The Savage Casual Boxing Fan

I’ve found myself playing a lot of Mike Tyson’s Punch Out!! on Nintendo because I just found out two weeks ago that Mike Tyson, our favorite tattooed-face-heavy-weight-champion is going into the ring again.

Can you believe that shit?

Not many people can. Tyson, who is 54, is set to fight Roy Jones Jr, who is the youngster in this match at 51 years old. Apparently, it’s only supposed to be a sparring match with no judges and of course, no crowd. They’re supposed to take it easy on each other.

mike-tyson-and-pigeon-jim-fitzpatrick

There’s brief footage on Instagram of Tyson’s practice session where he’s pummeling some dummy bags and let’s be honest, the bags defended themselves better than Michael Spinks did in 1988.

To quote Teddy Atlas, Tyson’s former trainer from the 1980’s, after he watched the video… well, I won’t directly quote Teddy Atlas because he rambles more than Ozzy Osbourne, but to paraphrase Teddy Atlas, he said, “If you put Henry Aaron in a batting cage at 65 and he starts hitting some dingers, are you going to say, ‘Pack your bags, Strausberg! Hank Aaron is back’? No. You’re not going to do that.”

Sports analysists, in their infinite wisdom, are not interested in these guys butting heads and are downplaying the whole affair are saying no real boxing fan is going to pay $50 to watch this “fight” on Pay-Per-View. I mean, I’m going to do it, but I’m not going to be happy about it.

The fight was originally supposed to be on September 12, but Tyson thinks they can generate more revenue if given more time to promote it.

Roy, strangely enough, agreed.

The benefit of having more time is that we can watch Tyson slowly (or rapidly) unfold from the funny, caring persona he has built over the past 15 years and back into the lispy, foul-mouthed, maniacal powerhouse that bit off Evander Holyfield’s ear in 1997.

When responding to the boxing manager’s statement that this wouldn’t be a “real fight,” Tyson disagreed.

“We want to kill each other, man. The people are coming to see us fight because they know we want to kill each other. They’re fucking savages—they want us to kill each other. They want blood.”

Now, Mr. Tyson, come on. I’m not a savage. I just want to see you go into the third round without a mouth guard in so you can get a good grip on Roy’s nose with your teeth and chomp it off. But that’s just me as a casual boxing fan; I don’t think it’s savage.

And for 50 bucks, I think it’s fair to expect that someone’s extremity, I don’t care which, leaves one of your guys’ bodies and hits the canvas floor still twitching a little bit.

Or eat it. If I pay 60 bucks, would one of you guys eat it? I hear if you eat the other guy’s finger or nose you absorb his powers. Fine. $65 but no higher than that. This is a game of integrity and honor.

Meet Our New Overlord: The Murder Hornet

Murder Hornet(1)

Well, summer is officially here, folks! Time to fire up the grill, fill up the kiddie pool with a leaky garden hose, and pray that the Murder Hornet has not infested your life.

Yes, the insect that has been affectionately named the “Murder Hornet” by the U.S. media (called the Asian giant hornet to the rest of the world), has made landfall this past year in North America. A nest was discovered in September of 2019 near Vancouver, Canada and although the nest was destroyed, there’s good news! Some hornets survived the winter and are now finding the climate quite delectable.

The Murder Hornet swoops in at a whopping 6.3 centimeters, making it the largest known hornet in the world. Now that it has made its appearance in the state of Washington (tomorrow the rest of the country) we need to translate that size as we are a bit allergic to the metric system: it’s 2.5 inches long.

When these behemoths come into another insect’s territory, like a honeybee hive, it decimates all those involved. How does it kill the other insects? Oh, by ripping off their heads with their pincher mouths of course and feeding the decapitated honeybee back to their young to ensure another season of terror. And, like any good super-villain worth their salt, the Murder Hornet will enter the beehive and say something witty like, “Honey, I’m home!”

