Secrets of housekeeping and getting felt up by cops.

I figured out why the housework took such a small amount of time last weekend and I apologize for not sharing this incredible bit of wisdom with you earlier.

See, I used to take a rag and dust and wipe all the surfaces, knocking the dust and other shit onto the floor. Then, I'd break out the broom and sweep up said dust and shit. Then I'd vacuum. Then, I'd go out onto the front and back patios and sweep there too.

Yeah. Tedious. Monotonous. Boring.

The solution?

Two words: LEAF BLOWER.

Normally my ass would pucker up like a first day at prison at the thought of spending 50 bucks on something that I didn't necessarily need, but Home Depot had these cordless, rechargeable answers-to-life's-inanities on the shelves by the birdseed, and temptation took me.

No longer do I moan Cinderalla-like while I sweat and grunt just to make a dent in the dirt and doghair that infests my home.

Oh, no. Now, it's *click* *VVVVUUUUUMMMMMMMMM* and I'm on my way to a happiness only a housewife knows (sans hunky, Door-to-Door, salesman, of course).

Sure, you gotta bolt some of your shit down, and most of the smaller stuff (bills, dishes, dog's food bowls, dogs, etc.) gets blown out the door with the dirt, but it's so worth it not to have to sweep mindlessly for hours.

If I could figure out a way to ratchet up the power quotient on that sucker and be able to blow all the dogshit into the neighbor's yard, I'd be a freakin' millionaire in about 8 seconds.

I'll probably have to settle for launching the dogshit over there catapult-style with a lacrosse stick for now.

---

Today, I decided I can cut a good 15 minutes off of my day if I don't shower in the morning and wait until I get to work to spend some "quality time" on the toilet. The results are varied.

My very short hair is mildly greasy, but a cap has fixed that.

As long as I never take it off.

Or touch my hair thereby letting the grease transfer to my hands.

My hands kind of smell bad too.

I should've probably washed those this morning.

If I rub my nose and then smell my finger, that smells bad as well.

It's a different kind of "bad" than just my hands.

I guess I'll add my face to the should've-washed list.

I scratched my balls earlier and, once again, my hand has a different kind of "bad" on it.

Wash balls next time - CHECK.

I haven't touched my ass though. We all know that's not a good idea even while I'm in the shower.

It could be a shower of lilac blossoms and honey, and my ass would find a way to make my hand stink. Not happenin'.

I haven't touched my feet either. I decided to forego my sandals this morning in favor of my newest shoes. K-Mart 6 dollar specials. Snappy. I figure I can't stink them up in one day.

Okay, now that I've said it, I have to test the theory.

At... 11:41 am, we have mild stinkage already.

This list is getting a little too long.

Plus, I have greasy-nasty-balls-nosecheese-footstank-not-been-washed-in-a-day hands.

Now, the keyboard is greasy and has a bit of an odor too.

Crap, I may have to go back to showering in the morning.

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

---

The not-shitting-at-home-in-the-morning makes the drive to work a little more interesting and frantic, but I don't foresee any huge problems unless I get pulled over.

I would hate to have to explain to a judge that I whacked the cop in the nuts with his ticket book and rocketed off in my truck, simply because my asscheeks were starting to wear out from the aerobic clenching exercises I'd been doing for 20 straight minutes.

I doubt that'd fly.

I did see a guy that was pulled over on the way here. The way he had his legs spread while he was up against his car being searched said to me that he shat at home this morning. Smart move, for a criminal.

That's not fair, though. Not everyone being searched by a cop is a criminal.

I got searched once when I first moved to Denver. I thought, for nothing more than driving an old ranch pickup with Montana plates, but it turns out, those plates were expired by a year or so. Fair enough.

After I dug around in the glove box for the paperwork, the two cops were gone for quite a while.

Then, another cop car pulled up in front of my truck. And another across the street.

"Wow," thought I, "six cops for li'l ol' me? Wonder if it's the bitch dog in the passenger seat they're worried about..." (Asshead was still kind of a puppy and more prone to biting).

As the head cop was walking, cautiously, up to my window, I heard the unmistakable snap of his holster. Even though I was new to the "big city," I was pretty sure that he wouldn't shoot me in front of all these other cops, but it still worried me a little bit.

ToughCop: Hands where I can see 'em, sir.

Me (with hands as far as they can reach out the window): Is there a problem, officer?

ToughCop: Do you have any firearms in your vehicle?

Me: Ahhh, no. Got a mean little dog, and a fish-scaling knife, but no firearms.

