The women in my family are at best neurotic. In fact, the entire existence of this web site is a direct product of the incomprehensible amounts of stress and damage afflicted on to me by my mother, sister and indirectly, the other women in my family, as a child. The cuts so deep that in deciding to pair up with my wife, I unknowingly sought out the antithesis of every female in my family.

Recently my sixty something year old grandmother came down for a visit. I decided to be the decent grandson and went to the airport to pick her up. Before even agreeing to the deed I warned my wife that it would be a disaster.

“Why is it going to be a disaster? All you have to do is go pick up your grandmother from the airport.” My wife asked, smirking and amused by my typical exaggerated emotional outpouring. I reassured her, pacing around the living room, arms waving up and down, my tone heightened and excited “Nothing is easy with these people, something will go wrong, someone will freak out about it and I’m going to get pissed. You don’t want to go with me. Just let me do this alone.” At the time she laughed at my sincerity, assuming I was making something out of nothing and insisted she ride along.

Shortly after the conversation outlining how this entire ordeal would turn into a disaster I called my mom to tell her I’d go pick up the old lady for her. Immediately the barrage started. “Now Peavey, you know she can’t walk well and you’re going to have to carry her bags for her,” also adding, “and Peavey, please don’t say anything stupid to her, you know she believes everything you say about anything.”

Immediately the sarcastic eye rolls began. A mere minute later my aunt called, word travels fast in our family. “Peavey, listen to me. I need a huge favor from you. Can you do me a favor?” “Yeah, sure.” I replied flatly. “Now listen Peavey, this is serious. You’re grandmother is in very bad condition. She can’t walk. I need a favor from you; can you do me a favor?”

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Every little girl dreams of working at The Varsity!

Today is Halloween. Kids are dressed up everywhere, a feeling of mischievousness is in the air and candy is abundant. My little cousins, nieces and nephews are dressed up like princesses and ghouls, and a few are even Varsity workers! Others have their faces painted or are wearing funny wigs and masks, and at this moment in life everything seems great… except for one thing.

I look down into one of my little cousin’s Trick-or-treat bag and find nothing but cheap-o Dollar Tree candy hell. I see an assortment of hard candy, pixie sticks, sweet tarts and crummy sub-fun sized candy bars. Masses of assorted candies bought for 99 cent a bag at the local dollar store. Having not gone Trick-or-treating for over a decade now, I had forgotten how bad the innocent Trick-or-treater can really get burned on Halloween. In working for a better tomorrow for the children, I propose we reform the Halloween season.

To begin with, I declare that there should be a new unspoken rule for all those deciding to hand out candy in observance of this grand tradition. If you can get a certain type of candy free somewhere else on any of the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year, don’t hand it out on Halloween. Every time a child visits the bank, they’re given Dum-Dums. Every time the kids visit their old great uncle, aunt or grand parent at the nursery home, they’re given crusty, decade old, hard candy. Go to a receptionist’s desk, there will be assorted mints or life savers available. Therefore, all these types of candy are off limits Halloween night.

Secondly, don’t be one of those people who give out tooth brushes, floss or fruit as treats. If you do so, you wholly deserve a trick in return! What kind of a monster promotes healthy dental hygiene and eating habits on Halloween? The fight against tooth decay and childhood obesity can wait for Easter. But for God’s sake, today is holy. Today is a day of gluttony, mischief, tomfoolery and naughtiness.

I also beg of all you cheap asses to stop handing out the Pixie Stix. Let’s agree to retire this horrible treat, if you can even call it a treat. Does Pixie Stix even qualify as candy? It is sugar packaged up in a paper tube. It’s like a redneck junkie’s equivalent of methamphetamine. You don’t even have to buy Pixie Stix; you could grab a bag of sugar out of the pantry, mix it with Kool-aid and start bagging up your own little hits of the sweet stuff. Last Halloween I saw some diabetic kid trying to free base a Pixie Stick out of a Pez Dispenser. Holy Shit kid, get a hold of yourself! He had already busted up and snorted all his Pez, and for some odd reason opted to try and smoke the Pixie Stix. See, that’s what this poison does to our youth. They don’t even know how to property ingest their drug… err, I mean candy. RETIRE THE PIXIE STIX!