And then it proceeds through the nest just ravaging everything in sight– picking up honeybees, ripping their heads off, and tossing them to the side. Given that the hornet is four times the size of the honeybee, the scene looks like something out of a Roger Corman movie. The battle itself more lopsided than a Tyson-Spinks fight; it’s brutal, full of malice, carnage, and most of all, horrifying.

Murder Hornet(2)

What can the honeybees do? Well, the Japanese Honeybee came up with this brilliant defense: when a reconnaissance hornet comes into the nest to spray pheromones to alert his hornet friends, the honeybees swarm the giant. They don’t sting the hornet (as that would be fruitless) but rather flap their wings and generate heat. They generate so much head and carbon dioxide inside the ball o’ bees that the hornet gets roasted to death at 115 degrees Fahrenheit.

Murder Hornet(3)

That’s all pretty neat, but what makes it neater? The Japanese Honeybee can only reach a temperature of 117 degrees before they would die of heat death as well. They create a temperature within one or two degrees of their own death to kill an enemy.

Nature, you sly boots!

Unfortunately, the European Honeybee cannot tolerate such heat, so this defense is useless over here. 2020 is not just a bad year for humans, apparently. Entomologists have tried to assure us that there have only been a select few hives found and destroyed in the state of Washington and that the invasion is more or less under control.

But, if this invasive species is anything like, oh, I don’t know…the Japanese Beetle, the Stink Bug, or the Spotted Lantern Fly, I would like to take this time to welcome our new overlords of this country.

Mr. Murder Hornet, we’re kind of dealing with a lot of stuff right now, so you can probably just march on in and we won’t put up much of a fight. If we do resist, it won’t be much of a battle and I want you to remember that it was I, Mike Jenkins, who welcomed you with opened arms and did not put up much of a struggle.

I gave myself over to you willingly with nothing but fear and cowardice in my heart. God save the new Queen!

White Lies

And a jolly good morning to you folk(s). This is Mike Jenkins. Has it been (looks at watch, winces) since I last golden-showered you with my wit? You poor person! I apologize to all of my reader.

Unfortunately, I was in a bit of a moral quandary since the beginning of October. It was consuming my every thought and I didn’t know what to do about it. I’ll tell you what happened.

I was watching “Wheel of Fortune” one night (We just call it “Wheel” in our house) and as the always-charming Pat Sajak quipped his guest into “giving that wheel a spin,” after the contestant guessed a letter (I think it was an “R”), Vanna, looking sparkly, sashayed her way to the letter and before she could touch the side of the screen, the letter flipped over.

I dropped my hot chocolate in shock.

“Grettle,” I said quietly in disbelief. “I don’t think Vanna is actually turning over the letters.”

Grettle barked in protest, unwilling to admit the truth. She’s always been a loyal Vanna fan.

Grettle
You can’t see it because of the fur, but there is a “Vanna 4 Life” tattoo across her chest

It takes a keen eye to spot these things, but I did; that’s what you pay me for. But guys, listen: I think that Vanna’s role on “Wheel” is completely superfluous.
Look, I didn’t want to make the discovery, ok? But I did. I looked at past episodes and there’s even a section called “Toss Up” where Vanna “presses a button” so that all the letters appear automatically one at a time until someone guesses it right and Vanna just stands off to the side the whole time.

How could we have been so blind? Trust me, now that I’ve pointed it out, you’ll never un-see it: She is completely unnecessary.

So, the problem I had over the past two weeks was whether to let the producers of “Wheel” know about it. If they did know that Vanna served no real purpose, she’d be let go.

Times are tough right now and with the amount of cash and prizes “Wheel” gives out on a daily basis, they could surely use some of that freed-up Vanna scratch to send a contestant on a trip to pick some apples in upstate Massachusetts.

She makes $4 million dollars a year. That’s a shitload of apples.

I wonder how her contract negotiations work. Does she walk toward the producer’s office and before she gets inside, the guy shoos her away, slams the door and slides the contract underneath? Or maybe she’s invited in and as a goof the producer asks her to explain why she should get paid $4 million a year, stifling chortles and nyuks the whole time.

