Hi! Do you have a deep dark secret you'd like to tell but cannot because you fear retribution from your family, peers or neighbors?
Please let me tell your story. If you've got one, please e-mail me at holyjuan@gmail.com.
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Bathroom Trickery
I poop. Sometimes at work. Sometimes it is pretty stinky.
My office is in a building where other guys use the bathroom too. Enough so that every other time I use the bathroom, there is a good chance that someone is going to be in there when I walk in or come in right as I am walking out. Our bathroom only has one pisser and one shitter so it is pretty close quarters in there.
Every guy in the building knows that there are other stinky poopy other in the building. When you find one, you mention it to your other guy buddies. They usually have a story about the stinky guy.
I do not want to be known as the stinky guy.
Sometimes after a night out with Shorty and a quick stop at White Castle, I am the stinky guy the next day. To combat this, I have a simple regiment.
If I walk in and someone is at the pisser, I act as if I am going into the stall just to pee. When they leave, I let loose and get the hell out. Chances are no one will be coming in as I am leaving. The next guy that walks in gets a surprise and can only place the blame on who he and his buddies think the stinky guy is.
If I walk in and the bathroom is empty, I try to get in and get out. If someone starts walking it, I move my feet as far as possible to the side so that they cannot see my shoes. Shoes are the dead giveaway. You’ll be walking down the hall and see a guy with brown loafers with the dangly things on them and realize he was the stinky guy from last week. I wear converse so I’m easily spotted. Keep quiet. Keep shoes far to the side. Wait till they leave. Wait thirty seconds. Run!
Now, here’s the tricky one. If I walk in and no one is in there, I drop trough and listen for guys walking in. If I finish before anyone walks in, odds suggest that someone will be coming in any second. I stand up, walk to the urinal and fake pee for a few seconds. If someone walks in to the cloud of retch, I can act as if I am just an innocent pisser who walked into an all ready polluted bathroom. You share a half second of silent sorrow with the guy who walked in, wash up and leave. Let him take the blame.
If you are the stinky guy, don’t even try this. We all ready know who you are. Please continue to take the blame for us other schmucks and continue to wear those awful brown loafers.
(And to you women who claim this article doesn't apply to you, you are wrong. If you have to poop, poop in the men's bathroom. Problem solved.)
My office is in a building where other guys use the bathroom too. Enough so that every other time I use the bathroom, there is a good chance that someone is going to be in there when I walk in or come in right as I am walking out. Our bathroom only has one pisser and one shitter so it is pretty close quarters in there.
Every guy in the building knows that there are other stinky poopy other in the building. When you find one, you mention it to your other guy buddies. They usually have a story about the stinky guy.
I do not want to be known as the stinky guy.
Sometimes after a night out with Shorty and a quick stop at White Castle, I am the stinky guy the next day. To combat this, I have a simple regiment.
If I walk in and someone is at the pisser, I act as if I am going into the stall just to pee. When they leave, I let loose and get the hell out. Chances are no one will be coming in as I am leaving. The next guy that walks in gets a surprise and can only place the blame on who he and his buddies think the stinky guy is.
If I walk in and the bathroom is empty, I try to get in and get out. If someone starts walking it, I move my feet as far as possible to the side so that they cannot see my shoes. Shoes are the dead giveaway. You’ll be walking down the hall and see a guy with brown loafers with the dangly things on them and realize he was the stinky guy from last week. I wear converse so I’m easily spotted. Keep quiet. Keep shoes far to the side. Wait till they leave. Wait thirty seconds. Run!
Now, here’s the tricky one. If I walk in and no one is in there, I drop trough and listen for guys walking in. If I finish before anyone walks in, odds suggest that someone will be coming in any second. I stand up, walk to the urinal and fake pee for a few seconds. If someone walks in to the cloud of retch, I can act as if I am just an innocent pisser who walked into an all ready polluted bathroom. You share a half second of silent sorrow with the guy who walked in, wash up and leave. Let him take the blame.
If you are the stinky guy, don’t even try this. We all ready know who you are. Please continue to take the blame for us other schmucks and continue to wear those awful brown loafers.
(And to you women who claim this article doesn't apply to you, you are wrong. If you have to poop, poop in the men's bathroom. Problem solved.)
Food shopping
I went shopping tonight. It was not the fun shopping where I meet Erik out for drinks first and then go shopping second. In the winter, you can shop first and then grab a drink with your car trunk acting as a refrigerator. In the summer, you have to shop after drinks or else the milk gets warm and goes the way of the cottage cheese. When I shop after drinks, Greg is more likely to get fruit roll-ups.
Tonight though, I just went shopping.
But I was reminded that when we were kids, mom did most of the shopping. We always had diverse meals and it seemed that we never got tired of what we were fed. On the same note, mom never bought anything fun.
We loved it when dad went shopping. He’d come home with frozen waffles and honey with the honeycomb still attached. You’d help bring the groceries in and there would be a frozen turkey in the middle of July. Beans in a plastic bag that you had to soak for twelve hours. Brown eggs. Spam. It was like the carnival except with the four food groups plus a mysterious new canned food group that was either La Choy or canned brown bread. (Yes, there is such a thing as canned brown bread.)
Now that I do most the shopping, I wonder if I am a Mom shopper or a Dad shopper.
I think I’ll head to Dad’s this weekend and take some photos of the pantry. I bet there is still food coloring from 1976 in there when we made the Bicentennial cookies. Right there next to the bag of beans and the Deviled Ham.
Tonight though, I just went shopping.
