A little about me… I'm terrified of thunderstorms.
UPDATE (1/21/05)
Been awhile since I posted this fucker. Things have changed.
Short-like, me and The (ex)Girl broke up, Dingbat (speckled retard below) went to live with her, still got my job at the bestest fucking company ever, and am selling that great house (below as well).
It's been raining/drizzling/pissing for 3 straight days now, the Girl is out, and I'm home getting quite drunk.
I know what you're thinking, and you're right. You'd like me to tell you a little about myself.
Like to hear it, here it goes...
I'm from a beautiful valley in a small town in Montana, where I grew up fishing on pristine rivers, getting in trouble (usually involving alcohol, vehicular tricks and/or nudity), and working on various ranches doing work that inspired me to get an education (so I never have to fucking do it again).
My old house is the tiny mint-green speck on the left valley wall. The Girl's house is on the other side.
I left Montana for college at Texas A&M because it was as far away from TinyTown as I could get. After 4 years, they politely asked me to raise my grades or leave. I realized that the only friends I had were the guys I was playing club hockey with, so I left to finish school here in Denver. It seemed like a good place to be if you love mountains, but want a job where you don't have to love cows or tourists.
I pulled into town with a beat-up ‘88 Ford Ranger, $137 in my pocket, my hockey equipment, some clothes, my brown puppy (see below), and 2 years left of school. 7 years later, I have a job I love that pays decent, own a house with the Girl, whom I also love only slightly less than I love the job (I'm kidding, honey), play ice and roller hockey 2 nights a week, have real food in the pantry (no more fucking Ramen) and I drink good beer (even if it does mean that extra 15 pounds). Plus, the Girl has a rock on her finger that could've got me another set of hockey equipment or an old beat-up '68 Mustang that I've had my eye on. Not too shabby.
Me and the Girl live in this wondrous abode...
We live there with our two idiots, Mazzy (Asshead, on left) and Carhartt (Dingbat, on right).
We live in Denver, an hour or so from Greeley, where the Girl's brother, my lifelong friend, Shithead lives with his wife and 3 boys...
I put the kids on here mostly because everybody loves kids and they think Uncle JuddHole hung the frickin' moon. We have the best time together because I tend to think like they do and because I treat them like they're buds of mine, which they are. Probably the same reasons animals like me as well. I also carry Beef Jerky in my pockets at all times.
Me and the Girl up in a Colorado mountain town. Damn, we're sexy. Okay, she's sexy and I'm a fuckjob.
Me and the Girl on the Santa Monica pier, a vacation that her Mom (Caveman's wife) hooked us up with. She's beyond awesome, and I'm a lucky bastard to someday have her for a Mother-in-law.
Here's us all dressed up nice and looking swanky. Very, very sexy. Grrrrr...
It occurs to me looking at these that I don't know that I've ever been in a picture where I'm not fucking around. I see a camera and turn into a puberty-bound 6th grader. Christ, I'm a retard. The Girl looks all beautiful and sexy and I look like I'm a drunken frat-nugshit.
I work at a Company that does online ratings of healthcare providers as a web developer. I'm a web monkey, but because of the nature of my company I can pretend that I'm having a noble profession.
HOLY CHRIST, the rain brought thunder and lightning. I told you animals like me because we think alike? Well, we're both fucking terrified of THUNDER and LIGHTNING. We're going under the bed now...
...7 minutes later...
That's better. SHIT, that was close. I swear that electro-zappy shit is zeroing in on my bedroom as we speak. FUCK, I hate storms.
It's nice having a wireless laptop, so I can type this while I'm cowering... uh... PROTECTING the brown dog under the bed. The Dingbat is probably outside barking at, and chasing, the lightning. She's mildly retarded, but we love her, just like we would if she weren't a complete short-bus-kid.
Fuck, I'm drunk now, and, when the storm passes, I'm getting on top of the bed instead of under it.