On the other hand, doesn’t Vanna deserve to have a job? From the show’s inception until the late 90’s, Vanna did physically turn over letters. It looked like hard work, especially when vowels were concerned.

Vowels are like, in every word.

Fast fact! The most commonly used letter in the English language is “E.”

It must have been hard work back in the day because she even wrote an autobiography in 1987 called Vanna Speaks which I now sadly have to read because it’s 190 pages when it should only be one sentence: “Sometimes I get blisters.”

vanna speaks

Oh, fuck me, there’s 32 pages that are just photos.

In the end, I decided not to let the producers know about my discovery. I figured, she’s not hurting anyone with her “White” lie (get it?) and she is pleasant to look at. Who knows, maybe the time she takes to walk from side to side is valuable to contestants who need an extra second or two to think about the puzzle’s solution.

However, it does feel odd to sit back and watch television and see someone whom you’ve never met, has no idea you exist and yet you still wield this incredible power over her. It’s thrilling and unsettling at the same time.

I have the letter written, but unsent. I hold it in my hand every evening from 7:30 to 8:00, waiting for Vanna to screw up. To draw a swastika on the side of the puzzle board, queef into the microphone, or say Tom Petty was mediocre– anything really that will cause a disturbance and upset my viewing. Then I’ll bring the hammer down.
If she only knew.

Taste the Bugle Betrayal

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I was a Bugles kid. The crunchy corn snack in the shape of a stalactite or stalagmite (depending on which way you’re holding it) was the snack for me. In my professional, 8-year old opinion, there was no snack that could match the beauty, the flavor, the relentless ecstasy that was the Bugle corn chip.

The corn. The salt. The Crunch! Oh, my!

Sure, you could try to sway me from my Bugles, but your efforts would be in vain. Goldfish lacked the dangerous flair by both shape and taste. Potato chips—how pedestrian. And what about Fritos? They’re made from corn, you might be saying. Well, you know what I’d say to that? Fuck off, with your frivolous Fritos talk. Give me nothing but the Bugles, baby!

Me and Bugles were tight. We were like this. I had a box of Bugles with me wherever I went and that says a lot because I had a My Buddy doll, and my Bugles saw more of the world than that doll could ever dream. If I didn’t have a box of Bugles on me, rest assured that my breath would tell you I had just consumed a box.

I don’t remember precisely the first time I discovered Bugles because I didn’t feel as though life had any purpose before I had my first Bugle. The first eight years of my life, I was just meandering, living without meaning or drive. But then I discovered Bugles and suddenly everything made sense. I knew why the sun shone.

However, a dark, sinister force was resting just beneath the beautifully lit world and it surfaced in the winter of 1990. My Saturday started off typically with a mid-morning snack of a box of Bugles. There was nothing strange about that. But what I did find strange was that by the early afternoon, I heard the call of the Bugle again and thought nothing of it as I went to the cabinet to get a box of Bugles.

You know how people say they know they are addicted to something like cigarettes is when they light one up without even consciously doing it? It becomes more of a reflex than anything else? Well, I was doing the same thing, except with a box of Bugles. I got halfway through the box before I slowly began to think, “Hey, is this my second box of Bugles today?”

I kept eating as I thought about it. My stomach began to feel like an overstuffed vacuum bag as it slowly dawned on me that I was about ¾ of the way through my second box in nary a couple hours. Upon realizing this, it became a point of pride to finish the box, if only to brag that I had eaten two whole boxes of Bugles.

I could just imagine two girls standing by their pink bicycles and remarking to themselves as I walk past:
“Say, who’s that strutting down the street?”
“Oh, that’s Mike Jenkins. He once ate two whole box of Bugles in 4 hours. Isn’t he a dream?”
“Hi there, Ladies.” (wink and a gun)
(Swoon)

Now, allow me to drop some quick math on you. As I finished the last Bugle of box #2, my 8-year-old tummy was harboring over 14 servings (18.2 cups) of enriched cornmeal goodness, as well as 560% the daily recommended dose of saturated fat for an average adult human.

