Just Off Center

What the hell is going on in my life where everyone I ever meet has to try to tell me who I look just like? Every time I get introduced to a new rep or some young technician I get ten seconds into a meet & greet before I hear the inevitable... "Oh my GAWD, do you know who you look exactly like?" Well, there has been a very impressive range of people who I have resembled over the years. I don't see much of a resemblance in most of them. I think it's just that the Mexican and black people I meet just want to relate to me somehow. That's just fucked. How about if I walk up to one of the black reps and yell "Hey Eddie Murphy! Say 'I'm Rick James, bitch!'". Or maybe I can see some Korean girl and comment on how much she reminds me of Kobe Tai?

We'll start with the most common.

Finch - Also known as the actor Eddie Kaye Thomas. By far and away my most common comparison. Maybe it's the general blank expression, or the way I just naturally stand straight with my hands behind my back. Perhaps my personality is similar to the character known as Finch, from the American Pie series. All I can say is Finch got the MILF... twice.

Still it is a little bit disconcerting that this socially inept, plain looking dork is the man that I am most commonly associated with. I mean... just look at him! I want to walk up and tell him to give me his milk money. I just have to keep telling myself he got the MILF, he got the MILF, he got the MILF. Let's just hope that the next one is a little cooler.





Elijah Wood as Kevin from Sin City - Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the decapitation and cannibalization of whores. When seasoned right, those cock-worn fingers make an excellent appetizer I bet. And there can be no doubt that even though he didn't utter a single syllable during his performance, Wood's representation of Kevin was just awesome. He popped right out of the page.. and kicked the shit out of my main man, Marv. And when it was time to face the music, he didn't make a peep. I can totally hang with being called Kevin. Elijah's done me proud. But there are there comparisons to me as Wood in this role, and there are comparisons to me as Wood in other roles.



Elijah Wood as Frodo Baggins from Lord of the Rings - Okay, them's fightin' words! If you're going to reference LOTR and say I'm a character, call me Aragorn. Call me Legolas. Call me Faramir. Call me Gollum if you must, but don't try to tell me that I somehow look like Frodo. The guy spent the entirety of the trilogy with this pained expression on his face, trying to fight the will of the One Ring. What a fucking pansy. Sam cried no fewer than eighteen times during the movies, but he still found the strength to carry Frodo's ass up that mountain.

Now I'm angry again. Let's try someone who's actually alive to compare, and not some character from a movie or comic book. This one hasn't happened in a long time, but for years when I was living in Indiana, I was sworn to be a spittin' image (yes they say that there) of the country singer known as...



Vince Gill - If it wasn't clear to any girl who met me that I hated country music then this would have gotten me laid a lot! Just look at those trustworthy eyes. You can trust me. Come on over. I'll sing you a song. I'll even write one for you and give you credit in the liner notes. You know what would help? Why don't you have another lass of wine and loosen that top button. Just look in my eyes again, You know I wouldn't do anything bad to you. Mind if I take my shirt off? This air conditioning has really been a bear lately. You can do the same. Don't worry, I won't peek. I'm just a big old teddy bear. You like this song? I made it up six years ago, but I never really knew what it meant until tonight. Please. Don't leave me alone now. I have so much to share.

More to come. This isn't over yet.

The office I work out of right now is used by myself and four employees of the company. On occasion, other employees will walk in and have a seat just to hang out and chat. One such employee is Bob. Bob is a big, hulking man with a smooth, baritone voice and a kind nature. I like him. She's been very helpful since I arrived.

Yesterday afternoon he was hanging out when he got a call on his cell phone. He answered with familiarity. Then his face turned to stone and his tone went cold. Some of the sentences I heard him utter are:

"And he's completely braindead?"
"When is mom wanting to take him off life support?"
"Does Sylvia know?"

Obviously someone very close to him has had an encounter with some physical ailment that has rendered him completely helpless and living off of a life support machine. Everyone in the room fell silent and begin typing out and emails or studying their schematics. I just sat there in the back and looked at him. His eyes never met mine.

"No, that's what he'd want. He'd tell us to go home, get a gun and shoot him in the goddamned head."