Fuck it, maybe I'll just sleep here. Asshead is already asleep, I think. Bitch.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Search for “ice cream lovin snatchbag” and I'm number one.
I finally figured out how to check my stats for folks who've been reading my diary. Yes, I know who you are and I know where you're coming from.
I know what you've been searching on too... freaks.
These are the Googlings that I've found so far, I'll add more to this list later.
Freaky people searched for pissing stuff and got these...
how to pee in public restrooms
These they got probably searching for insults...
Flat-out lookin' for some nudity...
naked pictures of my best friend (U.K. Google)
naked mormon pictures (only a fucking mormon would search for nudity pics, but only of other mormons. I apologize if you are mormon and I've offended you. Wait, no I don't.)
naked OR s1ut OR porn "pictures of me"
Some... *ahem* Different porn... I guess...
para1yzed gir1 fuck (seriously?)
sewing pussy (Italian Google)
will my dog 1ick peanut butter off my pussy?
virginity loss sex story pain hurts (Arabic or some shit Google)
dog licking peanut butter pussy (Canadian Google)
cocaine penis site:diaryland.com
Obviously, fellas that had the same idea as me with the whole vending-machine engagement ring...
Kilt fans... DAMN SEXEEEHHH...
These are just funny, I mean WHO searches for this shit?...
These are pretty tame, but they still came here looking for anything but what they got... HA!
very sexy clothed (German Google)
texas sucks (I actually get about 3 of these a day. Obviously, I'm not the only one who thinks so)
play it straight jackie "play it straight" (German Google)
satchel diaryland (obviously a Get Fuzzy fan)
getting neighbor's dog to stop shitting shitting
Looking for none other than yours truly...
There is also some Astrofish Guy who doesn't know how he found me but has been sending me quite a bit of traffic by linking the "Virgo" section of his horoscope page to this entry.
Must've been written in the stars...
What-in-the-name-of-Frank are these people fucking searching for when they enter some of that shit into Google?
Alright, obviously, you know me if you're searching for "juddhole" as there ain't no way that you just happened to type that in without looking specifically for me.
That's right, there's only one JuddHole, baby. Thank Dog.
So, if you know who I am, how the fuck did you get here? Drop me a comment or email me and tell me why you're so interested in what I do in the shitter at work.
I see some that are from my.yahoo.com and I figure it's one of those customizable home pages where you have your own links like "hick hockey players in skirts" and "monkeys in spandex flinging fishheads."
Since I've found out how wildly popular I am (HAi), I've become consumed with my hits, people listing me as a favorite, and referring pages.
And by "consumed," I mean, "look at stats when I don't have clown porn sites open."
Seriously, it's nice to feel loved. Not "loved" like when I get home, get my shoes off and one of my gotard dogs starts licking my stank feet, but "loved" like you want to take your clothes off, slather yourself in Cherry Garcia ice cream and have me lick it off.
Not if you're a dude though, I mean, I'm not gay.
It'd have to be Peanut Butter Cup ice cream. Cherry is for fags.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I mooned Mel Gibson.
I've turned over a new leaf. No more screwing around at work (especially in the men's restroom). No more talking shit to, or about, other hockey players. No more saving cats. No more stealing buffaloes.
This diary will now be dedicated to the love that I've found with the Girl and the happiness we enjoy every second of every day.
Our hopes, our dreams, the beauty to be found in...
BWAhahahahahaa... ahhhhhhhh... man, I almost made it all the way through that.
Seriously though, thanks for all of your kind words of congratulations and for your uninhibited, unwanted sexual advice.
This'll be my last sappy update on the engagement, then I'll write about all that fun wedding shit. No. Actually I won't. I still have to tell you about the time I mooned Mel Gibson. Later.
After I proposed and she was done leaking, the Girl called her father, the Caveman, got his voicemail and left a very brief message, "you gave him your fucking blessing?!?"
She's classy like that.
He called back a little later:
Girl: What were you thinking, giving him your blessing?