I did not hold these stats for long, however, as I very quickly became a liquid Bugle dispensary. The force of my body’s rejection of the Bugles was quite violent, as the slightly digested General Mills treat blasted itself out my nostrils while I cried in fear. My taste for Bugles had literally been purged.

It’s been 25 years since my first scrape with overindulgence and much like anyone’s first love, it was the strongest. Maybe you think Bugles and I could resolve our differences if I just took the time to sit down with a box and talk it out. But let me tell you, if you lock me in a room with a box of Bugles, some interesting things are going to happen.

First, I am going to shriek like a girl; that’s pretty standard. The shriek will be so high that you will feel nothing but shame and embarrassment for me and you will distance yourself from me and claim that you don’t know who I am and that I am probably, “autistic or something.”

Second, if the box is opened, I am most definitely going to try to claw my way through the door like a goddamn Tom and Jerry cartoon. By the time I am done with it, the door will look more like Buffalo Bill’s well in Silence of the Lambs, whole nails embedded in the structure and all.

Last, I will do anything in my power not to smell a single Bugle for the rest of my life. If you locked me in a room with an opened box, I will take off my shoes and socks and breathe in the sweaty, wet odor of my foot before smelling a Bugle. If I do smell a Bugle I will vomit mercilessly and I will try to kill myself. If I am not able to kill myself, then surely I will asphyxiate on the odor of all of the stomach acid on the floor. Either way, I’m dead, I’m fucking dead. But if I do somehow escape the locked room, I will find you. And I will kill you. This is a promise.

And I am not lying when I tell you that when I was looking for photos of the box of Bugles, I wasn’t really feeling too sick. But then I came across a picture of what a box of Bugles looked like from 1990, and I was like the kid from Ransom when he heard Gary Sinise’s voice. Except I didn’t pee my pants. I dry heaved.

Funnily enough, booze has made me sicker than Bugles has ever made me in my life (on numerous occasions), yet I always go back to it. But hey, that’s the charm of alcoholism for ya.

How DOMINO’S 2 for 1 Medium Pizza Deal (limit one topping) Saved My Marriage

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My wife and I, we lead busy lives. Like most modern families, we are a two income household, so you can imagine how stressful our days can be. I am some kind of middle-management something or other and my wife, she um, well, she wears a lady-suit. Gray, usually. With small shoulder pads.

We hustle and bustle through our workday, putting out fires and stuff, so when we both get home after handling all sorts of stressful workday stuff, then deciding who is going to make what for dinner? Well, why don’t you just give us each a loaded gun? That’s how dangerous it is.

The weekday dinner is where everything that is wrong in our marriage comes to a head. The mutual stresses of both our days coalesce as we decide what to do to feed ourselves. My wife and I, we come home at the same time and the house is in a whirlwind of chaos. Both our children, 14 year old Cody and 12 year old Skylar have been running rampant throughout the house, lampshades crooked, shedding uneven light on the living room, our family portraits hanging askew on the walls. Cody goes cruising about the house on his skateboard sipping on a juice box while Skylar jumps rope around the dining room table, knocking over various knick-knacks that my wife collected during our many weekends spent thrift shopping in various cozy towns.

My wife and I, while all this is going on, we’re supposed to not only corral our children, but also supply dinner? Are you crazy? Christ, why don’t you just give us each a loaded gun??

My wife and I, while all this is going on, we just scream at each other back and forth. “Well, what about spaghetti??” one of us would shout at one end of the kitchen.

“Spaghetti?” the other would shout back. “You impotent ass! How can we be expected to make spaghetti?? Spaghetti? Where do you even start with that??”

And so on and so forth.

Usually what ends up happening is that by 7:00 we are holding each other in the middle of the kitchen just crying our eyes out. The family and I go to sleep unfed. That’s most nights.