ToughCop gets me out, spread-eagles me up against the side of the truck, then tells me they're going to search the truck. He positions my hands on the truck bed and spreads my legs a little wider in order to search me while his overzealous jar-head partner scowls at me from across the truck bed. I still wasn't sure what he was talking about and was still a little scared from the whole readying-to-shoot-JuddHole bit, but I was almost positive that he wasn't getting me ready for an ass-rapin' despite the way JarHead was looking at me.

ToughCop: What firearm is the ammunition for?

Me: Ammuni... what? What ammunition?

JarHead (angrily interjecting): The ammunition we found in the glove compartment.

Me (genuinely confused): Um... what are you talking about?

JarHead: 22 caliber shells. Ammunition for a .22 caliber weapon. Where is it?

Me (thinking hard now): Hmm... I haven't had a 22 since my sophmore year of High School. I sold that gun 6 years ago. If there's 'ammunition' in there, it's probably for that gun, old, moldy, and couldn't possibly work on its best day.

JarHead: You don't have a .22 caliber firearm in that vehicle?

Me: Ah, no.

JarHead (smirking now): We'll see about that.

Two of the other cops are just standing by their car watching (there for emotional support, I'm sure), and the other two open up the truck so they can search it.

We've got 5 big, burly, weight-lifting, would-like-nothing-better-than-to-crack-JuddHole's-skull-with-shiny-nightstick cops hovering around with one female cop. To call her female is merely to clarify her actual gender, as I'm almost positive her desire to bash me was similar to the rest of them. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the other burly ones too. The first thing that I thought of when I saw her was, "this is where the phrase 'bull-dyke' comes from. I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian and she looks just like a bull."

She goes to open the passenger side of the truck and I warn her about Asshead. She asks if they need animal control down here to handle the dog while me and my vehicle are being searched. I tell her that shouldn't be necessary, she's just a little temperamental and needs a soft touch. I secretly snicker as I can't imagine that anything short of smearing herself in honeybutter and steak sauce will give her a "soft touch" with Asshead, but the snickering stops when I realize that I'll go to jail if she gets bitten.

To my complete astonishment, BullDyke begins cooing and smooching with my little brown terror and actually coaxes her out of the truck. Asshead doesn't like any strangers, much less anyone in a dark uniform, but she is licking and climbing on BullDyke like she's wearing Ode De Roadkill.

Cool. At least I won't go to jail for my stupid dog. Let's see if I'm going anyway for the approximately 27 empty beer cans and bottles that are sure to be under the seat of the truck. I silently make a vow to clean more than every 2 years as the other brawny law-enforcers throw every belonging I have out of the truck cab and into the street.

I realize now that I must've looked forlorn to passersby as my belongings were strewn about into the street as I stood, spread-out, helplessly against the side of my truck, but I was really thinking, "man, THAT's where that watch was, I haven't seen that thing in awhile... is that a ticket stub? I remember that game... Wow, I need new jumper cables, those are pretty frayed..."

ToughCop now informs me that he's going to search my "person." I snicker again thinking that this must mean I've got an actual body in the truck and he wants to search it too. I stop snickering when he starts feeling my legs and sticking his fingers into my boots.

When he works his way up to my boys, whom he searches good and thoroughly, I give a snort and say, "Whoa! Buy me dinner first!"

Bad idea.

*SMACK* Right across the back of my head.

"Shut up," ToughCop says brusquely.

"Hey, Rodney King..." I mutter as JarHead, still scowling across the truck at me reiterates loudly and firmly, "Shut your mouth."

Okay. Note to Self: No more smarting off to overzealous, easily-prone-to-violence cops.

Got it.

They finish playing with my nuts and their little JuddHole's-stuff-tossing game and... Shocker of all Shockers... no gun. Excuse me, no "firearm" to go with the "ammunition" they found. The "ammunition" being two old, moldy, rim-fire .22 short cartridges that I could toss in a campfire and wouldn't even pop.

BullDyke finishes having the time of her life playing with Asshead while the burly-5 make their way back to their respective cars. This is when ToughCop reminds me to get new registration and to clean up all the shit in the street or he'll cite me for littering.

I resisted the incredibly strong urge to remind him that THEY'RE the ones that threw all my shit into the street, but I refrained.

Mostly because the back of my head still stung a little.

I'm just trying to make them feel good about themselves. I'm sensitive like that.

Let me be completely honest and appeal to your sense of logic here.

If I was too fucking lazy to write a simple entry that makes me giggle (way too easy), do you honestly... in a million fucking years... with a penis made of gold... think that I could create a survey that didn't have at least a subtle flavor of Suck, with a full-bodied Suck aftertaste?

