com/photos/jaye_elle/


Trampoline
www.flickr.com/photos/noahpippen/1285484513/


Deer Face (it lived)
www.flickr.com/photos/fellowsfog/322109137/

How much money do you have?

Greg brought me a Star Wars product catalog and started pointing out all the things he wanted. It would have been quicker for him to show me the things he did not want.

I said, “How much money do you have?”

He said, “More than a lot.”

I am going to use that phrase as much as possible.

Train Wreck


Train Wreck, originally uploaded by puzzlemaster.

We went out for Dave's Birthday last night. I did not plan my eating/drinking correctly and ended up bailing at the last minute instead of going into Skully's.

I stood across the street from Skully's and thought to myself, If I go in there, I'll be up until 3:00am and completely destroyed. So I turned around and got back in my car and went home.

DNA Bench with H2O


DNA Bench, originally uploaded by Informal Learning Experiences.

Here is a great example of when artistic design gets a slap in the face from real life interaction.

Or another way of saying it would be when an artist gets slapped with a lawsuit.

I also hate it when a perfectly good climbing surface is called art and rendered unclimbable.

What kind of company logo/mascot is this?

We saw this logo on the side of a company van today:


(image from http://www.sewer-rat.org/)

What the fuck is that! That rat has one hell of a robotic, claw appendage extending from its groin or it's humping a drain snake. Add the Jesus Fish on his sleeve and the Ohio State hat and you've got yourself one hell of a mascot.

They are a plumbing company in Columbus Ohio called Swamp Rat. Next time I have a meat plug in the toilet during a Buckeyes game and I need some religion, I'm going to give them a call.

Verizon gets your consent by not getting your consent.

Verizon’s definition of “getting your consent” is not getting your consent and unless you un-give them the original assumption of consent, you have, in their eyes, given your full consent.

It’s garbage day and that means that I can go through the mailbox and have the garbage cans right there to throw away all the crap mail. As I was disposing of the chaff, I saw an envelope from Verizon that stank of sales offers. The only thing that kept if from the trash was the black lettering on the outside that mentioned “changes to your account.”

Inside the envelope was a brochure with the first section titled, “You privacy is important to us.” (See scan below. Click to enlarge.) In the brochure, it clearly states that, “The Federal Communications Commission requires that (Verizon) obtains your consent to (share Customer Proprietary Network Information.)" The Customer Proprietary Network Information (CPNI) is information “such as, quality, technical configuration, type, destination, location, and amount of the use of the telecommunications services you purchase.” It also says that CPNI isn’t my name, address to telephone number, but I don’t give a shit…

I’m pissed that their definition of “giving consent” is doing nothing. To not give consent, I have to call a number and “opt out” of my consent that I never gave. One of my favorite sayings is, "Silence means consent," but this seems out of line. The FCC requires they get my consent and damnit they should have to get it from me.

I just called and the automated system was painless to un-consent.

Maybe I have not been reading my Customer Agreements and perhaps this is commonplace, but it just stinks. If you are a Verizon customer and want to “opt out” of your assumption of consent, do so at 800-333-9956.

If any of you know why this is something I should be un-opting out of, please help me by explaining why.

Work Conversation by Two-Sack

Team member X: "Your computer is disgusting, and your keyboard is crusty."
Two-Sack: "You got something against DNA, a-hole?"
Team member Y: "And your touch pad is the worst."
Two-Sack: "That's my landing zone."

Hanging out at the water cooler



This photo is so wrong on so many levels. That is a plastic thumb hanging out of my shirt. I'm not sure what those stains are. That look on my face is awful.

Put them together and they make one hell of a photo.

Gay Man’s Book Day

I don’t think it comes as a surprise to any of you that I am gay. Super gay. Here’s how gay:

Miss Sally goes out about once a week with her friends. Once she leaves the house and the kids are in bed, John will come over and we watch a movie and eat pop corn. We call it “Gay Man’s Movie Night.” We like to discuss the movie and laugh (Borat} or be sad {The Life Aquatic} or wonder what all the hype was about {Knocked Up.}

A few weeks ago, John and I were at a bar after an Ohio State football game. There were a lot of hot girls there. Hot, drunk girls. John and I stood around on the edge of the dance floor and debated a number of logic points in Stephen Donaldson’s most recent book. A girl sauntered off the dance floor and completely unprovoked she said to us, “You are both pathetic.” She then turned back out on to the dance floor. We were stunned. And then we laughed. It was true. Gay Man’s Date Night.

