The saga of the pussy goalie.
First off, I'm not a tough guy. Oh sure, I talk like I'm all tough and I shoot my mouth off like a champ when I'm on the ice, safely hidden behind my much-tougher-than-me defensemen, but, when it comes down to it, I'm a total pussy.
The only hockey \"fight\" I've ever been in was in '97, my first year in Denver. I was filling in for a guy I knew in an \"A\" league game at a new rink. He'd mentioned that his team wasn't very well liked because they were so good. What he failed to mention was that they were playing against some ex-pro guys that night, and that they were only ever considered \"pro\" hockey players because they got paid to beat people up, not for any semblance of hockey ability.
The game got out of hand, tempers started to flare, and I joined in with my incredibly brilliant witticisms like, \"Ha, you just got fuckin' CLOWNED on!\" when one of their goons was skating to the penalty box. He was not pleased and turned to express his displeasure to me in a most personal manner.
As he was coming at me, I literally saw his face turn several shades darker red and smoke come from his ears. I would've sworn lasers shot from his eyes, immobilizing me, but witnesses confirmed later that nothing was emitted from his eyes so much as from my bladder.
In one deft move, he managed to knock my goalie mask off and hit me, open-handed, on the side of the head, knocking me almost unconscious. I can feel foolish and humble now, but at the time, my only thought was one of self-preservation. I did the only thing that I thought would keep me alive, I \"turtled.\"
I'm sure that there is a myriad of ways that I can defend my actions and describe them while still managing to sound tough or cool.
Unfortunately, I'm not only unable to muster that kind of writing ability, it just ain't true.
Truth is: I curled up in a fetal position, gloves over my head and face and screamed like a little girl engulfed in flames, \"Not in the face! REFFFFFFFFF! Get 'im offa meeeeee!\" while he drug me around the ice by my jersey and rained punches onto my back and shoulders. I was eventually saved by the referees and some teammates.
My dignity was not.
Needless to say, I was never asked to play in that league again.
I'd like to think that I've mellowed in my more recent years, and no longer feel the compunction to shoot my fool mouth off (as much). I'd also like to believe that I'm a more mature, pragmatic goalie and would be able to defend myself much better than I had previously.
Please, for the love of all that's sugar-coated, let me believe this and stop calling me a pussy.
I mentioned in previous entries that my back has been hurting, but Super-Fly-Hulk-Rock-WWF-Chiro guy has been climbing the turnbuckle of his office and delivering me from pain with his flying-elbow-drops-of-doom all week, and he'd given me clearance to play.
Tuesday night's Roller Hockey game was fun for my team as we were missing some players and those that were there got to play out of position (offensemen now play defense and vice versa). This was fine with me as I got to see more shots than usual against a sub-par opponent. This also meant that I wasn't necessarily receiving the protection that I normally would with my two hulking meathead defensemen, Dozer and Moose (their actual nicknames).
As the other team was being held scoreless and their frustrations were rising, they took to coming at the net with a little more intensity than normal. There was no real deterrent in doing so (see \"hulking meatheads\") so they kept it up with a rising intensity until one of them actually shot the puck at me, waited until I'd made the save, and then proceeded into my head while leading with his elbows.
This wasn't pleasant.
I tried to tell this gentleman that I didn't appreciate what he had done, but I couldn't see him through all the little blinky objects in my vision, nor could I talk as my jaw wasn't able to move.
Super.
He got a penalty, I shook my head a few times and things cleared up. I didn't see the whole encounter, so I wasn't that upset by it, it could've been an accident, no problem. I'll keep making excuses for him in hopes that he won't do it again and I won't be asked to defend myself again.
Then another one of them does it.
I know my defenseman \"helped\" the guy into me, but he made absolutely no effort to slow down, or avoid smashing headlong into me.
For those of you that aren't familiar with the finer points of hockey, this is a big no-no. If you're going to go around smashing into the other team's goalie, expect swift and brutal retribution.
Unless said goalie's hulking meatheads are on the bench.
Fuck.
I'm on my ass head propped up against the left post, and this asshole is straddling me still digging for the puck. My \"defenseman\" (see out-of-position-pussyass-goal-scorer) is tugging on the guys stick, but offering no real help. I tell Asshole firmly, but politely to get the fuck off of me. He holds his hands out in a no-harm-done kind of way. Then, as he's getting up, hits me in the face. Not hard, but not gently. I begin reaching and swinging at him like your 4 year-old little sister as he fends me off, climbs off and skates away, smirking.
I'm still cool though, we're winning 2-0, so I'll let it slide. I felt better after hearing that my hulking meatheads were slathering like rabid rottweillers on the bench. They wanted to fucking kill that guy. It is so nice to feel loved. They don't seem to care that I'm a pussy.
