Marriage/Divorce

 

Marriage/Divorce

      I am a non-recently divorced man. A neurotic, balding, unattractive, middle-aged man is divorced—Wow, is anyone surprised?  (I guess that’s what I get for marrying a family member!  I am originally from the South Carolina low-country, remember?  South Carolina—where the official state tee-shirt is a dirty wife-beater. From where I came from, family reunions were a place to meet girls who also had low standards!)  But I am divorced.  Everyone says that his/her ex–spouse was nuts or was crazy.  Well, mine actually have the official papers to prove it.  In fact, one of them probably has a champion’s pedigree in crazy!  My divorces irritate me, but not in the way that one might think.  I remember when I was in the process of going through with my divorces, everyone kept saying to me, “You’re much better off now.  It’s over! You’re finally done with her!  You’re finished with her!”  And I actually started to believe that statement.  However, nothing could be further from the truth!  I will, unfortunately, never be done with my ex-wives.  I can never be finished with them.  No, that doesn’t mean that I am still in love with them and I hope that, somehow, we’ll find a way to get back together because I’m a hopeless romantic.  Ha!  When I say that they’ll never be out of my life, I mean that I have now become what the television stations, the newspapers, and the police profilers have labeled as “a disgruntled ex-husband.”  I am really not “disgruntled” towards my ex-wives.  I no longer hold any animosity toward them anymore. (It may have taken about a decade or so of serious drinking and serious therapy, but I am over them.)  But now the problem is, if one of my ex-wives is giving a blow-job to some crack head under a highway overpass and gets run over by a truck, guess whose tire tracks the police will come to check out first?  If one of my ex-wives overdoses on heroin while screwing some homeless person for loose change in a back alley somewhere, whose silverware pattern will the police come to check to see if the spoons match?  Yep, you got it—me—the good old disgruntled ex-husband!  As a “disgruntled ex-husband,” I suddenly become a “person of interest” in any crime involving any of my ex-wives. Every time that a woman is beaten, killed, dies, or disappears, who is the prime suspect?  Who is the first person the police question?  Whom does the media immediately accuse?  Who is the one who everyone knows did it?  Yes sir—good old disgruntled ex-husband.  Talk about your ultimate form of profiling!  I am now the number one suspect if anything ever happens to my ex-wives now or twenty years from now.  The other day while watching the news, a story came on about a woman’s body being found.  My first thought was, “The husband or ex-husband better have a good alibi!”  If something actually happened to my ex-wives, now that I have been divorced for over ten years, I would like to think that there are other prime suspects, besides myself, the disgruntled ex-husband.  Because of this, my ex-wives will never really be totally out of my life.  I always have to have a provable alibi for every minute for every day for the rest of my life.  My alibi for my whereabouts can never just be, “On the first of August at 10:05 P. M., I was at home alone sitting in my underwear eating Chee-tos and watching cartoons on television.”  I now have to take notes to prove that I actually was watching cartoons.  I have to document, “On the tenth of October at 10:05 P.M., Elmer Fudd shot Daffy Duck.  At 10:06 P. M. Bugs Bunny said to Daffy Duck, ‘Duck Season’ to which Daffy replied, ‘Wabbit Season’…”  I now have to take freaking notes like I was in a class!  I also have to save the receipt for the Chee-tos.  In some ways, it is even worse than being married.  If my ex-wives didn’t believe me or thought that I was lying to them when we were married, I got yelled at and cut off from sex.  As every married man in the world can tell you, you get used to that punishment.  (My wives and I used to have what I called Olympic sex—not that it was world class, but that it happened once every four years, if I was lucky! Or we would have what I called “Possum-style” sex—she would lie still like she was dead until I left or it was over.)  But now if the police don’t believe me, I don’t get cut off from sex, I gain sex with my new cell-mate, Bubba.  So, whenever I speak to my ex-wives now, I always tell them to be careful, to eat right, to exercise, and to please take care of themselves.  I really mean that, too.  I can honestly say that I want them to live a long, long life.  I honestly want them to outlive me.  I am not really concerned for their well-being; I just don’t want to have to be questioned by the police or the local news.  If I outlive them, I will eventually have to answer questions regarding my whereabouts at the time of their death—no matter where I was and no matter how they died.   If they outlive me, I’m hoping that they will be the ones who will have to answer to the police.  I can imagine that they certainly have enough reasons to want to see me die a slow, painful death.  However, thanks to sexism, the “disgruntled ex-wife” is usually not as much of a suspect as the “disgruntled ex-husband.”  Go figure.  If an ex-husband turns up dead, the ex-wife is not always considered the number one suspect.  If I end up dead, nobody is going to suspect my long-ago divorced ex-wives.  No one would be suspicious of them, unless someone noticed the woman at my funeral with an extraordinarily large smile on her face!  (Of course, you would also probably notice the smiles on the faces of all my ex-girlfriends who showed up to spit on or piss on me and my grave!)

      I mean, while being married, I can understand wanting your spouse dead or, at the very least, wanting your spouse to disappear for a while. I think that everyone who has ever been married can understand, at some point, wanting your spouse to disappear off the face of the earth for a period of time, or at the very least, wanting aliens to come down and abduct your spouse.  I think most married people can relate to that statement.  (I mean, I never really understood hunters and hunting until I was married.  Then I began to understand and appreciate the powerful urge to want to kill!)  No, I am not suggesting going out and killing your spouse, but it would be much nicer and easier if he/she suddenly dropped dead.  For numerous reasons death is so much easier than divorce for everyone involved.  Think about it.  First, death is actually much cheaper than divorce.  (Luckily lawyers haven’t yet figured out a way to represent deceased people by suing individual diseases.  But you can bet that as soon as they figure out a way to sue the Grim Reaper, they will.)  Second, death is much easier on your family and friends—they don’t have to choose sides like they do when you are going through a divorce.  It is also much easier to explain that your spouse died as opposed to explaining why you are getting a divorce.  Also, with death, you won’t have to answer a lot of nosey busy-body’s questions as to what happened and why. Next, with death, you wouldn’t lose your house, half your bank account, half your baseball card collection and your manhood!  With death, one also goes from being a “bitter, disgruntled ex-husband” to a “poor widower.”  The sympathy factor is much greater.  (The sympathy sex from friends and strangers is always good, too!)  I really prefer “poor widower” to “disgruntled ex-husband.”

 

      I am actually a survivor.  I don’t wear a pink ribbon or a red ribbon to indicate that I am a survivor.  I am not a cancer survivor or an AIDS survivor; I am a marriage survivor.  Instead of a ribbon, I wear a little rope noose, a tiny pair of castrated balls, or a tiny half of a house—you know, things that really stand for and symbolize the institution of marriage and divorce.

