We need to talk…
The last several weeks have been interesting.
A relationship that has spanned the majority of my life changed irrevocably.
Another relationship opened up and completely changed my life.
Life hasn't been fun lately.
It's been far more than that, amazingly wonderful and soul-achingly painful, sometimes within a few hours of each other.
My life isn't that bad though. I'm 30 years old, I've got a great job with a bright future, I'll be buying my own house soon, and I go to bed every night with a slim, muscular, brunette that loves me more than anyone on the planet.
The fact that she sometimes stinks up our bed because she likes to roll in catshit, doesn't make me love her any less.
For as much as things have been rollercoastering lately, something tangible is actually going to come from all of this.
This is going to come as a shock to some of you but...
I'm pregnant.
Don't give me that look.
And don't freak out buddy, it isn't yours.
But, GuineaPig, you know that it's YOURS (I sincerely hope that it gets your eyes, as mine are bloodshot and itch right now).
What this pregnancy means is that I'm going to be taking a maternity leave from this diary until I give birth to a bouncing-baby book.
I'll keep reading you guys, but you know this.
I was going to say that I may come back from time to time when something funny happens in my life, but this wouldn't work.
See, funny shit happens to me every damn day. It happens to us all, it's just how you look at it.
I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'll leave you with this.
I'm still kind of pissed that they already made the movie \"EdTV\" because I could pitch \"JuddTV\" to those reality-loving masses and score big.
I was thinking about it, and I think I've got a winner.
Selling Point #1
I've been told that I'm an aggressive driver. I like to think of myself as logical and polite instead.
\"Oh, silly me, here I've been driving for 15 years, and all this time, I thought that FUCKING GREEN MEANS GO.\"
\"Pardon me, I don't suppose it would be too much to ask that you keep all of your fucking car inside of the painted lines that define these lanes of traffic, would it? Oh. So I suppose asking that you not drink an entire bottle of MadDog before operating said car, is completely out of the question?\"
\"You know, activating your li'l blinky thing before squeezing your vehicle into this lane, 4 inches in front of me, may make me not hate you and want to punch you repeatedly on the side of your head. Then again, it may not. Tough call.\"
\"See, the pedal on the right makes the car go. Putting it in gear just isn't enough. C'mon Champ! Be an overachiever! Don't hate your gas pedal, Give It LOVE.\"
Selling point #2
I own a lot of different types of clothing, and frequently try and mix it as often as possible. This morning, I put on the first things that I could find, consisting of flannel PJ's, a black cowboy hat, and big fluffy slippers. I then proceeded to make breakfast while having a profoundly silly and highly interesting conversation with... my dog, Asshead.
She understands English, I'm sure of this, she just doesn't have any vocal chords, so she can't say anything back. This doesn't mean that we don't converse. If that bitch had opposable thumbs, I'm pretty sure she'd have her own job and car. Hell, she might have even moved out too.
I don't watch TV, nor do I give half a fuck about \"reality\" TV, but I'd sure as hell tune in to see some idiot in a sombrero and boxers, with twin Gorilla heads eating his feet, discussing with his dog the idea that though he's heard it said out loud, and seen it spelled out, he still doesn't know how to say, \"Jean-Paul Sartre.\" He does all of this in a French accent, because he's making French Toast, and he stops intermittently to act snooty and haughty towards the dog while critiquing his own artwork on the nearby easel.
After hearing this, the dog gives him an only mildly quizzical look, and then spins in a small circle and bites one of his Gorillas.
Quality viewing.
Shit, kilts alone would get the some ratings, provided it was windy and drunky enough outside. *wink*
Selling point #3
I dance and sing at the drop of a hat, though I can do neither very well. I actually bumped my booty off of the Fancy-Restaurant waitress at a company lunch yesterday. At first, she was not impressed, but then she started dancing too.
While working late last Friday night, me and CoWorkerBuddy, who are both profoundly aware that we are single, pathetic, and working late on a Friday Night, started jamming in our l'il corner of CubeWorld.
It started with \"Shake, shake, shake Senora...\" I don't know the damn song, but it's at the end of Beetlejuice, and it'll make a body shake, no doubt. Two 6-foot-plus, 220-plus, white, code monkeys dancing to this was enough to clear most of the remaining cubes at 6 o'clock.
By 6:30, we were on to \"Jump Around\" by House of Pain, which involved our best attempts to rattle CubeWorld to the ground, and me poking my head into one of the managers offices, \"Hey E.\"
Politely, \"Yes, Judd, what can I do for you?\"
Very deadpanned and serious, \"Word to your moms, I came to drop bombs, I got more rhymes than the Bible got Psalms.\"
\"Wha...\"
She left not long after.
We thought we were alone, so \"Pump up the Gas Grill\" was next, and \"Toast your buns on mah deck, Toast your buns on mah deck\" was soon being shouted across ALL of CubeWorld.
Next came, \"Boyz In The Hood,\" by Dynamite Hack. There's just something about standing on your desk, swaying slightly, and crooning sweetly things like, \"Cruisin' down the street in my 6-fo', Jockin' the bitches, slappin' the hoe's...\"
And, just like on TV, you get busted at the exact moment of peak embarrassment.