We won the game and no one got hurt. We were a little pissed, but no harm was done, and I knew that if they had to, my meatheads would've rent that jackass limb from limb if he'd have done me any harm.
I went home with a sore-back, comfortable with my pussi-ness.
Let me go completely off on a tangent here and tell you a few things about Tiger Balm. It's like Icy Hot or Ben Gay in that it smells funny and is good for loosening up sore muscles. Tiger Balm packs a little more whallop though, as it's got Super-Asian-Ninja Herbs in it or something. It also has a more delayed effect because it's all-natural. I'd been smearing it on my back about an hour before the game started and, since I couldn't quite feel it right away, I put a lot on. A LOT.
I then put my hockey equipment on and I spent some extra time \"situating myself\" while putting my jock on.
Oh, I should mention here that I forgot to wash my hands after applying copious amounts of the \"burning grease\" to my back.
Surely, you see this coming.
Yep, I unknowingly, got the burningest, Asian-Ninja-Herbiest, muscle-stabbing-fieriest-ointment-that-crazy-Chinamen-ever-exported, all over my balls.
The delayed effect of the herb prevented me from knowing this right away though.
Fast forward to the second period of the game and something isn't quite right. My back hasn't even given me a hint of trouble, so I'm quite thankful for the Tiger Balm, but something is going on in my jock that has me wondering quite seriously if a nest of Black Widows has picked my jock for their honeymoon, child-rearing, husband-eating days.
At the intermission, I made the unfortunate mistake of checking to see what was wrong, any guy would have, and exposed my balls to the open air.
Anyone who's ever messed around with \"Hot Love Oils\" or anything similar knows the following effect. You apply the \"Love Oil\" and then blow on it, and it heats up rather drastically. Multiply this effect about 17 times, throw in some piercing-white-hot sewing needles, a few Black Widow spiders, and apply all that directly to your balls.
This is what was happening in my jock in the middle of my hockey game.
I'm hopping around like there literally ARE spiders on my nuts and my team is wondering what the their goalie had possibly consumed to cause such wonderful hallucenations.
Between getting run over twice the previous night (drawing undue attention to my pussi-ness), and having to play with a 60-minute game with a ball-sac-o-fire, I was definitely feeling a little feisty to say the least.
As much protection as I have with my Tuesday team, my Wednesday ice hockey team is inversely proportional. They are mostly Colorado natives who are new to hockey and they haven't quite grasped such concepts as \"kill anyone who looks at your goalie funny.\"
A weak shot from 30 feet out hits the side of the net and rests between my skate and the net. It's not really \"covered\" but the ref is sure to blow his whistle soon, so I just hold my skate there and cover the puck with my stick a little. Then I hear it...
*shick* *shick* *shick* BAM!
This Fuckstick takes 3 strides and slams into me. My head is down, staring at the puck, the play is milliseconds from being blown dead, and he fucking RAMS me.
Since I can only see the legs of those around me, I start counting white socks (my team) and black socks (Fuckstick) in an effort to see which of my defensemen MUST have shoved this guy into me as I couldn't fathom why he would possibly slam into me without even pretending that he was going after the puck. That would just be plain wrong and I couldn't see it happening that way.
Interesting, it DOES appear to have happened that way as none of my defensemen are near him. I don't quite have my shit together enough to figure it all out, but I'm hoping I can count on my other set of hulking meatheads to stick up for their goalie and kick this guy's ass.
Oops.
The two of them gather around Fuckstick and ask him, terribly politely, what he thinks he's doing, running their goalie like that.
His chubby, pug-nosed, 21 year-old face smirks through his face-cage and he says quietly but cockily, \"what are you gonna do about it?\"
I. Fucking. Snapped.
I am sputtering, \"Wha.. What am I gonna... wha..\" and spitting as I scream, \"I'm gonna stomp a fucking MUDHOLE in you is what I'm gonna...\" I start towards him as I throw off my blocking glove and starting pulling off my catching glove while I'm making the decision in my head that I'll need both hands to get his head to come free from his neck.
See, I told you I'm more pragmatic now.
The referees have ahold of me at this point, and it literally takes both of them plus 3 of my teammates to keep me from advancing towards the no-longer-smirking Fuckstick.
After I settle down, a ref explains that the kid is just an asshole and has been giving him a hard time all night. I explain that I'm fine with that, but Fuckstick asked me what was going to be done, and I was going to show him by tearing his fucking head from his body. I was told that this would be unacceptable under the league rules and he would do all that he could to prevent me from doing so including throwing me out of the game.
We agreed to disagree.
The game progresses to our 4-2 lead with about 3 minutes left. Fuckstick has been wisely sitting on the bench since our altercation, but now he finds the cajones to come back on the ice.
