Occam’s Razor



Occam’s Razor is a theory that states that taking everything into consideration the simplest answer is almost always the correct one.

I could hear the rhythmic thumping of my dog’s foot pounding the floor in the bathroom as I rounded the corner into my bathroom. His vacant childlike expression of question was the first thing I noticed. He had been digging at his ear and I could see flecks of blood down the side of his snow-white fur.

“Winter, come here baby.” I playfully called him to me but he resumed his digging and I sat down on the mat beside him. I turned the faucet on in the tub and dampened a soft cloth before wiping down his neck and ears. He hard parked himself in front of the toilet and I noticed flecks on the side of the bowl as well. His stubby boxer nose with its single black spot nuzzled my hip looking for the hug he usually gets after I have done anything he deemed unnecessary.

“Hang on.” I laughed as he whimpered a bit to get my attention. I grabbed some toilet paper and dried out his ear which led to a vigorous head shaking. I laughed as he looked like Dumbo preparing to lift off for his first flight. I lifted the lid of the toilet and was puzzled to see the bowl already full of blood.

The simplest answer is always the correct one.

“Fred?” I called out to my daughter “Where you cleaning the dog up or something?”

There was no response so I walked across the hallway to her bedroom. The flecks of blood on the top of her green and purple duvet had my brain reeling as I didn’t remember the dog being in her room at all. I pulled the cover off her bed and saw matching stains with larger smears across her bottom sheet. I pulled all her bedding off with a grumble under my breath about keeping the door shut so the dogs couldn’t get on her bed. Especially when Winter had been digging at his ears.

The simplest answer is always the correct one.

I started gathering up dirty laundry as it was strewn down the hallway. I figured if I was going down stairs, I might better take every thing I could. There was a ball of Fred’s clothes tucked under some towels and I pulled them apart and my heart stopped cold in my chest.

No way.

The simplest answer is always the correct one.

I stumbled down the stairs in that numb state parents find themselves when a child fails a grade or dings up the car the first time they take it out. The door was closed to the downstairs bathroom. I dumped the laundry across the hall and took a deep breath. This was a moment I had hoped her mother would deal with when it happened but here it was quite literally in my hands.

I knocked softly on the door. That quiet knock you give when you are terrified of what was waiting behind the door.

“Fred, it’s okay.” I started really not knowing what else to say “I mean it was going to happen. I just hoped it would be five or seventeen years from now.”

“It’s fine , Dad. We learned all about it at school in health class.” Fred responded through the door that seemed to be a barrier between us that had simply sprung up by her growing up. I rubbed my head and felt the stubble. I was due for a shave so I put my hand against the door briefly before taking it away like there was a fire behind it and not my no longer so little girl.

The simplest answer is always the correct one.

There are moments every man has to face at least once in his life. Moments where his courage and resolve are tested. Moments he will be a better parent for.

Standing in line at the pharmacy with an arm load full of every size and shape of pad produced in the known world for his twelve-year-old daughter and a can of shaving cream is one of them.

I nearly swallowed my tongue when the girl at the check out smiled and asked if “That would be all?”

“Just double bag that please.” I implied with the same wary eye that guys use when buying a porno magazine at a new store. Not that I have ever had that experience either.

The walk up the driveway felt like the longest fourteen steps in history. My brain kept wandering thinking about where I had missed all the day of her life that got us here. I thought about her sitting in the driveway drawing little stick princesses in side-walk chalk and me drawing giant Great White sharks eating them. I thought about the first time she rode her bike to school and I counted the seconds until I saw her turn the corner towards home.

None of those moments were gone but they would be replaced with the anxiety of boys (which are still thankfully gross) and friends and all the things that come with having a teenage daughter.

I noticed her door to her bedroom was shut . I inched down the hallway and hung the bag on her door. It felt like it was heavy enough to pull the handle off. I stepped away from it like it was a bag of poisonous snake.

“I left some things on your door for you,” I said softly “Just let me know if they are the right……things….”

I walked silently across the hallway to the bathroom and closed the door. My breathing was starting to slow itself. I dropped my pants and sat on the toilet. I didn’t know it I was going to puke or poop first and I figured I would rather clean up puke off the floor before poop. I heard the snap and creak of Fred’s door followed by the rustling of the doubled up plastic bag. I could hear the shuffle of her feet across the floor.

The bathroom door flung open and Fred promptly strode the short distance to the sink and deposited the shaving gel I had bought on the counter. Winter followed right behind her and sat at her heel digging at his ears again.

“You know I am pooping right?” I asked as I covered myself as best I could.

“I know.” Fred said as she planted a kiss on my cheek “But now today is awkward for you too.”


A Dog Eat Dog World



The aloofness of cats has always bothered me.