Next, we have to ban overly sticky, infinitely chewy candy. This mainly refers to all the off branded, unfamiliar caramel type candies that generally only show up around Halloween, but could also include Milk Duds and Laffy Taffy. Personally, I enjoy eating these types of candy, but they are too much trouble. Normally I’d be all for something that glues a kids mouth shut, but at the same time these candies are so sticky they’re ripping out fillings or even teeth, and there is always that fat kid who stuffs five too many pieces in his mouth then grows tired of chewing and tries to swallow the entire softball sized wad of goo. Last year we had a little chunker pull a stunt like that and I decided to let him choke to death. Just kidding, I Heimlicked that little gordito so hard his genitals receded up into his body. He now has a vagina and we changed his name from Michael to Michelle.

Lastly, lay off the ultra fun sized candy bars. The cheap-o people out there love these things. It’s a nice cop-out used to appear to be giving away the good candy when really, you are giving so little of it away at once that a single bag stretches across a hundred little costumed bastards. These minis are generally the delicious, chocolate candy we all know, love and crave so much on this wonderful night, only they’re extra fun sized (a euphemism for extra tiny)! I think they are best described as a fun sized candy bar sliced into quarters.

If you decide to give out candy, do it the right way. Either go for gold, handing out full sized candy bars (and ensuring your house not only avoids being rolled and egged, but also protected) or give out two or three of the fun sized chocolate bars. Other wise, turn off your porch light and do not bother insulting us with your sub par, Dollar Tree selection of goodies.

Thank you and I hope you all will assist me in making Halloween great for many more generations to come.

My Artistic Rendition of the Bubble Girl

I love to hate people who think they are allergic to everything. These sad little peons fear all types of microorganisms. They use their hypochondria to attain special treatment and sympathy and more times than not, we all suck it up like a thirsty dog lapping up antifreeze on a hot summer day.

These people refuse to use public restrooms or touch stair case railings. Some of the more extreme wear face masks while out doors. Others install special lenses in their glasses to protect their fragile pupils from the sun and constantly apply lotions with sunscreen mixed in to prevent melanoma. These pansies are never comfortable, something always ails them and they are always sure to announce their discomfort to the entire room. I refer specifically to the woman at the office who is always cold in the summer and hot in the winter, the old man who constantly complains of aches, or the over cautious parents who disinfect every aspect of their children’s lives.

I feel ill myself over the over reactions and restrictions these people place on themselves. The only cure to my ailment is to go behind them and do everything they see as hazardous to their fragile health. I take big dumps in nasty gas stations, eat food off the floor and the only time I use disinfectants is when cleaning up fecal matter.

I frequently eat seven day old food long forgotten in the fridge, and consume eggs and milk that are long out of date, I dine regularly at the local Mexican joint nicknamed la coucaracha and I have used the same coffee mug for the past year without washing it once! I don’t wash my hands after taking pisses unless I splash some on me and if my chicken is a little raw in the middle, I keep on chomping.

Despite all this, the only time I use sick leave at work is to take in ball games with my buddies or to do something else kick ass.

I write about this in response to a news story I just read about a woman from Pennsylvania who actually lives in a chemical free bubble most of her day. The poor thing claims the outside world just makes her sick. Oh bubble girl, you poor, poor victim.

But please, do not worry about bubble girl; she is cared for by a highly trained doctor. The news story goes on to report that her local physician is an expert in the highly specialized field of pseudoscience. After all, every hypochondriac needs a good pseudo scientist to endorse their misconceptions and feed their fears!