Why is everyone just going about their business? He obviously feels comfortable enough in this terrible moment to have this cell phone conversation in this room. Why isn't anyone else looking for an opportunity to console him? When he got off the cell phone he put his head in his hands. He was holding back emotion, maybe not tears...yet. But definitely emotion. He quickly got on a landline and called his sister.

"So you're okay with what mom's doing? I just had to be sure. Yes, of course I am."

And then he called his mother.

"Mom, you can't shoulder this whole thing alone. Let us help. I can be there soon."

The whole time I'm sitting there looking at him waiting to see if he needs anything. It's unlikely that he will. But if this happens to me and all of my coworkers just turn back to work, passing off this tragedy as a social awkwardness, I'll be livid. He quickly scurried out of the room. I haven't seen him today. I cast my eyes around at these grown men, friends of his every one, and could feel the muscles in my face contorting to form a scowl. Contempt. Contempt for each and every one of you.

Today there has been no mention of the "incident". I can only expect that whoever was incapacitated, by all hints his father, has been removed from life support and will soon be dead. I'll just say right now that I agree with Bob's assessment of his dad's wishes. Go get a gun and blow my fucking head off. I'll sign a "No-arrest" clause, not that anything like that exists. Kill me and do it quick. Say goodbye to me later, but end it now.

I have little respect for humanity as it is. I love humanity, but I don't offer any sanctimony to it that I feel hasn't been well earned. This situation didn't earn me any proof that I am wrong in my assessment. But I still smile and press palms. I say what I need to say and go about my day in a chipper face. Even to the wretches who wouldn't extend a warm arm or a sympathetic word to a friend in a desperately painful hour.

Friday night I did not have my head in my work. I'd had a long, hard week at my first job and went to a bar by the second job for a beer. I had three. When I got to work I was tipsy, tired, and brain-fried. I didn't really do much that was productive. Fuck it. I'm not trying to make manager of the year at the telemarketing job.

So one of the other managers was hungry. I recommended my favorite Italian ristorante for a pizza. It's close by and the cheese pizza is pretty cheap. Made from scratch, a large is still only about $12. So I went and got the pizza. I thought that I had been quick, but I guess my coworkers thought I had taken too long. When I got back I dropped off the pizza in the managers break area and found two other supervisors having a conversation. They didn't see me, so I just listened in, because I'm a scoudrel like that.

"What's taking Mike so long?"
"He probably stopped somewhere to rub one out."
"Ha! That's funny. Yeah probably."
"You know, I don't really want to think about Mike rubbing one out."
"Neither do I actually. I bet he keeps count of his strokes and calculates the best pressure and speed for maximum jerk efficiency."

At this point they were laughing. Then I popped around the corner and they just lost it. They couldn't look me in the eye. One of them commented "the awkwardness just won't go away!" They were so busted.

I wasn't offended. It's actually a pretty funny joke. Still it got me thinking, am I really that kind of guy? I mean I know that I analyze the fuck out of everything. Heh, I said anal. But I suppose that there are far worse things they could be saying to poke fun. I could actually take it as a compliment. If I died tomorrow and left a legacy of being known for two things, analytical skills and frequent mastrubation would certainly be top ten.

Two hard workin stiffs, gettin ready for stiff work.  

This weekend was different than the "planned fun" I've been engaging in lately. Nina had been preoccupied with preparing herself for work today and she was having car troubles that I needed to deal with. So rather than just type out yet another bland retread of all my weekend activities chronologically, I'll just go issue by issue.

FASHION SHOW - Nina's been stressing out over her training that begins today. She's always had jobs that either provided her with a uniform or didn't require any dress code at all. So when she was told that she had to be dressed in "Business Casual" she freaked. I told her to go buy some outfits, and to just use her best judgment. Saturday she tried everything on for me. I liked most of it and hated some of it. There was one skirt that made her look like she had fat hips... so I told her it made her look like she had fat hips. I guess the absence of a vagina on my body makes that statement a bit more offensive. Or maybe it's just the way I said it. At any rate, she's got about four or five skirts, two dresses, two slacks and plenty of tops. She doesn't have much in the way of shoes or accessories. But that will come with time. She still thinks that she doesn't have much yet. I think the average working woman has fewer than ten complete outfits that can be hung in her closet at any one time. What do you think?