Their snide looks. Their subtle superiority complexes. Their quickness when clawing your arms from fingertips to facial stubble for simply touching them. Every single thing about them.

I have always been a dog person. That may say a lot about who I am but I think it boils down to the simple give and take relationship that you can expect from a dog.

That has always extended to the dogs of people I have done work for. I have had them climb up in my truck. Steal my lunch off the back of my truck. Pee on my tools. It happens. It’s just kind of what you expect from a dog.

I heard the dog before I could see it. The wild maniacal barking all dogs do when someone knocks on the door. The same kind of nervous excitement guys get when they are waiting for a girl to answer her cell phone the first time you call them right up to the excited peeing. Its claws scrabbled at the lower panels of the door so I figured it wasn’t a large dog. As the door swung open the barking became a low throated growl that inched closer to my boots. They were wet from the morning rain that had rolled in and I wiped them off as I stepped inside the door.

I laughed as I saw the dog. It was dachshund that couldn’t have weighed any more than five pounds but every hair on its body was standing straight on end like the back hair on an old man at the beach when he takes his shirt off.  I had to tell the customer that the job was just too intricate and time-consuming to risk it in bad weather so I would be back the next day. The sausage-shaped dog continued to bark and snarl until its owner picked it up.

“He’s never bitten anyone.” The owner said derisively as the dogs insanity calmed down to a level just below needing electro shock therapy. It bared its teeth at me again as I explained the plan for finishing the job around the sun/ snow/ rain mix that was expected in the next few days. As I headed toward the door to help my team pack up our gear, I heard the crab claw clicking of toe nails on the floor as the wiener dog shot across the floor and grabbed the hem of my thick carpenter pants. I looked down to see the wild-eyed glare and the flash of needle teeth before the dog latched on to my calf. It felt like being stung by thirty bees all at once in a piece of skin the size of a dime.

I kicked the dog away from me and reached down to pull up the fabric. I saw six puncture marks and a welt that was already turning a purplish red.

“I thought you said he didn’t bite” I said gruffly as I rubbed the spots of blood off my leg.

“He never has,” The owner said as he scooped up the now blood fuelled engine of hate “Well…..I mean…..he bit my wife’s aunt twice on the leg last week and bit my wife’s hand so hard yesterday that we called the paramedics but he’s really just being protective.”

“Protective of what? Your vast collection of professional wrestling video cassettes?” I growled.

“You’re not going to sue are you?” the owner asked as the dog continued to thrash like a vibrator dropped on a tile floor.

“No.” I said flatly “Are his shots up to date?”

“As far as I know.” The owner said with a sigh that told me it wasn’t the first time the subject had been broached.

“Then I will be fine.” I said as I headed out the door into the drizzly dampness. The throb in my leg didn’t ease at all as I got into my truck and headed to meet a possible customer at their house.

I once again heard dogs as I got out of the truck but this was the low monotonous bark of hounds and I wasnt disappointed as I saw two massive dogs heads up over the five foot retaining fence. Their droopy faces dangling like an octogenarian’s labia and just as wrinkly. I laughed as I saw them and then threw up in my mouth a little at the imagery.

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite.” I heard the home owner say as he walked out of the back yard. It was like he could read my mind as I kept my distance from the braying labia faced animals.

“I wasn’t worried.” I answered with a tremble in my voice echoed in a painful throb where the teeth had gouged into me.

“Come on around back and I will show you what I need done.” The labia dogs owner said as he motioned for me to join him in the backyard.

I opened the gate and felt my first step into the back yard sink up to the ankle of my boot. I looked down and saw I had landed squarely in a pile of dog crap the size, shape and oddly enough the same color as the dog that had bitten me. I couldn’t contain the laugh as the owners face fell when he saw my boot.

He had no idea that while I had no love for cats that my day had gotten a whole lot better by crushing a pile of shit shaped like a wiener dog left there by a dog with a face like a pussy.



Smooth as a Baby’s Butt

hair removal 1

I have known I would fight male pattern baldness since I was a teenager.

If you look at a family picture of men on my mom’s side it’s like a Mr. Clean convention. Wide shoulders, thick legs and shiny bald heads. I figured I would be proactive and in my early twenties started shaving my head. Thankfully enough I have a nicely shaped head. There is nothing worse than a pasty bald guy with a deformed cranium.

I have explored every type of razor and cream possible and even contemplated waxing but the idea of every hair on my head being yanked out makes me want to scream “Kelly Clarkson!!!”

I even called a spa to see about laser removal and was disappointed when they wouldn’t touch my peach fuzz. That it was most usually targeted at particularly furry crotched women.

It seems to me that this is a complete misstep on the part of spa owners. I mean guys need to trim the hedges as much as girls do.