Tomorrow, Stephen R. Donaldson’s next book is coming out. I re-arranged my meetings so that I would be done by 11:00am. John took the day off. We’ll meet at the Barnes and Nobel around noon and buy two copies of the book. I expect that we will cuddle up next to each other on a couch in the cafe and read the first 100 pages or so. Gay Man’s Book Day.

And that's how gay I am.

If you have any other date selections for us, please let us know.

And P.S.: Robert Jordan can suck Donaldson’s balls. Donaldson writes circles around that hack. That was your Gay Man’s Author Critique.

See anything wrong with this school crossing sign?


(CLICK TO ENLARGE)
This was a school crossing sign I saw in Seville, Spain back in 1993. No photoshopping on my part. It's black and white because that's what you are 'sposed to take photos with in foreign countries.

Chief and Freedom

I believe your immediate question is going to be, “Why did Betce have two ducks.” I can tell you with all honesty that I do not remember or choose not to remember.

It was the spring of 1992 and I lived at 19 Palmer with Mustache Joe, Meyer, Loy, Betce (pronounced Betsy) and Baker. We were all geared up for graduation and were pretty much sick of each other. (That’s the nice way of saying that we were all getting sick of Betce.)

Betce had a dog named Flash. I remember Flash not being that smart of a dog. Flash had a problem coming when Betce would call. Once I told her that dogs responded to lower voices rather than high pitched, Cleveland accents. Often I would hear her out the back door squealing, “Flash! Flash!” Then she would pause and barrel out a low pitched, “Flash!” Flash didn’t give a shit either way. All in all, Flash was tolerable, especially when he was not listening to Betce.

One day, Betce brought home two ducklings. Oh boy, were they cute. And oh boy, those little f’ing ducks wore out their welcome quick. The noise they made. The poop. The stink. She named them Freedom and Chief. You can make your own assumptions why. If you didn’t know Betce, you might think it had to do something with her love of the Native American peoples. If you did know Betce, you might think it had to so something with the large amount of weed she smoked.

So Freedom and Chief became our house guests and we all lived happily ever after.

Well. Most of us lived.

Enter in Handsome Joe. Many of you might not know this, but Handsome Joe is probably only 9 credits short of having a BS in veterinary studies. Handsome Joe worked for years at a Vet’s office in Lancaster. He probably had a lot more practical experience than most other Ohio University students. He’ll tell you tale after tale of him putting down cats and putting fingers in dog’s asses. I think he’s birthed most domesticated animals and possible impregnated a few as well. He’s worked with all sorts of animals… including ducks.

Betce decided that it was best for the ducks, now no longer ducklings but rather larger, noisier, stinker ducks, to be outside in the fresh air. She bought chicken wire and some posts and set up a nice little unclosed area behind the house where the ducks could eat grass and shit out whatever grass becomes inside a duck’s stomach.

She immediately noticed that the ducks were beginning to test their wings and could actually gain a bit of air. This was a problem because Betce wanted the ducks to be happy, but she also wanted to keep herself happy by sheltering wild animals in the house. She called Handsome Joe and he showed up with a pair of scissors.

You can, with the proper knowledge and tools, keep a bird from flying by trimming back its flight wings. Handsome Joe had the proper knowledge and tools and the birds were made flightless. Betce was happy and the ducks didn’t know any better not having known the beauty of flight.

Everyone from the house, except Betce, left for Memorial Day weekend to go white water rafting. We came back Monday afternoon to find the duck fence in disarray and feathers everywhere. Flightless birds can’t get out of a chicken wire fence and they also can’t get away from neighborhood dogs. Betce had left the ducks alone outside in their pen and some roaming dog killed one of them and either chased off the other duck (Betce hoped) or took him “to go” (we all know this to be the probable truth.)

Betce was terribly upset. We felt bad, but come on. This could never have ended well. Who raises ducks in a college house? The fence was wrapped up and thrown out.

Years later, the sitcom Friends had Joey and Chandler raising a duck and a chick. They made it look so easy. In Hollywood, they don’t allow you to harm the animals during the making of the film. Chief and Freedom should have been so lucky.

The real question we must ask ourself is this: is Handsome Joe responsible for the deaths of the two innocent ducks. I think we all know the answer to that question.