THE IMPALA - After taking Nina's car to Sun Devil Auto for an oil change I was told that she needed to have her rotors and rear brake pads replaced because they were heat warped and were causing vibration. Rather than pay them $400+ to do the job I had Nina buy the rotors and pads and took on the chore of doing it myself. This should NOT have been the fiasco it was. I couldn't get her fucking brake caliper off to save my life. I was putting all my weight into it and grunting and getting all messy, but it just wouldn't happen. I oiled it and even took a goddamned blowtorch to the son of a bitch. Nothing. So I called a mechanic who lives in a desert trailer. I took him the car and gave him $50 to do it for me. He got the job done in a couple hours and even gave me a nice fat joint to enjoy at my own discretion. How nice of him.

Fucking goddamnit motherfucker cocksucking shitbag! Nina just fucking called me to tell me it's still fucking vibrating. Guess I'm not done with this situation yet. Grrrr!

PUFFY MUFFINS - I don't have the picture to post here at work, so I will later. But Nina was nice enough to make me a batch of delicioso blueberry banana muffins to munch on this weekend. I just had two at my desk. I offered to help but Nina wouldn't let me. I think it's a whole "taking care of her workin' man" all by herself kind of thing. At any rate they're wonderful, and not bad for me at all. Sweet! I'll get that pic to post. She looks so proud.

SPA DAY - Seeing as how I've been... umm... a bit, shall we say... stressed lately, Nina and I agreed that it would be in my best interest to endulge in a massage. So Nina set us up with appointments. She wanted a massage, but there were no openings. So instead she got a facial and a pedicure. I started out with a hardcore, deep tissue massage with sports and trigger points folded in. It was painful and wonderful. Weirdest thing though. When she was massaging my hands and especially my feet, I started to cry. It wasn't like tears came out, but I made the whole sad face and my breathing got all huffy. The masseuse had to stop and ask me if she was killing me. How embarassing. Anyway, the massage was great and the facial was relaxing. I got my eyebrows waxed and my blackheads popped. I'm all purtied up now. Afterward, we went out for sushi, fried rice, goyza, and sake! Yay sake!

HOUSE BITCH - Sunday morning, Nina left to go complete what outfits she had that hadn't yet been matched with a top or bottom. Doesn't she understand that no matter what kind of bottom she has, I'm the matching top? But while she was gone I decided to take on a few chores. I started with a load of laundry and starting the dishwasher. Each chore led to another chore that needed to be done. There are still plenty of things to do, but yesterday alone I managed to clean the kitchen, including diassembling and cleaning the stovetop, cleaning the microwave, wash, dry and fold three loads of laundry, iron, vacuum all carpets, clean the bathroom countertops, sweep the tile floors, scoop the litter box, take out the trash, and reorganize one of our storage closets as well as just general straightening. I really felt pretty good about it. We'll see how the week tears my work apart.

AA MEETING - As I said, the mechanic guy gave me a joint to take with me. But he also had one fired up at his place when I arrived. Not the best sign, I know. But it's not like he was being charged with retuning my transmission. So by the time I got home, I was still half baked. I don't smoke often, but if it's being handed to me, what the fuck? Sam and Nina were in the library and Sam was all sobby again. What the fuck goes on between Nina and Sam that he always starts fucking crying? This time I told him to just stop crying and be a fucking grown man. He needed to go to an AA meeting but he didn't have gas. Since I needed to go out again with someone to get Nina's car back anyway, I offered to take him and attend. As a guest, I'm not allowed to speak, and I think that's a good thing. This is supposed to be a place of hope and growth, and I suppose it is. Fine I'm a monster. These were some of the saddest most pathetic people I've ever seen. Nobody had the balls to just say that their problems are their fault and not the fucking bottled. Of course the alcoholic gene was brought up. God, I have it too, you weak-willed shits! Anyway, I kept my mouth shut and when it was over I managed to back my car into a big steel cage with a gas meter or something in it. No real damage, but it thrashed up my rear panel pretty good.

