Just another site

Archive for the category “Humor”

You aren’t supposed to smell before the gym

As you may know from a couple of previous posts, I work out at about 5 AM in the morning with a partner. What that really means is that I set my alarm for 5, roll over, pretend I’m getting up a few times, and then hurriedly look at my phone astounded that so much time has past. This was one of those mornings. I’m downstairs getting my per-workout fiber one bar in and my partner calls me. Now, I’m headed out the door so I ignore his call since I can see his headlights in my driveway and I’m almost outside.

Boy was that a mistake.

What I failed to realize (had I answered my phone I would have known) was that outside my door was a beautiful little black and white striped woodland creature. I opened the door all cool and calm, locked it, and when I turned around there it was. If this was any normal event in anyone else’s life the skunk would have been frightened and ran away. Not my luck. As I tried to tiptoe past the skunk to the right I noticed a little pint sized clone right behind it.

Great, its 5 AM and I’m pissing off a momma skunk. Way to start the day.

So this thing starts hissing at me and I try to squeeze as tight as I can next to the van when Bambi’s friend starts turning on me. I’ve never seen a live skunk in the wild, but I know what happens when a skunks ass is facing you. I’d like to tell you that I did something much more macho that what actually happened. What did happen is that I screamed like a little girl and jumped to the front of my van (wrong direction) and then realized that while I did manage to place the van between the skunk and myself, I also couldn’t see it and it had no problem crawling underneath the van. When I came to this realization I hauled ass (where does that expression come from? I understand that when you are running your ass is behind you, but it’s normally behind you unless you’re some weirdo that walks backward all the time…but I digress…) to my friends vehicle and somehow did a midair somersault, opened, and shut the door in one movement. Don’t ask me to do it again, I couldn’t if I tried.

By this time the skunk and her skunkling (don’t care if that’s not a word I like it) were running through my neighbors yard. I was in the vehicle with my workout buddy laughing his ass off at my shenanigans. They say that the best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup. I’m going to have to say that the best part of waking up is not having to fight a wild animal while simultaneously trying not to get pissed on by foul smelling skunk juice. Someone should make that into a bumper sticker.


Cockroaches, Aliens, and the Easter Bunny

So, I decided to throw an Easter lunch for both sides of my family. When I say, “I decided” I mean that my wife told me that’s what we were going to do and I tucked my tail between my legs and sulked in the corner.

There were about 19 people and the sheer amount of food preparation I had to undertake was pretty monumental. I literaly ran out of cooking surfaces on which to heat food. I used the oven (all of it), the stove top (all of it), and the grill. By the time I was done it looked like a catering bomb when off in my kitchen. But everyone was fed and had a great time.

Afterward, we were playing around my back yard. I should point out that we have found various items under about a foot of dirt in the back: garden stones, tools, glass, nails, wires, etc. So I notice this large black square in the corner that was recently unearthed. Turns out its a cable hub for my whole neighborhood. Lucky Me. I decide to open it and see a swarm of cockroaches having a roach orgy in my back yard. Now, I’m open minded and I like an orgy as much as the next guy, but I found this a little offputting.

Later that night we were finding roaches (and these are the large german cockroaches) in our drawers and cupboards. They hadn’t been noticeable before, but I must have caused them to rush my house after revealing their hiding spot.Well, not my wife won’t turn off the bedroom light because of the roaches and I have to sleep with it on. Oddly enough, that night I had a dream that Aliens were trying to enlist me to start a new kind of energy. I followed them in a warehouse to a lift covered in cock roaches, to a loft filled with cockroaches and cockroach-like alien queens. They could turn into humanoid forms and they showed me that by inserting an olive in their asses they could power a small television. Whatever I ate that night I am not eating it again before bed. I’m actually almost ashamed to tell that dream. Almost.