 

      Speaking of marriage and divorce, the older I get, the more it bothers me that nobody pays attention to my idea of “marriage insurance.”  I have told my idea to every man I know who was getting married; however, they all just laughed at me and ignored me. (Years later, my “humorous” little idea suddenly became brilliant to them and they all wished that they had listened to me!)  When I say marriage insurance, I don’t mean paying a premium to an insurance company to guarantee payment in case of a catastrophic divorce.  I know that that would be too easily abused.  I have thought this out. My idea—and I really think that this is brilliant—is to get a safety deposit box in a bank that is not the one that you and your wife use. (Make sure that the bank statement address is your work address.  This way any statements from the bank come to your work so your spouse won’t know or find out.)  Each month take $100 in cash out of your paycheck and place that $100 into the safety deposit box. Do this for every month that you are married. Then after ten years or so, if you don’t get divorced, you can take the money out and take her on an expensive “anniversary” cruise or buy her some expensive “anniversary” jewelry.  You can tell her that you were saving this money just for her for all these years because you love her so much and that you were planning all of this just for her.  Gee—doesn’t that sound so sweet and romantic?  She will think that you are the most thoughtful and loving husband in the world! (You can thank me later for the great sex that you’ll have.)  On the other hand, if after ten years or so, when you do have to go through a divorce, (which is, statistically, more likely) you will now have enough money for either a good lawyer, a new TV (to replace the one your wife took), a new recliner (to replace the one your wife took), or just enough money to rent a really good hooker or two.  Trust me, you’ll need it. Both the extra money and the hookers… (You can also thank me later for the great sex with the hookers, too!) 

 

      I don’t mean to sound so negative about marriage, even though marriage is the leading cause of divorce.   In fact, I have another brilliant idea that will eliminate divorce altogether!  I think that a marriage license should be like a dog license.  A dog license has to be renewed every year if you still have the dog.  Why not do the same thing for marriage? Make a marriage license one that must be renewed for every year that you still have the dog …uh…the wife.   Instead of costly divorces, you could just let the license expire. This would also make things easier if you “accidentally” forgot to renew it.  “Oops, sorry honey... I forgot to renew our marriage license. Our marriage has expired. Get out!”   Also, the state would get yearly revenue from all the annual license renewals.  Use all that money to fund roads, repair bridges, pay policemen, pay teachers, build hospitals, fund pre-schools, feed and clothe the homeless, etc.  (Damn, I’m a freaking visionary!)    

 

      Okay, let’s go ahead and get the rest of the marriage/divorce stuff out of the way.  You’ve probably already heard most of these before, but if you’ve ever been married (or divorced) you will always appreciate the truthfulness to these statements, so here goes.

• Marriage isn’t a word; it’s a sentence.
• “I am” is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language.  “I do” is the longest sentence.
• Marriage is an institution; I’m not ready for an institution.
• The only perfect marriage would be with a deaf man and a blind woman.
• Love is blind, but marriage is an eye-opener.
• When two people want to get married, the bride gets a shower, but for the groom, it’s curtains.
• How much does a marriage cost?  I wouldn’t know.  I’m still paying for it.
• Marriage is like eating at a nice restaurant.  As soon as you have ordered, you see what the fellow beside you ordered, and you wish that you had ordered that.
• Someone at my wedding lit the fuse on my wife’s tampon.  It went off shortly after we were married.
• Marriage is the transference of misery from a woman to a man.
• A man who gives in when is wrong is wise; a man who gives in when he is right is married.
• There is a huge difference between a divorce and a legal separation.  A legal separation gives you time to hide your money.
• Am I opposed to same-sex marriage? Yes, I was married for nine years and the sex was always the same.
• Am I opposed to gay marriage?  No, I’m opposed to all marriage. (If gays want to be just as miserable as straight people, I say, go for it!)
• A man isn’t complete until he is married; then he’s finished.
• Before marriage, a man yearns for the woman he loves. After marriage, the “Y” becomes silent.
• Before marriage a man holds a woman’s hands for love; after marriage a man holds a woman’s hands to keep her from killing him.
• There are parts of a marriage that are good.  There are also parts of a colonoscopy that are good, too.  It’s just hard to remember them because you have a drain pipe running up your ass!  The extremely painful parts make it hard to remember the good parts.
• Why are divorces so expensive?  Because they are worth it!
• I probably should have paid more attention to my wedding vows. I really don’t remember the part where they said, “Everything you say can and will be used against you.”
• Marriage is a three ring circus: engagement ring, wedding ring, and suffering.
• Some women fake orgasms; my wife faked an entire relationship!
• You really don’t know a woman until you’ve divorced her.
• Marriage—a relationship where one is always right, and the other is the husband.
• Sex during marriage—for the first five years, it will be tri-weekly; for the next five years, it will be try weekly; for the next five years, it will be try weakly.
• Marriage is like a deck of cards. You start out with hearts and a diamond, but end up wanting a club and a spade!
• The first fifty years of marriage are always the hardest.
• A divorce only proves whose mother was right in the first place.
• As far as relationships are concerned, you have two choices in life: you can be single and be miserable, or you can get married and wish that you were dead.
• I married “Miss Right.”  I just didn’t realize that her first name was “Always.”
• Marriage is like a hot bath.  Once you get used to it, it isn’t so hot.
• Marriages are made in heaven, but so are lightning, thunder, tornadoes, and hailstorms.
• A man who gives in when he is wrong is wise; a man who gives in when he is right is married.
• What’s the difference between a girl-friend and a wife? 45 pounds!
• What’s the difference between a boy-friend and a husband? 45 minutes!
• Half of all marriages end in divorce; the other half end in death.
• And my favorite of them all, what’s the difference between having a job for five years and being married for five years?  After five years, the job still sucks!  (Married women hate that joke; married men agree with the joke, but can’t bring themselves to laugh at it because it is a true statement; and single people just laugh at it.  But one day their views on that joke will change! And by the way, that “joke” is actually NOT a joke!)

      In the fall of 1977, I was attending North Carolina State University on a football scholarship.  College athletics, especially football, in the 1970s were very different from college athletics of today.  Most freshman football players were not expected to play and contribute to the program, aside from being tackling dummies and cannon fodder for the upperclassmen during practice. That first fall, I don’t remember ever even being taught any of the offense.  It was understood that you were expected to get beaten up and to take your lumps for a year, and then you might be given a chance to play and contribute as a sophomore.  Our entire existence was to be the “scout squad” for the varsity.  Being on the “scout squad” meant that we were expected to run the offense and defense of whomever the varsity was playing that week.  Since we spent each day at practice running the upcoming opponent’s offense and defense, we never were given any time to learn our own offense and defense.  And even while running the opposing team’s offense and defense, we were not expected to run them too “well.”  If we ever made the varsity/upperclassmen look bad, they (and us, of course) were punished.  So we learned to run plays sloppily and half-heartedly, (but not too half-heartedly as you still had to make it look like you were really trying your best) and we were not punished.  So when it came time to actually play a “real” game, it turned into a glorified pick-up game with strategies literally “drawn up in the dirt.”

      We had a freshman football schedule, although I’m still not sure why, where the state of North Carolina’s “Big Four” (Wake Forest, Duke, UNC, and NCSU) played freshman football games against each other.  We also played against a couple of other junior college varsity teams.  Since we were never taught our own offense or defense, aside from each week’s opposing teams varsity’s offense and defense, most freshman football games resembled pick-up football games where we “drew up plays in the dirt” and made up plays as we went along.  Of course, the interest in freshman football games was a bit lacking, to say the least.  I remember playing in Carter-Finley Stadium before maybe twenty or thirty people.  Since most of us players were from out of state and we usually played our games on Thursday afternoons, our parents and other family members didn’t even come to the games. Usually we had more people watching us practice against the varsity than we had at the freshman football games.