The puck comes down by my net once again, but now I'm watching for him and, when he skates by my net, I get my stick on both his skates and send him flying ass-over-teakettle. Once he hits, I slide on the ice, on my knees, up next to him and remind him that the next time he wants to take a run at me, I'd appreciate it if he'd would do it when my head wasn't down. Then I wacked him in the head.
He gets up and we stand nose to nose. I'm a pretty big guy (6'2\") and he's even bigger than me. He smirks and, once again says, \"What're you gonna do about it?\"
Yeah.
Fucking.
Snapped.
Again, 2 refs and 3 teammates subdued me as I made the decision that decapitation was too good for this absolute-walking-nightmare FUCK of a human being. I was going to rip his facial features off one by one. I'd even planned at starting with his nose as I got a hold of his jersey and was jerking him towards me. The 5 other people involved eventually got us separated again and the refs threw our captain in the box to serve his frothing, spitting, rather upset goalie's penalties.
2 minutes left, the other team pulls their goalie, so they have two more guys on the ice than we do and they're still down by two goals. They're coming at us hard.
Guess who comes back into my crease.
I gotta hand it to this kid, he's ballsy as hell. Or stupid as hell. Hmm, debatable.
I'm still holding on to my idea of ripping his nose off but I'm a little hindered by the fact that they are getting shot after shot at the net and I have to keep making save after save in order for us to keep our lead.
He's parked in front of the crease like it's his second apartment and I'm punching him in the back of the head whenever I can reach him, but he's just getting back up, straightening his helmet and staying there.
I strongly considered giving him a nasty cup-check:
![\"Eddie](\"images/belfour.jpg\")
But I still can't do that to another guy unless he's threatening me with imminent harm. I just can't.
I know, I know.
Pussy.
We get the puck out of our zone and I hook Fuckstick around the arm to spin him towards me. He turns and I say, \"you take that fucking cage off your head, I'll take off my mask, and let's fucking GO, right now! You asked what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna give you a fucking EDUCATION, you little cunt!\"
He smirks for a second, not moving at all, until he sees me drop one glove, then drop the other. When he sees the seriousness of my demeanor as well as the white-hot rage in my eyes, the smirking abruptly stops and he starts to back away. I don't want to Bertuzzi him (see below), but I am so ready to throw down with this prick that I'm literally spitting words like, \"FUCK\" and \"ASSHOLE,\" without knowing it.
![\"Bert's](\"images/cheapasshit.jpg\")
I get ahold of his jersey, pull him to face me again and smack him in the face.
This turns out not to be a good idea as he's wearing a full-coverage face mask and I'm now bare-handed.
Imagine your bare fist making full force contact with this:
![\"Hurts](\"images/fullface.jpg\")
Yeah, it hurt.
Being the newly pragmatic goalie that I am, I figure there's got to be another way to do this. So I grab him by his facemask and start to work on the snaps that are holding it on. Again with the pragmatism (loving that word) I take my own helmet off as I figure it should only be fair that he gets a shot at me while I'm tearing his ears off with the vise-like grip of my thumb and forefinger.
Apparently though, my grip is not vise-like enough as I couldn't get his snaps undone before the refs, 2 teammates, and 2 opposing players all joined in, one by one, to pull me off of him.
Honestly, pragmatic or not, I must have tuned out some of the finer details of our altercation though as I was told later that while I was spitting, sputtering, screaming, raining punches on his helmet, and being restrained by 5 people, Fuckstick could be faintly heard screaming a certain phrase...
\"Not my face! REFFFFFFFFF! Get 'im offa meeeeee!\"
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.So long Dusty, I'll be a millionaire soon with or without your help.
So, the Porcine one is closing up the Diaryland shop. Alas, end of an era, and all that sad shit.
Truth is, he's getting paid to write funny shit now, instead of just doing it for the dings that run rampant on his comments page. While I always, always wish him nothing but the best (despite what I wrote in his guestbook about flambe-ing his testicles - that was all out of love), I find myself turning several shades of envious mauve. It may be the giant burrito I had for lunch, it may be that I would fucking love to get paid to type my incessant ramblings on my greasy keyboard. Who wouldn't?
Problems arise with this dream o' mine though. A) I have the proportionate amount of talent to Pork as an elephant to a caterpillar's dick, and 2) I can't think of a journalistic entity on this planet that could possibly have readers that are interested in elephants and/or caterpillar genitalia.
While I can't do much about "A" and I have no ambition to, I figure I can bypass "2."
I've decided to write books. Wildly successful books, no less.
They may be a little short (a couple pages), but bear with me.
First one, "JuddHole's Guide To A Successful Diet."