Corporate Crackdown

So, some of you out there might be aware of my job as a lab technician for a company that deals with oil and gas. You might also be aware of my sense of duality that keeps me flip flopping back and forth like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Today one of the big wigs came in to give a speech about what was going on in the company concerning our location and the future plans and vaguely how they would affect us. To be fair, this needs to be done badly as we have been greatly mismanaged since the beginning and this had led to several financial and structural blunders. That being said, there is still a voice deep down inside of me that is holding an anarchy sign and wearing an eight inch green, spiked Mohawk and protesting vehemently.

In reality I want to be a well rounded adult and have the nurturing structure that keeps me tightly in bounds and steadily progressing toward a whimpering retirement in which I sit at home for the remainder of my years cutting out coupons for creams and complaining about the modern generation. That is to say, I want to want that because its boring and the path of least resistance. It would be very easy if this were my outlook. Unfortunately, the screaming anarchist punk in me (lets call him Rex because it sounds more rebellious than Quincy or Leopold) resists this with every turn. I’d say for every 80% that I agree with structural reform there is a 20% that I want to tear it all down and burn it to the ground.

I’m really not sure if I’ll ever be able to fully appreciate and capitulate to the gods of business. It might be my curse to be one foot in and one foot out for the rest of eternity. It’s quite ironic, however, that I am seen as a “company man” who has “drank the kool-aid” and this has earned me acclaim and will probably earn me a spot among the pantheon of business moguls here at some point. The real question is if I will look back at my progression will I be disappointed that I gave in and became part of the establishment and suddenly decide to tear it apart from the inside out, or will I (more likely) just become a tool; a cog in the corporate wheel.

Looking back this is kind of an uncharacteristic piece of literary work for me, but I’ll post it anyway…because the man can’t keep me down! 😉

Car Wrecks and Mailboxes

The two are unrelated you say. Hogwash!

So, as some of you may have noticed (the few of you who actually read my posts after my lengthy departure from the literary world of blogging) I am back to my old antics. In truth, I knew that I could never stay away from blogging, the desire to relieve myself of the thoughts and rants that bounce around in this spacious head of mine are too great.

With that in mind, I thought I should catch you up on some semi-recent events. Namely, the car wreck that landed me in the hospital for a little while. You see, most people would be perfectly right in assuming that a toll lane stop sign is a perfectly legal and legitimate place to stop. Unfortunately for Captain Textsalot (or whatever was distracting him) this theory was put into question.

It was a Thursday…and much like a Thursday, there was an ominous weight that hung in the air. Okay, maybe it was less ominous and more painful. I had been suffering from stomach pains which I thought were brought about by a hiatal hernia and I decided to go home from work. While waiting for the Cadillac full of strippers (more on this later) in front of me to drop their change (which was probably riddled with herpes and cocaine residue) and parked at a stop sign I was rear ended by a large truck going 60 miles per hour.

Let me put this in perspective. I drive…..erm….drove….a 2010 Honda Insight Hybrid which weighs significantly less than the Chevy Avalance that exhaust raped me from behind. The guy literally never hit his breaks and drove me through the car in front of me and into the concrete divider that separated the toll lanes. I must have been knocked unconscious because when I came to there was a lady trying to open my drivers side door.

The good news is that for a minute I didn’t feel my stomach pain. The bad news, and what was about to escalate in a short amount of time, was that my pain was not caused from a hiatal hernia. To make a long story short with the guy who hit me and the strippers in front, the girls in front of me were driving around in some guys car on their way to “dance” at work. The guy behind me said that he “thought I was going to go” and this is why he decided to try to see if he could run through my car. At first I refused medical help, but then I realized shortly after that I would need to go to the emergency room.