      We were scheduled to play against the University of North Carolina freshman football team at Keenan Stadium.  Even though it was only a freshman football game, it was still NC State vs. North Carolina.  The coaches and the upperclassmen hyped us up all week that we were actually going to be playing a game that was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to be something that we could actually look forward to in our rather isolated, get-beaten-up-on-a-daily-basis existence.  So naturally, on the day of the game, a monsoon hit. Because it was raining all day, of course UNC didn’t want its football field at the stadium torn up by a meaningless freshman game, so the game was moved to their practice facility. So, two totally unprepared teams went at it in the cold pouring rain on a practice field in front of absolutely no one. I’m not sure if either team got a first down all day. The game was not uneventful, however. I still remember two things about the game.  I remember my roommate, a slow-footed 6’ 8”; 295 pound defensive lineman from the backwoods of Pennsylvania named Rich Grube, chasing the UNC quarterback on a scramble from one sideline to the other.  Every time that Rich would get near the QB, the QB would deftly scramble out of trouble and head across the field again. It was actually rather comical watching this unblocked, lumbering giant chasing the ball from sideline to sideline.  Finally, the QB threw the ball.  After what seemed like four or five seconds after the QB had released the football, Rich finally caught up to him and laid him out with a vicious blindside hit. Of course, he was flagged for unnecessary roughness.  When everyone asked Rich why he had hit the QB so obviously late, he said, “Hell, I chased him for a half-mile.  I deserve to hit him!”  Nobody could really argue with him or his logic.

      The other thing that I vividly remember about the game happened later in the game. At the beginning of the third quarter, we called a halfback pass to me (I was a wide receiver).  Being the fastest player on the field, I was happy that I was going to finally get a football thrown to me, even in this driving rain.  I was expecting to score on the play and finally break this 0-0 tie.  At the snap of the football, I faked blocking the defensive back and then took off.  The defensive back bought the fake and I was wide open by about thirty yards.  However, since it was pouring rain, the halfback couldn’t get a good grip on the ball and he threw a wounded duck up in the air that was going to be about fifteen yards too short of reaching me.  I immediately stopped and began running back for the ball; unfortunately, the defensive back who had been faked out had now turned and was sprinting towards me and the football. The two of us were running full speed toward each other. The ball was going to land between the two of us, so I dove for the ball just as the defensive back also dove.  We hit helmet-to-helmet in mid-dive. However, since I was concentrating on catching the ball and he was concentrating on hitting me, I got the worst of the hit.  Of course, the ball hit the ground, incomplete. When I tried to get up, I found that I could stand up, but I couldn’t straighten out my back.  I was hunched over, Quasimodo-style, like I was looking for something that I had just dropped on the ground. I couldn’t straighten my back. Hoping that it was just a “stinger” or something non-serious and that it would soon go away, I slowly made my way back to the huddle, still hunched over. (Being the son of a coach, I was taught that you didn’t take yourself out of a football game, no matter what.)  We called the next play in the huddle, broke the huddle, and I slowly made my way out to my wide receiver position, still hunched over. Some of my teammates thought that I was joking around as I tried to run downfield all hunched over.  After the play was over, I realized that this was not going to go away, so I finally made my way to the sidelines and came out of the game. Eventually the trainer said something about it being a dislocated vertebra or a pinched nerve or something else; I was in too much pain to really care or remember.  So they took me to the UNC locker room, laid me out on a table, and packed me in ice until they could do something else after the game.  Since there was usually only one trainer assigned to the freshmen games, he went back to the game and left me in the UNC locker room. Since the trainer and the coaches didn’t seem too worried about the injury, I wasn’t too scared or worried.  It hurt like hell, but I could stand up and I could walk, so I didn’t worry about paralysis or anything like that.  However, once they packed me in ice, I really couldn’t move. So I lay there on my side on the table, stripped down to just my pants, packed in ice, waiting for the next two quarters to end and for the game to be over.  After about five minutes, however, the door to the locker room burst open and the entire UNC team came storming in, shouting, cursing, and throwing their helmets.  Something had obviously happened during the game to piss off the entire team, but I was not sure what.  All that I knew was that I, a half-naked NC State player was lying in the fetal position, alone, incapacitated, and utterly defenseless in the opposing team’s locker room.  It turns out that a pretty nasty fight had broken out on the field between the two teams and the game was called off in the third quarter.  I didn’t know any of this at the time; all I knew was that I was alone and vastly outnumbered in hostile territory.  The players then noticed me and I immediately became the target of some rather harsh words.  I was expecting that, at any minute now, someone from either our team or someone from our training staff would come and rescue me, but no one showed up.  After a period of time, I just became an amusement to the UNC players.  I was laughed at, cursed at, and made fun of.  I guess that I did look rather useless and odd.  But as the UNC players started to shower, get dressed, and leave, I began to wonder where my teammates were.  Come to find out, my loyal coaches and loyal teammates had completely forgotten about me and had headed back to Raleigh on the bus! The entire UNC locker room emptied out before someone called over to NC State to see if someone was going to retrieve the pathetic crippled player whom they had abandoned and forgotten about. Someone had to drive back over to UNC to pick me up.  (I guess that I should have realized then that I was not exactly of any importance!)

      I guess the coaching staff felt guilty for abandoning me at UNC during the JV game on Thursday because they allowed me to dress out for the varsity game against UNC that Saturday. (At that time, as an act of pity, they usually only let one freshman football player dress out for the varsity games on Saturday.) By Saturday, I was able to stand erect and move about.  I knew that I wasn’t going to play any, but they were going to allow me dress out for the varsity game.  The fun started out when we boarded the bus at Reynolds Coliseum at 10:30 and began the approximately ten minute trip to the game field at Carter-Finley Stadium for the 1:00 kick-off.  We hit a traffic jam as soon as we pulled out onto Western Boulevard and could not move.  The State Fair was going on at the same time and there was also a major traffic accident somewhere near the fairgrounds and no one was moving in any direction.  We had a Highway Patrol escort and, even with that, we were not moving. As time slowly ticked away, everyone, except me, was becoming more and more nervous about getting to the game on time.  I knew that I wasn’t going to play, so I knew that there was no reason for me to get upset; I was just along for the ride. However, as 11:30 came and went, 12:00 came and went, and 12:30 came and went, the coaches and the team became more and more apprehensive about getting to our own home football game on time!  Finally, the late Bo Rein, the head football coach at the time, could stand it no more and tried to take matters into his own hands.  He began screaming and cursing at our police escort.  It was the only time in my life that I ever saw a sober man curse out a policeman and get away with it!

      “Dammit, you stupid @#%!  I’ve got over 50,000 @#%! people and a @#%! national television audience waiting at the @#%&! stadium!  You’re being paid to get our @#%! asses to the @#%! game!  Turn on that @#%&! blue light and get our @#%& asses there, you @#%! rent-a-cop!”