But now, thanks to DOMINO’S 2 for 1 Medium Pizza Deal (limit one topping)…Wait, hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t reached the word count yet.

Cody was hit by a bus.

It wasn’t something that we were planning on, nor were we expecting it to be the greatest thing to ever happen to our marriage. My wife and I were doing our usual thing about dinner (I think our argument was about fish sticks, not spaghetti), and Cody did his usual thing, streaming through the kitchen on his skateboard, sipping on a juice-box. We could have told him to stop and sit down, but we didn’t.

You can’t stop Cody. He’s a free spirit and we are proud of him for that.
So a moment after Cody cruised through the kitchen we heard a loud screech of an automobile’s brakes followed by a wet smack.

Cody got creamed.

Later, in the hospital, the doctor was telling us that a coma can last anywhere from a day to several years.

We spent many nights in that hospital, waiting, hoping. My wife refused to speak with me, citing that if I had simply made dinner and not put up an argument with her, Cody would have been sitting on the dining room table eating a hastily prepared meal instead of lying like a mangled heap in a hospital bed.

I couldn’t argue with her. I’m a modern man unable to feed my family.
Until that is…

One Wednesday night, two weeks into Cody’s free-spirited coma, I arrived in the hospital room holding two medium DOMINO’S pizzas. The setting sunlight casted a beautiful orange light on the blue and red boxes of pizzas, the grease spots, like a teenager’s face, created a beautifully sexy sheen. My wife looked at me longingly as I held my bounteous feast.

“What—whatcha got there?” she asked, letting go of Cody’s limp hand and walking towards me.
“I have two medium DOMINO’S pizzas.”
“Two,” she asked me. Her voice about to raise, ready for an argument.
“I saw an advertisement on television,” I told her. “Their C.E.O., Patrick Doyle, said that it’s still tough out there financially, and that people are in need of a good deal, so he is offering a medium pizza two for one deal (limit one topping) on Wednesdays after 4:00 p.m.”
She leaned in close and whispered, “Patrick Doyle. Can you trust him?”

I whispered back in her ear, “I trust him more than I trust myself. How would you like a slice of DOMINO’S pizza?”

I barely got the second sentence out before we started kissing. Our passion was so overwhelming, we made love right there on the hospital room floor. I think I heard Skylar’s jump rope hit the floor, but I can’t be sure. Like I said, it was a transcending meal/love-making session.

We used to have a strained marriage, but now, thanks to DOMINO’S 2 for 1 medium pizza deal (limit one topping), we can now feel assured in the fact that even with our busy lives, we can still provide for our family.

Cody is still touch and go or something.

The Unappreciated, Aspiring Author Files an Auto Insurance Claim

Describe the time of day and weather at the time of the accident:

The afternoon sunlight burst through my windshield with a Machiavellian magnificence, creating streaks of golden radiance that danced through my careening automobile.

Were you wearing a seatbelt at the time of the accident:

I remember tugging at the seatbelt with great fervor, convincing myself that it was strangling me in an attempt to keep me safe, when actually, ‘twas I endangering the sanctity of the seatbelt with my thoughtless behavior.

In your own words, describe the cause of the accident:

Samantha said I loved the bottle; a bit too much at times. Often, when I would come home late and stinking drunk, she claimed I loved the bottle more than I loved her. Perhaps she was right. But a man in my line of work needs all of the numbing agents he can get his hands on. I remember saying to her one time, “Sam. Babe. Why you going all extreme on me? If you’ve seen some of the things I’ve seen, Toots, well, let me tell ya, you’d think twice about giving me a load of shit.” Ah, Samantha, has it been that long since we last talked? Since we last touched?

Did you sustain any injuries because of the accident:

I remember looking at my shaking hands holding loosely onto the steering wheel. I focused on them as best I could and saw long, deep wrinkles, each one representing a trial or adverse scene in my life, each one more painful than the last. How many of these tests in life have I passed? More importantly, how many have I failed? The air bag had failed to deploy, causing a deep bruise on my forehead. It would heal in time. My pride, however, would not. Hell, I could have used another scar. Just tack on another failure. Oh, Samantha, where are you, babe?

