Archive for category Women

How We Spend Money in America

Everyone has something they spend their money on, and one thing that never ceases to amaze me is our American super-human ability to spend money on shit we don’t need.

Now before you cry “pot calling the kettle black” I will be the first to admit that I am guilty as charged. I have a penchant for cigars and scotch. My $120 Humidor full of $200 worth of cigars and the $80 bottle of scotch adorning my liquor cabinet are testaments to that. Everyone has something they spend money on, and like it or not it’s part of our American way of life. My brothers ride dirt bikes; my dad has a motor home; my father-in-law is into ham radios; my thing is cigars and scotch. “One man’s trash is another’s treasure,” as the old saying goes.

My wife’s thing? Coach purses.

We took a trip to our local Coach Outlet store recently. As we walked in, there was a greeter conveniently giving out “20% off” coupons.

Anytime that happens, I ain’t getting out of there without her buying something. My wife’s a sucker for a sale.

Anyway, I’m looking around the store. The “trash vs. treasure” theme was apparent early on, when I spotted a $120 men’s wallet.

HELL NO!

I’d never spend $120 on a wallet. That’s fucking ridiculous. It had better be made of gold, or spontaneously spit out money on its own, or give me the occasional hand job while it’s in my pocket, or fucking something for $120. But people buy them all the time. There was a guy who just happened to purchase one while we were there.

My wallet? $12. Had it for 3 years and counting. Pisses me off that I actually have to go through the pain of buying one every so often.

But, remember we all have something we spend our money on. If you don’t, well then consider yourself lucky.

But the Coach saga gets worse.

I spotted a bin full of pink, heart-shaped plastic bags a bit larger than the palm of your hand. They were heavy and full of sand.

I held it up to my wife and asked her “What the fuck is this?”

My wife shook her head. She had no idea.

One of the Coach attendants overheard me and politely responded with, “It’s a paperweight.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’s a paperweight.”

I looked down at the price of this paperweight.

$19.

It’s a plastic bag full of sand.

And then the attendant says “We have a sale on that and the matching heart-shaped Coach mouse pad.”

I look down at the price of this mouse pad.

$29.

I smiled and responded with my usual smart-ass sarcasm, “Well, you know, I can get paperweights for free. I got connections. A good rock will do. Those are free.”

She smiled and said “Well, it’s for the girl who already has everything.”

Indeed.

I guess what I’m saying is that everyone in America has something, a “vice” as it were on which they spend their disposable income. “Disposable” is a very appropriate word, because that is exactly what we’re doing.

So the next time you want to criticize someone for throwing their money away on something that makes them happy, take a look at your own expenditures and be sure you’re not the pot calling the kettle black.

Let the (Sort of Related) Rant Begin:

And, on a more serious note, you should feel fortunate you live in a place that gives you the opportunity to spend your money on shit you don’t need. There are a lot of people in this world who don’t have that luxury. I mean, we live in a country where we have TV shows about other people buying a house, called House Hunters and call it entertainment. That show makes me sick.

I’ve seen third world conditions first hand, and to hear those people complain about their kitchen “not being as quaint as we’d like it” makes me want to stop them from procreating.

That’s why the rest of the world hates us. Oh. That, and because we’re idiots.

See you next time.

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Scotch: It’s Cake for Men

I love scotch. Scotchy, scotch, scotch. Here it goes down, down into my belly. . .

- Anchorman Ron Burgundy

This one goes out to all the ladies. If you have a man who loves Scotch, my hope is that maybe what follows will help you to understand him a little better.

At the ripe old age of 36, I have become a Scotch Man.

I was previously a Whiskey Man, but I feel like I am part of a new club, as it were, you know, “running with the big dogs” now. I keep asking myself why it took me so long. I could have been enjoying it all this time. I guess it’s better to have found it late, then never to have found it at all.

My analogy for what Scotch means to me at this point in my life, goes like this:

Imagine that you have never had cake before in your entire life. Ever. No cake. None. Never in your entire life. Now, imagine going without it for 36 years, and all of a sudden you try it for the first time. Think about it. I mean, it doesn’t even have to be good cake. Imagine taking a bite out of that beautiful cake triangle. You close your eyes as you savor the taste. You find the most delicious combination of frosting and cake, and savor it over and over again. Isn’t that one of life’s little treats?

Cake.

It’s one of the most beautiful words in the English language.

That’s what Scotch is to me right now in my life. It too, is a new, delectable treat to be savored. The rosy fumes coming up from the glass, the taste as it goes down, the finish. The smell alone relaxes me. It’s a beautiful thing.

That’s the good news. . . . There’s one little problem, though. Let’s go back to our little cake analogy.

What would you want to do after you have tasted cake for the first time? . . . .

That’s right, you’d want to try every possible flavor of cake on the planet. Chocolate with Chocolate frosting, Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting, Raspberry Marble with Vanilla Frosting, and the ever-popular “Death by Chocolate” Cake.