Caveman: Well, when we came over, you never had any bruises or anything, so I figured he's alright.
Girl: Well, the wonders of modern make-up, you know?
Caveman: Well... (pause) Whatever works.
Again. Classy.
The time I mooned Mel Gibson
I was about 15, working on with my adopted brother, Norty, on his cousin's ranch in a peaceful valley in Speckonthemap, Montana, and bigshot Mel got tired of wiping his ass with 100-dollar bills so he decided to use them to buy up some land. He came through our valley and bought up a bunch of ranches that were borderline struggling.
He seemed cool, though. He threw a couple big parties for all the folks whose land he now owns, and didn't really fire anybody or ask them to make any huge changes.
Except move the junk pile.
The junk pile was a mishmash of old, rusted farm equipment, used oil drums, ore carts, about 400 railroad ties, and it needed to be across the property lines (about a mile).
Guess who got to move it?
Yep, with a ratty old tractor, circa 1963, and a flat-bed trailer that lost parts every time it moved over 50 feet.
The junk pile was on top of the valley side on "the flats," named so because they're a hot, dry, desert wasteland... and 'cause they're flat.
We were about 2 weeks and halfway through moving all this shit and our boss, Norty's cousin, tells us that our new "boss" will be bringing us our water that day (while boss makes his rounds, he brings us fresh, cold water). Not knowing who this was, we figured we'd just look for the "boss" pickup, an old, white Ford.
Climbing the stack of railroad ties, stacking and wrapping chain in the 90-degree heat can work up a guy's thirst, so we were eager to meet our new boss and gratefully bathe our nasty, sweaty selves in his water.
An hour passed after we were supposed to get our water, and we were mildly put off, but the guy still meant more to us than Jesus.
Another hour and we were pissed.
Then we see the Ford driving on the main road.
Salvation.
Then we see the truck miss the turn for the junk pile and keep on going.
Frustration.
We figured he'd get us on the way back.
The Ford comes by again.
Salvation?
And keeps going.
Wannakicknewbossass-ation.
The Ford comes by two more times. Salvation, asskickation, salvation, beat-about-the-head-with-a-lug-wrench-ation.
We're waving for the fucker to come over, but he must not be seeing us. He's close enough, but somehow he's not seeing us. Fuckin A.
Thirst has addled my teenage brain enough to where I'm going to take drastic measures.
I climbed the stack of railroad ties (about 20 feet tall) and, not having a distress flag or bring-us-our-fucking-water-gun, I drop trow and wiggle my ass at the passing truck. THEN, the head in the truck seemed to snap over at us and stare.
But, the truck still did not stop.
End of day, we're tired, smelly, dirty, and thirsty as fuck. We get back to the ranch house, where we'd normally just pick up the car and go home, and spend 10 minutes each under the water pump, bathing like we're being baptized by Christ himself. Still pissed, we figure we're going to go inside and see what the hell was up with our no-water-bringin-assmonkey boss.
The ranch wife allows no boots in the house, shit, she barely allows nasty dirt-kids like us in, but we're pissed. I do notice, though, that there's a nice pair of boots there that have some kind of funky wedge inside them. I look closer.
Lifts? Who the fuck wears lifts in their boots?
Ranchwife: Hey boys, how was your day?
Us: grumble... mutter... grumble grumble.
Ranchwife: Oh, this is Mel, your new "boss" (gestures towards tiny, little guy with wavy-movie-star hair).
NoWaterForYou Gibson (in Australian): Noice tah meet yah, fellas (his accent's not that bad, but it's way funnier this way).
Knowing we can't go and kick the shit out of the star of Lethal Weapon, we just stare at him.
And marvel at how short he is.
I'm only 15 and I want to pat him on his head 'cause he's so short and cute.
He leaves and Ranchwife tells us that he forgot he was supposed to bring us water. We grudgingly forgave him. Mostly because he's our favorite movie star, he never mentioned getting mooned, and he's three and a half feet tall.