When you are standing on your desk, high above the bounds of CubeWorld, and you are singing like you are on a goddam stage, complete with hand gestures, the exact instant that you crescendo into \"...I reached back like a pimp and I slapped the hoe. Then her pops stood up, and he started to shout, so I threw a right-cross, and knocked his OLD ASS OUT...\" you are guaran-fucking-teed that this is when the CEO, AND the fucking CFO both decide to come rolling through Koderz Korner, just to see what all the goddam noise is about.
CEOGuy (pissed): What the hell are you doing?!?
Me (with confused look): Um... singing and dancing.
CEOGuy (not amused, still pissed): Are you working late, or can you not sing and dance at home?
CFOGuy (who has been stifling his snickering up until now): HAHahahaa.
CoWorkerBuddy (hiding in his cube): We're actually compiling some scripts, they'll be done in about 5 minutes, then we'll go home. We couldn't do it during peak hours, so we're doing it now.
CEOGuy (not pissed now, since he loves CoWorkerBuddy): Oh, well good job, keep up the good work, thanks for your support.
Me (still standing on desk in mid hoe-slap posture): Can I go back to dancing now?
CFOGuy (slapping head): HA! HAHahahaaa.
CEOGuy (shaking head, walking away): I... I don't ca... what? I...
I laugh just writing that shit, I can't imagine what it'd be like to watch it on TV. I'd watch, and that's really all that matters.
So, I'll be back in 9 months or so.
Then, I'll be proudly passing out cigars and pondering possible names with the mother.
Take care you guys.
-Judd
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.That smell? It's just the neighbor's 2-acre Flower Garden.
I had the second showing of me and the ex-Girl's house yesterday.
Li'l NeighborWife is learning to drive 2-ton Postal Vehicles and since she would normally hide Asshead for me at her house, I had to run home during lunch so that I could grab the dog and let the potential buyers peruse the house without the fear of getting their ASSES bitten (she does this, it's not pretty).
I got home, did a quick cleaning, leashed up Asshead, and headed out the door the exact second that the Realtor and his clients were headed up the walk. RealtorGuy, being very friendly, came up to me quickly with his hand out. Asshead didn't appreciate this 'aggressive' movement towards her boy. I yanked her away from him and back into submission. He was cool, knelt and stuck his hand out, palm down. She wagged excitedly and licked his hand. We were all friends (insert gayass music here).
\"Hmmm,\" I thought, \"wonder why the potential buyers are both busting out those funky batons-connected-by-string measuring stick thingies, the house has already been measured by my Realtor. And why are they both wearing extremely dark sunglasses INSIDE the house?\"
You may or may not know this about me, but I can be pretty fucking dense sometimes.
Granted, my concentration was focused on Asshead, who was beaten regularly as a puppy (by her previous owners, jerk, not me), and wigs her fucking-shit-out whenever someone has a stick-like object in their hands. She will growl, spit, and attack anything from a broom, to a rake, to a hockey stick, so, when two strangers are making their way towards her with twin cattle-prods, tap-tap-tapping on the floor... yeah, she wigged her fucking-shit-out. I settled her down though, at least enough so that she wouldn't maim the people that I want to give me a couple hundred thousand dollars.
Then, it finally hit me, and I got a little annoyed.
\"They're fucking BLIND?!? You mean, I ran around with a fucking rag, wiping all the 'dirty' surfaces and making things visually presentable, when all I really had to do was squirt some Vanilla Extract on the stove burners and not fart in the bedroom?\"
Thinking quickly, I threw Asshead in the truck, raced back inside, and shut the closet door to somehow try and cover the stench of shoe that resides within. I had another sparkling idea, but I figured their Realtor would Narc on me if I followed them around randomly spritzing air freshener several feeet in front of them. He was already growing suspicious of the fact that I threw a whole Lemon in the Sink Disposal, and the way that I was flapping my hand over the plate of brownies and wasn't really eating, nor offering, any of them.
I think he bought it when I told him I 'accidentally' spilled that whole bottle of cologne though.
Surprisingly, they haven't called yet.
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.Voting for a goalie doesn't make me a bad person.
My vote counts, everyone's vote counts. I learned this the hard way.
For all that's happened in the last 4 years, and what happened this week...
You can blame me.
I am solely responsible for putting W in el casa blanca, and I'll tell you why.
The last election came at a time when the Columbus B1ue J@ckets were heavily advertising their expansion NHL team. They ran a series of ads touting their starting goaltender, Ron Tugnutt (giggle childishly at name here), as a presidential candidate. The ads were hilarious, with Tuggers in his red, white, and blue uniform (actual team colors), his goalie stuff on, and his helmet tipped back, saying shit like, \"I'm only 30, I'm Canadian, but I want to be your President.\"
At the same time, I was finishing up my degree at UCD and one of my best buds was a scrawny, chain-smoking, cool-as-hell, Brit that I called, \"Limey.\" He was a classic, and to this day, everyone that's ever known him loves him. We were outside smoking between classes and discussing the upcoming election with the usual malaise that most of the 'educated' tend towards on that subject, when I mentioned that I'd love the opportunity to vote for someone I actually liked instead of the usual lesser-of-the-two-evils. Limey piped up and said that, if elected, he'd do everything he could to make our country a better place, even though he's British, 28 years old, and pumps a fair amount of recreational pharmeceuticals into his bloodstream. I told him that sounded good enough, and that I would vote for him.
