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Addicted to Love

-Celebrities cheating on their wives is nothing new but I love the excuse de jour which is "help me, I'm a sex addict!". That just cracks me up. They say it like there's a guy out there who isn't a sex addict. If a hot girl walks into a crowded room with a little side boob showing I can guarantee that every guy in the room will notice within 5 seconds. If there's a nipple slip you're likely to hear at least one guy lose it and just say it out loud. "Nipple!" For men it's like spotting a shooting star or a firefly. It's a rarity we just have to point out.

Tiger Woods, Jesse James and now David Boranz or Bornaz or whatever his name is, you know, the guy from Bones and Buffy. They've all been caught and they're all crying sex addiction. The beauty of this defense is that the more women you have sex with, the better it works! Two of these guys actually cheated with the same woman. I'm pretty sure that's like heroine addicts sharing needles.

Extramarital sex with one women is just an affair, but once you're up to 3 or 4 or in Tiger's case 3 or 4 hundred then your eligible for SAD (Sex Addiction Defense). You claim that instead of thinking about sex every 7 seconds like most men, you think about it every 3 seconds and that should qualify you as an addict. "You can't be mad at me honey. It's a disease!" These days everything bad you do to excess is a disease. I keep telling the wife that I want to put the toilet seat down but I can't because I have a disease. So far she's not buyin' it.

What about poor Tiger, eh? Imagine what he must be thinking as he looks out over the first tee and sees the flag stuck in the hole. How can the poor man concentrate on pulling out his driving wood and blasting away?

And David Bornass works on a TV show that has every cast member except him sleeping with someone on a regular basis. Do you know how sexually frustrating that must be? How is he supposed concentrate on using his cunning lingual skills to deliver a fluid performance? Poor guy.

Jesse James on the other hand is just stupid I'm afraid. I understand the first day Sandra Bullock brought the little black baby home Jesse asked if the baby was his. He was relieved to find the baby was adopted. Otherwise it would be quite awkward when the day came to hand down all of his treasured Nazi memorabilia.

Most people think these guys go into therapy to try and save their marriage, which is of course ridiculous. If they gave a crap about their wives or their marriages they wouldn't be out shtooping every other girl that smiles at them. They do it to try and salvage endorsements worth millions of dollars. Hot chicks are a dime a dozen. Nike endorsements? Not so much. I think there should be a test. If a guy claims he's a sex addict then lock him in a room with Amy Winehouse or Courtney Love and see if he's suddenly cured.

I don't think these guys should be chastised as much as the rest of us should be congratulated for staying faithful. It's easier for women because they don't have to deal with the same bio-mechanics. It's a known fact that when a man sees a hot girl blood immediately rushes downstairs from his brain. The amount of blood transferred is directly proportional to amount of clothes the girl is wearing at the time. This makes it very difficult to think, let alone make any kind of decision. Other symptoms include glassy eyes, stuttering and in severe cases drooling can occur. If it wasn't for the heart and lungs running on auto-pilot guys would be dropping dead left and right.

Late breaking news: I just read that some of Tiger's mistresses are going on tour! No kidding. I can see the pitch line now: You've always wanted to play a round with Tiger. Now you can do the next best thing and play around with his mistress!


Post Op

The wife (Diane) is recovering from feet surgery (she had work done on both) and is off the crutches but still on the meds. She still has to wear a plastic boot on one foot for protection which makes for some good times.

As we were coming out of a restaurant one night I opened the car door for her. She leaned back a bit and started falling and stutter stepping backwards to try and catch her balance. She must have taken a good 5 or 6 steps back before I caught her. The whole time she was yelling "Whoa, catch me! Whoa, whoa, catch me!" Hilarity ensued and we've since nicknamed her "DWHOA".

Thinking the end of the crutch use was the end of comical restaurant mishaps proved to be a mistake. As we headed into Denny's I was thinking for the first time in a while that we would be able to sit in the booth without a crutch flailing through the air sending the waiter and nearby patrons bobbing and weaving in an effort to get through the evening unscathed. Nor would a crutch fall from any of the precarious perches she liked to place them on and fall into someone's soup bowl showering the unsuspecting restaurateur with a lovely chicken broth.