The reason for my alarm being that when my wife arrived to pick me up, my eyes and skin were both yellow. So now I was walking around like big birds shorter brother and on my way to the emergency room. The emergency room doctors and nurses rightfully deduced that I was walking and talking fine so I was not a high priority. After negative x-rays they were just about to let me go when they asked me for a urine sample. What secreted out of my nether-regions was something akin to coffee. The nurses actually stood in a circle holding it up to the light and gasping in amazement. Turns out my stomach trouble was really gallstones…

Being the lucky man I am, a gallstone had become lodged into my bile duct (possibly as a result of the accident, but probably not) causing my kidneys to back up with bile. After two surgeries, one to remove the obstruction and patch up the tube, and one to remove my gallbladder and its entirety I was now back to my normal hue. Unfortunately, the gall bladder was over-sized and hard as a rock and the incision had to be made larger which made my belly button look like a mini-vagina. No offense to you lovely ladies out there. But it’s the closest comparison I have.

The thing you don’t realize about Gerry the Gallbladder is that he breaks down all those nice fatty foods you like to stuff in your meat hole and turns them into nutritious vitamins and then stores the rest in your ass and thighs and spends the next half a day trying to get rid of them. But when Gerry leaves town….oh how the food gets its revenge. I now can’t eat anything that has fat in it without having to first make sure there is a bathroom within running distance. I’ve pretty much times it to 30 minutes before my body violently tries to rid itself of what I can only assume it thinks is the foulest food its ever encountered. I’ve met some devout people in my travels, but my bodies devotion to casting out the demons of Jack in the Box and Buffalo Wild Wings put all those to shame. I apologize if you’re eating right now….

So this brings us to the mailboxes. What I failed to mention previously is that as a result of the wreck I now have phantom back and pelvic pains that like to flare up at inopportune moments. Well, this past weekend I decided that I was going to dig up the old mailbox that was hanging in front of my house by duct tape and replace it with a nice new mailbox. Bad idea. After digging three feet of concrete out of the ground I felt like I had just received a massage via swift donkey kicking. If you’ve never tried this method of massage I highly recommend it. Especially if your level of self loathing is as evolved as mine.

So there you have it. Car Wrecks and Mailboxes. If you have any questions about how to deal with gallbladder issues or you just want to point at me in laugh feel free to comment below.


Sailing down root canals

First, let me apologize for not keeping up with a lot of your recent posts. I generally have about 10 minutes to hop on here now and it’s hard to find time. I will try to do it this weekend though. I’m really a very busy guy.

So my wife was having some really bad pain coming from a tooth. She went to the dentist and they told her that her top tooth had a filling that had cracked and was touching the nerve. Then she schedules a root canal with another dentist and they tell her her bottom tooth has a cavity that is down to the root and that is the reason for the pain.

I only had enough money to give her for the root canal and the temporary filling. When inquiring about the crown, the conversation went like this (word for word):

Me: “How much is the crown”

Her: “400 :(” (I would think the frowny face was implied. Especially since it’s my 400 dollars I’ll be spending)

Me: “The hell you say. I spent 400 on a hooker once. Much better than dental work. Lets just get you a hooker. Dead ones are half off. Sometimes literally….if we’re lucky”


Its at this point where I’ve probably shocked you with my choice of response. Or some of you at least. Well, don’t be shocked friends and loved ones. That’s just the way I joke when I’m spending an uncomfortable amount of money. Luckily I got a funny response back from her about wanting the good half so it all worked out in the end.

FYI, if any of you are getting root canals, don’t be afraid. I’ve heard horror stories from parents and grandparents and I don’t know how they did things in 19-tickety-2, but in 2012 its a relatively painless and quick procedure.


I’m a Dirty Little Hobbit

You may be wondering what this post is about with a title like that. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you in suspense long.

I was recently invited to a concert. The particular concert featured 311 and Slightly Stoopid. If you’re unfamiliar with either or these two bands, suffice it to say that they are of the “Amerified” reggae variety. A lot of songs about relaxing, happiness, and weed. I’m don’t smoke weed. It’s not that I have something against it, I just don’t really like it. My weapon of choice is alcohol.

The concert started off great, but I knew what was going to happen. Let me set the scene for you. We had seats on the lawn, which should be more aptly named the slopey, muddy cheap seats.