Thanks for taking it anyway, you know who you are. Um, shit. I guess everyone knows who you are. There's a list right there on the survey. The bestest part is that the only people that think I blow retarded Water Buffalo (and told me) don't have profiles or even diaries. I'm pretty sure they just signed up to fill out my survey. That kind of touches me... on my left asscheek. That's the nasty one.

I'm done with that shit anyway. I just realized that nobody thinks that shit is as funny as I do, and I was really only trying to elicit naked pictures. Of GIRLS, fucko. I can't be trusted to do anything that takes that much extended thought and has others in mind. I'm a selfish fuck in my diaryland world, and I'm really, very okay with that.

Sad as well, is that I've got nothing to offer for an entry except a weekend recap.

---

Saturday

Either I'm a total pig, or a fucking rockstar, as it took me 2.5 hours to mow, clean house, and dig then nastiest foulness I've encountered in my tenure as a homeowner out of my rain gutters. Gutters need cleaning - One of the things I never would've known until people either offered advice or complained openly about. Granted, while working odd jobs my first summer in Denver, I cleaned a fuckload of nasty gutters, but I was getting PAID. Doing housework/yardwork for free is for Sucks. I'm going to start charging. I would charge the Girl, but I know she just wouldn't pay, do it herself, or she'd just stop caring about things like the spiderwebs under the hot water heater. I'm going to start charging the neighbors.

"Sorry Chatty McJibberjabber, but if you'd prefer the decomposed-leaf-muck from my gutters not end up in your sweet Craftsman toolbox, then cough up 9 bucks an hour while I'm working. That or you have to stop telling me the same goddam dog-and-the-fucking-hambone-you-gave-her-at-Thanksgiving-one-year story."

Knowing the latter will never happen, I'm banking on him coming up with the cash. He likes his retarded story about the hambone as much as his beautiful toolbox. Fuckhead.

---

Sunday

Lounged with Girl and gotarded dogs in sleepy dreamlike stupor until it was technically afternoon. Got up to attack the links with The Girl, The Mom, and my shitty 15-year old clubs.

Let me preface any talk about the Mom with the fact that she's the single most awesomest human on the planet. If I believed in angels, I'd believe... wait... well, she swears to much to be an angel, but I think she could still pull it off.

She's always been a jock (college softball, running marathons, etc.) so when she expressed an interest in golfing a few years ago, I got her some clubs to get started and then a few lessons.

What I know about Golf took years to learn. You can't just use muscle to get it done. The Mom's the one that taught me, when playing sports, how to put the hammer down and Golf ain't like that. Doesn't mean I'm any good, but I definitely thought that my knowledge of this would slow the Mom's progress enough that I could still whip her ass.

Wrong.

3 years and about 26 lessons later, and I've beaten her once... by a stroke. She's beaten me 6 straight times. Never by more than 2 strokes, but still... It's my MOM. She's almost 60. Fuck, I'm a pussy.

We played the easiest 9 holes this side of the fucking Pecos and I still golfed in severe Suck fashion. It may be time to rethink a shot or the concentration level on a shot if you can throw your club, overhand, farther than the ball went. I didn't even get a run at it, or do it Olympic Hammer-Toss style like I normally do, I just reared up and ninja-ed that fucking 4-iron straight at the fucking ball. I missed, but you should've seen how cool it looked when it stuck in the turf. I AM golf-club ninja.

The Course Marshall apparently didn't think that was as cool as I did. We didn't get thrown out (this time), but he came by and "flashed the badge." It's too bad that a "badge flashing" didn't prevent me from fucking up on the next 5, count ‘em 5 shots, and repeating the club-throwing-ninja-style trick (I'll work on my whole "respect for authority" issue when he works on the whole "not being a gay-ass Golf Course Marshall" issue). It only stuck once more, but The Mom and The Girl got many kicks out of this while quietly discussing my incredibly clever profanity ("Fuckin' sazzim cocksucking shazbats", etc.). Yosemite Sam's got nothing on me when I'm putting up a 12 on a Par 4. Sazzim.

After golf, we had a 4th party to go to, but I couldn't get over how cool it was that The Mom and The Fiance were getting along so well.

So we went to the clubhouse and got drunk.

Bless The Girl too, because, while she didn't remember everything she told The Mom (several pitchers later), she said she didn't feel like she regretted any of it. I'm a truly blessed man.

But still a pussy (man, one fucking stroke...).