If possible, name the other people involved in the accident:

Samantha and I used to picnic off of highway 341, taking the Gladstone exit and barreling up the hill on Brookview Road. From a distance, we would see our secluded spot; a grand oak tree that stood in front of the entrance to a grove. As a child, my friends and I would venture out there on our Schwinn’s and play Kick the Can until either dusk or when we fell over each other from youthful giddiness and innocence. Samantha and I carved our initials into that same tree years later, where the indentation of my ’93 Saturn’s fender now lays.

Comments welcome! Please leave this form in the break room or make copies and pass them out at random coffee houses or any place where you may find publishers. Thanks!

Insurance Agent’s assessment/comments (office use only):

Claim denied.

Alright, Which One of You Assholes Stole My Jock Jams Volume II CD?

jock jam photo

Ok. Ha ha. Very funny, guys. Very funny. I suppose it is kind of humorous, I guess. Yes, right now I am without my Jock Jams volume II CD. Hardy har har. I see you stifling your laughter, Charles. Did you take it? Huh? Was it you? I’ll bet it was. Charles, you always pull shit like this. Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it? Huh? Which one of you assholes was it?
It couldn’t have simply been misplaced. I refuse to accept that notion, Randy. Come on, guys. It’s not that hard of a CD to miss. It’s got bedazzled jewels on the casing, some glitter, and oh yeah, it’s the greatest cd of all time!

This is volume II, assholes. Volume II of the Jock Jams canon was by far the strongest. The first volume was just a feeler; a reconnaissance mission of what we jocks jam to. After accumulating feedback and knowing our likes and dislikes, ESPN went back to the drawing board and formed the perfect album. By Volume III the fame went to their head and there was no going back. And what about Volume IV, you ask? Please.

You’re jealous that I have it and you don’t. That’s the only reason I can fathom. We were all having a nice time tonight, weren’t we? We got out the Turning Leaf white wine, having a lovely dinner, catching up with friends, their wives and children…but the dinner party really got started when I snuck that CD into the stereo. What were we listening to before that? Dan Fogelberg? More like Dan FAG-elberg! Haha! Am I right? C’mon, Tommy. Up high.

I saw the looks on your faces when you heard the voices of Sports Center announcers Dan Patrick and Chris “The Swami” Berman welcome us “To the Big Show” on track number one. You all had this look on your faces that was like, “Damn! Why didn’t I think to bring my CDs to the party?” Maybe you will next time we get together. Maybe. If you’re smart. But we all brought a little something to the dinner party, didn’t we? Kyle, you and your wife brought that Mediterranean dish with the noodles and shit. Steve, you brought that new version of Trivial Pursuit for us to play after dessert. Lola, you made that lovely table centerpiece that held the salt and pepper. And as for me, well, I brought the fuckin’ intensity!

You do know that this CD is part of my daily routine, right? I listen to it in the car on my way to gym. I put it in my disc-man while I am at the gym, and I turn it way the fuck up when I am in the tanning bed and just totally jock-jam out. Where else can you find an album that contains both Coolio and The Village People? I ask you this even though I know there is only one answer. If you think it is funny to take that kind of joy from me, then fine. Go right ahead. I can lead an empty life. No problem. Some friends you are.



I cannot believe I am this close to completely losing my shit because of some dumbass fuck game of hide and seek! I am fucking pissed!! Give it back! Right fucking now! I swear to fucking Christ I will castrate your fucking asses if I don’t get that CD back! I will single-handedly rip your dicks off and shove them down each other’s throats, and I will make you say that you love it!!

ROOOOOOOOOAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!

You know what?! Don’t give it back! Because if you give it back to me right now, I will turn that shit up to 11 and it will be the anthem to your own sick destruction!! Fuck this! And fuck all of you!!