        Two things: one, being just a freshman, I was just glad that I wasn't the one being yelled and cursed at! And two, I had seen people curse at police before, but they were usually drunk and were immediately beaten up and arrested.  I had never actually seen anyone get away with it before!  However, I really felt sorry for the cop; there was actually nothing that he could do.  Both sides of the road were lined with cars and there were even cars parked on the sides of the roads so there was no place to go.  I have to hand it to him, though.  He did his damndest to try to get us there on time.  He was forcing cars and people off the road to the left and the right.  We finally arrived at the stadium at 12:55 for a 1:00 kick-off.  The UNC football team was already there wondering where the hell we were.  We were not even dressed!  We took about five minutes to throw on our uniforms and about ten minutes to quickly warm-up.  We were given two five yard delay-of-game penalties for being late to our own home football game! 

      Unfortunately for us, things didn’t get any better once the game started. We proceeded to go out and just go through the motions and lose the game to our hated rivals. However, the entire week-long experience was memorable for me, even if no one else knew about or remembered or cared about what happened to me. It was one of my first epiphanies that college sports was a huge business and I was merely a tiny cog in a very large machine. Or to put it another way, I was a condom. I was useful as long as some serious fucking was going on; but as soon as my usefulness was over and I was no longer needed, I was flushed away and a newer replacement was found and used.

Part II—Grumpy Old Man

      By nature, I am not a grumpy or angry old man. I personally think that if you were a grumpy young person, then you will eventually turn into a grumpy old man. For many people their optic nerve and their rectal nerve have intertwined to give them a “shitty outlook” on life.   But, as my grandfather used to say, “It’s better to be pissed off than pissed on!”  I have never exactly been known as Mr. Sunshine, but I have always had a very good imagination, which when left alone, has provided me with unlimited entertainment for my entire life.  The voices and pictures in my head, generally, are happy, cheerful voices and happy, cheerful pictures. I have a wonderful imaginary remote control TV in my brain that easily switches from cartoons to sports to action adventures to adult channels. All the animals, objects, and people follow my ever-changing script, and all the women are beautiful, obliging, and willing.  My imagination is a wonderful remote control that has always entertained me, and it never needs batteries.  It is only when I am exposed to other people and their general stupidity that I become grumpy and cantankerous. My tolerance level for general stupidity is decreasing rapidly as I age!  I am not yet at the stage in my life where I am the old man on the front porch yelling at the kids to get off my lawn, but I can understand why old men do it.   The “rabbit-ear antennas” in their brains no longer get the “good” channels. Their reception is fuzzy and full of static. Poor TV reception can cause anyone to get a bit grumpy or pissed off. 

                   

      I do become a bit disgruntled and cantankerous when I see diet ads on TV or watch TV infomercials for workout equipment or fitness gadgets, such as stair climbers, stationary bicycles, and abdominal machines. I get pissed off at commercials that have a forty or fifty year old person stating that the machine, workout, or diet has gotten him into the best shape of his life.  I find the statements such as, “I am in the best shape of my life!  I am in better shape now than I was when I was eighteen-years-old!” to actually be pretty pathetic.  I don’t feel happy for or proud of anyone who says that. On the contrary, I feel sad for them.  If you are in the best shape of your life now at forty or fifty, you were a pretty miserable and pathetic eighteen-year-old!  You obviously wasted the best time of your life.  Remember when you were eighteen?  When I was eighteen, I could run 10-15 miles a day, go out chasing women and get rip-roaring drunk all night, and still wake up with a marble hard-on that would levitate me out of the bed.  I could also get up and do it all again and again.  Too much teenage testosterone poured out of every part of my body.  That was not being “in shape”; that is just what it was like to be eighteen-years-old!  No workout product or diet can make any forty or fifty-year-old do, or even want to do any one of those things.   First, running ten to fifteen miles?  I don’t want to run that far any more.  Why bother running when I can now drive?  (Now that I’m older and more mature, I don’t run with scissors anymore.  The verb in that sentence is unnecessary.) Second, staying up all night drinking and chasing women?  If a woman doesn’t give in after two drinks, I now throw in my cards and move on to the next game.  And third, yes, most men would still like to imagine having those marble hard-ons that you had when you were eighteen that a cat couldn’t scratch or you could use to drive a nail into a block of granite.  But the way I look at it, I could also get all dressed up to go out in a suit and tie or in a tuxedo.  But, why bother?  Why get all dressed up if there is no place to go or if there is no place you feel like going to?  A marble hard-on at my age just sets up unrealistic expectations for the woman for the rest of my life.  I don’t need that type of pressure!  I’ll be content with my memories. Throughout a man’s lifetime, his penis is like a tree.  In his teens, it’s like wood from the Petrified Forest. In his 20’s and 30’s, it’s solid and reliable like an oak tree.  In his 40’s and 50’s, it’s like a pine tree—flexible, easily broken, but still somewhat reliable.  In his 60’s, it’s like a Christmas tree—generally dead from the roots up and the balls are just hanging there for decoration.  Happy Holidays!

      Certain things now don’t bother me and make me grumpy, but they do puzzle me because I just don’t understand them.  I don’t mean anything like how the internet works or how someone texts on these new-fangled cellular tel-ee-o-phones; I’m not that old and senile yet. But there are certain things that do puzzle me as to why anyone would do or enjoy these activities. Maybe it is because I am too old, but I do not understand the fascination with fantasy football or any idiot who would “play” fantasy football or any other “fantasy” sport.   I’m sorry; I just don’t get it. Playing a “game” based entirely on random statistics is stupid. Fantasy football should not be based on statistics; it should be based on a player’s actual performance. Instead of being based on an individual player’s individual statistics, it should be based on the grades given to each player by his coach after watching the game film.   As far as I’m concerned, the word “fantasy” and the word “football” should never be used in the same sentence unless the word “cheerleader” is also used in that same sentence.  The only “football fantasy” that any real man should have involves cheerleaders—lots and lots of hot, sexy scantily-clad cheerleaders!  Any other use of the word “fantasy” and the word “football” in a sentence without mentioning cheerleaders is gay!  (No, I’m sorry.  I take that back.  That was a really offensive statement to make.  That can’t be called “gay” because I don’t image that gays are stupid enough to play fantasy football!)   If you really want to become involved in a real “fantasy” league, I suggest that you form a “fantasy porn league.”  It makes more sense, and, to be honest, most women would better understand your interest in a fantasy porn league over a fantasy football league!  Draft your porn team, track your players, and keep records of who has the most BJs, DPs, etc.  “Oh no, my star player is out this week with a yeast infection!”  I’ll tell you the truth, if you play fantasy football you honestly have about as much chance of your fantasy football league dream coming true as I do of having my fantasy porn league dream coming true. My dreams of banging a porn star like Jenna Jameson, Jesse Jane, Madison Ivy, or Brandi Love are about as likely to come true as your dreams are of becoming the general manager, coach, or scout for the New England Patriots—in other words, not a snowball’s chance in hell! (And I’m sure that Jenna Jameson and the New England Patriots both would be extremely disappointed if either of us “fantasy players” actually were in charge!) My version of a fantasy porn league is just as purposeful as yours.  If you play fantasy football, you are merely one step up the geek ladder from the nerds who play World of Warcraft or Dungeons and Dragons in their parents’ basements.  And to be perfectly honest, I’m not so sure that you are one step up from them; you are probably one step below them!  At least the geeks who play Dungeons and Dragons will eventually grow up and become your boss at work.  The geeks who play fantasy football are already grown and now probably work for the geeks who used to play Dungeons and Dragons.  (However, it is a pretty safe bet to say that both sets of “fantasy” players have had limited access to a woman’s vagina!)