But I was reminded that when we were kids, mom did most of the shopping. We always had diverse meals and it seemed that we never got tired of what we were fed. On the same note, mom never bought anything fun.
We loved it when dad went shopping. He’d come home with frozen waffles and honey with the honeycomb still attached. You’d help bring the groceries in and there would be a frozen turkey in the middle of July. Beans in a plastic bag that you had to soak for twelve hours. Brown eggs. Spam. It was like the carnival except with the four food groups plus a mysterious new canned food group that was either La Choy or canned brown bread. (Yes, there is such a thing as canned brown bread.)
Now that I do most the shopping, I wonder if I am a Mom shopper or a Dad shopper.
I think I’ll head to Dad’s this weekend and take some photos of the pantry. I bet there is still food coloring from 1976 in there when we made the Bicentennial cookies. Right there next to the bag of beans and the Deviled Ham.
My Wife Magazined Me
Miss Sally gave Greg his bath last night as I finished painting the living room. (It was an awful red that only looked good in photos.) Usually I give Greg his bath and afterwards we watch 15 minutes of cartoons as he dries off. We then revert back to the normal bedtime routine. The good thing about “routines” is that they create expectations and get a child to sleep with limited wrangling. The bad thing about routines is if you stray from them, the schedully unrestrained child will most likely tumble out of control.
Miss Sally was not aware of Greg’s bath night routine of cartoon watching and she ended up wrangling him for an additional thirty minutes after the twenty minutes of arguing and figuring out where the train left the track.
Later on in the kitchen, Sally suggested that we need to get Greg on a standardized routine or share with each other what the routines are. I agreed. She also then mentioned that it would be nice if we could get out of the house and go on a date. I thought these were both great suggestions and I realized that we just had a conversation that was suitable for Dr. Phil. Wow. Communication. Sharing. What a great marriage!!
The next morning, still glowing from our conversation the night before, I gave Ann her bottle and was making ACTUAL PANCAKES ON THE STOVE . It was during this time that I flipped aimlessly through Real Simple Family magazine that had been sitting on the counter. My eyes glanced over an article about “Sticky Situations” with bottle of glue icons to rate the level of stickiness.
That’s when I saw this one:
Coincidence? I think NOT! I'd been magazined. My wife had read something in a magazine and tried to covertly implement it into our life.
I circled it with pink highlighter and left it open on the counter. Miss Sally came down a few minutes later and I said, “Look what we have here…” and pointed to the magazine.
She read the quip and shrugged slightly. I accused, “This is almost word for word what you said last night. And this article suggests I lie on the couch all the time.”
She denied it. Yes, she had read that article, but in no way shape or form was she attempting to article verbatim our relationship. And she was not accusing me of laziness as I am always putting Greg to bed. The routine suggestion was just that and the date night comment was just that as well.
Still… I’m sure it was possibly a subconscious train of thought to go from Greg’s routine to date night. Miss Sally would never magazine me.
I wish the article would have been from Cosmopolitan magazine and been titled “Ten Sex Cravings All Guys Have” with boobs for rating icons. Maybe I should get the highlighter out.
Miss Sally was not aware of Greg’s bath night routine of cartoon watching and she ended up wrangling him for an additional thirty minutes after the twenty minutes of arguing and figuring out where the train left the track.
Later on in the kitchen, Sally suggested that we need to get Greg on a standardized routine or share with each other what the routines are. I agreed. She also then mentioned that it would be nice if we could get out of the house and go on a date. I thought these were both great suggestions and I realized that we just had a conversation that was suitable for Dr. Phil. Wow. Communication. Sharing. What a great marriage!!
The next morning, still glowing from our conversation the night before, I gave Ann her bottle and was making ACTUAL PANCAKES ON THE STOVE . It was during this time that I flipped aimlessly through Real Simple Family magazine that had been sitting on the counter. My eyes glanced over an article about “Sticky Situations” with bottle of glue icons to rate the level of stickiness.
That’s when I saw this one:
Coincidence? I think NOT! I'd been magazined. My wife had read something in a magazine and tried to covertly implement it into our life.
I circled it with pink highlighter and left it open on the counter. Miss Sally came down a few minutes later and I said, “Look what we have here…” and pointed to the magazine.
She read the quip and shrugged slightly. I accused, “This is almost word for word what you said last night. And this article suggests I lie on the couch all the time.”
She denied it. Yes, she had read that article, but in no way shape or form was she attempting to article verbatim our relationship. And she was not accusing me of laziness as I am always putting Greg to bed. The routine suggestion was just that and the date night comment was just that as well.
Still… I’m sure it was possibly a subconscious train of thought to go from Greg’s routine to date night. Miss Sally would never magazine me.
I wish the article would have been from Cosmopolitan magazine and been titled “Ten Sex Cravings All Guys Have” with boobs for rating icons. Maybe I should get the highlighter out.
Weapons of Mass Destruction FOUND!
Chris, the ever astute Neo-conservative has been searching for the Weapons of Mass Destruction for the past four years non-stop.
Who knew this whole time they right under his nose.
He sent me this photographic proof
Good job, Freedom Fighter!!
Who knew this whole time they right under his nose.
He sent me this photographic proof
Good job, Freedom Fighter!!
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Why average girls don't get laid
{Author's note: I have been besieged with e-mails asking me about this cartoon. Many do not get it because either I am too smart or I am an idiot. I'm sure many of you know which is correct. I drew this after reading an article about averages and how people can get them confused with medians. Basically what I am trying to say is that the "average" girl might turn out to be 0.5. And who wants to hook up with 50% of a girl?}
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