Later, after sweaty-in-any-room-we-want-cuz-we-got-no-kids sex, we went to CoWorkerBuddy's house up in Golden for the colored-explosive festivities. They'd been drinking and laying in the sun for about 10 straight hours and apparently weren't ready for any more visitors when I called.

CoWorkerBuddy: Dude, everybody just left, and CoWorkerRoomateGirl is starting to clean up and shit. I think we're going to bed.

Me (Still slightly drunk and feeling empowered having just had sex): Tough shit. We're already on the way. We're hungry, kind of drunk, and I know how to get there. If you're already in bed when we get there, I'm drinking your beer, eating your food, and then climbing in with you.

CoWorkerBuddy: You can't do that, I got a guard dog.

Me: Dude, that fricking, napping cuddlebug is the only 80-pound blonde pussy I've ever seen. He'll be happy that I'm there, and so will you, now, Prepare For Our Arrival...

CoWorkerBuddy: (hand over mouth piece to CoWorkerRoomateGirl) We still got any food?... they're already on the way... alright. (back to me) That's cool, we'll stay up.

Me: That's mighty sweet of you sugarpants, now open your front door, I'm hungry.

We kept them up for another 4 hours after eating what was left of their food and drinking a bunch more beer. Me and The Girl are classy like that.

We did get to climb on the roof and see some popping shit, and I got to cuddle his big pussy. I love his dog, but if I could stand up with my dog in my lap, hand her to someone else, and have her barely blink or stop snoring, I'da been robbed fucking blind by now. He's got good, sturdy locks, I guess. And a pet Ninja hidden somewhere.

---

Monday

The Mom is full-on into the whole future-mother-in-law shit after the golf outing, so she's excited that we're all going fly-fishing. Me and The Mom have been fishing together since I was still in her belly, so I figure one of us will have to hold The Girl's hand all damn day while she picks knots out of her leader and catches nothing but herself and the surrounding trees, and the other gets to go galavanting off up the untamed river, sending torrents of fear throughout the trout populace.

Wrong again.

My fragile male ego took a severe fucking pounding this weekend when I first got beaten at golf by The Mom (again...), then The Girl catches fish and I do not.

Granted, I showed her the hole and where to cast, but she was squealing and laughing while the beast viciously shook it's 5-inch body in hopes of thrashing her leg to death, while I was currently working on the same knot for 10 straight minutes watching her do this.

Yeah, I'm happy for her and all that. Must've been my excellent instruction.

Naw, fuck that, I should be catching fucking fish while she endures the frustration of searching for something Zen-like in the whole goddamed ordeal while wanting to bash her rod and reel to bits at the same time.

No squealing... cursing.

No happy... pissed.

No fishing... smashing.

THAT's what learning to fly-fish is all about, goddammit.

That's okay, I only had a 3-hour drive at 10 mph to think about it. We chose to go into the mountains the same day that 43,000 other fucking people did... on the same 2 fucking lanes of highway as them too.

The Mom and The Girl are still at the point where they think my cartoonish swearing is funny, so at least they were entertained.

Wait'll I finally beat them at something though.

Let's see how funny they'll think the on-my-back-ass-slapping-legs-pumping-in-the-air-Do-You-Like-That-Bitch taunting is.

I think it's fucking hilarious even if it has almost never been used.

Take my survey.

The bastards at work fucking made me do stuff again, so I added a survey (thanks for the suggestion baby, *hot-link-smooch*).

Take it and tell me how much I fuckin' rock.

For all of you non-Dairylanders, here's the questions. You may fill them out and stuff them in your cakehole. Or send them to me, or post them or some shit.

1. Boobs or Butts? Which do you prefer?

2. Sexual positions. Top or Bottom?

3. Do your feet smell?

4. Favorite Hockey Team?

5. If you don't like hockey, why do you suck so incredibly bad?

6. Favorite Beer?

7. If you don't drink beer, why do you suck so... um... what DO you drink, sissybitch?

8. Interstate Fast Lane. Get the Fuck outta my way? Or, I'm here to slow you down 'cause I'm an old lady?

9. Ever had naked pictures taken of yourself?

10. Will you send them to me?

11. Do you want to be naked with me right now?

12. If you were, would we be having sex?

13. If you're a dude, and you answered "Yes," to either of the last two, why are you so fucking gay? Am I that goddam sexy?

14. Men in Kilts, do you prefer "True Scotsman," or "Welsh Poser?" (undergarments or not, stupid)

15. Ever pimped a friend out?

16. Ever licked a foreign surface, just out of curiosity?

17. Did you fill out this survey with the most smart-assednest answers you could?

18. If not, why are you so lame?

19. Tell me you love me.

My horoscope fails me yet again and I view great quantities of Suck.