      Another thing that I don’t understand is what has now happened to my junk mail.  It bothers me every time I go to the mailbox and see the junk mail that I now get.  For years, I used to get advertisements and fliers for beer and whiskey, vacations, cruises, and porn.  Suddenly overnight, it seems like I started to get advertisements for life insurance, baldness treatments, retirement homes, incontinence protection, and funeral planning.  What the hell happened?  Hey, I still enjoy alcohol, trips, and naked women, and I still only piss in my pants on special occasions, just like when I was younger. However, the thing that really bothers me is all the junk mail that I now get for erectile dysfunction.  Where in the hell did that come from?  I have never asked for any material on that subject! I have never even researched it online. How the hell did I get on that mailing list?  Why is it now just assumed that I have erectile dysfunction?  Is it because of my age or is it because the condition seems to have been conveniently named after me?  I have a real problem with how the term “Erectile Dysfunction” has been shortened to the initials “ED.”  Oh, gee, thank you so very much. That’s my name, Ed.  Ed McIntyre!  I feel insulted that they have felt obligated to somehow name it after me.  “Do you have ED?  Nobody wants to have ED!  ED is terrible! ED disappoints women! ED ruins sex! ED can and should be treated and eliminated!”  Don’t I already now have enough problems with women to have named after me the one thing that is a turnoff to every woman alive?  I am still trying to figure out which one of my ex-wives they talked to before they agreed to come up with that acronym! “When I think of my ex-husband Ed, I think of Erectile Dysfunction!”  (I guess that guys named “John” feel the same way about having all toilets named after them. “Hey, I gotta go take a dump in the John!”)

      Another thing that I don’t understand and that bothers me is that whenever I now go out to a party, a nightclub, or a concert, everyone now looks at me like I’m an undercover narc.  Aged hippies and former professional partiers, like me, aren’t supposed to be viewed this way.  When I was younger, I liked my women the same way I liked my whiskey—aged for eighteen years and mixed with Coke!  (Actually, I still prefer my women that way, too…)  When I was younger, the “Three Kings of Old” religiously ruled my life.  Those sacred “Three Kings” brought great peace, harmony, and tranquility to my existence—drin-king, smo-king, and fuc-king.  Or you could say that I lived my life in 3-D—Drinking, Drugs, and Dames.  But now, when I walk into a room of strangers, people look at me and think, “Someone’s daddy is here to pick up his daughter” or “Put everything away; a poorly-disguised undercover cop is here.”  I get pissed off when a bunch of cheese-eating young people look at me like I’m a narc who is going to arrest them, or worse yet, they look at me like I’m not “cool.”  (I’ve come to realize that you’re only “cool” if the youngest person in the room thinks that you are cool!)  In my own mind, I’m still cool—it’s just that my idea of being “cool” now involves me dancing around, twitching like an anachronism having a seizure, and making younger “cool” people feel awkward and stupid.  In the eyes of my son, I will never again be “cool” to him, if I ever was.  So, since I’m now a total embarrassment to him, I’ve instead embraced the idea of really exasperating him.  I figure if I act this way now, later on, when it comes time to decide whether or not to put me into a retirement home, he won’t be able to tell if I’m senile or not.  “Gee, I don’t know, doctor.   He’s always been strange like that!”

      One thing that now irritates me is how easy young people (and others) have it nowadays because of technology.  The ease of technology makes the lazy, unappreciative young people of today feel smarter than us hard working old people. It bothers me that young people have not “paid their dues,” as us old farts have.  Am I jealous?  Hell, yes!  Take music, for instance.  When I was younger, we had to really search for and work for things like our music collections.  It took me many years of buying, borrowing, and stealing albums, tapes, CD’s, etc. to accumulate the thousands of “classic” rock songs that are now considered “oldies” and are much more common today as background music for TV commercials for tampons and hemorrhoid treatments.  The same music collection that now fills numerous rooms and closets in my house can now be reduced to an iPod or MP3 that is the size of the condom that used to bulge out of my wallet.  Also, it took me years of buying, borrowing, and stealing to accumulate a porn collection that could also fill a warehouse.  That, too, can now also be reduced in size to a memory stick or flash drive that is even smaller than that same condom in my wallet. And with both music and porn, with one click of a mouse on a computer, someone today can easily collect in less than an hour what took someone like me decades to find and collect. Young people of today don’t know the joy, thrill, and even danger (especially with the porn shops) of having to drive all over the world to “score” one small item to add to your collection.  We didn’t have computers or smart phones to supply us with all types of exotic porn from the internet.  We had to really work hard to find our depraved smut! Deviant lecherous perverts of today have it so much easier when looking for their depraved debauchery!

                   Part I — Dirty Old Man     

     I am now officially a dirty old man.  I did not really do anything or say anything to gain that title.  It was just bestowed upon me because of the way I must now look. I first noticed that I was an “official” dirty old man the other day as I was working in my yard.  I heard some voices coming from down the street. I glanced up to see where the voices were coming from and then went back to my work.  A group of young girls was walking up the sidewalk on my side of the street.  They saw me and immediately crossed over to the other side of the road.  I didn’t stare at them or say anything to the girls at all. I merely looked up and then immediately went back to working in my yard.  But just the mere sight of me sufficiently scared them enough to cross over to the sidewalk on the other side of the road!  I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, but, immediately upon passing my house, they crossed back over to my side of the street and continued walking!  They couldn’t have been more obvious that they were going to take a wide path to steer around me to avoid me for their own safety.  I guess that I now must have the look of either a recently released convict, or a perverted old man, or a child-molester, or maybe all three.  It is my new super power.  I now have the ability to scare children and offend young females with a single glance! “Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane!  No, it’s a Dirty Old Man!”  Or maybe it should be, “Look! Hiding over in the bushes! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No, it’s a Dirty Old Man!”  I had previously noticed that when I turned thirty, I became invisible to teenage girls.  When I turned forty, I became a joke to twenty-year-old females.  But now I have turned into the troll who lives under the bridge and frightens all the children. “Answer me these riddles three, or else to the other side of the road you’ll have to flee!”

     I believe that all males are so-called “dirty old men,” no matter what their age.  However, they are not officially labeled as dirty old men until they are either caught doing something stupid or are, as in my case, labeled as such because of the way they look.  Most males are closet dirty old men and feel that they will never get caught.  It is a feeling of power to carry that hidden secret. It is not really a secret; we just like to think that it is.  It makes it all the more fun. (Psst…guys like boobs and butts and all other body parts on females—wow, what a secret! Don’t tell anyone! No one must know!)  I finally realized that most of us men never do get caught doing something really dirty, but eventually, we seem to start to look sufficiently creepy enough to be accused of being a dirty old man. (If it looks like a dog and walks like a dog and barks like a dog, it must be a dog.)  I have never owned a long trench coat in my life.  I just look like I am the type of person who has one hidden in his closet ready to be pulled out at a moment’s notice to flash innocent young girls on the street.  I guess that I now look like the type of guy who lecherously trolls the schoolyards and playgrounds of America preying on innocent children.  I never realized that I must now look like every white-trash suspect featured on the television show Cops. 