It goes like this, "Eat less shit and get off your incredibly fucking lazy ass.
Calories in has to be less than calories out, you worthless, lardass, shitbag."
Like I said, it's pretty short, but I bet if I throw in some before and after pictures, I'll sell millions. Everybody knows diet books sell like crazy. I'll put something about "low-carb" on the cover, and BAM, I'm hot.
Next book, "A Guy's Guide To One-Night Stands."
\"Lesson 1: Skip 'em.
Get a Playboy, a bottle of Lubriderm, and a six-pack of beer. Drink the beer and... well... let the evening take its course.
Sure it's harder to brag to your buddies about your score, but there's a lot less to clean up.\"
This one may not sell as many copies, but it'll be followed up by \"A Guy's Guide To Oinking Your Doink,\" which will be a must have for all single guys. Plus, lots and lots of pictures of all the hot chicks you could be having, but instead are schlobbin' your knob.
Last one will be, \"How To Stink Like Shoe Without Anyone Really Knowing.\"
I'm not sure what exactly will reside in that one, but it'll be a well-rounded conglomeration of gaseous emissioning and shower skipping. Probably no pictures, but there will be diagrams and blueprints in the \"How to Rip Ass in Coworkers Cube\" section.
Wait, I've got it. A sure-fire money-maker. A book that is all about me, passing on my vast wisdom to the masses. Everything from rescuing cats and drinking beer to proper mooning techniques and how not to shit yourself while drunk.
I'd probably read it, but I'm simple like that.
Good luck, WhiteMeat Disaster, and wish me luck with my book on how to be the toughest fucker in the room while wearing a skirt.
Our wireless at home has been slow lately and, while the Girl thinks it's because of the spyware-hijacking-bullshit that briefly took over our computer because I was looking at clown porn again, I disagreed and checked with our ISP. They were incredibly helpful and I plan on giving this guy very positive feedback once our service is back up.
----- Original Message -----
From: Eric HelperGuy
To: juddhole@diaryland.com
Sent: Tuesday, July 13, 2004 9:40 AM
Subject: Re: Slow Connection Speed
JuddHole,
We tested the area around you for any current changes in our network and found that one of our PTRs is down. This PTR is located at the 4900 block, close to the intersection of XXXXX and XXXXX. A trouble ticket to fix this PTR has been created and it should be fixed as soon as possible. (Most likely the end of this week) If you have any further questions please don't hesitate to email me or call us.
Sincerely,
Eric HelperGuy
WirelessExceptForPorn Inc.
-----Original Message-----
From: JuddHole [mailto:juddhole@diaryland.com]
Sent: Tuesday, July 13, 2004 9:42 AM
To: Eric HelperGuy
Subject: Re: Slow Connection Speed
Right... the ummm... PTR... Sounds good. Yeah, get that sucker fixed and stuff.
Shit man, no wonder, that PTR hooyah is the one right by my house. I guess I'm just glad that it's not the fact that I picked up a bunch of spyware hijackers and shit while I was... um... perusing the internet and doing my banking. I wasn't on bignastytittiewhores.com. Honestly, I wasn't. You guys can't check that can you?
Seriously, I gotta wait all week to start downloading my porn... uh... BANK stuff again?
JuddHole
----- Original Message -----
From: Eric HelperGuy
To: JuddHole
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2004 11:34 AM
Subject: RE: Slow Connection Speed
JuddHole,
The radio that was down by your address has just been fixed.
Sincerely,
Eric HelperGuy
WirelessExceptForPorn Inc.
-----Original Message-----
From: JuddHole [mailto:juddhole@diaryland.com]
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2004 11:34 AM
To: Eric HelperGuy
Subject: Re: Slow Connection Speed
SWEET! Big Nasty Titties... um... I mean, BANKING stuff here I come!
It'll all be mine, Mine, I tell you, MINE!
JuddHole
----- Original Message -----
From: Eric HelperGuy
To: JuddHole
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2004 2:35 PM
Subject: RE: Slow Connection Speed
JuddHole,
I have some bad news for you, your browsing might be delayed until Friday. The Pole Top Radio that was fixed went down again as they were programming it. There appear to bee some power issues which is what killed it twice now. Since the Electric company now needs to get involved in fixing this it will not be as fast as we thought it would be. Sorry for the Delays.
Sincerely,
Eric HelperGuy
WirelessExceptForPorn Inc.
-----Original Message-----
From: JuddHole [mailto:juddhole@diaryland.com]
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2004 2:46 AM
To: Eric HelperGuy
Subject: Re: Slow Connection Speed
Dude, poles \"go down.\"
I understand.
As long as it's not \"down\" because of my constant viewing of stuff \"going down on poles,\" then we're cool. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Nah-meen?