And that brings us to today. Here I am at my desk, getting ready to call Sun Devil Auto back and schedule a time for them to look over Nina's car so that I can have it fixed properly. Nina's kind of pissy with me because, well I'm not sure. I guess I'm supposed to be thrilled to still have the opportuity to fix her car for her again. Anyway, I'm sure she's just stressed out about work and upset that despite my weekend, I'm still a stressed out anger management case. No worries though, I'll just imerse myself in work. Work will get me through. Thanks for tuning in!

Pregnant pause is a weird term. What does a pregnant pause give birth too? Since giving birth is something that is actually done, it can't be done in a pause. That's why I think pauses must be very brave. Because as soon as one becomes pregnant it knows that soon the pause is going to be ending. Pregnant pauses are doomed.

Pauses are like salmon, only not as tasty with butter.

Today is not going well for old Mike, let me tell you. Actually there really hasn't been a whole lot of shit going down today that would piss me off. But I'm pissed off just the same. You want some? You want a little? Come and get it, jackpipe. I got a lotta mo!

My brain hurts. How can a brain hurt? There aren't any nerves in the brain that let the brain actually "feel" anything. How weird is that? It processes every sensation in the human body, except for itself. How feminine. If brains were boys, they'd be all "damn, my fucking medula oblongata is killing me today. I think I'll let the rest of my body know by shutting down my left leg, ceasing fingernail growth, and popping random boners when I fart." But it seems that brains are girls. And mine's being a big ol skank bitch today.

I've been processing my fucking speadsheets for about seventeen years now, starting yesterday. This is the shit I hate. My company has got me deployed out to a new site implementation. Now don't get me wrong. I love doing new implementations. They give me the opportunity to meet new people, evaluate shitty processes that piss everyone off, and have a great big fat chunk of impact on the new site before I pass it on to someone else to manage. But this one is fucking hard. Their processes are absolute shit. I have personally had to sort through sixty-three spreadsheets this week. Sixty-mothereffing-three!

So this morning I get to work and my supervisor shows up. He has other sites to worry about too so I don't see him that often. But today we have an early teleconference with Bob. Bob is the new operations manager for the whole company. Bob wants a report on our progress out here at the new site. Bob is pissing me the fuck off. I spent several hours meticulously writing a set of reports on all the shit I've been doing and success I've had. I say I because I'm the only one here. But of course my supervisor seems to enjoy throwing out the "we"s and "us"s. I guess it's the team aspect here. So after we go through all the fucking work I've done, what do I hear?

"Where are the graphs?"
"Well since the denominator is so dynamic, the progress chart that we'd established in our first week is no longer blah blah blah"
"I understand, but I need to see graphs."

You corporate fucking cocksmoker! I've been absolutely killing myself here to get the work actually done and all you can say is that you want me to chart out some retarded, absolutely baseless fucking graph? I swear, I mean how many grown men earning two and three times what I make does it take to sit around and talk about what I alone accomplish?!? I need to get in on this.

Anyway, today I'm grumpy. Nina keeps trying to cheer me a little. I just don't want to sit around fucking whining about this bullshit. Yes my days are hard. Yes the hours are hard. Yes my body and mind are a fucking wreck right now. Does it do me a shred of good to sit around on my few off moments and fucking bitch about it? Is this venting? If so, then I don't need it. Nina's so fucking upset all day every fucking day about all the bullshit she has to put up with. She vents to me about it. I want her to. And, fuck it, I'm a selfish asshole. Sometimes I wish she'd just stop complaining about her life. Not because mine is harder, like she thinks. But wouldn't it be nice if I could go a couple days and just have a happy, pleasant, nothing gets me down wife to come home to? Fuck it, she's human too. I'll just lay there and listen. This is what it's all about.

The problem comes in when she fails to cheer me up. She starts getting all hurt feelings and then becomes angry, or hurt, or something. I'm a boy, don't expect a lot. Anyway, once she's upset, my life is twice as shitty. Now I have mission impossible during the day, retarded whiney assholes in the evening, an angry wife at night, and 2.5 hours of commuting to get me from one to the next. Great.