We slid into the booth without incident. Just as the waiter approached, the wife moved her foot and the hard plastic boot got jammed between the table support leg and the bottom of the bench seat. She squirmed and wriggled but couldn't break loose. She continued to twist and turn and move every part of her body in different directions with her anger growing exponentially. Her face turned bright red as she cursed at the table as though it had lured her in and then sprung a trap. It was somewhat reminiscent of a scene in The Exorcist. The waiter looked at me with fear in his eyes but I just raised my eyebrows and shrugged. She finally broke free and we all breathed a huge sigh of relief. The waiter asked what we would like to drink but before we could answer (and I'm not kidding about this) she moved her leg and jammed her boot right back in the same place!!!

Then there's the latest trip to our local Mexican restaurant, Casa Franco. Things went well until the end of the meal. For some unknown reason, the wife decided to help the waiter with the plates and nearly made him drop everything on the floor. He regained control of the plates and silverware as well as his composure and looked at the wife with his head cocked like a curious dog. She began to mutter something completely unintelligible, stuttering along the way. He looked at me and I said "At least you don't have to live with her." He then looked back at her and said "Maybe ju take too much medicine. Sometimes I take too much medicine and I can't talk just like ju." It's always nice being out somewhere looking like we need medical advice from a food server.

While completely unrelated to the surgery, another restaurant story comes to mind that must be told. A while back we went to an Italian restaurant with some friends. I ordered the spaghetti and meatballs and as the food was served the waiter dumped the entire bowl of spaghetti in my lap. Everyone at the table gasped and said "OH!" which drew the attention of every patron in the restaurant. At the same exact moment my wife, with a deadly serious look on her face, grabbed a full glass of ice water and threw it in my lap. Now instead of having the spaghetti sauce confined to my lap it's seeping through my pants and running down my leg. I have to say this is one of the few times in my life that I've been completely dumbfounded. I just sat there staring at her with my mouth open not knowing what to say or do.

It turns out she thought the sauce was scalding hot for some reason and reacted like one of those heroes you read about that grab a fire extinguisher and put out a fire before anyone else realizes that anything is burning. When I told her they don't heat the sauce to molten lava-like temperatures she said....... "oh."

Big T


Doctor, Doctor

I've had my share of medical exams. Here are a few I find memorable:

So I go in to have an MRI exam done and the technician calls me in from the waiting room. He says to take any metal items like coins, cell phone, watch, jewelery, etc
Modern high field clinical MRI scanner. (3T Ac...
and put them in a small locker before we go into the examination room. I ask if I should take off my belt since I've done this before and was asked to take it off the last time. He tells me no, that's not necessary.

We go into the room with the MRI machine and I lie down on the table. He pushes a button to slide the table in and turns on the machine and now my belt buckle is up near my throat. I'm trying to push it back down with my hands because the seam of my pants is crushing my testicles but I hear a voice and it's coming through the machine so it sounds like God is talking to you. The low, stern voice said "Please don't move while the exam is in progress." So I wait it out.

After a few minutes the table starts to slide out of the machine and the pressure on my groin starts to subside. The test isn't over, the technician is just pulling me out to inject dye for the next part of the test. I turn my head to him with a 'what the hell' look on my face and he says "Oh, I guess your belt buckle isn't made of aluminum!" So I said "Did you think I made it out of a beer can or something?" With that, he pushes a button and sends me back in! Buckle back in my throat and pants seam crushing the twins again. Lesson learned: sarcastic remarks should be made only after the test has concluded.

I woke up one day to find one of my testicles had ballooned to about 3 times it's normal size, making it quite painful to even walk. I headed down to Urgent Care and the doctor explained that it could be either an infection or a strain from lifting something. He said there was really no need to find out which it was because he could easily treat me for both by prescribing an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory.