I was sitting in a restaurant with friends one night and a group of girls at the bar near us were discussing the fact that one of them had gotten laser hair removal on her crotchal area leaving only a “Landing Strip”.

I love that name.

Like every time she’s getting into bed with someone,  they grab a couple of flashlights and act like they’re Ground Control and there penis is a 747.

Still, the reactions to hair removal are very different for men and women.

Like this girl getting that landing strip and telling her friends about it in a crowded bar and her friends demanding to see it.

So they drag her off to the bathroom, all giggling to get a peek.

That’s one of those cool things I like about women that you’ll never see happening between guys….

Imagine Joe and Dave:

Joe: “You did what?”

Dave: “Laser hair removal”

Joe: “Everywhere but the legs and arms?”

Dave: “Yeah”

Joe:  “Bullshit! Really? Come on, get out in the garage. I gotta see this”

I just don’t see guys doing that.

I’m sure they peek when you’re changing in the locker room if a guy walks by naked.  They just don’t squat down to eye level of the scrotum and yell out  “Wow that scrotum looks smooth. You do that yourself, or did you get that lasered?”

Not gonna happen.

I would have to imagine getting naked for laser hair removal is the same for guys as getting a vasectomy.

The awkward conversation as your junk is being handled in a clinical fashion by a burly nurse with a hatred for testicles. The shuffling giggles of nursing students as you try to make your penis look bigger by forcing it out the hole as far as it will go.

It questions our masculinity

Even coming out of the Laser clinic must feel weird. Like stepping out of the Ladies washroom and everyone’s looking wondering what you’re doing in there. I would feel like I needed to explain.

“Guys are going in there now. I was supposed to be in there. I have male pattern baldness on my penis!”

One of the highlights would have to be getting your junk out in front of a girl for the first time after getting it done.

Even just telling a girl about it could result in them rushing you off to the bathroom like you were just one of the girls. In the Club.

I even started fantasizing us being at the restaurant someday and those girls rushing me off to have a look.

The non stop questions as they are eye level with my , well, baldness.

“How far down does she go with the laser?”

“In the crack too?” “How does that feel?” ” Is it better wiping?”

“What do you talk about while she’s lasering?””Did she say you needed the BIG laser?”

It’s not like….whatever happens at Laser Salon, stays at Laser Salon. But it’s awkward to talk about.

Women love these details though. It’s like chocolate covered gossip and they enjoy every detailed piece.

So for now I will stick to shaving my…….. scalp.


Sometimes You Just Have To Go


poop outside

There’s pretty much one way to poop indoors. In a toilet.

No real room for creativity. Or at least functional creativity. Outdoors, though, the world is your canvas.

When you work construction, leaving the job site to poop is always a delicate balance of timing and distance. If the bathroom is too far away to get to on a break then you often end up clenched up trying to avoid launching the butt shuttle. Doing delicate work when you are baking some brownies is nearly impossible so you are often forced to find somewhere to hide and make a Minnesota hand warmer.

If you are exceptionally lucky, the home owner you are working for will have a bathroom they don’t mind strangers using. When construction workers descend on a bathroom after morning coffee and monstrous meat sandwiches for lunch it is literally like walking onto the deck of an oil rig drilling for mud bunnies.

So that leaves you the creative option of finding some place to drop your pants. I have constructed elaborate leaning towers of plywood that fool the eye when you looked at them like magician’s closet people disappear into. These usually take time and that isn’t always on option.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The winter had faded and Spring asserted itself with a day that saw temperatures rise to testicle slow roasting levels. The kind of day where you started out wearing a winter jacket in the morning and stripping down to your underwear to drive home. The house we were working on was in the dead centre of a subdivision whose back yards all faced each other. The home owner was an elderly couple that had just returned from the annual wintering in Florida. They were both easily as tanned as I was after an entire season soaking up rays. They must have been used to hosting people frequently as the lady of the house brought out coffee in the cold morning light and egg salad sandwiches as the sun reached its zenith.

Not long after lunch, I felt the tell-tale gurgle in my stomach that started my internal clock ticking down to the time I would need to deploy my Navy SEAL team for “Operation Tootsie Roll”. It wasn’t long. A bomb was going to go off in my colon that would destroy my ass like Godzilla destroys Tokyo. I bolted for the ladder to head down off the roof but stopped as my stomach clenched up violently. I sucked my butt cheeks in tighter than every duck face selfie ever taken and shimmied down the ladder.

There was no way I could make the nearest coffee shop and I wasn’t going to drop the kids off in this ladies pool.