     Red Foxx once said, “I’m gonna be a dirty old man until I’m a dead old man!”  By definition, I guess that I have been a dirty old man since I was about twelve years old—I must have been a dirty old little boy.  I have always considered myself the world’s youngest dirty old man. I was not a pervert at the age of twelve; I guess that I would be called a pre-vert.  And now that I am older and have lost my amateur status, I guess that I am now a pro-vert.  My views on observing the opposite sex haven’t changed much since I was twelve.  I think that that was the age when I first noticed that girls were the opposite sex—opposite of me anyway. They were different, but it was a good kind of different.  I slowly began to admire their differences— nice, sweet, supple, firm, rounded differences.  I still respectfully admire all of their nice, warm, firm, tight, shapely differences!  I still can’t look at a girl licking an ice cream cone or eating a banana without having the same strange feelings that I had when I was a young boy of twelve.  (Sigmund Freud and his symbolism can bite me!  Besides, I always thought that a Freudian slip was when you say one thing but mean your mother!)  Also, women know exactly what it means and what they are doing when they are eating a banana.  No woman in the world will look you in the eye while she is eating a banana. Women understand the symbolism and know what it means. But when I was twelve, I didn’t really understand the symbolism of the ice cream cone or banana.  Something just made me feel like I was watching some forbidden taboo that I shouldn’t be watching.  I don’t know why.  I never quite understood why I actually wanted to be the banana or the ice cream cone.  (Hell, I’m not sure that I even know why today.)  But back then something inside me would make me have, what a female friend would describe years later as, “that naughty, mischievous little smile.”  Now, years later, I still get that same feeling and that same smile.  The only difference is that now that smile on anyone over the age of twelve is no longer considered “mischievous.” Now people think that it is just plain “dirty and evil” or “creepy and perverted.”   It’s the same thoughts and same smile, but it gets a different reaction from others.  Go figure.

     Someone once said that we never really grow up; we just learn how to act in public. All men have that same little boy inside of them who will never go away.  If a pretty woman smiles at me today, I react just as foolishly as I did when I was a younger.  Parts of me are just as immature as I was when I was a little boy. I still think that farts are just as hilarious as when I was a kid.  I still try to learn new ways to make the fart noise. I still laugh when I squeeze the ketchup bottle and it makes the fart sound.  I still enjoy farting in public and watching the reactions from others. I still love to watch cartoons just as much as when I was a kid.  I still love to act just as stupid and immature as when I was a boy.  I still love to pretend and play make-believe just as when I was a child. That little boy part of me has never changed.  I just can’t fit under the dining room table to play anymore. I think that all males have that mischievous little boy in them who lives to question both authority and the social mores of society. All males have that curious little boy in them dying to indulge in that forbidden peek at a Playboy magazine or hoping to sneak a peek at a woman’s undergarments.  It’s just that, as a guy gets older, he has to learn to suppress that Beavis and Butthead laugh he feels whenever he does see something like that.   However, that laugh is always in our heads.  The little boy in me still wants to smile and laugh whenever I walk by the ladies underwear section of Wal-Mart. (“Huh-huh! Bras and panties!  Yeah! Yeah! Huh-huh!”)  That same immature inner laugh has always been in me.  I still cannot be introduced to anyone named “Dick” or “Peter” without laughing. I have the same reaction to many other words, such as bone, bush, beaver, etc.  Even if I don’t audibly laugh, I always smile at those words. I don’t ever want that inner laugh and smile to go away. Women are the only ones who are upset by that laugh and smile.  Guys understand it and are never surprised if they learn that another guy is caught and labeled as a “dirty old man.”  He just got caught because he wasn’t careful enough.  The rest of us guys just think that he should have tried harder to keep it a secret.  Men always have been, and always will be, disgusting creatures with disgusting habits.  At times I still do disgusting, loathsome, and filthy things.  I have eaten a booger. I have pissed in a sink. I have farted on my own hand and then smelled it. And that’s just from this week! Men are somewhat well-trained canines who can walk on two legs. Men have always been men. Men have also always been dirty old men, even since caveman times.  Somewhere along the line, one wuss learned to suppress that laugh and ruined it for the rest of us.  My personal theory is that if we hadn’t learned to suppress that Butthead laugh, there would be no dirty old men.  There would just be boys acting like boys (men acting like men); still acting dirty and old, i.e.—normal—and women would have never known the difference and would have had to accept us as we truly are. Every male, (yes, EVERY male) at heart, is a “dirty old man.” Even your own father once looked at other girls, including your sweet mother, in that same “dirty old” way that you look at girls now!  In fact, if you think about every freaky thing that you have ever thought about a girl and every freaky thing that you have wanted to do to every girl that you ever lusted after, your father probably did think and do that to your saintly mother!  Your very own father was once a “dirty old man”!  In fact, you could go even further back in time to find that your own grandfather probably did some weird stuff with your angelic grandmother. Genetically, it’s in every male, so why fight it?  You, as a male, come from a long line of “dirty old men.” You, too, are a "dirty old man"  at heart.

A Teacher's Tale

     I've been a teacher for over three decades.  Let me state that the American Education System is okay.  The world is not divided by good and evil; rather it is divided by smart and stupid.  It doesn’t matter how many people you give a quality education to, it’s always the ignorant people who get the world in trouble. If most of the entire world was greatly educated, it would still have to deal with the few ignorant dumb-asses who will always demand to be heard!  However, the really stupid people are not just the dim-witted, lazy simpletons in today’s classroom. From my experience with parents, they are the really ignorant, spoiled people in today’s society. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, or as my father used to say, “The turd doesn’t fall too far from the dog’s ass!” My father, a brutally honest man who coached and taught school for forty years and didn’t care what he said to parents and others, lived in a much better and a much simpler time.  You used to be able to say what you really thought without having to be politically correct. Hurting someone’s feelings or hurting someone’s self-esteem was not a reason to lose one’s job or to have a lawsuit slapped on you. My father used to say, “Your kid may be an honor-roll student, but you’re still a dummy!” He would also give a simple answer to questions about why a parent’s son or daughter wasn’t doing well in class.  He would answer the parent’s inquiry with a simple: “It either one of two things. He is either lazy or it is genetics.” If I said any of those things to anyone today, I would be in a world of trouble.  Instead, I have to say something different and comforting to the “concerned” parents.  I say “concerned” parents even though the parents haven’t been involved in their kid’s schoolwork until the end of the semester, when it is numerically too damn late to pull up the grade to a passing grade.  In my mind I’m thinking, “Where were you for the last six months?  Why haven’t you responded to any of my communications and other grade reports?  Why are you so concerned now that it is too late?  Like my dad said, it’s easy to see where your kid gets his work habits and work ethics.  You just want me to pass him, or you just want me to give him the grade that you wish for him to have.  You don’t care if he actually learned anything.  You just want a solid passing grade.”  However, I instead have to say, “We have to find a way to motivate him to have success in class. It’s late in the school year, I know, but if he applies himself and comes by for extra help, he can really turn things around.”  I say this on a daily basis as I choke back the bile that is rising in the back of my throat.  I say these things because I know that the school administration and the school board and, especially, our elected officials don’t want anyone to fail a class, even if the student really does deserve an “F” for the class.  People in charge of education have the idealized notion that every single child in the United States MUST ATTEND and graduate from a four-year college. I’m sorry, but there are some kids who should set their sights on, maybe one day, becoming a night manager at McDonald’s.  That is as far as some kids can possibly go.  The reason our education system is so fucked up is because everyone, including us teachers, doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of anyone failing.  It is actually harder and requires more paperwork to fail a student than it is to pass one.  It is much more work for a teacher to fail a student as opposed to passing a student.  That sounds ridiculous, but a teacher now has to prove that a student actually did not do his/her work and actually deserved to fail. Excessive absences, tardies, and work not completed or attempted are forgiven. The teacher has to also prove that he/she has done everything humanly possible to “reach the student.”  So it is actually easier to just pass the student who did not do the work required to pass.  Ethics, honor, and any principles that a dedicated young teacher has are very quickly replaced by a sense of “just take the path of least resistance.” 