My weekend should be really great though. Nina set me up with an hour massage and a facial tomorrow afternoon. It's my first facial. I don't know if I'll like it, but Nina insisted that it was awesome and that I just had to do it. So I'm doing it. But I am really looking forward to the massage. Then it's sushi and sake. Then whatever the fuck I feel like, I'm fucking doing. So there.

Argh, fuck life. Not permanently. Just fuck life today. I'll be better after my massage I think. Maybe I'll have a beer at lunch. Maybe four. No, that's just ten more dollars that I shouldn't be spending. Oh well.

Since I busted Sam out about all the Internet porn he'd been looking at lately, he's stopped using my computer as his primary source for spank-off material. So, since the furry little critter still hasn't shaved his wooly body down, replaced his missing front tooth, improved his midwestern dimwit disposition, or found a dollar to add to his wallet, it's a good bet that he hasn't located any women willing to give up the nani to his cause. And since I also bet that he's pretty much a chronic masturbator I had to figure he's finding his spread-eagled hussies elsewhere.

While performing a routine room inspection I happened to open his closet door and... lo and behold we have discovered the mother lode! I am staring down at a stack of no fewer than twenty hardcore porno mags. And I'm not talking Playboy either. We've got Club, Cheri, Swank and other fantastic publications fit for the finger-spread honey pies of poor, rejected young girls everywhere. Not to simply judge anything at first glance I decided that bit of research was in order. After thumbing through the stack, I picked out a few of my favorites to share with my loyal readers. And to keep an air of diversity in opinion, I've enrolled the assistance of my wife to aid in the reviews.

NEWCUMMERS - With a headline like "16 Fresh Twats WIDE OPEN" who could possibly resist? I've often been of the opinion that there aren't enough compilations of open twats in other rags like Life and The New Yorker. And damn if Newcummers doesn't deliver on its promise. Within its pages is pictorial after pictorial of barely legal tragedies smiling pretty for the camera as they work their way to the final apex of them sitting on the floor trying to keep an honest grin to hide the humiliation inherent to the fact that they're actually showing the insides of their vaginas to the camera. Some of these hos are actually pretty cute, and all of them seem perfectly happy with their lot in life.

Mike says: Where the fuck were these sluts when I was fifteen?!?

Nina says: That's not the pink that's in style.




LOLLYPOPS - In an industry choc full of possible locations for girls to get naked and be the target for lowly ejaculations everywhere on the day after their 18th birthday, Lollypops has very little hope of rising to the status of the aforementioned Newcummers and the crown jewel of adolescent pussy mags, Barely Legal. As such, Lollypops has taken to impressing the general public with just how low they will stoop, hiring some of the most homely looking tail I've ever seen. Just look at the covergirl. This is as good as it gets. In fact I almost recognized one of them from my most desperate hour in Junior Year. I'll say no more on that. They include interviews with the talent, blowjobs with the obligatory facial cum shots, and a pictorial starring a girl painting on herself.

Mike says: Cialis has a new archrival.

Nina says: Yup... there's definitely nothing in there I want to suck on.



No1 - INTERNATIONAL - International indeed. I'm not even sure what language this mag is in, possibly Russian or Polish. The first scene is fairly decent, with the exception of a picture that Nina described as the girl imitating a trumpet with her cooch. The rest of the thin magazine is a collage of hardcore sex scenes with full penetration including vaginal, anal, doggy style, blowjobs, and what appears to be a woman in a wedding dress being eaten out by the Maid of Honor. All scenes offer the gratification of showing a happy whore drenched in cum in the bottom right corner. All in all, a fairly blase rip off of other American smut. Unless you are a collector or just have a vivid imagination and a fetish of mail order brides just stick to the downhome poontang in our fine American porn.

Mike says: Magazyn erotyczny dla wielbicieli megabiustow... i nie tylko!

Nina says: I bet the porn was so much better when they were still communists...please don't let it be Russian, please don't let it be Russian, please don't let it be Russian.


BLACK TAIL - Well! It appears that Sam is more diverse in his selection of jerk-off muses than I thought. Not only does Black Tail give the "reader" a healthy dose of African American ass (connected to the well-revealed African American snatch) but it gives him more than one at a time. Every scene contains no fewer than three sluts posing in identical fashion for their men. Of course they never touch, because lesbian skanks are just dirty. But laying asses up side by side, like a slot machine that always wins, these girls deliver the goods to our chocolate lovin' brothers the world around.