I scoured the yard quickly before finding a possible spot. There was a garden shed that hid a small space beside the back deck that if I dropped my coveralls and scooted backwards I could wedge my ass into it. I was in that panicked state of not wanting to shit my pants but not wanting to do it in the middle of a subdivision. My stomach made the choice for me at that point by gurgling once and then holding its breath.

I snapped my coverall straps off faster than a big breasted girl snaps off her bra at the end of the work day and frog hopped my ass back into the hole. What happened next does not need a full descriptive narrative other than to say when I straightened up it looked like someone had painted the back of the garden shed with a shotgun full of baby food. I shook my head looking behind me but not as violently as when I saw the fact I had splashed liquid sewage down the inside leg of my coveralls.

I groaned at the idea of having to pull them back up but it was either that or try to sneak across the yard to my truck with only a t-shirt on. With a shudder that must have looked like a dog shaking off from a dip in a septic tank, I pulled my clothes back into place. I stepped in a pool of egg salad and my own tears and heard it lap up the sides of my boots.

I shuffled towards the truck when I heard the front door open and the lady of the house emerge with a tray of coffee and cookies. My stomach rebelled again and I clenched up even tighter. If I was going to make it through the rest of the day I had to somehow get cleaned up.

“How’s everything going?” she asked with a smile as plastered on her face as the garish make up that must have been fashionable in her trailer park in Florida.

“Pretty good.” I lied as I felt something cold slide down my calf.

“Well, I thought you might like some cookies,” she said as she set the tray on a chair she clearly at on while chain-smoking “They should be okay but might be a bit stale. They were what we had before we went south.”

The realization that the eggs she had made the sandwiches with were likely as old as the cookies sent my stomach rolling in new-found panic.

“Ma’am, I believe I may have stepped in dog poop somewhere in your yard and was wondering if you had a hose I could rinse my boots off with.” I continued to lie.

“It’s right around the corner by the deck stairs.” She replied to my implied question and I shuffled in a bow-legged walk towards it. I ripped down my pants and hosed off the horror that was trapped inside. In my shit addled brain I assumed it would be easier to sit in wet pants the rest of the day as opposed to poopy ones.

I heard a lighter flick and a chair creak as the home owner sat in the opposing chair to the one with the coffee. She took a long drag off her cigarette before I heard her voice across the yard.

“If you wouldn’t mind hosing off the back of the shed when you are done I would really appreciate it.”

Word Fatigue



There are times when I put my fingers on the keyboard and the words simply aren’t there.

Writing has become part of my daily routine but like every writer I struggle. What will I write today? How do I continue to feed the machine when inspiration is completely lacking? When my muse doth protest?

It’s a question the plagues me deeply.

There are so many days when the stories I write feel one note. Feel so similar to some other story I have written.

I mean, come on, how many times can I write about being literally caught with my pants down?

I see it more and more with writers not just here but every where I read. Brilliantly talented people who just hit that wall. Where the stories all blur together.

The wall where writing stops being fun.

I won’t lie. There have been times where I seriously contemplated giving up writing entirely. When I was tired of every word I was writing the instant it appeared on the screen. It wasn’t fun any more. I stopped loving it with the passion I needed in order to tell the stories I wanted to tell.

The truth is, many of us use writing as a crutch. As a coping mechanism. As a way to express the one thing that we can’t say to anyone else.

What happens when that thought is fully expressed?

When it seems like you have beaten that horse not only to death but through becoming a zombie and back through death again?

It’s at that point that so many great writers give up writing.

The way over that wall is as simple as it gets. Turn left. Turn right. Turn around. The wall isn’t the end of story telling. It’s just the end of that chapter.

Writing a running narrative like a blog is a lot tougher than it seems at first. The story is constantly being changed by the life you live. When writing becomes the only thing you have to write about it’s really only a matter of time before you stop completely.

For myself when I hit the wall, I took an on-line class in stand up comedy writing.

Was it inspiring? Not really. It did however give me an outlet to try something different.

When you stop living your life and stop trying new things your story will always be the same.

Don’t feel bad or guilty that you didn’t write today. Be glad you were doing something worthy of writing about.

When you get tired of the words you seem to use over and over its time to build a new vocabulary.

It’s your story after all. Use any word you like.

My Eyes Are Up Here….


Men are obsessed with breasts. We are. Accept it.

Part of me thinks it’s a power thing. Breasts hold sway over us. We know they dominate us, and that therefore entices and as frustrates us. Women are the dominant gender for several reasons, and two of them are staring at our chest while our eyes try to steer upwards.

Another part of me thinks this is a dignity issue. Ever notice that when a woman’s naked it’s considered sexy, but male nudity is funny?

You know why? Boobs.

Without them, we just look like deformed Ken dolls.

I think women’s breasts have the attention of most men. Don’t you?

It’s one of those things you really can’t not look at.