      I wanted to grow up to be rich, famous, well-respected, and a babe-magnet. So I became a public school teacher. Wise choice, huh? (Hey, I never said that I was very smart!) So while I’m on the subject of ignorant people, my hypocritical, eunuch douche-bag of a boss has recently begun adding quotes at the bottom of his daily work e-mails. He is one of those people who are happy to accept all the credit and pass all the blame. One of his favorite quotes is, “It’s amazing what can be accomplished when no one cares who gets the credit.”  I have noticed that a lot of people in authority love to quote that line.  It’s supposed to be a self-sacrificing, team-building quote.  However, the line actually translates to: “I want and expect a lot of people to anonymously work to better my reputation and career in order for me, and me alone, to look good because I’m going to be the only one who takes all the credit, anyway.”   I have also learned that these authority figures are the same ones who are so very quick to turn on you and assign blame to you to deflect any of their involvement in anything that doesn’t make them look good.  They love for the little people to work anonymously to help better their own careers and their own reputations. However, they are also the first to quickly turn on those same anonymous little people at the first sign of anything that is not advantageous to them. (At least they are consistent; they won’t share the credit when something good happens, and they sure as hell won’t share in any blame when something bad happens.)  Just once I would like to see someone in authority have the balls to say, “It’s amazing what can be accomplished when no one cares who gets the blame.” Or better yet, “It’s amazing what can be accomplished when I take all of the God damn blame!” (See if that doesn’t boost worker morale!)

      I finally figured out the secret to being a successful (happy, stress-free) teacher. I used to have an assistant principal who would constantly say, “Do what is best for the kids.” However, he never really meant it. What he really meant was, “Do what is easiest for the administration.” If you do that, you’ll keep the parents, students, and administration off your back (maybe).

     One time, when I was much younger, I was seeing an older married woman.  One day we were having sex on the kitchen table when we both heard someone at the front door.   “It’s my husband!” she whispered.  “Quick, try the BACK DOOR!”  Well, I know that I probably should have gotten up and run, but I just don’t get offers like that too often…

                             76 Things That I Have Learned  & Accepted in Life

 1.  I will never be invited to a party at the Playboy Mansion nor will I ever date a Playboy

      Playmate.

 2.  Albums and cassette tapes are gone forever and are never coming back.

 3.  My hairline and my waistline are also gone forever and are never coming back.

 4.  I will never be the King of Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

 5.  Duct tape has a million uses; however, toilet paper is not one of them.

 6.  I will never be an action-movie star, or even a porn star, in Hollywood.

 7.  My first girlfriend has gotten over me…and so have numbers two through the present…

 8.  Alcohol may not be a solution to any of my problems, but then again, neither is milk.

 9.  Technically speaking, though, according to chemistry, alcohol IS a solution.

10.  Being known as the “Fun One” of the group is a good thing, unless you’re in prison.

11.  Scientifically speaking, the universe is made up of protons, neutrons, electrons, and morons.

12.  I will never again run the forty yard dash in under 4.3 seconds.  (I once actually could…)  In

       fact, I will probably never run for forty yards again, either.  I just don’t want to; I prefer to

       walk or drive.

13.  I’ll never have sex with Cindy Crawford, Carmen Electra, Jenna Jameson, Pamela

Anderson, or a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, but I am still holding out for former adult film star Bree Olson because I heard that she likes older men. (Hey, you still have to hold onto some totally unattainable dreams!)  The ironic thing is that most of the goddesses whom I once worshipped when I was younger, who were once out of my reach, have now grown older and uglier (unlike me, of course).  Some of them are actually no longer “out of my league.” However, after spending my entire life settling for women who weren’t quite “major-league” material, I find that those “minor-league” women just don’t replace my “major-league” fantasies.

14.  I will never again be able to belch the entire alphabet as I could when I was younger.

       (However, the other end of me is beginning to speak in nearly-complete sentences, so there 

       is a chance that I may soon develop a talent with my rectal vocabulary.)

15.  I’ll never again know the joy of putting my finger in and finding money in the coin slot of a

       pay telephone.  I’ll never again know this joy because there are no longer any pay phones

       anywhere!

16.  Trying to shave my balls with that electric chainsaw was a mistake.

17.  I’ve realized and accepted that all women are liars. If size isn’t important, why aren’t

       vibrators three inches small, semi-limp, and crooked?  (Not that I’m describing myself or

       anything…)

18.  Marijuana will never be completely legalized in my lifetime…at least not while I live in the Bible-

        thumping South.

19.  I’ve realized that the key to life is sincerity.  Once you have learned to fake that, you’ve got it

       made.

20.  Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it’s probably going to be crap.

21.  I’ve realized that it’s kind of God’s fault for making teenage girls so attractive.

22.  Those photos taken of me and the goat in Mexico will eventually surface and, as Desi Arnaz

        used to say to Lucy, “I’ll have some explaining to do!”  (However, I did, at least, have the

        marriage annulled!  That should count for something!)  By the way, do you know why you

        screw a goat on the edge of a cliff?  So the goat will push back!

23.  The old adage that there is someone out there for everyone is bullshit.  I actually tried

       computer dating once.  They asked me what I liked most in a woman.  I answered, “My

       penis.”  They rejected me! Can you believe it?  I’m just an old fashioned guy. To me, to put

       anything else inside a woman would be sick, twisted, and un-natural.  I could have said

       things like a zucchini, a baseball bat, my fist, a fly swatter, fireworks, a tennis racket, a

       remote control, a rake, a golf club, a telephone, a weed-wacker, a dinosaur bone, an

       umbrella, etc.  I was just being honest. Of course, we all know how well honesty really

       works in a relationship, don’t we?

24.  Wile E. Coyote will never catch the Road Runner.

25.  Dating that girl who had an Adam’s apple was probably a mistake.

26.  I’ll never be a quarterback in the Super Bowl.  In fact, I’ve accepted that I’ll never even

       attend a Super Bowl in person because I’m not a rich celebrity or a corporate big-wig.  I’m

       just a plain old football fan, so I just don’t fit in. People who know football and people who

       love football have been replaced by celebrity assholes and corporate douche-bags who have

       money and can afford to attend the three-ring circus known as the Super Bowl. (And while

       I’m on the subject of the Super Bowl, I believe that the day after the Super Bowl should be a

       national holiday or at least a work holiday.)