Turns out, we have a bubble girl here at work! I have worked with her for two and a half years yet I could not tell you her name. We simply call her Bubble Girl. Bubble Girl enjoys sitting at a desk in the common area/hall way between all our offices. She used to have an office of her own, but some kind of strange odor or smell in the air activated violent allergies making it impossible for her to work. Despite the fact that she worked in this office for nearly a year before and the entire building was cleansed using a series of super, giant HEPA-filter equipped air purifiers that resembled Transformers; the air in that office still makes her ill.

At Bubble Girl’s desk is a personal fan, an air purified, a space heater and even a special foot rest that allows her to keep her feet propped up at all times. She has a special ergonomic keyboard and mouse and extra thick, padded wrist pads too. Despite having two, $10,000, high powered laser printers less than 25 feet away from her, she has her own personal, less efficient inkjet printer on her desktop. Despite having a community coffee pot (which she also sits only a few feet from), she has her own mini coffee pot.

In front of Bubble Girl, in the pathway of us office dwellers, is her own personal file cabinet covered in pictures of her children, and conveniently, four days a month is Bring Your Kids to Work Day (but only for Bubble Girl) because at least one day a week she brings her son to work with her! And all of this takes place in our office hall way.

Thanks to Bubble Girl we enjoy hot days in the summer and cool days in the winter. Bubble Girl is always uncomfortable and always sickly and the thermostat in the office is always set to a temperature suitable to meet her needs! When it gets too warm in the office during the summer, Bubble Girl turns on her personal fan. When it gets too cool in the winter, Bubble Girl turns on her space heater. Meanwhile, I’m either applying extra deodorant and wiping the sweat from my brow or wearing gloves with the fingertips cut off so I can keeps my hands warm and still type.

I love you so much Bubble Girl, you are the best!

But seriously, what’s the deal with the unfairness in all this. It’s simply a cultural injustice. We love to accommodate these candy asses. An even more important question, what is the deal with all these pussies. Are you all not ashamed to be pussies? Quit being pussies.

Say it with me everyone:

“QUIT BEING PUSSIES”

I wish I could kick Bubble Girl in the ovaries. A sharp shot to the baby maker; that would fix her. And God help me if I were to ever meet a Bubble Boy. I would be a little less inclined to keep my thoughts restricted to a blog no one reads if that were the case.

Please, say it with me again:

“QUIT BEING PUSSIES”

Thank You.
Read more about the real life bubble girl.

Only Jackasses Work At Wal-Mart

My very pregnant wife called me a moment ago to tell me about yet another abysmal Wal-Mart experience. Some might wonder why we would ever go back to Wal-Mart after so many bad experiences. Well, more times than not that’s all there is within close range. This was one of those times.

Today my tubby, expecting better half made her way over to Wal-Mart on her lunch break to buy a maternity shirt. She wore a blouse to work that seemingly became too small for her over night and her big belly kept poking out from under it! So she made her way back to the women’s clothing and started rummaging around.

After a few moments of unsuccessful browsing she went to the fitting room where two female employees lounged. My wife said she stood before them for a moment before they suspended their conversation when one cocked her head towards her and asked, “Can I help you?” in a sassy voice. My timid wife asked, “Do you guys carry maternity clothes?” “Uh, no” the lazy, fitting room attendant replied back.

At eight months into pregnancy a woman becomes very volatile. A few weeks ago the woman working drive-thru at the local Wendy’s got an attitude with my vwife and she called the girl a bitch and told her to shove a Jr. bacon cheese burger up her ass. Today my wife was on the opposite end of the spectrum. It upset me a bit to hear her story today because I think the lazy ass at Wal-mart really got to her.

After hearing all this, my attention was brought back to something that happened to us this past Friday. Microcenter, a local technology store had an unbeatable deal on a Philips 32 inch, LCD TV over the weekend. I planned on buying the TV and giving it to my wife as a family Christmas gift, perfect for the bedroom.

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Only sod gets the nod!