Like a sunrise or a newborn baby or a teenage Asian girl on a skateboard wiping out and smacking into a parking meter.

I’ve researched the phenomenon exhaustively and believe that it’s just natural for men to be looking at breasts.

I am forever catching myself glancing at women’s breasts.

It doesn’t matter who they are, my sister, my best friend’s grandmother….

I’ll just be in a conversation about the price of gas and all of a sudden realize ……

“Wow, I just saw boobs.”

 It’s like breasts are trying to get my attention or something.

They just seem to scream “Hey you! Yeah down here! Look at us!”

I think the reason is simple; breasts are sticking out on the body

I mean imagine if men were built with permanent erections.

We’d look at men differently. Our clothes would be different too. Probably a whole lot baggier with some pleated crotch areas.

Some more pleated than others I imagine.

I’m sure most women would try to be discrete but at some point their gazes would drop.

Just cause, well, he’s sticking straight out there.

It’s true though. Parts of the body that stick out get more attention.

We all notice:  breasts, noses, bulging groins and big bums.

And women notice this more than men do.

It’s true, why else would they constantly be asking their husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends…

“Hey, does my butt look big in this?”

So with all these parts sticking out, it’s no surprise people are looking.

The trick for us guys is keeping it to a glance, stay alert, and avoid staring.

Recovering from a stare is tricky. In the same way getting your junk caught in your zipper is tricky.

I find pretending you’re in some deep thought, justifies staring off into space.

Then I come back with some random piece of trivia about comic books or action movies so you think I am a complete nerd.

Anyway I think that’s just the way we’re built.

Even the Bible says  “let her breasts please you always”.

If God made the elbow or knees with that kind of “bodaciousness” and “bouncability”, we’d be staring at them instead.

And men aren’t alone in this. Women have their issues too.

We’re not the only ones looking down when a woman walks into the room. Lots of you women will be looking down with us.

Checking out her shoes. You can’t get your eyes off them.

Now nobody’s saying all you women have some kind of foot fetish.

So you see ladies, we’re not so different.

We’re just admiring the 36C’s while you girls are gawking at the beautiful pair of size 8′s.

You do it to us guys too. Judging us from our beat up work boots all the way up our super tight ripped jeans to our bulging junk sticking straight out.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

My eyes are up here.


Thanks to comedian and comedy club owner Don MacDonald for his help and comedy writing tips.


Five Easy Payments of $29.99



I will be completely up front. I love infomercials.

There is just something completely magical about a blender that juices fruit, makes my teeth whiter, promises to grow my hair back, connect my iphone to other blenders around the world and trims my nostril hair. The fact Mr. T is endorsing it and sending it to my door for the low price of six easy payments of $29.99 unless I act now because they will reduce it to just FIVE payments is a no brainer for me.

At three in the morning and credit card in hand, I can get truly frightening.

After I broke my leg I watched my weight balloon to a point it had never reached. I rationalized it as best I could. That they multiple surgeries and doctors advice about my mobility were enough reason to scarf down whatever I wanted. So I did.

I didn’t realize how huge I had gotten until I saw a picture of myself and was shocked. The camera doesn’t add ten pounds, it adds a whole other person. I was heavier than I had ever been. With a family history of diabetes and heart disease I was quickly on the road to one or both of those.

I was standing in my living room when an infomercial came on that immediately caught my attention. It was for a brand new program called P90X. I saw the dramatic results these people achieved and was intensely jealous. Jealous enough that I knew I had to do whatever I could to get the body they had and I wanted. So out came the credit card.

The program was brutally intense and I think I shed as many tears as I did drops of sweat those first few weeks. I spent more time soaking sore muscles in the bath tub than I did even being awake until the first day it stopped hurting a little. Little by little, the weight came off.

Like any exercise program you do for a few months, things get stagnant. I was constantly looking for something new. Something different. Something to take the weight off faster and easier. Infomercial after infomercial. Program after program. Credit card bill after credit card bill.

It all worked to a point but it stopped being even remotely fun. There was no real goal other than to complete the next step with no finish line in sight. So when the chance came to run a five kilometer race at a ski hill came along, I jumped at it. I started running on a small island near my house and for the first time in a long time it stopped feeling like exercise. It was just running outside. As a kid I can remember running for hours and not even considering the fact I was getting tired. I was just having fun.

My mental informercial mindset has always led me to want to try new and trendy things. The newest trend is obstacle racing with the most revered of those being the Spartan Race. A three, eight or twelve mile obstacle filled battlefield. Mud pits. Rope climbs. Hill runs with sandbags attached to you. Sounds like fun doesn’t it?