Hi. I Live Out by the Airport

 

Why, hello there. I couldn’t help but notice your fine selection of goods in your grocery basket. I see a lot of Healthy Choice products as well as a copious amount of sugar-free munchies. What is that? Snackwells? I didn’t know they were still around. Crazy!

Watching your weight, are ya? Heavens, I don’t know why! You’re quite striking, if I may say so. If you were to take a gander at my hand-held basket here you would see the exact opposite. Nothing but Steak-Umms and Manwiches in here. I’ll let you in on a little secret: (whispers) I haven’t had a carrot medallion or a leaf of lettuce since the Reagan Administration. What can I say, I guess I just crave canned flesh.

I don’t think we have met, no. I’m sure you would remember. Manwich diet, army fatigue pants, penny loafer shoes, Hawaiian shirt. You see, this isn’t my usual Shop-Rite. I live, uh….further out. Out by the airport, to be exact.

I didn’t want to come out and give you that personal information so early in our encounter. I wanted to develop a good rapport with you first, because when I tell women that I live out by the airport, they get this look on their face—like what you’re doing right now! It’s like an apprehensive sneer. A fear-sneer.

Your fear-sneer looks quite becoming on you. Of course, if I were wearing it, I’d be cu…no, wait. Nevermind.

I don’t know what the stigma is behind the people who live out by the airport. Are we presumed to be insane because of the constant noise pollution of jet engines soaring over our heads and shaking our flimsy habitats like dead leaves on a tree? Or is it because if I were to commit a heinous crime I could easily board a plane to a neutral country before they found your body? Well, there’s no reason to be so concerned with that; I am a very trustworthy guy. In fact, if you come on over, I can make you a Manwich or two as well as show you my wingless butterfly collection. And as a show of trust, I will leave my door wide open, giving you every opportunity to escape.

Oh, jeez. Did I really just say that? Escape? My, what a poor choice of words! Flee. I meant flee.

Hey, you want to hear some airport puns? No, just hold on. It won’t take long. I have places to be as well, but I’m making an effort here. It’s hard to meet women at the airport, ya know. They can be so flighty sometimes. Nyuk nyuk!

So listen…what are your plans for tonight? I was going to pick at some scabs, but I could easily resche…

Hey, don’t get snooty with me, Ms. High and Mighty with your Snackwells! A simple ‘no’ would have been fine, you didn’t have to hurt my feelings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta jet.



Still nothing, eh? OK. Bye.

Ask Me About My Grandcats!

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See that sticker on the bumper of my car? It says, “Ask me about my grandcats!” I applied it to my car with sincerity. Go ahead: Ask me about my grandcats!
Notice how the sticker is an actual sticker and not some fly-by-night magnet that can be applied and taken off on any philosophical whim. No, my sticker is permanent. Ask me about the cats!

I’m sure at first glance you might have presumed that my bumper sticker was a typo, but it’s not. The silhouettes of the numerous cats next to the wording disprove your “misspelling” theory. No, this bumper sticker is the real deal.

If you’re reading this sticker, then you must be behind me, stuck in traffic, trying to pass the time, I suppose. But there are no other stickers to read on the back of my 1986 Chevy Windsor. Why not get out of the car, give a rap on the driver’s side window and heed the words of the sticker? Come on over. I won’t bite!

Here’s a little secret of the cat-trade: it is not too difficult to become a grandparent of cats. They actually reproduce quite rapidly. Why, you could go through three generations of catdom in five years’ time if you don’t mind a little incestuous magic with your cat family. I got the sticker when I first became a cat grandparent over 12 years ago. At this point, to be honest, my sticker should say, “Ask me about my great-great-great-great-great-great-great Grandcats,” but I don’t think my bumper is wide enough to hold such a sustained message! Nyuk Nyuk!

And these aren’t just cats, mind you. They’re grand-cats, and I mean that in every sense of the word. Would you like to hear the reasoning? All you have to do is ask! All somebody has to do is ask!

My latest generation of cats seems to have been born without much motor skills. They tend to limp while they walk in concentric circles, but that only adds to their adorability and cutesy-wutesy ways! Also, their eyes are colorless.