If I'm in desperate need of mad amounts of porn, I'll pack up the laptop and drive to a few blocks up the street. You don't think my neighbors to the North will mind me parked in front of their house while I stare transfixed at the laptop, giggle fiendishly, and masturbate furiously, do you?
Crap, my fiance might, though. Shit, she's suspicious if the conditioner bottle is out on the side of the tub for too long.
I know, I'll tell her I'm out \"getting milk.\"
Think that'll fly?
JuddHole
----- Original Message -----
From: Eric HelperGuy
To: JuddHole
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2004 2:35 PM
Subject: RE: Slow Connection Speed
JuddHole,
The PTR will be fixed soon. You will have full service by COB Friday. You should still have intermittent service until then, but it's possible that there may be areas of better reception a few blocks north of your location.
Sincerely,
Eric HelperGuy
WirelessExceptForPorn Inc.
Not only did he not succumb to my adolescent attempts to get him into jerkin' talk, but he gave me advice on how best to get my yank on.
Now that's service.
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.Gas is apparently flammable, and my back pays for my sins.
I was lounging in my backyard the other afternoon and noticed that Asshead was vigorously licking her paws in an unusual way. "Unusual" meaning that she was very tentative and gentle about it. Due to her aggressive demeanor (she's a mean bitch, "bitch" being linguistically correct) she tends to lick, bite, and chew on everything with a certain amount of zealousness, so when she's tender and tentative, I know something is wrong.
I check out her front paws (after she's done biting my hands in an attempt to fend me off) and find that she's covered, fucking COVERED, in ants.
Excellent. She needed to ratchet her bitchiness factor up just one more notch. Nothing like a hundred, stinging, crawling reasons for her to act like a complete shit.
After I pinned her down and got them off her, I vowed vengence upon those little colonious bastards. I looked and looked for any manner of poisons that may have been left in the garage from the previous owner. I know we hadn't bought any, and the only thing I could find, that I could pour down the little antholes and could possibly be toxic to them, was gasoline.
It worked like a charm on those that were unlucky enough to be around the actual hole but eventually the call went out and more of them swarmed out to claim the bodies of their fallen comrades (no doubt to give them heroic funeral services and not just to eat their martyred corpses).
This is when I realized I had to play a little dirty. I also realized that I hadn't partaken in the 4th of July celebration as every manly man should, by blowing shit up.
I love movies, but a lot of the shit that happens in movies doesn't ever work the same way in real life, like Spider-man-Jackie-Chan-wall-climbing, but I learned that gasoline does indeed go "WHOOOOMPF!" when a flame is touched to it, even on plain dirt. I know I did this kind of shit all the time on the ranch in Montana, but that was always with diesel, and I figured gasoline would be different. I'm not sure why. Sometimes I think I may be kind of dumb.
While the WHOOOMPFing took care of most of the ants, it also almost took care of most of my eyebrows as well. As dumb as I am, I still thought to pull my head out of the way before igniting. A smart move, for certain. A smarter move would've been to have the hose handy to extinguish the neighboring bushes and grass after the WHOOOMPFing, but I suppose an even smarter move would've been not to play with fucking matches at all.
I got the sprinkler off of the hose in time to douse the ever-growing flames, but not in time to avoid notice from some of my neighbors. They collectively had very, very concerned looks on their faces, but I suppose it could've been because of my frantic scrambling or the 5-foot wall of flame. Or both, I guess.
I did my best to calm their fears, as I sprayed water on the crispy ants and crispier shrub branches, by saluting the flame and shouting, "Happy Birthday America!"
I'm not sure it worked because they watched me like a bag-carrying muslim in an airport the whole rest of the day.
To further add to my increasing emasculation, the Girl and the Mom both beat me while golfing Saturday.
I had an excuse though. I broke myself.
I don't mean I'm broke with no cash, nor do I mean I broke my clubs or anything like that.
I mean I broke. My. Self.
My back to be specific.
It got stiffer and stiffer on the last couple holes (pausing here for uncontrollable-Junior-High-giggling fit) and it finally gave out on my last shot on the 9th hole. I went to flick my ball onto a tuft of grass to give myself a better leave, the world then went red, then black, and I opened my eyes to see that I was on one knee with my 9-iron bending almost in half.
I fully understand that this may have been God's way of punishing me for trying to "cheat" at golf, but it could've just as easily been for the time I flashed my kilt at that wedding (I went "regimental" at the time too).
I figured that God already got me for that one when my back did the same shit during a hockey game about 6 months ago.
We were playing a chump team so I didn't warm up much, and I didn't see hardly any shots during the game. Later in the game, I went to shoot the puck around behind the net, the world changed colors, and I woke up with both teams wondering if I was dead. I knew I wasn't but I was curious as to why I couldn't seem to move.