I decided the best way to train for it was to split my time between the gym and running outside. The snow had finally started to melt and despite the chilly wind, I ventured out. I needed to somehow simulate the obstacles in a race so I planned a route that would take me through the tourist park and past the water treatment plant. The air was cold in my lungs with every breath but its cold fire burned along side my competitive nature.

The ran the length of the snow filled beach past the pavilion filled with picnic tables and chairs. I smirked at myself thinking it looked exactly like an obstacle I had seen in most race plans. I turned myself towards it and dove under the first table. The idea was to crawl under the tables in a manner simulating the crawl under barbed wire through a mud pit. The instant I knelt down I heard a tremendous rip as well as the icy fingers of wind on my butt cheeks. I froze face down under the table and reached back. I felt a small tear along the seam of my pants before touching chilled flesh.

The fact I never wear underwear now seemed like a poor lifestyle choice.

I made my way under the tables and ran towards the water treatment plant. I could feel the seam of my pants spreading wider but at that point was too far from home to turn back. It was actually a quicker and less populated way home if I continued on. The frozen wind lashed across my exposed ass like a whip.

I took the most direct way across the dam that lead to the treatment plant only to see a ten foot tall chain link gate in my path. I truly had no idea when they had put that up. The “No Trespassing” sign was also new but I really just take those as a suggestion. Besides, I had to get home with as few people seeing my goose pimpled ass as possible.

The gate flared out around the concrete sides of the dam like wide-spread arms. The barbed wire across the top seemed like a poor choice to try to scale so I made the decision to wrap myself around the sides of the fence and reach for the other side. Entwining my fingers around the links in the fence I shoved my foot around the other side. The instant I pushed off to reach around to the other side two very ill-timed things occurred.

First, the rip in my pants stopped from running down my leg and headed for my groin.

Second, my junk fell out the now gaping hole.

With no one else around it may have not been a big deal. I certainly have never shied away from public indecency. I have likely put the chemicals in my pool more times naked than I have clothed. The issue here was a basic scientific principle.

Wet exposed skin plus frozen metal equals adhesion.

To put it much more plainly, my sweaty balls were now frozen the a fence post.

I hung in mid-air above a raging waterfall hoping that a bolt of lightning would strike the fence and kill me. I closed my eyes and prayed to every God that ever existed that the sun would come out and melt my testicles off the chilly steel. Those few seconds felt like an eternity. I had a choice to make. Hope for a miracle or do the unthinkable.

I pulled as quickly as I could away from the fence and felt the elastic snap of my testicles slapping against me as I jumped to the dam again. Searing pain racked my system and my body temperature shot up. Sweat poured down my body and stung the now raw flesh bouncing out the bottom of my destroyed pants.

I jogged as tenderly as I could home. Fearful the whole way a bus load of nuns would drive by and see my junk flopping around like a child on a coin operated horse outside a grocery store.

I stripped down as soon as I entered the door. I flung my pants towards the trash and looked over at the television I had left on. An infomercial was showing the latest trend in hair removal and I busted out laughing.

Forget hot wax. If you want to take the hair off your groin just stick them on a frozen fence.



Behind The Scenes




It would likely amaze you how many things go on behind the scenes here at The Things I See Up Here.

More often than not it directly and negatively affects the volume of time I can actually spend writing.

So let’s take a peek behind the curtain.

Based on my writing you may have figured out that I own and operate my own business but that’s really just the beginning.

Having two kids that play three different sports each, my intense desire to get to the gym enough to hit my own weight goals, training for an upcoming Spartan run in Toronto (trust me you’re gonna want to hear this story), organizing the local youth softball league (I truly believe far too few people give back to their communities), pounding on my fiction work in my ultimate pursuit of getting published (the results of which can be found at 69 Flavors of Paranoia) truly devour what little passes for my spare time.

However, this week has been consumed by hospital visits.

Pull back the gasps. There is nothing wrong with me.

This week has been devoted to my brother Dart who has welcomed his first child. Three days of waiting and texting and calling and running have led to the birth of another Prince into my kingdom.

Yes, you can “awwwwww” all you want.


I am just going to stand silently off to the side shaking my head.

Why? Why oh why would he have to be born a Ginger……….


Stanford v Texas

My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat. Blood pounding in rushes so strong my ears flared red from the pulse. The clock was ticking down and the ball was moving through out stretched hands faster than the eye could follow. Bodies weaving in a dance set in motion by muscle memory and endless hours of practice.

I glanced at the scoreboard. It was going to be close. Up by five with under two minutes to play.

My team defending well but the ball is just moving too fast. Passed back to the outside. A shot goes up. Damn. Three pointer from the corner baseline. Only up by two.

