Moments After Waking Up This Morning . . .

I cranked out maybe one of the loudest, most ungodly farts that's ever had the pleasure of exiting my asshole in its 30-year existence. Before I could bask in the glory of such an accomplishment, as I often do after farts of this magnitude, my heart sunk at the realization that my special lady-friend was lying next to me. Keep in mind, I've only been seeing this gal a short while, and up until this morning, I had not yet ripped ass in her presence. My first thought was, maybe she's sleeping, which is possible, but I don't think it's possible she slept THROUGH it, since it was, as I said earlier, quite a fart. So, then I was pretty sure she must have heard it, but I had waited too long after the fart to comment upon it, so I just said nothing, which is worse than at least saying SOMETHING, right? She must be like, "Man, this guy just thinks he can fucking UNLOAD a fart like that and not say anything??"

Isn't it crazy how we hold our farts in and pretend we don't shit for the first few months we're dating someone? Come on, we all poo and fart, right? I learned that when I was two when I read Everybody Poops, so why is it that I go through such great lengths trying to convince all the women in Chicago that I've never floated a brown trout? You may not believe this, well, if you've been reading a while you probably will, but sometimes I'll go over to a girl's house, like after work, and be like, "Is it cool if I take a quick shower? I just feel really gross." Then I'll turn the shower on, cut one off, and rinse off in the shower right quick. She can't hear me grunting, farting, or flushing, and my asshole is clean as a whistle after the shower. The perfect crime!* But why do I try to fool these women into thinking that I don't make poops or farts? Is that really a better scenario in her mind if she really believes I don't poop? What would that make me? An alien? A robot? A Terminator? Does she really want to date The fucking Terminator?

How about you seven readers, that is, if you're still willing to read after such a low-brow post: Tell me a good poo or fart related dating story or just tell me if you've farted or pooped in front of your current partner, or tell me about the first time you did with a previous partner.

* You're free to use this trick, seven readers. Let me know how everything comes out. Get it? Comes out . . .

Blogging While I "Let Those Puppies Soak."

I'm not a good cook. Let's put it this way, right now I'm cooking something off of a recipe I got from A Man, a Can, and a Plan. If you haven't heard of this publication, it's all recipes you can make from canned goods like chili, beans, and even spaghettio's (TM). I like that they say things like, "dump the can of chili into a mixing bowl," or they'll tell you to pour half a can of beer into something, and tell you to chug the other half, which I did. They also have big-ass pictures of the various cans when each one is called for, so it's kind of catered towards a third-grader, which is perfect for me.

Right now I have some A Man, a Can, and a Plan ribs marinating in the fridge, and they've been there a couple of days, which would be okay with a plastic bag, but they're just in a mixing bowl with tin foil over it. Do you think I'll get botulism? I asked my fireman/EMT roommate, and he said, "Oh yeah. You're fine. Let those puppies soak." I figure he's in the business of saving lives, so he wouldn't suggest a highly-risky, meat venture that would put my life in jeopardy, right? That would go against his Hippocratic oath, would it not? We all should have oaths, like mathematicians should have a Pythagorean oath, just because I've always liked that word. What would my oath be? I'm thinking a Bugs Bunnian oath, in which I pledge to be a life-long smart ass, even in the face of danger. Hey, seven readers, what would your oath be?

Tonight I'm going to see Digital Underground, with none other than Humpty, who would have numerous oaths:
1. Never will I have my oatmeal any way but the way the good Lord intended, lumpy
2. So long as there are Burger King bathrooms, I will "get busy" in them.
3. Until the day I die, every time I get in a 69, "my Humpty nose will tickle your rear."
4. Last but not least, if I have the pleasure of coming to your home or place of business, "I (will) eat up all tha crackers and tha licorice" and drink all the "Hennessee ya got on ya shelf."

Marcus Greene

The other night, my special, lady-friend* and I were at a coffee shop enjoying a couple of smoothies, mine with mango and strawberry flavors blended together**, when I was approached by a middle-aged, Black man who asked if I liked poetry. Now, I suppose I could have said, "No. I don't really care for poetry, unless you know some dirty limericks.***" That would have been the best answer, but I was caught off-guard and I had a touch of a head freeze, so I said, "You bet. Big poetry fan here." He then asked if I'd like to hear a poem, so I said, sure, so long as it was a quick one. He then read us FOUR poems, which was more then I asked for, but he did read them fast, and I mean fast, like the guy from the Micromachines (TM) commercials.

When he was done, he asked if we'd like to buy a packet of hand-written, photocopied, versions of the poems we had just heard, complete with piss-pour illustrations, and his name signed and printed at the bottom of each one, all for the low, low price of $10 a piece. Part of his sales pitch was to tell us that he is a Vietnam veteran, he is fifty-eight years old, and he proceeded to lift up his shirt and show us a scar on his stomach. I produced a dollar from my wallet, and I said I'd just give him a buck for his time. He counter-offered with five bucks for the two packets we were reading along with, and I said fine. Then he asked if he could have the other dollar I took out too. I thought that last request was a bit shameless, but I was happy to give it to him, because he gave us something to talk about for the next half-hour, and here I am blogging about him.