Bless those sweaty, stinky cementheads, though, as they got me up and to the lockerroom, dressed, and home where I spent the next 3 days flat on my back not moving even a little bit.
I learned lots of things from this experience.
I learned that peeing while someone else holds your fella is only fun if you're not worrying about screaming with pain the entire time.
I learned that the whole reason you feel five shades of fuckered up after 9 beers and two Vic0din is because getting up and moving around turns into kind of a fun game, and that, if you never get up and move around, you feel virtually nothing. I tried my best to have a Happy Fucking New Year, but all I got was bloated and bored.
I learned that there are few things funnier than two grown men arguing over who is going to strip their goalie down to his all-natural self. The game was over as the other team accused me of faking the injury and had gotten so pissed that they left the ice (they were getting an ass-kicking anyway), so my teammates were there to haul me into the lockerroom and start taking off all of my equipment so I could fit in a car. They'd gotten me down to my jock and then began bickering like 3rd graders at each other:
"Dude, just pull the strap and it'll come off."
"I'm not 'pullin his strap'! You do it."
"I'm not touchin' his fuckin' jock, you're going to have to do it."
"Shit man, I just got out of the shower, I'll have to go back in there if I touch that nasty thing. You do it."
"YOU do it!"
"NO, YOU do it!"
The fact that I was in the most intense pain of my entire life still couldn't keep me from giggling at that shit.
I apparently had paid for my kilt-lifting sins for the most part though, as this last back escapade wasn't as bad. I still spent the day on the couch feeling sorry for myself and not moving, but I'm better now and am again ready for the two women I love most to give me another round of getting my balls stepped on... uh... I mean golfing.
To pour a heaping spoonful of Morton's into the open wound, I checked the score card and I was losing by 5 stokes even before I received my smiting. Yeah, I know. I'm a pussy.
The reason I'm feeling better is because I have a kickasswickedcool chiropractor. I used to play hockey with this guy and he's the shit. His only downfall is that he's used to working on little old lady's necks and hips 'n shit, and not big, dumb, goalie's backs.
He knows his shit and he explains things very well while giving me my "adjustments" though. I say, "adjustments" as they tend to look more like a WWF match instead of him fixing my back.
I'm a big guy, and in order to get my back and neck to pop, he has to kind of situate me, brace me up on the table, and then jump on me.
If he was wearing purple tights and screaming, "YARRR!" we could sell tickets. Hell, just the fact that his quiet, scholarly demeanor is shattered by his mad jumping and grunting would be worth the price of admission.
I also occasionally scream like a little girl when he lands on me too. Just to keep him on his toes.
It's some funny, scary shit, but the Hulk-Hogan-Super-Flying-Elbow-Drop does the trick like nothing else, and he tells me I can not only play hockey this week, but participate in the Company Golf Tournament too.
For my back's sake, I'm going to try not to cheat. I figure I won't have to as long as I'm not playing with the Girl and the Mom as they seem to be the only ones intent on handing me a big plate of nutstompery while golfing.
Jeezus Fuck, I just got a notification email that Dusty just wrote an entry about back pain too.
Must be something in the diary-air.
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.Live life to the fullest, even the stinky parts.
I took another 2.5 hour lunch today, but not for fun stuff like miniature golf and throwing stuff at cars passing on the highway. A good friend of mine, an old co-worker actually, emailed and told me that we should get together for another old co-worker's last day at my old company, PissFuckHellDamn Inc. Plus he had something on his mind and would like to talk.
Uh-oh.
Phrases like that from a guy friend typically run along the lines of "I'm in love with/slept with/dismembered your girlfriend," "I'm secretly in love with you and always have been," or "I'm divorcing the only chick I've ever been with that you liked."
Turns out that his new wife just miscarried their twins after 6 months of pregnancy.
Fuck.
You can probably tell by reading any of my entries that I can run a little emotional sometimes, and it usually leans toward the "angry" side of the spectrum.
I'm not angry now.
But... I... am... emotional.
This shit sucks.
My friend's not the most touchy-feely guy (I can be, but usually only do so when I'm trying to embarrass someone, I'm drunk, or both), but when he told me, I could almost feel what he and his wife have been going through. The grief, the loss, the adaptation, the adjustment to life.
I didn't have any answers. I had absolutely no interest in telling him something to make him feel better. I didn't want to sound even remotely optimistic because it wouldn't have been sincere. I had virtually nothing to say, because I didn't know what to say, other than what I felt.