March has always been the beginning of a season of renewal. The shackles of winter cast off by the warmth of a forgotten sun. Renewal of the trees as the leaves burst forth, renewal of the flowers as their buds scent the air, renewal of the taste of lawnmower emissions on steaks left beside the grill for a half a second too long and an over zealous neighbour.

Renewal of old rivalries.

It had started almost as a joke. My son, the Captain has always had a love for basketball. From his very first Fisher-Price plastic basketball net to the Reebok all black street hoop currently buried under a mountain of snow beside the driveway. He loves it in a way that baffles me.

I could have easily been one of those parents that drilled the things they loved into my kids. Instead, I let them find the things they love and just let them run with it. It might explain why my eleven year old daughter’s hair is turquoise after it was almost black with blonde highlights.

Back up the court and a turnover just past half. My team scrambling back to defend but a step too slow and inches behind as the easy lay up drops. Tie game.

The Captain and I were in the driveway shooting baskets for what felt like hours as he laid out the entire March Madness bracket system. I was really only half paying attention. I was much more focused on the fact I think I had dropped two of the three thousand shots it felt like I had taken through the mesh hoop.

“Who do you think will win?” The Captain asked as he rebounded yet another shot I had missed.

“Who is projected to go first overall in the NBA draft?” I asked as I watched him lay the ball up easily and catch his own rebound.

“Kemba Walker from the university of Connecticut.” The Captain answered in the same matter of fact tone he usually reserves for sports statistics. His knowledge of them baffles me at times. He can tell me the name of the kicker that kicked the winning field goal in the 1996 Grey Cup but can’t remember to put deodorant on after gym class.

“That’s my pick to win the whole thing.” I said with a half a smile. My knowledge of college basketball was limited to the sports highlights I watched over the top of a coffee mug walking out the door on the way to work in the morning.

“Wanna bet?” The Captain asked.

Inbound ball slips through the point guards hands and is shuttled to a streaking power forward who rockets into the air and slams the ball through the hoop. My team looks at each other in search of support and finds it lacking. Thirty-five seconds to play and down by a basket.

“Absolutely,” I answered “What are the stakes?”

“You picked a team so I will do the same. Whoever’s team makes it the farthest wins.” The Captain replied as he drained another long shot. The ball skipped out of my reach and rolled into the street. I stepped toward the ball but the Captain had already picked it up and was launching it toward the rim. It slipped through the hoop and whispered through the mesh.

“What are we playing for?” I asked.

“If I win, you have to clean my room,” The Captain replied with a sardonic smile “If you win, I will clean any room you want.”

“Deal,” I laughed as I plucked the ball from him and lofted it toward the net. It missed by a mile.

The clock ticks can be heard over the hushed crowd. Bodies fly up the court. Open hands are outstretched. Less than twenty seconds now. The defence seems impenetrable. The point guard dribbles hard to his left around a pick and sees the open lane. He drives his foot forward but glances at the time. He pulls back outside the three-point line. Pulls up. Shoots.

It was a tense few days of watching box scores and the non stop barrage of basketball on the television. I could have cared less who won.

The truth is, it was nice to bond with my son over something. As parents , we spend so much time working or doing laundry or getting groceries or worrying over bills that we forget that our kids see us doing everything but paying attention to them. The time they are kids is so fleeting that it slips by in a half a heartbeat. For those couple of weeks in March it was a constant conversation about who and what was happening in the tournament. A barrage of insults and jibes at each other that parents often forget bond you to your kids in ways we long for when they move on in their lives.

The Captain’s team, Duke University lost in the Final Four negating the chance of our teams playing each other in the final game but by that point neither of us cared. We watched the final game together as Kemba Walker led UConn to a national title on his path to being picked first overall in the draft.

Nothing but net.

I can’t say I am proud of it but I sat outside on the step laughing the entire time my son cleaned my truck. It’s always referred to as my office so I figured it was as good a room as any. I wasn’t laughing because he was cleaning out rancid coffee cups or sweaty clothes.

I was laughing because I had already cleaned his room.

69 Flavors



Despite my humorous real life adventures, in my severely limited spare time I write horror fiction.

I could wallpaper a room with printed rejection emails like every other writer but today I can finally call myself an author.

The incredible chefs at 69 Flavors of Paranoia have selected a piece of my work “Addicted” to be featured in the March/April “Menu”. Menu 26 will be available for your viewing pleasure on March 30.

69 Flavors features some incredible fiction, artwork and short films dedicated to all things horror. Please stop by their site and check out some truly new and intensely scary work by some fantastically talented artists.

Dinner is served so go eat your fill.

An Age of Wonders


I remember my first computer.

It was an absolute miracle of technology. It could do things I had never seen before.

It could play games. It could……. well that’s about it.