Are you intrigued? Would you like to hear more? Come on over! Before the light turns green! You shan’t regret it! Ask me about the grandcats!

Pullin’ the Pud: That Chick From the Progressive Insurance Commercials, Flo

flo

It’s difficult to go an entire day without coming across a Progressive Insurance advertisement and subsequently, their spokesperson: a chipper young lass by the name of Flo. Television spots, full page magazine ads, website banners, radio…she’s everywhere! And, as a male, I am biologically obligated to mentally have sex with her. How would it go? What would it be like?
Flo is a pretty bland girl. She has no distinctly feminine body structure since she dresses all in white with a smock and she is so damn happy and upbeat, you’d figure the sex would be really encouraging. Even if you prematurely ejaculated she’d probably give you a reassuring pat on the back. But a pre-jac will be most unlikely considering her pansexual features. In fact, all we know about Flo is that she loves the company she works for and everything else would come a distant second in her life. The question must be asked, “How does one get into those starchy white pants of hers? How could I turn her on in my own imagination?”

So, I am in my corner office behind my grand oak desk, sitting in my buttoned leather chair. The office is fully furnished in fine mahogany, stained dark and it smells of old money. On the desk stands a name placard. It reads: Michael Jenkins, President & CEO, Progressive Insurance. I suddenly realize that anyone who is anyone probably already knows that and doesn’t need a name card to identify myself if they are called into my office. I quickly throw the nameplate in the trash. The fireplace has a gentle flame going, but it is raising its intensity, like my lust: smoldering, ready to hiss and pop.

I press the intercom button and tell my receptionist, Janet, to let Flo into my office. (Janet is a wonderful receptionist, but a pretty weak lay, if I’m going to be honest with you.) Flo flows into my office, eyes wide with excitement. She is all smiles as per usual. I tell her to close the door and have a seat. I commend her on her diligence to bring my company up out of the cellar. She accepts the compliments with such modesty, claiming that she just loves saving people money on their insurance. She’s so coy. She’s so…Flo.

To demonstrate her passion on saving people money, she pulls out her price-zapping gun and shoots down any imaginary hidden fees and last minute taxes that the other companies are known for. She starts zapping near my collection of hand-made Pez dispensers and as she works her way over to my 1st edition Vonnegut novels, I put my hands up defensively. “Whoa, Flo! Whoa! Take ‘er easy. Nice shootin,’ but you needn’t that pistol in here.” I motion her to give me the price gun, and when she does hand it over, she also leaves herself open and vulnerable to my seductive ways.

I move out of my chair gracefully and tell her of some exciting new pricing bundles and insurance plans I would like her to represent. Her smile rolls over wide, her hands fisted and shaking with eagerness. Eagerness to sell.

Eagerness to please.

I place myself on the corner of my desk with my left leg dangling in front of Flo, letting her be aware that it is within touching distance.

I mention price bundles, deductibles, auto, home, life, renter’s…her eyes loom large and her mouth salivates like a Pavlovian Dog. I tug at my pant leg and she mimics the action and reaches out to rub my leg. It’s not me, it’s the insurance that’s doing this to her. And for some reason, I am quite ok with that.

The only challenge I can bring myself is to keep the conversation alive and electric. I am going to need to bring my full arsenal of insurance jargon to put this thing to the next level. She soon succumbs to my verbal swooning of interest rates and premium pricing plans and she takes the bait. The bait that is my penis.

As I clear off my desk with one fell swoop of my arm, I have to think about more insurance stuff to whisper into Flo’s ear. It’s going to be a monumental task to be sure: First, to talk insurance for the duration of the sexual encounter and secondly, sustaining an erection while talking about said insurance. I do know what I am going to save for the climax though. I am going to shout, “Full Medical! Full Medical!” Something like that.

Anyway, we proceed to have the most boring, palest sex imaginable, like indulging in a meal of white rice and skim milk.