Book Club For Men

I went on a music trivia bar crawl yesterday where your team answered questions at various bars, and then you got the location for the next location through yet another question.  The format was fun because they had word searches, puzzles, and one thing where you had to mingle with everyone there to guess which rock band/artist they were based on a clue.  Meeting all the people was one of the best aspects of the day, and it is how I found my new book club.


Two guys were dressed as ZZ Top, but as I pointed out to them, they looked a little more like Hasidic Jews.  They said they feared the same thing as they put their outfits together.  Somehow they got talking about their book club that has been an excuse to get a night out away from their wives and rest of family to drink beer with their buddies.  They have discovered that no wife will get mad about them going out for a book club.  Pretty ingenious, actually.

Apparently one night a woman came over to their table and asked what they were up to.  They said it was a book club, and she asked if she could join.  One guy said "No way.  This is guys only."  She asked if she showed them her boobs, might that change their policy.  They talked it over and decided that this could be the one and only way they could allow a female into the group.  So she flashed her boobs, and they asked her to go ahead have a seat.  Turns out she cuts herself intentionally (self-mutilates), and at the following book club she ended up making out with an Asian woman a the bar.  She didn't show up to a third session.

I told them that the group sounds awesome, and they invited me to join (without having to show my boobs).  They just had two questions: Do I like to eat meat?  Do I drink booze?  Yes and yes!  I'm in!  I thought it was really cool that they took such a liking to me and accepted me in.  I reassured them that I won't be nearly as crazy as their and only female member.  I seriously am giddy with anticipation for the first group.  The guys seem really funny and intelligent, many are in a similar line of work as me, and I like a good excuse to get together with folks and have good conversations over a few pops.

How about you, readers?  Got any groups of friends that you meet up with through any kind of regularly scheduled club or activity?  And do you think I should try to track down the crazy boob-flasher to reinstate her membership?  

Betting On Cow Poop. Because Why Not? That's Why.

I was out with a buddy the other night who says that at the small college he attended in California they apparently bet on cow poop.  My understanding is they send a cow out onto a field, and people bet money on which square foot of land the cow will choose to shit on.  So, it's kind of like craps.  No, it's more like roulette in format, but it does involve crap.

But hold on.  I got lots of questions.

     1. Could you bet on two to four squares that the cow could crap on at once, seeing as cow pies can be quite big.

     2. Do you think all the people hollering at the cow could make her clam up and tighten up her sphincter, thus messing up the game?

     3. Would if the cow releases all of its payload before it is sent out into the betting field?

     4. What is this game called?

     5. Do you think they put a little visor on the cow like a roulette dealer?  Because that would be adorable.

Unfortunately I haven't had any of these questions answered due to my buddy's only vague recollections of this practice and there seemingly being nothing about it on the internet.  Please let me know in the comments section if you know anything about this.

Also, below is the second installment of the best naked scenes in movie history podcast list that myself and Crom compiled.  We really upped the video production for this one, since we learned more what the hell we're doing.

So, poop and boobs today.  In that order.

Best Nude Scenes Ever #10 through 7

In this first installment, Crom and myself discuss our personal top ten lists, numbers 10 through 7.  Stay tuned to when we finish out lists and come up with a master nudie list.  This is important stuff, people . . .

Lies the 80's Taught Us About Adoption

Anyone ever notice that the 1980's had a lot of television shows built around rich white men swooping down from their high rises to rescue lowly orphans and whisk them away to a lap of luxury?  Maybe it was the importance placed on wealth and amassing material possessions that bled into pop culture from the Regan era.  Certainly it was a time where the gap between the haves and the have nots grew wider than ever, and it was definitely cooler to be one of the haves and be on "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" than it was to be on "COPS," for instance.  But the sit coms of the day gave kids a glimmer of hope that we could be saved from our shitty, broke-ass lives by those good-doing rich, white business men.  Truth be told, aristocrats of that era wanted all kinds of things, be it yachts, the finest champaign, sports cars, and much younger women - but rarely did they seek out their very own poor, orphan Black children.  If you knew guys like that at the time or even today, that's not something they coveted, but the 1980's TV shows would have you convinced otherwise . . .

Phillip Drummond was one such saintly tycoon who took in inner city siblings, Arnold and Willis, into his condo, and that seemed to work out great on TV's Diff'rent Strokes.  Arnold was a wise-cracking kid with adorable big cheeks and a growth defect so he stayed cute for a lot of seasons.  In real life, there are families that want to adopt inner city kids, but usually only babies, and very rarely are bachelor males doing that deed.  Phillip was a special guy.  In reality, if he undertook this endeavor without the proper care, his kids may have turned out like their actor counterparts did in real life: Willis would have a drug problem, Phillip's birth daughter would have had an even bigger drug problem and rob a video store, and Arnold would take a job as a mall cop and punch a woman in the face, or whatever.  It seems to me that Phil just got bored easily and made rash decisions that would greatly impact his family, the least of which would be exemplified by how rapidly he went through maids.