So there I am butt wet and muddy with my shoes off so that I don’t ruin them. The beer, which cost about 12 dollars for a 24 oz., quenching my thirst in the midday sun. I was having a good time and just relaxing and listening to music. The aroma of the concert was definitely of the illegal kind. Well, sooner or later the beers start to catch up to me and before I know it its nightfall and I’m swinging my shirt above my head and sliding down this muddy slope.

At one point I started pulling the rope tied to the barricade so that the barricade would fall and all the people would rush forward only to be driven back by security. I was that guy.

I suddenly realize I have to use the bathroom so I go to the bathroom. While walking in someone inquired as to why I didn’t have a shirt or shoes on and my reply, which seemed the most logical at the time, was that I was a hobbit. I’m not quite sure why I said it, but I’m glad I did. The guys face was one of bewilderment and slight amusement. I then merrily skipped (probably more like a drunken shuffle) into the bathroom where I probably stepped on more urine than I even want to think about. My thinking was that I was going to wash my feet, so it didn’t matter. Unfortunately I didn’t think about the fact that I was going to put my feet back into my shoes and they would be forever tarnished with the urine of a thousand potheads.

The night wasn’t over there, however. After the concert we decided to go to a place called TAPS where they had hundreds of beer choices. What more to finish off the gallon of beer I had earlier, more beer. I played a round of cornhole (its not what you think…google it) and then left to eat.

We arrived at Dots at about 3AM and I proceeded to devour a jalapeno and onion hamburger while my friend made an ass of himself to the surrounding tables. Note to self, putting sausages up to your ears and screaming, “I’ve got sausage ears!” is not as funny if you’re not drunk.

120 dollars later, I was home safely in my bed. I think I should mention that we had a designated driver. I would never drive after drinking anymore. I made that mistake one time and I will never go through the trouble it caused ever again. I did however get to sit in the passenger side and watch people get arrested for driving drunk. I even watched one guy get tackled off his motorcycle. Texas highway patrol doesn’t play around…



You may call me Hercules

It’s been a while since my last post. I’ve been very busy. Although I am a little behind on my goal of world domination through impressive strength and karate chops, I’m still making progress.

My daily routine now goes as follows:


EXTREME Bowl of cereal

EXTREME Bathroom break

QUIET Qigong and meditation

EXTREME Punching Makiwara Board, trying not to look like it hurts, and looking at my scarred knuckles satisfactorily

EXTREME Working at Office

EXTREME Lifting random heavy rocks I found at my parents house

EXTREME Shadow boxing, stretching, and calisthenics




I’m sure you noticed (and were probably annoyed by) the multitude of extremes. It’s because I’m just that extreme. And if you’ve noticed that I’m not eating lunch, it’s because my lunch now consists of spring rolls eaten randomly throughout the day. Next step, injecting nutrients straight into my blood stream. EXTREME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Seriously though, I’m a little scraped, cut, and bruised right now. Nothing too bad, I’m just toughening up my body for the apocalypse. And if that doesn’t happen….I’m going to be the toughest, strongest, judo-choppiest mofo on the 8th floor of my office building. I can’t count any other floors because there is this amazonian woman who works here and I don’t know what floor she’s on because I always hide. I’ve seen videos of what amazonian women do to men. I don’t want that kind of trouble…

My House is Not a Swimming Pool

Well, its not. True story….

It almost was this weekend though. We started noticing the upstairs sink wasn’t draining. Unfortunately, we didn’t notice that the water was coming out of the pipes under the sink until we had a wet mess that soaked the first floor sheetrock and left a pool of water on the carpet.

I don’t have much money now and since plumbers don’t take alternative methods of payment like books, a rather expansive collection of movies, or miscellaneous electric adapters I had to do it myself. The first step was to unhook the trap from the bottom of the sink. Done! Easy peasy japaneesy. I’m kind of a handy man so I know my way around a wrench.