Eager to avoid a re-occurrence, I asked what could cause such an infection. He said "There are a number of ways to contract the infection," and then added "but the best way to prevent it is frequent ejaculation". My immediate response was "Will you put that in writing so I can show my wife?" He then said in all seriousness "I can do better than that. Tell your wife we have a nurse here at Urgent Care that performs that service." With a mixture of curiosity and disbelief I said "Really?" Without skipping a beat he replied "Yes, but he's only here on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

After I turned 40, my doctor went on a crusade to get me to get my prostate checked. I refused time after time but eventually gave up during one particular visit and figured what the heck, I might as well get it over with. It would just take a few seconds and he would stop his incessant whining. BIG mistake!

He checks and says it feels a little harder than it should and that he was going to refer me to a specialist. Great. I make an appointment and head on in to get a "professional" examination. First the doctor's assistant comes into the room and asks me to drop my pants and underwear. He then begins to squeeze my testicles like he's checking grapefruits! He looks up at me and says "One is a little bit bigger than the other one. Has it always been this way?" I said "I don't know. I don't play with them as much as you do."

Next, in comes the proctologist who refers to himself as a colorectal surgeon. He looks like a character from a Tim Burton movie. He's tall, white and thin with black circles under his eyes and a big black afro. I haven't seen a white guy with an afro like this in 20 years! You can tell by the evil grin on his face as he says "Let's get started," that this is a man who really enjoys his work. The kind of guy who shouted "Proctologist!" when his 7th grade teacher asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up.

He then proceeded to stick his arm up my rear end up to his elbow, or at least that's what it felt like. He moved his hand around so as to cause as much pain and discomfort as possible and then said that everything was fine. No problem. He told me I should come back for an annual check-up. Riiiiight. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Child Proofing, 60's Style

Kids these days are unbelievably over protected. I lived through this with my kids because my wife is a safety psycho. How did this all start? Either a group of like minded safety psychos got together and started spreading the word or a guy who's very rich now saw the potential in scaring mothers into believing their kids were in mortal danger and it was their fault.

Let's take a look at bef0re and after child proofing became a fad:

Present-Electrical outlets are covered by a stupid plastic insert (that I can't believe I didn't think of) that keeps the baby from sticking a coin in the socket.
60's - Give the baby a penny. He'll do it once, but never again. I know this from personal experience. I also touched a cast iron radiator.............once.

Swallowing Coins and marbles
60's - Don't worry about it, they come out the other end. My mom had to check a lot of my poop in the early years.

Learn how to ride a bike
Present- Before attempting to sit on the bike, make sure your helmet strap is fastened, your elbow and knee pads are on and your body armor is snug. Ride, fall, ride, fall, ride, fall.
60's - Put the kid on the bike. Push it to get it going, then let it go downhill so the kid doesn't have to pedal so much. After the first fall, balance increases dramatically. (My daughter will attest to this).

Head Protection
Present - Helmet. Fall off the bike and no bumps or scrapes. Your head just bounces a couple of times and then you get back on the bike and fall off again because you know you're not going to get hurt.
60's - Hair. The thicker your hair, the less likely you are to lacerate your head upon impact. You do end up with a couple of large lumps called "goose eggs" on your head but you consider yourself lucky you didn't get a concussion this time. Instead of getting back on the bike, you walk it home because you can't see straight. The next time you get on the bike, you don't fall off.

Fight after school - you come home with a fat lip and a black eye.
Present - Your mom calls the police, the paramedics, the child psychologist and her lawyer.
60's - Your dad asks you who won and then says "Put some ice on it, you'll be fine." My dad said that no matter what was wrong with me. Bruise, sprain, cut, fever, it didn't matter. We didn't have health insurance back then so we didn't go to the doctor much. Whenever I'd see a doctor with his doctor's bag, I always thought it was full of ice.

Present - All plastic slides, seat belted swings firmly anchored in the ground and plastic monkey bars all on a rubber base.
60's - Slides have wooden steps and a metal slide. Splinters on the way up and a nice friction burn on the way down. That's on top of the 3rd degree burn you got from the metal sitting in the hot sun all day. Swings, monkey bars and everything else were all on a good solid cement base.

Riding in the back seat of a car
Present - Seat belt fastened, child proof door lock on, child proof window rolled up.
60's - Those big cars had plenty of room to stand up in the back and hold on to the door handle to keep your balance. No, I'm not kidding.