"Watchu' mean I can't stay in the penthouse?"

Punky Brewster's father abandoned her, and then her mother snuck away from her at a Chicago shopping center, which left Punky to fend for herself in an abandoned apartment where she would be found by Henry, a photographer.  Now, that story would likely have a more grim ending with some really awful photographic evidence, but in this case Henry is a very kind old man who takes Punky in to give her a better life.  My question is why didn't Punky ask anyone at the shopping center for help?  Nope, instead she immediately just fended for herself and hunkered down in an abandoned apartment.  The actress who portrayed Punky, Solei Moon Frye developed gigantic boobs and eventually opted for a breast reduction.  This has nothing to do with anything at all, or does it?  She abandoned those giant hooters like her mom abandoned her at that Chicago shopping center?  No, it is not on topic at all, and I just found a way to talk about boobs.  Let's just move on to . . .

I bet you can guess which one is Punky (pre reduction)

. . . Webster.  This plucky youngster was the son of a professional football player who pawned his son off on his teammate, offensive lineman George Papadapolis.  Webster suddenly lived with a couple of well-to-do socialites with a cool secret passageway where you could sneak out of your bedroom and out of the grandfather clock downstairs if you needed to make a super sneaky escape of some kind.  Webster also had a growth deficiency and was even smaller than Arnold.  It seems to me that if you're bouncing around foster homes as a child, your chances of getting a foster home were greatly improved if you had a rare condition to never look older than 10-years-old.  That affliction certainly helped Emmanuel Lewis remain friends with Michael Jackson all those years when you think about it . . .

Awwww.  He's perched up there like a little parrot!  

The absolute biggest fairy tale if you were child of the 1980's was the life of Ricky Stratton on Silver Spoons, the boy who meets his father for the first time only to find that he is a super rich toy designer with a house full of video games and a toy train that takes you all over the house.  There was no one on television I was more jealous of than that damn Ricky Stratton.  I wanted everything he had, even the obnoxious duck phone that would quack incessantly instead of ring.  But even as a kid I didn't like the idea of the remote control door that they would pop open without checking to see if it was a murderous rapist who would tie them up, torture them, and play all their video games.  Other than the poorly conceived remote door, I wanted it all.  That lucky bastard.  And all the girls in my class swooned over Rick, and that only further fueled my jealousy.

"Yee haw!  All aboard to Awesome Town!  We got it all, Ricky!  Screw those broke losers!"

The 1980's made it look like taking in orphan children was no harder than rescuing a dog from the local shelter.  The harsh reality is that almost never have broke orphans been saved by random acts of kindness from rich people, but the 1980's sit coms tried to keep that glimmer of hope in the back of our minds.  Hell, I wanted to be "rescued" into that awesome house in "Silver Spoons," and I didn't even need saving because I had a middle class family that loved and cared for me.  The 80's made kids want stuff they didn't need just as it convinced the adults of this.  The poor inner city kids and orphans had just as tough of life as they do now, but being plucked out of the ghettos and orphanages and directly into mansions was never a realistic option.  The truth is the real life Arnolds and Websters of the world grew up poor, hungry, and really, really short.      

This Post Has No Point . . .

. . . but whatever.

I went to the Bulls game tonight with some good buddies.  On my way home I had to stop at the grocery store to get some socks because I have been too lazy to do my laundry and need some for tomorrow.  I wanted to stop off and get something to eat too, but because I didn't want to make another stop, I got some jalapeno chips and a gatorade.  Socks, chips, gatorade, and this worthless update . . .

I decided I needed to research a few things I was thinking about tonight . . .

1. A guy named Malcolm Thomas checked in for the Bulls and did pretty well for the Bulls tonight, and despite all of us being Chicago sports fans, none of us had heard of him.  It turns out he played for the Bulls' summer league team but ended up playing in Israel before being signed.  Hard guy to figure out a nickname for . . .

2. I was telling my buddy James Douglas Morrison that I have been reading the Keith Richards biography, and he asked if he mentioned the rivalry between the Stones and the Doors.  No, was there one?  I'll look that up too . . . I could find nothing about that on the internet, but if there was one, based on what I have read, I would say it would be about Mick hating on Jim because he was a better-looking front man using his sexuality the way Mick did.  Keith is pretty open about how nutty Mick was about a lot of stuff, but I will say that at least Mick was never nearly as big a junkie as Keith, so there's that . . .

3. This has nothing to do with looking anything up, but I was thinking about it.  Yesterday I get a text from my father that read: "I was saddened to hear of the passing of Annette Funicello.  As a boy watching her in those sweaters on the "Mickey Mouse Club," she made me love boobs.