We saw him a couple more times over the next couple years and he turned out to be a really cool guy (and not so tiny and cute with his lifty-boots on).
He sold the ranches eventually, and he never mentioned being subjected to seeing my ass and sack dangling in the summer heat.
I can't say as I blame him.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.The Engagement: Part II
The Engagement: Part II
I had the ring and I had it all planned out. Her birthday was coming up and I thought that'd be a great way to get engaged and avoid having to get a REAL present. Hey, two birds with one stone.
I always get her Victoria's Secret underwear, an assload of it (pun intended, o' ye of the thong-attired), so this year, I got her several pair, plus a couple smaller gifts, wrapped them individually, and planted them around the house, one for each room. Then, I made little notes for each that had a hint to where the next present was as well as what it may be and told her there was something behind every door (just to keep her on her toes). Then, I took a bunch of cardboard and made a dishwasher-sized box in the basement. I put a door on it, wrapped it, and made sure I could climb in and out of it (I'd be IN the box you see... yeah, sorry, you probably saw that).
My little brother is a precocious 7 and he's been working on his magic tricks. My slight-of-hand is only marginally better than his, and he's 7. But, I got to thinking and figured what a great trick it'd be to actually get her a chicken ring, put it in the li'l white box, and "pull" the actual diamond ring out of one of the dogs' ears. Corny, I know this. But, I thought it'd be funny as hell to see her face when she gets the crappy, vending-machine ring out of the box and then I chuck it over my shoulder.
She gets home from work and I'm ready. I hide in the box and listen to hear walking around upstairs, going room to room, giggling and opening doors. I'm waiting, breathless with anticipation. That, and it's hard to breathe in that box (I didn't make any airholes).
She gets downstairs, she approaches the box, reads the note on it ("Open slowly... BIG surprise!"), and opens the lid... about an inch, then closes it. She heads to the laundry room.
Crap, I forgot that I told her there was something behind every door, and then I went and left the laundry room door closed so I could hear her car over the dryer.
She checks the laundry room, finds nothing, then comes back and, slowly, tentatively, opens the box.
Surprise! Judd on one knee, in his kilt.
She breaks out into a big smile and I grab her hand. She laughs and tries to help me up. I say, "hang on, I've got something to ask you."
Smile fades. Eyes moisten. Look on her face says getupgetupgetupwhyisn'thegettingupgetupgetup.
"Girl, I love you..." (I didn't really say "Girl", I used her name... "Butthead").
She starts leaking out of her eyes and nodding.
"...I want you to..."
Mild blubbering, "I will, I wi..."
"Shuddup for a sec, I'm not finished yet." Clear throat. "I want you to be with me always."
Still nodding, still leaking.
"Will you marry me?"
Full on leaking of eyes. "OF COURSE, I'll marry you!"
I open the li'l white box, take out the ring. She's leaking so bad she doesn't even appear to notice that it's a crappy vending-machine ring in a nice white box.
Shit, she's not even looking at the ring, she's staring lovingly into my eyes while I'm trying to pull off this trick.
I hold up the ring in front of her eyes, then I look at it and say, "Shit, this ring sucks, this'll never work," and I chuck it over my shoulder.
She glances for a millisecond at the ring, then goes back to my face with the same smile and loving look.
Oh man, this trick is going to suck.
I "pull" the ring from the dog's ear anyway ('cause one of the dogs is right there as I knew they would be, moocher).
"THIS ring'll work," I say proudly.
Still not even looking at the ring.
She gives it a look when I get it on her finger, but, by now, she's kind of sobbing and wiping her face, "It's booful."
She pulls me to my feet and we hug. It's very romantic. But, I can't help but be thinking, "how good can it be that she won't stop crying and wouldn't look at the ring?"
Course, she really didn't care about the ring, and told me later she would've married me if I'd had a ring made out of belly-button lint, and that she was crying because she was so happy.
Damn, I could've saved some cash.