I had yet to figure out the whole absentee-voting thing, so when Election Day came, I was forced to actually go to the Voting location, and punch my li'l card for my choices. I'd done some research on the Senators and the local officials and all of that mess, so I thought I was prepared.
Unfortunately, me and my best friend, Shithead, had tied one on a little too tight the night before, and I'm pretty sure I was still drunk.
When the moment of truth came, for the CEO and his partner of our great nation, I wrote in my choices.
I giggled when I did it, and almost everyone that I told this to thought that my choices were funny as hell. It was a kind of \"Fuck you\" to the whole Electoral System, and I was pleased with my rebellion against it.
Then came the vote counting, and the hanging chads, all that Florida bullshit, and the idea that for everyone who wrote some bullshit in (or voted Nader), their votes would have been the difference in the race between the 'big two'. I started to feel mildly shameful, but hey, note to self: Avoid Drunken Voting. Lesson learned.
I didn't really feel true shame until I was perusing the B1ue J@ckets web site the other day and, amidst all the election hoopla, they mentioned the ad campaign for Tuggers years ago, and the fact that he received 5 votes for President.
I don't think it's necessary to say that I know who one of those votes was. I haven't found any stats on scrawny Brits for VP, and I don't want to.
I was a good boy this year though. I researched voting records, looked at the candidates' stances on the issues, and voted my conscience.
It wasn't easy, I'll tell ya.
Hmmmmmmm.
(chin cupped in palm of hand)
DOUBLE Hmmmmmm.
(pensive stroking of beard)
These are my choices, eh?
Determined to back someone with an actual chance at this whole President deal, I wrote in Dusty Scott, even though his monkeyass doesn't play hockey.
I listened to the radio continually spouting it's coverage about what tipped the scales this year, and I kept hearing that it was about \"values\" and the fact that W shares these voters' \"values.\" The radio guy made note that this is most likely two BIG issues, Gay Marriage and Abortion.
Are you fucking kidding me?
*Ahem* (warm up stretches)
--Begin Bitch--
The Presidency is a fucking job. The President is not my 'moral' leader, nor is he my hero, or my goddam role model. His job is to make this country, nay, this world, a better place. If I have to hear one more fucking time about how he is doing this by \"protecting the sanctity of marriage\" I'm going to get one of his goddam daughters drunk, knock 'er up, get hitched, and then leave her, very publicly, for a man. A big, hairy, tattooed, biker thug that wears a T-shrit that reads \"Think you're tough? I used to FUCK guys like you in PRISON.\" His name'll be \"Chains\" and I'll wear the dress at the wedding... for obvious reasons.
--End Bitch--
I've got a friend in Iraq, and while I worry about him and question our country's involvement there, he volunteered for this. He signed up willingly to possibly DIE for his country, and I respect him, as well as all soldiers, for this more than they will ever know, for I am far too big of a pussy to ever do such a thing.
A friend of mine is a brown person from a Middle Eastern country, and I've had to vouch for his character because of a ridiculous law that says he could be 'detained' simply for a suspicion. He wasn't, but that was only because of me and two of his other friends. I won't speculate on the fact that myself, and his other friends, are all WHITE and UPPER-MIDDLE-CLASS. Oh, did I mention we're WHITE? And all of us, my brown friend included, make DECENT MONEY, and have respectable jobs like, LAWYER and ACCOUNTANT and SOFTWARE DEVELOPER. Fuck that.
I was talking on the phone to a good friend the other week, who's not necessarily quiet about his views on anything, and he had a great thought about how, if one's life is better or worse than it was 4 years ago, it's probably not because of W, it's probably because of whatever they've done or not done. After all, it is their life to live, and no one else's.
I really thought about that because it is highly unlikely that I will ever A) have to get an abortion, 2) marry \"Chains\", the man of my dreams, or 3) be asked to kill people for my country.
My life is pretty damn good right now, and I did a lot of this all on my own.
Thing is, that's just me. And my life isn't just about me. It's about my buddy in Iraq, who's so goddam proud to be there that he is beaming in every picture. It's about my brown friend, who is proud to be an American, but feels a little flustered knowing that he is considered so different from his friends of comparable class, just because his skin is brown and he is from a hated country. It's about the Mom, who is happy with her Life Partner, yet who doesn't enjoy any of the privileges of a 23-year committed relationship, one of which is her healthcare coverage for my 7-year old little brother (not her biological son, but LifePartners' and a Frozen Pop).
Know what though? All these people are still happy, and they are doing for themselves the best that they can. Dog Bless 'em, because that's all ANY of us can ever do.
A dumbass fuckin' TEXAN in El Casa Blanca isn't going to change that.