The Incredible Exploding Boobies

Last night I met Haircut and Oates for some buckets of beers and perhaps a few too many chilled shots of Rumplemintz at a hole in the wall bar nearby in Chicago.  The place is kind of famous for its giant boobed alcoholic bartender who gets a little too drunk while she is working, screwing up orders and saying insane stuff.  She wasn't working last night, but she did come in to hang out on her night off, something I have seen more than once before, and she was very excited to see Oates, who she views as a little brother, often giving him unsolicited romantic advice.

For some reason we got on the topic of her giant fake boobs, and she told us that she has had two accidents resulting in having to have them replaced.  The first happened when she was on a first date with a guy and she felt one of them suddenly leak, putting a damper on the date.  Literally.

The second one is the one that made me fall out laughing and just made me glad to be alive to hear wacky stuff like this.  She was leaning into a fence trying to get the perfect picture of a giraffe when she was suddenly jolted by the electric fence, exploding her tits!  After one of those mishaps, she said the owner of the bar payed for another round of boobs for her.  Two good perks to working at that bar! 

Can I help you?  Did you get a good enough look this time? (This isn't actually her, just a random Google image)

Have you ever heard of anything like this, or do you have a bartender or barfly tale you would like to share?

Gawking Gung Ho

I was out with some coworkers the other night, and Gung Ho was saying how there is a woman we work with who always covers up her chest when she talks to him, either adjusting a scarf, pulling a shirt closed, or what have you.  He says this is because he is often caught inadvertently staring at her boobs.  Later we got talking about a coworker with unfortunate dental work who recently paid big money to get them fixed.  Gung Ho was describing how they were before, and he was able to describe perfectly in which direction each tooth faced.  We were all laughing, wondering just how closely he was looking, and he said that the guy often covered up his mouth when talking to Gung Ho.

If anyone out there has interesting teeth and a big chest, she will have to keep very busy covering up when talking to good old Gung Ho . . .

"I'll drink to those, I mean that."

Can a Boob Lover Change His Ways?

Gosh, I hope so. I'm not a boob man by choice; I inherited it. My dad is the only bigger fan of mammarian protuberances than myself that I know. I really do think that it's been a lifelong thing for me, ever since my first uncomfortable woody that came at the hands of some big booby girl on "The Benny Hill Show." I was sitting on the carpet watching with the family, and I remember being scared that something was wrong with me, and I had to get up and leave the room with an awkward gait, pushing my little (at the time) business downward. Damn you, Benny and your fast motion boob women and the little old guy patting everyone on their heads! And damn you boobs in general!



I don't want to like them so much. I really don't. My brain knows that they're nothing more than fleshy mounds of fat, so in the grand scheme of things, they shouldn't be a deciding factor in how I choose my mate. Sense of humor, intelligence, a good conversationalist, and being a good human being are way higher on my list, but when I come face-to-face (or face to nipple(s)) with a nice set, the whole organizational chart of my criteria shifts dramatically. And that's just wrong, right?

I even try to literally ween myself off of them, tricking my brain by watching . . . movies of women with not so big "thingies," but I always end up . . . finishing up with some buxom, coked up "actress." Again I say damn you, titty women! I don't want to like you anymore. Your giant chests cloud my judgment and throw my priorities all out of whack. I want to meet the woman who stimulates my mind and makes me laugh every day, not just a woman who fills out a sweater really well. I'd like to say I could get both in one, but we all know that's a pipe dream; just isn't happening. That's like chasing the "white whale."

How about you, Seven Readers? Do you like something in a mate that you wish you didn't?

Tales from the Rickshaw Volume 4: The Final Chapter?

I saw a fairly attractive girl's boobs pop out of her shirt the other night, and I was not at all turned on.

Allow me to explain. I was working a shift on the rickshaw/pedicab as the locals were growing increasingly intoxicated, and three females were crossing the street to the bar in which I was parked nearby. As the second drunkest one gets to the curb, she trips over it, knocking over the drunkest one to the ground, causing her shirt to get pulled down and her bare breasts to get pulled out of the top of her top.

This was what Jerry Seinfeld called in one of his episodes of Seinfeld, "bad naked" for at least three reasons:

1. She was horribly, horribly drunk.
2. She was possibly hurt.
3. And worst of all, she was crying.

It kind of reminded me of that picture on the inside of the Appetite for Destruction album.

I got off my bike to make sure she was okay, and she did seem unhurt. However, I did advise her friends that they should take her home, which they didn't. Sure, pay no attention to me just because I'm carting around drunks on a bicycle. That's exactly why they should listen to me. I'm the sober man out there on those streets, giving me superpowers. I know them better than they know themselves. I know when boobies are going to pop out even before they know it. Actually, I don't quite know that much. That really would be a super power . . .

Dream Analysis

I couldn't think of anything to blog about, so I went over to dreammoods.com to analyze one of my dreams.