I looked at him, took my sunglasses off so he could see my eyes, said, "Man... that sucks," and hugged him. He didn't expect it, and was kind of stiff, and tried to pull away after the "reasonable amount of time" as set by the Man Rulebook, but I held on to him for another minute. I was about to let him go when I felt him sniffle into my shoulder. Neither of us lost it, but he understood that I felt for him and it kind of sucked thinking of the possibility that he hadn't been hugged like that by the people that love him most. I know his family and most of his friends and I can't quite see them doing that.
I rarely encourage any actions by anyone who happens to read this diary, but I'm telling you now:
First chance you get, go to the ones you love the most and hug them. Not the half-hugs you get from your buddy's girlfriend/boyfriend, and not the man-to-man-golly-this-is-kind-of-awkward-stiff-head hug. No. Hug. Both arms wrapped around with your head touching theirs. Envelop them into you, giving every bit of yourself. Hug them for a while, and when it feels like you should let go...
Hug them some more.
Life is too fucking short to A) not tell those you love that you love them, and 2) feel even remotely hindered by social mores and standards.
Christ, look at ME.
I openly ridicule my office superiors, I cry during movies (Love, Actually got me last), and I look and smell like a 19th Century French Fur Trader.
And I hug my friends when they hurt.
Life isn't always great, but it's always, always worth living to the fullest.
Go. Live.
Done being sad and sappy, on to the STINKY front (Day 3 of Complete Lack of Cleanliness or Hygiene).
No hockey last night. Instead, 9-ball pool. I'm no shark, that's the Girl's area, but I'm not bad. I thought. Until I got my fucking ass handed to me.
By a giggly, bouncy, dingybatty chick. The kind of chick that converses with her friends in loud, loud voices for the simple reason that they wish to share everything about themselves with everyone in the bar.
BatDing: "Nice shot, ho-bag!"
BounceDing: "Hey, I'm not the one who's in love with my Doctor!"
BatDing: "Hey, he's gourgeous! And I'm not in love with him!"
Ladies, neither myself, nor all the men gathered at the bar, nor anyone privy to this conversation (everyone in the bar) give even 3 shades of a shit what you are talking about. If you want to get us interested in you, shut the fuck up. Kick some ass at pool, drink a beer with us, or pull your shirt up and smash your breastesses in our face.
What you're doing is annoying as fuck and only makes me want to grasp my pool cue between my legs (mimicking an enormous, pointy, decorative penis), take a big mouthful of beer, and spew it onto you while whacking you about the head and shoulders with my penis-cue.
And I hate to waste beer.
While absorbed in said ass-stomping and shaking my head at the fucktarded conversation, I smoked and drank beer.
And a did a shot (Red-Headed Slut).
And drank more beer.
And smoked some more.
And smoked and drank a lot more beer.
This got me a bit pissy and drunk, but no damage was done (by the penis-cue or otherwise), I'm self-disciplined like that.
We got home relatively early, so I didn't have to save time in my morning routine, but I am a scientist, and am still refusing to shower in the morning.
I've got one of my Super Hats on (thick and black-to hide things like sweat, dirt, and wayward tobacco spit), so it's fully able to handle the greasy hair.
I've stopped touching my balls as much, so problems with ball-stink have been minimized.
I don't go anywhere near my feet.
I'm not even going to talk about my ass.
The hands?
Yep. They still fucking stink.
Now, I've got the cigarette-beer-red-headed-slut smellin' hands, and they've got streaks of blue all over them.
The nicotine-smoke stank is handleable.
The beer and shot only made them kind of sticky.
So, I stick to things. Handleable.
The streaks come from the furious chalking of my cue I did last night in my futile attempt to stem the crashing tide of the Sea of Suckage that kept battering me into the white-sand shores of Suck Beach. Every time I thought I was riding the Suck wave out, another would hammer me back. Fucking Brutal.
I've decided that the beard has to go. It's not that I care that I can't grow decent looking facial hair, or that it looks like I'm mimicking that fucking thief Dilbert,or even that it itches so fucking bad. It's the simple fact that, while scratching the itchy matting on my face, my hands come dangerously close to my nose.
Not good.
My hands no longer smell like my hockey equipment, thank dog. That stench could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon, and I couldn't take it any longer. I've never fainted, but I came seriously close when I forgot about my handstink and rubbed my upper lip.
My legs shot forward into the walls of my cube, my head snapped back so hard my hat flew off, and I almost fell out of my chair as the seeping tendrils of a stench-worse-than-death assailed themselves on my nasal passages.
My more primal instincts kicked in and screamed at me, "RUN! Run Away!" but the logical side of my brain simply told me, "Dude, maybe you should finally wash your hands. I mean, this is for science and all, but it may be time to exercise the better part of valor."
Me: But Self, I haven't even alienated any co-workers.
Self: Yeah? What about the Girl? How do you think SHE's doing?
Me: She hasn't said anything...