Ad Placement... which are the conjoined twins?



I saw this news report about conjoined twins today. As I looked in the article I thought, "Those kids don't look like twins." As I watched, the photo flipped to an advertisement. Then I saw the real conjoined twins in the upper right hand corner. I waited until the ad cycled and took a screen shot.

Good Luck Miss Shelly!!

Good luck with your surgery Miss Shelly.

We'll be thinking of you.

Oh, and make sure you get everything they take out of you back in jars and labeled. I went in for a simple surgery and the surgeon removed three inches from my penis! Now, what am I supposed to do now that I only have eight inches?

Rock Star Parking vs Movie Star Parking

Let’s say you are driving out to a restaurant and as you prepare to circle the block 18 times looking for a parking spot, a space appears right in front of the restaurant. What kind of parking do you call that? My friend Erik calls it Rock Star Parking. I call it Movie Star parking. Who is right?

I am biased, but I will try to be fair.

Erik is wrong. I am right. It's called Movie Star Parking

Rock Star Parking implies that because Rock Stars are famous/popular that a spot in front of a destination will be reserved for them. Or that they are so important that people will make room for them. Or perhaps they are so special that the parking god (I believe her name is Vera) just makes a spot magically appear.

The flaw in Erik’s logic is that Rock Stars don’t drive themselves. They have their driver or an entourage that drop them off at the front door. Even more likely, Rock Stars are dropped of at back doors to avoid the types of people that might save them a parking spot in front.

I refer to good parking as Movie Star Parking because no one in the movies ever parks more than ten steps away from an entrance. A space always is open. There usually isn’t a meter. They don’t even need to parallel park as there are three open spaces so they can glide in. Sometimes the scene in the movie just cuts to them getting out of an already parked car.

It’s Movie Star parking. An open space in front of a destination. I’m right. Erik’s wrong. I'm sure you all can agree to that.

Stop being nice on the road

You know who you are. You woke up on time. You were able to leave a little bit early for work. Your favorite song was on the radio. You drive up to a four way stop just before another car across the way does. He wants to turn left. You have the right of way, but you wave a friendly, “Go ahead!”

Just quit it.

I had a similar incident happen to me this morning. I was on a side road, waiting to turn a dangerous left over four lanes of traffic. I do this often, so I know there is a pause in traffic once ever sixty seconds. I waited for the traffic to go by and a person on the opposite side of the road wanted to turn left on to the side street I was turning out of. I waited for him to turn, but he stopped. I looked over and he was waving for me to go. “Go ahead friend! You go first! I’m nice!!” I pointed at him through the windshield and yelled, “YOU GO.” He had the audacity to stare at me with a pissy little screwed up face as he turned and sped by.

There is a time and a place for niceness. The road is not one of those places. Follow the rules. Do not be nice.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting people drive really fast and cut off others in traffic. That’s just not being nice, that dangerous and assholey. Share the road, but don’t give it away.

I really just want people to follow the rules of the road. Sure it may mean that someone may sit at an intersection for a longer amount of time, but it also means that there will not be an accident when a wave or head bob is misinterpreted as a “I’m nice, you go first Oh shit there’s a car coming… Oops!”

There are situations where you can be polite in your car. Parking lots, the modern day Road Warrior setting, could use a bit of niceness. An accident scene, where everyone has to play nice and merge, deserves a bit of humanity. I don’t think there is anything anyone can do to fix what happens after a concert in the parking lot.

All I ask is this: Share the road. Be polite within the rules of the road. And quit trying to be nice, asshole.

Oh, one other thing... if you are the first one in the left turn lane, pull up and take control of the intersection. It's yours. Take it. Mainly because I am the fourth car back and really need to get to work.

Laminated List Week

It’s the first week of October and you know what that means! It’s UPDATE YOUR LAMINATED LIST week.

As you all know, a laminated list is the three famous people with whom you are allowed to have sex. If ever the opportunity presents itself, you and your partner agree that you have permission to have guilt free sex with the three people on that list.

Every year, during the first week of October, you are allowed to update the list.

So here is my list for 07’ – 08’…

1. Christina Ricci
2. Alyssa Milano (she’s back!)
3. Leelee Sobieski

Sarah Silverman has not made the cut, but she has until the end of this week to convince me.

Who’s on your list?

Gone fishing