“Why is that a bad thing,” you ask? Well, let’s apply this idea to trying out every Scotch on the planet:

Have you ever looked at the price tag on a good bottle of Scotch? If you have been reading my posts, you know that I’m the type who enjoys the finer things in life. A cheap $10 bottle of Scotch simply won’t do. . . . No. . . . I’ve got to try all the good stuff. The 18+ year Scotches. You know, the Scotch that at one point flows over the thighs of virgins as part of the distillation process.

I mean, I’m fucking loaded, but I’m not that loaded. I’m not the type that can afford to bathe in the stuff.

Mmmmmmmmmmm. . . .  Scotch bath. . . . . . . . . .

Anyway, my plan is three-fold:

  1. Buy the good Scotch as I can afford it, and drink it only on the weekends. In other words, put myself on a Scotch ration/budget, which is either fucking awesome or horribly pathetic, depending on your attitude about booze.
  2. Order Scotch at bars to try out different brands, which is still expensive on a per-glass basis, but at least I’m not blowing ~$100 per bottle on it.
  3. Get advice from you people. Suggestions are, of course, welcome.

So that’s my plan anyway.

It’s very exciting for me, and it really enhances my life. I can’t wait to try out new Scotches. It’s an adventure for me.

Well, it’s getting late and I have a Scotch bath waiting for me. See you next time.

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My Dainty Wife – Cherish Mundacity

Love is weird. . . . a good weird.

Last night, while staring at my wife, in what would otherwise be a mundane moment, an overwhelming thought came over me.

She, in her dainty way, held the menu for the pizza place down the street, trying to decide what she wanted. Her elegant fingers held it with both hands, as she sat cross-legged, head tilted to the side ever so slightly in that way of hers.

The thought that came over me was that there is nothing more precious than my wife. How is it that a moment so mundane can place your mind into such a serene place? You’d think it would be when she’s dressed in some sexy way, but it isn’t. It’s the mundane moments that make love grand.

Just like Robin Williams’ character in Good Will Hunting says:

. . . that’s the shit I remember: wonderful stuff you know? Little things like that. . . . The little idiosyncrasies that only I know about: that’s what made her my wife. Oh she had the goods on me too, she knew all my little peccadilloes.

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My Take on Curling

How can anyone not be fascinated with Curling?

Whenever it’s on the Olympics I watch it, and I sometimes find myself cheering. If you still can, you might want to watch the Russian women, especially Liudmila Privivkova. I’m not usually into blondes, but holy crap I’d watch her throw rocks all day long, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, how the fuck does one train for Curling? Do you have to lift weights and shit? What do you have to do to get geared up for Curling? I mean, I’m sure you have to practice, but is it like a day of practicing your craft, then off to the gym? Do you study videos of the other teams? Get used to the cold by standing in a fridge? What?

If you’re a sweeper, do you volunteer to sweep people’s kitchens during your “off-season”? Is there an off-season?

Do you think during the Olympics, at some of the surrounding Vancouver bars, the men’s teams would taunt each other?

Great Britain starts off with, “Hey, USA team, you throw like fags, assholes.” We chime back with, “Oh yeah, you’re lucky I need to save my energy for tomorrow Nigel, or I’d literally sweep the floor with your gay British face. Why don’t you brush your teeth every once in a while.” Then Nigel’s teammates have to hold him back. “Save it for the match, old chap.” Or whatever British people say to each other.

That’s how it goes down in my head anyway.

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With This Post, I thee…Apologize?

This time I got an email from several women asking: “Must you constantly break our balls?” I didn’t realize you had balls. Perhaps you might need to be gelded? That question does raise an interesting…well, question. Why hasn’t anyone ever said anything about that phrase?

It’s never been considered sexist or politically incorrect to use the term: “Breaking your balls.” Why? Because it’s in reference to male genitalia and not female? I bet if the saying was “Kickin’ your pussy” there would have been a replacement by now. Well, only after a march on Washington, too much public outcry and that communist Jane Fonda flapping her pie hole. Women’s groups around the globe would have had it obliterated because it was sexist. Or it would have been replaced with something neutral and less wordy than the “powers that be” felt wouldn’t offend anyone. Maybe something along the lines of: “I’m just being destructive to your reproductive organs.”

What’s my point? My point is that you should just relax. “Break your balls” is still a widely used term because guys don’t care about such a reference. (We also have better things to do than worry about such a thing.) So when some guy posts names of famous women on a website and you don’t agree with his choices, get a giggle out of it if you can, and move on. We’re all just having fun here.

I am fully aware that I’ve upset several women with my posts, so allow me to apologize. I am sincerely sorr…I’m just “Crushin your tits”… I’m not going to apologize. And to answer the question the broads with balls sent me: Yes…I must.

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Great Women

I received a few emails from women regarding my last post. They informed me that I was not being fair and the women I picked in my “We have, You have” section were jokes. I don’t see it that way, but OK. I’ll mention a few women (“you have”) and not even enter any guys (“we have”). This way they won’t be compared to men and can bask in the glow of their own greatness. This should level the playing field and make the disgruntled women happy.

You have Lizzy Borden, Squeaky Fromme, and Patty Hearst. Madame Curie gets a very distant honorable mention.

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