Mike says: I've never been one for the black girls, but put them all together and you've got a sistah I can't resistah.

Nina says: Wow, a new definition for the term "weave".





CHOCOLATE MOUNDS - There's no way I'd be so prejudiced as to only include the one token tribute to black pussy. So with great pleasure and tearing eyes I bring you Chocolate Mounds. This full-length magazine is a nod to the theory that you can be fat, ugly, and basically misshapen and can still be considered sexy as long as you just happen to have large tits. And large is hardly a way to describe the mocha mommy bags in this rag. These things are big, like mutant big. And for added pleasure, we get to watch them twisting and shaping their own tits... well... just because they can. The last half of the magazine is entirely advertisements, and mostly for phone sex with white women. And I'm glad of this. Judging from the face on the covergirl, not only am I looking at unattractive black women with ginormous racks, but I might have just been looking at unattractive black women with ginormous racks who also used to be men.

Mike says: I'd totally be down with this if it wasn't for the fact that I'm more of an ass man.

Nina says: Thank God Michael's an ass man. How could I ever compete? And I'll NEVER be able to eat another Mounds bar again.

SOME JAPANESE PORNO - If I had to pick the race of woman that I find most attractive, Japanese would definitely be in the top twenty. This magazine that is completely penned in Japanese fills my every urge to look at grown women with the bodies of twelve year-old boys. I do have to say that the pics, while scattered and seemingly random, are done with class and consideration for the girl. There are no pussy shots of any kind. If the girl isn't wearing panties she's covering her hoo-ha with her hand. What a jip. However, what this magazine lacks in through-the-tube kidney pics, it makes up for in volume. There are no articles of any kind. Just collage after collage of sweet young Asian things smiling and putting on their best "God I'm sooooo turned on right now" face.

Mike says: I'll pay the $25 just to remove the sign asking me for $25.

Nina says: Mmmm... I'm suddenly in the mood for raisins.


KINKY NEIGHBORS - I am thoroughly impressed with this montage to the many diverse fetishes we boys and girls get into. I don't even have room to make fun of it. There's the covergirl taking a dildo the size of a pint glass right up the ass. There's a woman actually shaving her head while she gets naked. Another girl poses in red leather with quotes that make no bones about the fact that she's a prostitute. See the caption on the left side of the cover. Who doesn't like "cooze for cash"? Still another girl covers her body with red candlewax while another actually does a very decent job of taking on the school teacher who likes to suck off the boys look.

Mike says: Is this for the guy who knows he's a kinky, pervy bastard, but just hasn't picked a kink to focus on?

Nina says: How the fuck can a virgin know what kinky fetishes he has?


40+ - So this is what it comes down to. We've got a thirty year-old man jacking off to the "mature" section of our American porno industry. Actually, some of these ladies are looking quite good, but then the "40" isn't the part that scares me. Forty isn't old at all. It's the "+" that has me concerned. This magazine is a Hustler-esque look at women as they approach the "change of life" when they can feel free to be skanky, trashy sluts without the fear of getting knocked up and having to come up with a better story than "He smelled like my favorite whiskey, so I let him cum inside me." Passers-by are tempted by the promise of the horny ramblings of a certified "squirter". Sexy. And just for our boys at the front our little aging queens get their MILF selves over to the local Enlisted Club to inspire our boys in green. They say life begins at 30. For the first time, I'm tempted to not find out if that's true.

Mike says: I think I see an airbrushed liver spot. Yummers!

Nina says: I know men don't like to feel teeth, but isn't this taking it a bit far?

I just came out of a bathroom stall to find a man pissing in the urinal, but with his slacks completely down to his knees. He was wearing overworn grey cotton boxer briefs and was well into his fifties. He was bending back slightly like a lead singer hitting the high note and holding the microphone over his head. He had his pants down. He had his fucking pants down by his knees.

I think I'll request a transfer.

Nina was fuming when I got into bed last night. Of course, she'd had a rough day as usual dealing with Sam and all his bullshit. But there was also an incident that brought out the evil in her that I love so much to see.