Here is what it said:

To see breasts in your dream, symbolizes primal nourishment and your need to be nursed and care for. It represent motherhood, nurturance, and infantile dependency . . .

. . . Seeing naked breasts can also denote a feeling of exposure and invasion of privacy. In particular, for a woman, the dream may indicate anxieties about becoming a woman/mother.

Can't it just mean I like boobs?

What have you been dreaming about lately, seven readers? Let me know in the comments.

Robot Breast Missiles

Classyandfancy, a friend of mine and one hell of a blogger, uses this picture for her blog profile. She picked it because she likes pandas, but I pointed out to her that the wings look like Tranzor Z’s. She, of course, had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and to her credit few do. However, as it turns out, the picture IS Tranzor Z related in that the character is called Panda Z, or something like that, and he is based on the robot character made famous, or somewhat famous anyway, from the cartoon and toy from my youth.

This led me to hark back to the Tranzor Z toy and the lucky friends of mine who had him. He stood about three feet tall, and he shot missiles from his fingers. Then I started to think about the girl robot in the cartoon who shot missiles from her boobies. I did a little research, and found these pictures, since I had to see for myself that my twisted little brain didn’t conjure up this unique form of attack. Sure enough, her name was Aphrodite, and as the picture below will prove, she DID in fact shoot titty missiles. Aphrodite the goddess was a all about love and beauty, but this robot was all about blowing shit up with her tits.

Then I discovered that there is a top-secret plan, so don’t tell anyone, to resolve all conflicts in the Middle East. At this very moment, our fine and wise president, Mr. George W. Bush, has his finger on a button that will unleash a giant Aphrodite robot upon Iraq and all the surrounding countries. She will then discharge a bevy of mammary missiles that will nuke the whole region of the globe back to the Stone Age. Most of these nations will not only hate that they are getting attacked by a giant robot, but the fact that she is scantily clad will be a form of cultural genocide. I mean, never mind the fact that her breasts are weapons, but she is showing her ANKLES! With just the right titty trajectory, spraying her fun bags of fury will in one fell swoop not only resolve all conflicts in the Middle East, but it will lower gas prices, balance the budget, find Nicole Brown Simpson’s “real” killer, and Christopher Reeves will come back from the dead and walk again. Now those are some magic titties.

Girls' Night Out and Man Boobies

I went to this horrible bar last night because my roomy wanted to get with this one girl. This is always the start to a bad night, and this is no exception. We get to the bar to discover that we are intruding on a “Girls’ Night Out.” Translation: “A bunch of us are going to get dolled up the best we can possibly look, with our hair done, our newest outfit with our tits on display, but what we DON’T want is any guys talking to us. Our goal is to draw massive amounts of attention to ourselves, but fight off the advances of the hordes of men who try to hit on us. The best way for us to catch up with old friends is to dance seductively with one another. Talking? No way. My old friends and I can pick up right where we left off in college when she grinds herself on my crotch or when I slowly sink down to the floor and put my face in her crotch.”

Would you believe that one of these girls actually asked me to tell a guy to leave who sat down at the table with them? Hey, I barely know you girls. I’m not about to get my ass kicked because you decided to get dressed up and draw attention to yourself at a bar that brings in every stripe-shirted hardass in Chicago.

The guy that was the biggest hit was my engaged friend. These girls were ALL over him. Hey, he’s engaged, so the threat of him coming on to you is lowered, especially when his bride-to-be is in the room, but has it occurred to these women that chicks all on his jammy might make him have thoughts about the whole one woman for the rest of his life thing? Hey, never mind that. This is Girls Night Out! So, he’s dancing with his bride-to-be’s sister, and she gets behind him, reaches around him, and fondles his man-boobies. Shortly there after, he gets behind her, reaches around, and feels her woman-boobies. This led to bride to be hollering at him and storming out. Now, I don’t happen to have man-boobies, but if I did, I’m pretty sure I’d be self-conscious of them. I certainly wouldn’t want a chick trying to tune-in-Tokyo (movie reference?) in front of everyone, including a bunch of good-looking girls.* BECAUSE, I believe I’d be sensitive about something like this, I can’t say I’d blame a guy for thinking, “Fuck you. You’re grabbing my boobies, I’m grabbing yours.” I guess when it’s your bride-to-be’s sister, one has to keep those automatic thoughts and gut reactions in check. I remember him saying, over and over, "I think I'm in trouble." Gee, you think? I will say it made for some fun people watching and good blog fodder. Okay, I have to do some push-ups so that, God willing, I never have to discover how I’d react in that situation . . .

*Just as I was typing this, man-booby guy called me! It’s really strange because we don’t know each other that well, so it’s not that likely that he’d call me right as I type about his rather embarrassing affliction. I feel really bad now, and I have to be sure he never gets my blog address.