27.  I can leave the house in the morning, work all day, come home, and still have nothing to say.

       Luckily for me, there is no one there at home to tell the nothing to, so I don’t feel so bad.

28.  Bad decisions in my life make the best stories. Every good decision that I’ve ever made just

       doesn’t make for an interesting tale. However, most people seemed shocked at my bad

       decision stories, so I just don’t tell them too often any more.  I’ve considered converting to

       Catholicism just so I could tell some of my better stories to a priest in confession.  I don’t

       want forgiveness, I just want to be able to tell these stories to someone so they don’t go to

       waste.

29.  When it comes to women, one should never marry a psychotic woman.  However, it is

        perfectly fine to date one, though.  Every man in the world should have at least one good

        story of dating a psycho. Psycho-women are entertaining enough, in small doses.  However,

        the longer you stay with a psycho, the more likely it is that you will bring out the inner

        demons in her.  (Or maybe it’s just me…)  Psycho-women are the basis for some of, if not

        all of, the best times of your life. Sex with a psycho-woman is both exciting and dangerous!

        Enjoy and embrace crazy women. On the path of life, always choose the psycho-path!

30.  I’ve accepted that I’ll never again be able to dunk a basketball.

31.  I probably shouldn’t have tried to masturbate in the hospital while hooked up to the heart

       monitor. However, I did get a lot of attention from the nurses who were on duty…

32.  I’ve realized and accepted that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, unicorns, 

       and True Love are all equally real!

33.  I’ve realized that it was a bad idea in my last job interview to ask if they were going to

       check up on any of my outstanding arrest warrants and my felony convictions. Some job

       interviewers just have no sense of humor…

34.  Those court-ordered anger management classes were a huge waste of time and money and

       did nothing but royally piss me off!

35.  I will never participate in a gang-bang with the Swedish bikini team.

36.  I’ve accepted that good health is merely the slowest possible way in which one can die. Life,               itself, is a terminal disease. You can eat well, exercise regularly, and take good care of

       yourself—but you’re still going to die.  I don’t want to die a slow death, so I eat junk, never

       exercise, and try not to take care of myself.

37.  Women ALWAYS have the last word in an argument. Anything that a man says after that is

        just the beginning of a brand new argument.

38.  I have decided that I am going to ignore whatever is invented next after Blu-ray.  I just

       don’t feel like re-starting my collections all over again.

39.  Teenage girls’ breasts are God’s greatest work.  However, they are also Satan’s greatest

       tool!

40.  The Three Stooges will never be understood or fully appreciated by women.  The subtle

        nuances of vaudeville and the refined slapstick humor of the Stooges are beyond (or, most

        likely, below) the female brain’s comprehension.

41.  British humor, such as Benny Hill or Monty Python, will also never be appreciated by the

       female brain.

42.  My penis is like a feline.  It used to want to play all the time when it was a kitten, even at the

       most inopportune times.  It then became an uncontrollable wildcat in my teens. But now it is

       like an older cat; it just wants to sleep most of the time and it usually gets irritated with me

       when I want to wake it up and move it. (And don’t get me started on all of those hairballs it

       now coughs up…)

43. Why does a dog lick his balls?  Because he can.  I’ve accepted that I will never be able to do

       that.  Lick my own balls, that is; not lick the dog’s balls. When I was a little boy sitting on  

       my Grandpa Tommy’s front porch, my brother and I used to watch his old hound dog lick

       his balls.  I remember my older brother saying, “I’d sure like to be able to do that.” Grandpa

       Tommy just said, “That dog would bite you…” 

44.  I’ve realized that women are like one-lane, winding mountain roads—the more curves they

       have, the more dangerous they are.

45.  The main difference between oral thermometers and rectal thermometers is the taste.

46.  I’ve accepted that if someone steals my wallet, I won’t chase after him.  It’s just easier to

       cancel my credit cards.

47.  Asking that hot girl if I had met her at the STD Clinic was probably a mistake.

48.  I’ve realized that I don’t need to do drugs anymore. I get the same effect just by standing up

       really fast.

49.  I was once told that if I was just patient and waited long enough, the right woman would 

       come along.  Well, either she got hit by a bus along the way, or she has, in the words of

       Bugs Bunny, “Taken a wrong turn in Albuquerque.” It looks like she’s not going to show up

       in my lifetime.  Knowing my luck, she’ll show up about fifteen minutes after I’m dead.  (I’m

       pretty sure that Cupid has lost my address on Google map.)  And if there really is a match

       out there for everyone, why is it that Cupid doesn’t have a partner?  Why is there no Mrs.

       Cupid?  He is always alone, too. If he can’t find the right woman for himself, what chance in

       hell does he have of finding one for me?

50.  Taking that laxative and sleeping pill on the same night was a mistake.

51.  You can only wear sweat pants for a limited number of times in a strip club before the

       dancers begin to get wise to you.

52.   Indecision in life is the key to flexibility. (At least, I think it is; I can’t decide.)

53.   I’ve realized that I have a lot of stories that involve me and handcuffs. I just wish that more

        of them involved sex instead of the police. (However, some of the stories involve both…)

54.  If women, instead of periods, had apostrophes, they would be even more possessive and

       prone to contractions. (Sorry, old English major’s joke…)

55.  I’ve realized that my principles are not for sale.  However, I’ve accepted that, from time to

       time, my principles can be rented.

56.  If life gives you melons, you might be dyslexic.

57.  Any tattoo received during Spring Break is a mistake.

58.  If you’re with a woman who has a tattoo of a butterfly on her back in memory of the woman

       who raised her, you’re going to need an easily-remembered safe word.

59.  They say that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Well, what doesn’t make you

       stronger, kills you.

60.  Whatever doesn’t kill you, didn’t try hard enough.

61.  I am sorry that I hurt my ex-wife’s feelings when I called her stupid. (I really thought that

       she already knew!)

62.  Years of counseling have taught me that nothing is really my fault.

63.  That tequila-induced decision to try to out-run the cops in my 1972 Volkswagen Beetle was

       probably a mistake.

64.  Never, under any circumstances, is it okay to ask a woman if she is pregnant! (How am I

       supposed to know if you are actually pregnant or are just now turning into a tub of lard?)

65.  They say that you should treat your body like a temple.  I say that you should treat your

       body like an amusement park that is going to close soon.

66.  I don’t look better when I don’t wear my glasses, but I do look better when you don’t wear

       your glasses.

67.  You can tell a lot about a woman’s mood just by looking at her hands and feet. For example,

       from my personal experience, if she’s holding a gun or a knife, she’s probably angry. If her

       feet are around her ears, she probably likes you.

68.  Any evening that involves cough syrup, caffeine, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, vodka, and

       vicodin is probably not going to end well.

69.  If I had a dollar for every woman who found me unattractive, they would eventually find me

       attractive.

70.  A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.

71.  Learn to love a woman for her personality.  She usually has about a dozen, so pick one!

72.  Every time you turn the other cheek, you give someone else a brand new opportunity to slap 

       you in the face.

73.  If you make a deal with the devil, make sure he regrets it.

74.  A clear conscience is a sure sign of a bad memory.

75.  Always remember the golden rule.  Those who have the gold, rule.

76.  Panties are not the best thing in the world, but they are next to it.