Now, without further ado, I give you mine and Marcus' favorite poem from the aforementioned packet. At first glance it looks really simplistic, but when I read it, I can't help but recall the exact cadence and the level of sincerity with which he read it. His performance convinced me that Mr. Greene was really in love at some point in his fifty-eight years on this earth, and that make happy, and a little reluctant to throw out the packet when I'm done with this blog.

Love, By Marcus Greene

Love, as the flower grows
The little butterfly knows
My heart throbs, and as for
You my love also grows

* For the reacord, Dr. Ken's progressions goes:
This Chick I"m Seeing
Lady-Friend
Special Lady-Friend
Girlfriend

** I know, what a goofy drink, but it was refreshing on a hot night, it was too late for coffee, and my options were limited due to my lactose intolerance.

*** My favorite dirty limerick starts with
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.

A Crummy Update Post? What a Jip!

If you read my post about my rotten guitar playing, you'd know how pleased I am to report that I had a good guitar lesson today. My teacher was all about high fives, and he said he's been waiting for this break-through lesson. He went on to say, "Man, your pinkie came to play today!" I got all the way through We Dance by Pavement, and I have to hand it to my teacher for pulling off the vocals while he played along with me.

If you read the post about the crazy roommate who stole a bunch of shit when he moved out, I'm happy to tell you that he gave us back most of the stuff he stole, but he also told us to hold off on cashing the checks he gave us. Although I'll never use it, I am very pleased to have my decanter back safe and sound. Wait, I just re-read that roommate post, and I didn't tell you that he stole shit. Well, he did, and we got it back.

I'm into summer job mode taking pictures at Navy Pier, and I have the farmer's tan to prove it. A friend of mine recently asked me why I don't do something like this full-time, since I talk about this dumb job more than my "real" one. He makes a point, but I don't know . . .

Just when I started getting "involved" with someone, I meet the four, female, attractive, medical students that moved into the bottom unit of our two-flat. It's hard to explain, but some of you Chicago and ex-Chicago readers will understand what I mean when I say it's so hard to be committed to anyone in the summer. It's something about people out more, girls wearing less, everyone's seasonal affective disorder has subsided, and there is a street festival every weekend. We just appreciate our summers in these parts, and people get together more, you'll just have to trust me on this. Anyway, I just started to really dig on this new girl I'm seeing. Don't get me wrong, my eye still wanders, as it always will, but I didn't get that agitated, "I have to get out of this" feeling when I would see and meet new people. Well, today when I bumped into a particularly cute, smiley, and friendly medical student/neighbor while doing laundry, I got that feeling a little bit. Okay, more than a little bit. Well, I'm off to see the girl I'm "involved" with, so wish me luck with keeping that feeling at bay . . .

The First Gentleman

Did you know that's what they'll call Bill Clinton if his wife wins the election? That's right, First Gentleman. It makes sense, I guess, since gentleman is the counterpart to lady in the expression "ladies and gentlemen." It just sounds damn funny, but a little classy too, right? It got me thinking, what The Gancer (Dr. Kenneth Noisewater) would be like if asked to be our nation's first First Gentleman. My first thought was that I'd be a freeloading, half-assed, homemaker loser, but I think the K Fed comparisons would be enough to drive me out of the White House and into the work force. I would also engage in some other endeavors . . .


1. I'd nag my wife incessantly until she appointed me Secretary of Rock. Man, that has a nice ring to it! First Gentleman or not, somebody should appoint me to that post, because I'd be awesome at it. I think I'd have to dress the part, like maybe a Dee Snyder look, but with a judge's robe. If I deemed something too sucky and/or wussy, I would launch a formal investigation and scrutinize chumps like Rob Thomas from Matchbox 20. One too many "nays" from my committee, who would be all appointed by me, and most likely would consist of my drinking buddies, and Rob would be Josh Homme's (from Queens of the Stone Age) guitar tech for a year-long, probationary period until Rob learned how to better rock and suck/wus-out less.

2. Since some past First Ladies have championed women's rights, maybe The Gancer could be a strong proponent of Man's Rights. Here would be some of my Man's Rights causes

A) I would have the Lorena Bobbit decision over-turned. I mean, yeah, the guy is an abusive moron and a lousy excuse for a human being, but did he deserve to have his penis lopped off? Maybe so, but should she have gotten away scott free? I demand some punishment, because it's setting a dangerous and downright scary, especially if you're a man who values his penis, precedent. To avoid such a precedent, I would have her serve one day in prison or one day fluffing Ron Jeremy, whichever she wants.
B)How about a two hour period of time in which a wife is not allowed to talk to her husband, like during an important ball game, as if he could hear half of what she's saying then anyway . . .
C) Come to think of it, I'm not too big on these Man Rights. All this misogyny is starting to make me feel like Mighty Dykerson, and while I love his work, it's making me uncomfortable.

3. Help me out here, seven readers, what other responsibilities do you think I should have? What would you do? Female readers, what would you like from your First Gentleman if you were a lady President?