Every time a new homeowner association comes into power, Satan ejaculates onto his chest. Genocide is taking place in Africa, countless are dying at the hands of religious fanatics around the world and the banks and politicians are raping us all from behind but despite all this delightful evil, homeowner associations are the icing on Mr. Lucifer’s cake.

Why? Because the sanctions and power these whiny ass bitches have over the hard working man is the purest form of injustice in the world. In all other cases of injustice it’s nearly always the big guy picking on the little guy, the powerful or radical dominating the passive. In cases of homeowner associations, logic is turned upside down. The peon with no life now has dominion over you. They have more power than the Supreme Court. They own you.

Is there anything pettier than the sanctions and rules these organizations are able to enforce? It’s a case where the spoiled, brat child whose parents always lets them have their way is suddenly allowed by law to bully you and steal your Kool-aid and lemon cookies, and when you go to retaliate the teacher puts you in time out then gives you silent lunch.

Indeed, every time someone signs a covenant agreement I believe whole heartedly that Satan busts a big nut on his bare, fire truck red chest! And that goo sticks a long time. He knows he is now off the hook for making your life hell. His right hand man, Mr. Homeowner President will do his dirty work from now on!

An older gentleman living in Bayonet Point, Florida was recently taken to jail without bail for contempt of court. His contempt arose from not attending a trial in which the local homeowner association was coming down on him for not laying fresh sod in his lawn. He had fallen on hard times, could barely afford to pay for his home and knew he couldn’t afford to lay new sod in his brown yard so he skipped court. Not a wise decision but a sign of hopelessness. The association broke him down like the mob breaks your knees for not paying up. They hauled him away to jail without sentencing or bail.

The local jail, whose prisoner population is 350 people over capacity welcomed the man, a true dredge on society with open arms for an indefinite stay. That’s what you get when you don’t lay new sod on your lawn in Bayonet Point, bitch! Now rot with all the other homeowner association violators and minor drug offenders. I’d be willing to bet that the whopping 3.16% of the population in this town that isn’t white is all in jail with him!

Even sadder though is the fact that this mans grass is GREEN! The article confirms that the picture above was taken the day the man was sent to jail. They were indeed going after him over this lawn. Where I’m from you’re satisfied if no one throws any empty beer bottles in your lawn or takes out your mail box with a baseball bat.

Injustices like these exist everywhere. Homeowner associations are full of Nazis. Their only objective in life is making sure they keep up with their pathetic, shallow facade and dominating the personal business of others. Who cares if you are working day and night to make ends meet, that shrubbery better not get too tall. Who cares if there is a fuel shortage, that grass better be cut. And if the entire state is plagued with drought and outdoor watering is forbidden you still better find a way to make that grass green and lush. If not, the little bitches from the association will fine you and place liens on your home.

The lawn rules are just the tip of the iceberg. If that’s all you’re dealing with you’re lucky. Other rules I’ve seen range from rules forbidding children to play outside to not being allowed to wash your car outside your home and worse.

In the world of homeowner associations its the whiny, bitch ass brats who get their way. It’s a world that rewards tattletales. It’s a source of power for those too weak and pathetic to grab it any other way. These people want to control you, they want to boss you and push you around. If you were a kid again and you saw one of these punks on the play ground you’d probably punch them in the nose and tell them to kiss your ass.

If the poor old man from Bayonet Point were my grandfather or father, I’d hire an African American, homosexual thug to ass rape the person or person’s who made the complaint and took the issue all the way to court. Black and gay because that’s what these sort of people fear worse, blacks and gays in their neighborhoods!

Rot in hell assholes.

Check out the article about the poor old man from Bayonet Point

"I can not keep my face away from those swollen, handsome udders."

Last week my wife and I took a tour of the hospital she is birthing our child at. It was an insanely painful ordeal. We were caught in a group of 5 families, all of different walks of life and all including a very pregnant woman, each unknowingly torturing me in her own way.