She was on her way to the YMCA for a workout. The parking lot was packed. Apparently there was some big yoga class going on and the housewives of the community saw an opportunity to qualify telling their husbands that they'd "exercised" that day. Nina was actually planning on busting her ass in the cardio room as normal. She managed to find one spot left, but another car was approaching and she'd have to wait for it to pass before turning in.

You know what happened before I say it. Nina turned on her turn signal and waited patiently, only to see the bitch in the approaching car pull right the fuck into her space. I would have been fucking livid and probably would have utilized my inherited masculine perk of terrorizing the opposite sex. Nina was ready to fucking explode. She just sat there and laid on her horn as the cunt sat in the car, motionless. And she had a fucking child with her! Score another reason why we hate parents. It wasn't until a couple minutes later when Nina took off and had to park about 200 yards away (no exaggeration) that she saw the greedy puta jump out, grab her hellspring and scurry into the building.

Nina couldn't let it go. I didn't mean to laugh, because the situation wasn't funny. I would have lost my shit all over this bitch. But it's such a rarity to hear Nina say this kind of shit. A few of the highlights include:

"Fucking goddamned fucking cunt!"
"I'm gonna key her fucking car if I ever see it again. Don't believe me? I got the license!"
"I hope she gets a fucking nasty-ass yeast infection."
"She was wearing white yoga pants. I hope she gets her fucking period all over them."

Good. Gooooooood! Your hate has made you powerful. I have to admit that it's nice to see her get pissed off at someone other than me like this. She so rarely lets herself feel her own anger that it gets all bottled up inside. Then she just has a fucking meltdown. Not pretty. And definitely not my strong suit at dealing with.

So the next time you know that the parking space you're about to pull into is being waited for by a nice, patient, kind-hearted girl in a 2000 Impala... just let it go. You never know. Today might just be the day that that crazy bitch decides that turning your ass to pulp might just be worth the time.

Another long day yesterday. But since I had Sunday to rest I made it through just fine, and even had the energy to bust out a record-paced two mile run. It felt like 14:30, and that's the fact, Jack. After getting my sweaty man ass back home, rehydrating, and cooling off, I came to bed and flipped through channels with Nina. I stopped on Showtime where my boys Penn & Teller were about halfway through their ingenious show, Bullshit!

This particular episode was about the death industry. When we stopped on the channel they were making fun of a vampire couple who wore black, had fangs, wrote stupid goth poems and drank each other's blood. Fun! But then they started tearing into the actual funeral home industry. Boy was that an eye opener. I loved all the ways the funeral directors would try to guilt and scam the poor mourners into upgrading to shit they really didn't need. I especially loved the part where they illustrated that the protective seal upgrade on the caskets basically turns the casket into a pressure cooker, liquefying the dead and eventually causing the casket to explode. Sweet! I'm definitely in.

Actually, no I'm not. One of the points they made was a good one. If you don't want your loved ones to get screwed while planning your final sayonara, then it's best if you just tell someone you love what you want done now. Just the general stuff. Leave the details to the mourners' discretion or put it in the will. We exchanged last wishes and called it a night.

Nina wanted to make sure that I know exactly what to do when she dies, because she is absolutely certain that nobody else would abide by her wishes. Her contention is that once she's dead, she'll have nothing else to give anyone and so everyone will just turn their back on her. Well I say... Bullshit! I think anyone who's ever met her would follow through on her wishes. Especially since they're so simple. She just wants to be given a simple, inexpensive memorial, cremated, and scattered in the ocean on a rainy day. Cake, huh? Hell, some of you coastal kids could do this shit from home. And I might be calling upon one of you for this too, in the even that I'm... ummm... detained?

Now my last wishes for my mortal remains are a bit more complicated. But with the right resources, I don't see it being a difficult wish to accommodate. My wish is, like Nina's, to be given a very cheap and simple memorial service. Fuck the funeral director. I'm dead, what the fuck do I care how opulent it is? Then cremate me and put me in the cheapest urn they've got. Do it Big Lebowski style if you want.