Next I had to borrow a “snake” from a family member. I pushed it down the pipe but no dice. It just kinked. I literally stared at it for an hour trying to think of other objects to shove down the pipe before a family member suggested busting the sheetrock and cutting into the pipe in the wall to see if I could unclog it there.

To tell you the truth I was terrified of busting up the sheetrock. If I didn’t find the clog I’d just have a busted wall, cut up pipes, and a non-working sink. Luckily, the clog was right below where I cut and the water instantly drained. From the cross-section of pipe I cut, I could see there there was years of soap scum that had built up in the pipe. The house was built in 1984 so its safe to assume its at least that old of build-up. I paraded around the house showing my wife and kids who looked at it disgustingly.

I felt so accomplished. Then came what I thought would be the easy part. Putting everything back together. I was wrong…

First off, the parts were all custom because the sink to wall pipe set up was a little abnormal. It took 4 trips to the hardware store before I got what I needed. Actually, I didn’t get what I needed but I made it work. Somehow I fit these pipes together and now I’m crossing my fingers that they don’t bust loose and send water everywhere. I still gloated though. I didn’t let my family know how poor of a job I did at re-piping. I strutted downstairs and said, “Yep. She’s all done. Nothing to it.”

They then proceeded to lift me up and cheer. Okay, that part didn’t happen. I did get a thank you beer though. What more can you ask for?

Everybody have fun tonight, Everybody Qigong tonight

In my previous attempt at becoming the world’s strongest and most amazing man, I was lifting weights, punching boards, and accelerating the earth’s rotation by running faster than a speeding bullet. Somehow this led to me looking up throwing stars (Shuriken) online and then watching videos of them, which then led to trying to figure out what Kunai was and watching videos of that. Lastly, I stumbled across a random comment where someone said,” You think that chi doesn’t exist, look up Proof of Chi and watch the documentary on the Chinese guy”.

Now I’m about 25 pages in to a book called “The Way of Qigong” by Kenneth Cohen and I’ve watched about 3 hours worth of Qigong videos, mixed with some Bruce Lee documentary excerpts.

Qigong is basically a method to direct the flow of the body’s energy for health and vitality. I read along the way that the body and mind were one, so I thought while I’m getting my work-out on I might as well give it a shot.

Yes, I am very random and impulsive. Yes, I love every second of it. I don’t think there is anyone who really knows me that would ever say I was boring or stale. Carpe Diem my friends!

Just in case you were wondering, my future name as a master of the universe is either going to be “Zen Master Bohn” or “His Zenniness”. And I’m writing this post with my mind power. Boom! I just blew your mind didn’t I?


Happy Happy Happy

I worked out this morning. I was sore from last nights gym tournament. I call it a tournament because instead of sticking to a few exercises like I normally do, I just walked around the gym trying to figure out which part of my body wasn’t sore so that I could punish it for its laziness.

After my workout this morning, I took a shower and went to work. For some reason I felt really good after working out so I was happy. I guess I must not exude happiness much because when I walked in and said, “And how are you 2 ladies doing today?” the front desk women looked at me puzzled and murmered “fine…” under their breaths.

Then as I approached my desk, I asked a colleague the same thing. She distorted her face into a scour and said, “Are you running for office or something?”. Can’t I just be fucking happy people? Sorry for the language, but I felt it emphasized my displeasure at people not being able to deal with my happiness. For god sakes, grab some coffee and some perkiset(?) and go skip on a rainbow. Don’t come to work and harsh my happiness with your smirky hatefulness.

It’s rather unusual for me to be this happy though…maybe somethign is wrong. Maybe my body is emptying all of its seratonin and soon I’ll be left a depressed, mopey mess. No, I’m not quite happy enough for that. I’ve taken ecstacy so I know my happy limits. You can’t say you’re the happiest you’ve ever been until you stare at a motivational poster of a guy in a kayak for 20 minutes pretending to paddle down an imaginary river as you shout joyfully. Ahh high school. Those were the days…

Post Navigation