Self: Idiot. You practically fucking bathed in the Brut After-Shave she loves and she never said a thing did she? DID SHE?
Me: Damn, I never noticed.
Self: It ain't like she's going to tell you that you fucking stink, retard. But, we're not getting any nookie, are we? ARE WE? Christ, Jenna won't even think you're sexy anymore if you keep this shit up.
My Self takes it kind of hard when my actions result in lack of sex or even lack of sexiness. I can understand that, I guess. He's right, but he's still kind of pushy sometimes. Prick.
*Sigh*
I'll shower tonight, and it will become part of my routine again.
*Sniff*
Good-bye Stinky Hands. I'll miss you.
And you too, Nasty Feet, we had some good times.
And you, Smelly Balls, I'll miss you most of all.
And you, Stank Ass... well, this is probably for the best for both of us.
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.Still stinky, and if Scott Adams is reading this, “piss off and get your own ideas.”
Day two of not showering isn't treating me, or anyone around me, badly.
Okay, I'll admit it.
I cheated.
I showered last night after my AsswadShitSuckAss hockey game.
We lost, by the way.
So I attempted to scrape the Suckage from my body by standing under the blasting icewater in the lockerroom and scrubbing my body fitfully.
My teammates are quite used to this by now. Not just me screaming at them while wet and naked, but the fact that I consistently, futilely, attempt to wash the intangible entity that is Suck from my body.
That I showered at the rink was all I needed to further push the not-showering-in-the-morning test another step. First, I only used the mucous cocktail they label, "body wash" at the rink and I also, albeit unknowingly, have skipped shaving as well.
And I'm convinced that Dilbert motherfucker reads this diary and stole my idea.
I got to work okay because we played the late game (10:45) and I didn't eat anything last night, so there were no ass-imitating-a-turtle emergencies during the drive.
Apparently though, I completely forgot my list from yesterday because my hands stink again.
And I mean STINK.
We're talking inches-from-the-nose-will-make-your-head-snap-back-like-you-just-got-shot stink.
Oh yeah, after I showered at the rink, I loaded all my stinky goalie stuff in my bag, hauled it home, and unpacked it.
I touched all that wet, nasty shit with my bare HANDS.
The greasy-stinky-nosecheese keyboard isn't that bad. I can deal with it. In fact, it's kind of fun, like, "Identify that smell/substance, Win Cash and Prizes!"
But, the hands had to go.
I thought I was okay though, because I figured that if I got too foul and/or offensive, gayboy from across the aisle would let me know.
Crap, he's on vacation.
Good fortune though, our new temp is gayboy's friend, flambouyantly gayboy. Flam is a skinny, black, amazingly effeminate, tennis player. He's a temp, so I didn't really know he was going to be in until he caught me playing with his Venus and Serena Tennis racquet.
I was playing the parts of Sharapova and Serena simultaneously while hitting an invisible ball back and forth between my cube and the vacationing gayboy's cube.
Mannish-burly-slightly-sexy-black-chick, bouncing brutishly, in husky voice: My serve.
*TOK*
*tik*
Lithe-send-JuddHole-to-jail-for-naughty-thoughts-white-chick, bouncing cheerleaderly, in preppy, teeny, voice: Got it, back to you Serena, goddess of the courts.
*TOK*
*tik*
Serena, in even deeper, huskier voice: Back to you, jailbait.
*TOK*
Sharapova, squealing with glee: Eee! I lost my underwear... (rubs, then pinches nipple).
About now was when I heard a kind of high-pitched squeaking noise. It wasn't a baby bird exhaling a fresh worm, but it was close. I turned around and saw Flam, hand over his mouth, clutching his stomach, doubled over in laughter.
Glad I didn't piss him off by playing with his racquet, I returned it quietly to his desk and asked him how his day was going. He didn't respond until much later when recovered and said, "Oh mah, GAWD, you almossst made me PEE!"
Again, the homosexual overtones of what I have just written are not lost on me.
While Flam is much more shy than gayboy about approaching the JuddHole, I still figured that in my stankified state, he'd offer up something along the lines of hygiene/fashion advice.
He asked if I was growing a beard like Dilbert. Even before Joe did.
I told him that I was pioneering the lack-of-cleanliness project, and bearded-wannabe Dilbert was my bitch.
He said, "well, you don't sssssmell like you're not ssshowering or ussssing deoderant." (No, he's not a snake, he doesn't lisp, but he kind of accentuates his "S"s a little more than others, it's kooky).
I figure he was either hitting on me, or my non-hygienic-lifestyle is has got a toe-hold on society.
Either way, I'm excited. I mean, A) I'm not gay, but it's nice to know I have options, and 2) I may be able to skip showering and shaving for at least another week and still be sexy.