Virgo

August 22 - September 21

There is something about silence that doesn't sound right for you today, dear Virgo. Keep talking. Sooner or later someone will say something meaningful. Latch on to lucrative ideas and keep your ears open for new opportunities. Realize that your new best friend could be the stranger that you pass on the street while going to get coffee. Strike up a conversation with the person you are standing next to in line.

I'm normally not one to listen to anything that calls me "dear" something without then remarking on one of my body parts ("dear boy, your heart is large and full," "dear goalie, your balls are large and full", etc.). But today, I thought I'd listen. Mostly because that damn horoscope told me to keep talking. This is something I rarely have a problem with, but now, not only am I not being restricted (like my Nazi-loving cube-neighbors attempt to do), I am being encouraged. This is indeed super.

What an awesome phrase, "Sooner or later someone will say something meaningful," is.

What it really means is, "put up with the usual amount of excrement being spewed forth from the ricockulously stupid masses and an occasional nugget may come out that doesn't make you want to pound pinecones up someone's ass."

Now that I read that, I realize I must sound like an incredibly cynical asshole.

Good.

The fact that my fucking horoscope is telling me that I'm going to go and "get" coffee somewhere involving a "street" should've tipped me off that the next vision of my future may not be so clear.

But, I decided to try the "strike up conversation" thing anyway.

I resolved to speak in friendly tones with the next person that I found myself next to while standing in line or waiting for something.

I'm normally a pretty friendly guy, but with strangers, it's different. I'm too worried about trying to be as cool as I think I am to realize that I am, in fact, not, and my plan is quickly foiled.

I left my cube with the intent of being truly and sincerely friendly to the next stranger I saw. I was soon given the exciting opportunity to have someone waiting next to me.

Even though we were both staring straight ahead and he didn't seem too social for a possible new best friend, I gave it a shot. With what I thought was a friendly smile, I said, "Hey! How's it going?" He looked down, shifted uncomfortably and mumbled something like, "Umbr... good... I geazzz."

Thinking maybe he was nervous because he didn't know me, I thought I'd try a more social tact, "You don't look familiar, do you work for MyCompany, or are you in one of the other suites here on the 6th floor?"

Again with the mumbling, again with the looking down and uncomfortably shuffling of the feet, and again with a non-answer answer, "No... I'm nod wizz... MyCompanndhhsh..."

Fuck. Those goddam horoscope fairies and their magic-brighten-your-otherwise-dreary-life-dust-sprinkling asses aren't making this very easy.

C'mon dude, help me out here, I'm working at appeasing the Gods-of-Virgo that could be in command of me getting to talk more. This isn't something I want to fuck up.

I try again with the big, friendly, grin, "How about all this rain we're getting? Kind of dreary, but at least things'll be nice and green for the rest of the summer."

Now he looks down AGAIN, mumbles even softer and shakes his head slowly.

I give up.

I can't reach this guy.

He has to be some sort of sociopath to resist the incredible charm and friendliness I have oozing from the smiley glands on my shining visage.

I decide that I can't take any more of this unbelievable coldness.

I zip up, flush, and head out the door.

Further proof of his sociopathicalness, he'd been done for a while, yet didn't move, shake, zip up, or flush the whole time I was talking to him. Freak.

I give up on trying to be friendly.

---

Starting sometime during my time of poopiness, my hockey teams started to suck. The roller hockey team (two-time defending champs) started to take on a thin sheen of Suckage and the ice hockey team stumbled at the precipice of the Valley of Suck for 2 ½ periods before plummeting headlong into it.

I felt all of this Suck was predicated on me being a downy-dumpster-poopy-pants (hockey term, email me for explanation). I may or may not have been wrong. It's gone on for much longer than my trousers-of-fecal-matter days, though.

Either A) the Suckage that I exuded during said poopiness clung to the totally-non-Sucking bodies of my teammates and proceeded to leech the Awesomeness through their helpless skin.

Or, B) they too have unconsciously splashed a dollop of Eu De Suck in their hands and liberally applied to their face and neck immediately after shaving.

I have broken out of the vicious vise-like grip of Suck, yet we are still losing and still skating around in a Suck-induced haze.

I've decided that I'm going to draw a nice hot bath of Awesomeness, dump in the Stupendous Bubble Bath, and sprinkle the Bath Salts of Superness evenly over the length of the Tub of Glorious Non-Suckitude. Then I'll take a nice, long soak.

I need to do something, ‘cause right now, hockey Sucks.