But, the diamond did make her happy and it made the familial clucking and pecking stop.
As powerful as it is, I doubt belly-button lint could've done that.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.The Engagement: Part I
The Girl and I grew up together in a tiny, tiny Montana town. This is, by no means, to imply that we were High School sweethearts, or any other cliché. I used to beat her up because her brother, Shithead, got in trouble because he did it so often.
He also used to try and pimp the Girl out. At the low, low, bargain price of 5 bucks a weekend. Great deal. She never went for it, but a couple of us paid.
His favorite quote, "I love making that li'l bitch cry." Seriously, he's really warm, compassionate, and caring. Like when he drinks all the beer, screams obscenities at your neighbors, and then pisses on your feet.
Shithead and I became best friends in high school after we discovered our similar tastes in beer, Blues Brothers, and exposing ourselves to cheerleaders. Usually in that order. Good times.
The Girl and I have been through a few years of off and on, more off than on, but we've both grown and decided that we didn't want to be with anyone else. Ever.
Sounds simple, right? Nope. Now you got everybody in the families clucking around and pecking at me.
"When you getting married?"
"Have you looked at rings?"
My replies, "yes" and "yes, they're outrageously fucking expensive, she's getting the chicken ring."
The Girl told me, when we were first falling in love about 8 years ago, that she didn't want diamond rings or 18 carat gold. She wanted a ring out of a vending machine.
Cool.
Oh, not just any vending machine though. It had to be one of those giant chickens in front of the supermarket or Wal-Mart. It had to take quarters only and it had to cluck when it shat your "egg" out.
Jeezus. She's thought about this.
We broke up, then got back together, kind of, then broke up again. Then got back together for keeps. Now, it's ring time.
So the pecking and clucking from the families (and her friends) started to stick with me. Shit, how am I going to get one of those goddamed chicken-rings? This may actually end up being a bigger pain in the ass than a fricking diamond.
I made the mistake of bringing it up to her one day by saying how happy I was that I could save a bunch of money on a rock and we could get engaged with 50 cents.
She gets this look. Then she drops it on me.
"Honey, I want a diamond."
You're fucking kidding me.
"How ‘bout a Cubic Z? They look just like diamonds, honey, and anybody who notices it ain't real shouldn't have their head that damn close to your hand."
Another look.
Christ.
I'd even found a goddamed chicken-machine too. I'd done some research online, made some calls and found one of them clucking fuckers a half hour away. Shit.
A friend hooked me up though, and I made that insanely curious purchase (I'm being VERY diplomatic about the whole deal, since it's over and done with and I can't hack on my friends any more for spending a month's salary on something that can't be eaten, driven, or used to stop pucks).
I wanted to be traditional though, so I called her parents. I get Caveman on the line.
Caveman: Been fishing lately?
Me: No, listen... I... uh... I would have preferred to do this in person, but I'd... uh... like to ask you for your permission to marry your daughter."
Pause.
Caveman: Okay... you know where I can get any chickens?
(Me slapping my own forehead)
This man used to threaten me in High School when me and Shithead used his fishing tackle. He called me a wussy in the 10th grade when I couldn't lift the backend of my pickup off the jackstand, and we almost fought in his driveway. He picked me and Shithead up at the Sheriff's office on 4 separate occasions. ALL for underage drinking (and various forms of nudity, also illegal by the way).
Now, he doesn't care if I marry his little girl. No, he wants chickens because his mom needs something to take care of around the cabin.
I got her mom on the phone and she was very sweet, and even got a little weepy. THAT was the reaction I was hoping for. Christ, I should've just had him hand her the phone and then she could ask him for me.
We rented Secondhand Lions last night and, while it was pretty corny at times, it was alright. The thing that stuck with me and the Girl though, was that Caveman isn't too far off from the shotgun-across-the-lap, importing-his-own-big-game-animals, drunken-brawling-with-four-youths days. Seriously, the guy steals fucking buffaloes for chrissake.
More tomorrow.