Here's the good part. After some time has elapsed and all the research and preparations are done and in order, everyone who wishes to attend comes out with Nina (or whoever) into the desert where nobody will be watching. Then they take my ashes, put them into a nice, big rocket. You know, the ones the geeks in high school physics studied. Make a hefty one. I want to fly high. And once the rocket is in the air get ready with the remote detonator. You heard right... detonator. I suppose lighting a fuse before launch works too. But I want to soar into the sky and then have my ashes blown... the fuck... UP! Then after the big kaboom, everyone goes out and gets piss drunk at a party.

And that's that. Couldn't be much more simple could it? Can you beat that?

Last night Nina and I watched The Hours in bed. This was a strange end to a strange weekend. We’d had big fun, laughing, sadness, a bit of exercise, and a shitload of cocktails. I need to use this week to dry out. Yesterday we watched a few movies in bed and accomplished none of what we needed to. I have a whole week’s worth of ironing to do that I’ll only be able to get to when I get home each night now. Fuck.

Anyway, I told Nina that we had to watch this movie, because it was just sitting there for a couple weeks and was holding up our Netflix queue. So we put it on and braced for impact. We knew it was a heavy drama and had a largely female cast, so it was destined to be an emotional roller coaster ride. However, it was less striking to me than to Nina. At the end, I thought I understood, but was more confused than anything.

The big idea in the story is that it follows three women for one day. One is a successful lesbian something or other preparing to throw a party for her novelist ex-boyfriend dying of AIDS. Good start, right? The second is a housewife in the late 1940s living the suburban life with her husband, son, and unborn child. She’s just terribly sad and unfulfilled, but doesn’t really express it. And the third is the author Virginia Woolf moping around the house trying to find some joy in her life.

The movie starts, shows, and ends in misery. Fine, I’m all for the depiction of misery in film. But it was the nature of the misery that had me utterly confused. At the end I turned to Nina, now a swollen sobby mess, and told her that it was a very good movie, superbly acted, and well shot. But I don’t get why these women were all so sad. There was the obvious argument that they had everything they needed to be happy. Nina argued with the obvious and expected rebuttal that the things that are “supposed” to make them happy do often not satisfy women.

This brought me to the subject of fulfillment. Sure, I get that having a husband and a house doesn’t mean that you should automatically be gleaming and radiant embodiment of joy. I’ve been of the opinion for many years that women too often sacrifice personal fulfillment in exchange for comforts. But these women weren’t empty. They had careers, successful ones at that. They had loving partners, great memories, financial independence, and all the opportunities in the world to seek out fulfillment.

Take the case of Virginia Woolf. I can certainly understand the concept of voices in one’s head taking away from life’s pleasures. I’ve heard a few in my own day. But to be so utterly unfulfilled when you’re a successful novelist, educated, wealthy, and adored by fans and your intellectually equal husband makes me wonder just what the hell she could have needed that was missing. I may never accomplish so much as this in my time and yet I feel that the pursuit of such lofty goals should in and of itself be my reward. So why the long face, Virginia?

Moving on, we got onto the topic of emotional differences between the sexes. I would never argue that men are the emotional identicals of women. However, I would argue against the idea that women are more developed humans because of their emotional complexities. I have only a few emotions. I offered the metaphor of color. I may look at a color card and be able to recognize the difference between eight shades of blue. An artist may be able to see the difference in 64. In similar fashion is my set of discernable emotions. I only feel a select variety of them. I’m not so Neanderthal and limited in my separation of feelings. And me not spend me life living only in limbic system neither.

Where was I going with this?

Oh yes! So I suppose that I have to conclude that there must be some combination of emotional factors that I myself cannot use my brain to pull apart that Nina can feel when she sees something like this. Couple this with her assumption that most women feel this sense of emptiness and despair at some times in their lives, and it becomes more probable that our fairer gender is capable of discerning the contrasts of emotional subtleties that we men cannot. The down side for the women is that they are so rarely able to verbalize these feelings. This means that women haven’t any greater or more advanced intellectual capability than we have as they can only feel the emotion without the ability to define it.

I went to sleep last night somewhat perplexed and glad. Glad that while my own desperations come in the form of a sense of slavery associated with my gender’s expectations of provisions, I am still able to understand and identify what limited array of feelings I experience.