In the end it really doesn't matter. I survived, albeit with a few scars. And even though my wife psycho-child-proofed the entire house, (including that stupid thing, that I can't believe I didn't think of, that locks down the toilet seat lid so well that I couldn't get it opened myself a couple of times and had to go in the yard) my son slipped on the driveway and punctured his forehead, he fell out of the tree in the back yard and broke both his arms, broke his wrist skateboarding and dropped a tree trunk on his toe, splitting the big toe bone lengthwise. And that's just what comes to mind at the moment. No matter what you do, kids will always find a way to do dangerous stuff.

Auto: Part One

It was a dark and stormy night. It was just a little past 10pm and I was looking forward to curling up to a long winter's night sleep. As it turns out, there would be no sleep for me that night, a night that would completely change the world as I knew it.

The events of that evening started with a small headache that grew worse and worse. The pain grew in intensity until it felt like a vise was crushing my skull, pushing in on the sides of my face. The top of my head felt cold, colder than anything I had ever felt before. Then, in an instant, the pain stopped and a blinding white light... well...blinded me, momentarily. My entire body went cold from head to toe. I tried to scream but I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt something clamp down around my ankles and then WHACK, a sudden and sharp pain in my buttocks made me gasp for air and let out a scream. At least that’s the way I imagine it felt.

The day was Saturday, January 23rd, 1954. The place was Faulkner Hospital, Boston, Massachusetts. While my Mom was pushing me out, my Dad was in the waiting room having a smoke. A smoke you say? ? Yes, that’s right and no, everyone in the hospital that day didn’t die from second hand smoke inhalation. Apparently, the human lung was a lot tougher back in the day. The waiting room you say? ? That’s right too. In the 50’s men were not required or guilted into sitting in the labor room “coaching” their wives in ridiculous breathing exercises that did nothing to help the pain. Lamaze my azz. After three breaths, any woman with half a brain will be screaming for a spinal block. And to those who wish to brave the excruciating pain for hours on end so that they can say they had a “natural” child birth, I say you’re a moron and shouldn’t be allowed to have children. But I digress.

I had just left the warm, secure confines of the womb and been thrust into the real world. Going from having my food conveniently placed in my belly to having to work for my meals. All the crying and sucking made my cheeks sore. At first I thought I was doing something wrong because after every meal my mother would hit me on the back over and over and over again. She would continue hitting me until she knocked the wind out of me each time.

It was a strange new world and was going to take some getting used to the peculiarities. I was used to hearing muffled but intelligent conversation and classic stories by famed authors as my mother read to me in the womb. Now I could hear quite clearly, but no one would say anything that made any sense. Just things like “goo goo, ga ga” and “cootchi cootchi cootchi”. Although, the change in conversation wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the change in music. For nine months I had listened to classical music and some lively swing tunes sung by angelic voices. Now each night just before falling asleep I would hear a single haunting voice singing a sick song about putting me in a tree and waiting for the wind to blow me out so I would fall unmercifully to the ground in my cradle. Holy Smoke I’ve been afraid of heights my entire life and could never figure out why. It just hit me as I wrote that last sentence!

I wasn't like most other babies. Take the crib for instance. In yesteryear the crib was designed so that the bars were far enough apart that you could push your head through them but couldn't pull it back without ripping your ears off. They only cared that your shoulders and hips couldn't fit through, thus preventing escape.

Most kids learned after the first or second time. Not me, I was ..................... um ................persistent! Some would say it was because I was a dumb ass, but I hate labels, don't you?

And let's talk about the mobile hanging over the crib. Most babies (who are dumb asses) are perfectly content looking up, mesmerized at the site of the moving objects. Me? I wanted to reach for the stars so to speak. The problem was that while I could use the bars on the side of the crib to help me stand and keep my balance, the mobile was strategically placed so that as I stretched out to grab the stars, my other hand would slip off the side bar and I would fall flat on my face. That caused me to see more stars because the crib pads back then were only about one eighth of an inch thick. The fall onto the thin pad covering the thick wood would have driven my nose into my skull if my nose cartilage hadn't still been in a softened state. I did this so often, many people started to think I was of Chinese descent.

To be continued...............................