I begin with the 16 year old having a child with her black boyfriend. I do not point out that her boyfriend is black because I object to her having a child with a person of different ethnicity, I am simply painting a picture of the situation and this was certainly the stereotypical low class white girl coming strait out of the trailer park and the ghetto ass looking black kid boyfriend with the seat of his pants sagging to the floor.

The poor girl could not have been any more inexperienced in life if she wanted, in fact at one point in the tour the guide asked if anyone was considering having their baby boys circumcised and the youngster asked her mother what circumcision was. To make the situation even more mind numbing, the tour registration form explicitly requested only the mother and father and a third guest attend the tour and to not bring children under twelve unless they were a sibling. These two brought most of their extended family including three children under twelve. I assume they had not yet learned to read, they were too busy having sex in the bathroom on that day in literature class. I am thrilled that we, the tax payers most certainly will be footing the bill for their child to be born! Medicare FOR THE WIN!

Next we had the all natural, holistic, don’t let a vaccination come near my baby, mother to be! No group of pregnant women would be complete without one of these fear mongers. This hippie nut job was obviously insane. She was to be made certain that her child would not be exposed to any chemicals, vaccines or anything else. In fact, I would not be surprised if she didn’t bring in her own wheat grass and soy protein supplements to grind up into the child’s formula while enjoying her stay at the hospital. And of course she opted to give birth naturally in a birthing pool. Let’s not neglect to mention that since she wished to use the birthing pool, we had to add another fifteen minutes to the tour to learn all about this special contraption that really looked like nothing more than an over priced hot tub.

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Deer Killer

It was a cool, crisp fall morning. Dew covered the grasses and trees, the air was moist and the day shaping up to be promising indeed. Larry awoke that morning with a bounce in his step. He had recently taken a new promising position with a prominent energy company downtown and was eager to show off his awesome talent and worthiness to his new employers.

Larry had become very pleased with himself as of late and felt that he now had a true purpose in life. He had finally made it to the big show. Eager not to be late or cause any rifts with his new employers whom he wished to please so badly, he wisely adopted the habit of leaving for the office extra early. This day was no exception. Larry grabbed his suitcase, kissed his wife and baby goodbye and rushed out the door of his country home.

A thick dew covered Larry’s windshield. As he sped down the old country roads that would eventually lead him into the big city, he continually wiped the glass with the sleeve of his shirt, the defrost running at full blast and the windshield wipers pumping at full speed. Despite all his efforts, the fog would not cease and visibility continued to be very limited.

Still Larry continued down the road, barely able to see anything in front of him and eventually gave in to the fight. He sat back in the driver’s seat, sighed and decided to just drive with the fog all over the windshield. When suddenly…

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My Badge of Shame

Today a very sweet and upbeat co-worker of mine came into my office just to say, “Peavey, you’re so good.” My face was buried in my lunch and I barely looked up to acknowledge her. The left over Mac & Cheese tasted too delicious to look away from!

“Why do you say that, because I don’t molest children or rape women?” I replied dryly.

“No, you’re just so good at your job and you help us do things so much better around here.” She replied kindly in her Daisy Duke southern accent.

“Oh, cool.” I replied with my mouthful, slurping and gnawing away on the chow.

“You know, you just don’t seem manipulative and you don’t bully or boss people around.” She gushed with glee and optimism.

I replied even more dryly than before, “That’s because I don’t care.”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“I mean I don’t care what other people do, so why would I manipulate or boss them around.” I explained.

“Peavey, you are so darn funny. You do to care, you’re tender. I know you, Peavey.” And she wisped off down the hall.

And now I’m left here wondering, how did this woman who I only briefly know from the office see past this rough outer façade I display day after day and peer deep inside my soul to discover the warm, fuzzy and affectionate man that I actually am? She has drilled a hole right through my defenses as if it were a delicious candy coated shell on an M&M and branded me as TENDER!

And what now, do I tell the world “Yes, I do care about you! I am interested in you! I want to know you better!” Do I tell them that I am in fact tender, or do I continue to wear this mask of indifference? I fear that very soon word of my goodness will spread and I’ll be forced to bare the badge of shame, the badge of the Tender Hearted Care Bear.

Yes, I will bear this badge, I’ll wear it with pride and my head held high. I’ll wear it as I work harder to do nice things like hold the door open for people or help elderly ladies carry their groceries to their cars at the store or even apologizing and owning up after letting a huge bomb of a fart in a public place.  This is going to change my life…

Eh, what am I saying. This isn’t me at all. Screw you for messing with my head and making me think I was tender, giddy girl from the office.

You suck.

The Target Hand Soap of Death!

On a recent trip to my local Target retail store I encountered what I believe to be one of the dumbest non-retarded people I have ever seen. I am not even sure how this guy, my cashier, was able to count money back to customers he was such an moron. He reminded me of a mindless bullfrog, croaking, staring at me blankly all bug eyed and blinking excessively. A slimy little turd I secretly wished I could smash under the heel of my boot and watch his green slimy entrails splat all over the ground and stick to the sole of my shoe!

I visited the store that day to pick up a few toiletries for around the house. Bar soap, toothpaste, some hair gel and maybe a stick of deodorant were all that I required. I remember the weather being quite nice that afternoon, I had taken the day off work to wait for the termite inspector to come by so he could take a hundred bucks from me in exchange for a letter stating that I still did not have termites. I was happy to be at the very un-crowded store by myself and decided to rummage around.

If you read my past post about the hell I have endured at the local Wal-mart, then you already know I am a pretty big fan of the big Target with their red and khaki color scheme so it is never difficult for me to quickly amass an armful of junk I probably do not need while milling around the store.

I had grabbed my bar soap, toothpaste and so on along with a few other items. Amongst these other items was an enormous bottle of soft soap. My wife adores wasting money on pricey little items that smell good and look pretty. Our home is littered with little wall plug-in air fresheners, candles, dozens of bottles of lotions and yes, little cutesy bottles of hand soap. Being the clever dude I am, I figured I may save a few bucks by buying a gigantic bottle of creamy smelling hand soap and refill the old bottles of over priced Bath and Body Works soap before she could buy new ones!

Being a man’s man I naturally frown on the use of a shopping cart or hand basket and always opt instead, to rummage around uncomfortably with my arms overflowing with items, today was no exception. I made my way up to the cash register taking great care not to drop anything and was glad to finally be able to dump all the items on the conveyor belt. My cashier, a nice looking kid who I can now only assume is a complete failure and high school dropout flipped the switch and began scanning the items.

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I have a Fat Man's Belly!

The title says it all. I am a man who is never quick to be nauseous, but right now I want to puke. I have just finished watching a video of me having sex… and I want to die.

A few months ago I bought my wife a remarkable little video camera, the Flip. By stating that I bought the camera for her, I really mean I bought it for me. The Flip is pretty amazing. It is not too much larger than a clunky cell phone or hard drive MP3 player but still manages to shoot pretty decent videos and has a surprisingly acute microphone. In fact, the microphone is so effective that it manages to capture even the most minute of sounds even after being strategically placed in a closet…hidden, under two sweaters, a scarf and an old pair of socks.

Since getting the camera a couple months ago I had been bombarding my wife with requests to videotape sex. I probably asked easily four times a day, usually at the worst times like immediately after taking a dump or right after I just got home from the gym when I reek like road kill possum. Today I decided to take matters into my own hands. I decided to conceal the camera and embrace voyeurism.

As soon as I got home I called my wife to find out how long it would be until she got home. Next I immediately took to the bedroom, scoping it out for the best location to place the recording device. The closet worked out perfectly. I placed the camera on a hanging canvas shelf alongside the thick folded up clothing making sure that the small red indicator light was not visible. Then I waited.

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