Over the years I have watched the technology advance to the point where I could play a game on my laptop while sending an email to a product distributor while bitching about a movie trailer and buying generic brand Viagra  from a company in Kuala Lampoor.

I have seen computes get faster and smaller to the point where the processor in my iphone has more power than the entire bank of computers that put the first man on the moon.

They can process data at an alarming rate.

They can hold more songs than I could listen to in any given week.

They can store a dozen movies on a microchip smaller than the hole you had to cover up with masking tape on a video cassette in order to illegally make a copy of it.

They can take pictures of such brilliant clarity that they dazzle the eye.

They can……well……they can allow your teenage son to make videos and directly post them to Youtube …..

Yes, an age of wonders.

An age where I will forever live in a Superman costume and an Afro wig.

I am seriously hoping time travel is right around the corner.

The Full Body Throw Up Story


The Ten Thousand Hour Rule states simply that any skill can be mastered by simply practicing for ten thousand hours.

In theory it is the perfect solution to any skill set one would wish to acquire. Say for example the entire rationale behind the saying “throw like a girl”. I am willing to bet that if you took any girl on the face of the earth and had her throw a baseball for ten thousand hours by the time she was done she could throw a baseball well enough to knock down the milk bottles at any county fair and win her own stuffed animal cause I sure have never been able to do it.

The same cannot be said of me when it comes to dancing.

I have tried more than once to learn a musical instrument or anything involving rhythm but I simply don’t have it in me. It never stops me from trying though.

I knew the night was going to be rough when the seal on a several years old bottle of tequila smuggled out of Mexico was broken. There is something truly magical about that elixir. At least it performs magic on me. Makes me believe all things are possible. It also one time in college made me believe I could speak French to a group of girls who not only were taking Bilingual Nursing but were all from Quebec. Magical.

An old friend of mine had called earlier in the week to invite me to his step daughter Cupcake’s nineteenth birthday party. I had sort become an unofficial “uncle” to her since I agreed (drunkenly) to escort her to a Katy Perry concert that no one else would volunteer for.

If you are sensing a theme you are correct. Alcohol makes me quite pliable.

His wife was a chef at a private college and while I consider myself an excellent cook this girl made my best dishes look like street meat prepared by a leper with eight fingers and half a nose. I never pass up a chance to eat anything she prepares. She could dump dog food in a dish and call it a “Beef Testicle Surprise” and I would shovel it in. So the combination of gourmet food and free drinks was too much to miss.

“You doing okay?” I asked my friend B-Man as he stood beside the grill he was in no way allowed to touch.

“I am officially old today,” B said with a bemused smile ” Let’s get fucked up’.

I smiled knowing exactly what he meant. The bottle he had been saving and I had been trying to steal for years sat in a place of honor in his kitchen. Like a shrine to the drunken stupidity that led to renting a cube van to take to the bar and trying to convince a young female police officer that you aren’t drunk while standing in front of a pizza place half-dressed scarfing down cheese steak slices before puking on her shoes.

Shot after shot of the amber fire poured and the music volume increased. I could feel my feet tapping along to whatever dance beat had been playing in the back ground.

“Not tonight,” I tried to convince my addled brain “Not tonight”.

I could hear the clatter of keys and the scuffle of feet putting on shoes as I eyed the empty bottle. My brain was swimming and the choice was clear. I was going dancing. After a few fumbled attempts to get my shoes on and an even briefer search for my coat that I didn’t bring we were out the door.

The bar was as packed as sixteen people can fill a space designed for a few hundred. The bass beat was pounding through the cracked tile floor and could be felt through the soles of your shoes. The lighting was perfectly suited to a space like this as a single red light strobed in a pattern that nowhere near matched the music. A sunken dance floor displayed a lone couple of middle-aged lesbians slow dancing to a song that was reminicent of the Chicken Dance. A middle-aged hipster with long gray hair danced in a hectic fashion on what passed for a stage above the dance floor.

The place was perfect.

The girl faces fell as they made their way to the bar and the adults that had invited themselves to go with them looked for a table that wasn’t covered in someone’s spit. I could see Cupcake cringe as she ordered a drink and look at the exit. I knew what had to happen.

With the fearlessness that can only come from smuggled booze that may or may not have made me go partially blind I attacked the dance floor. I was on fire. I had moves that put the girl from Flashdance to shame. My arms and legs flying in a celebration of human movement and grace. I bounded to the raised stage and ground my way up against the graying ghost in an attempt to clear the floor. I heard clapping and howling. I knew I had to take it to the next level.

I used every eighties dance move that existed. The Running Man. The Lawnmower. The Sprinkler. The Carlton. I was amazed to see the dance floor fill up around me and the dancers try to copy the one man show I was performing but failing miserably. I laughed as they copied my flaring body and smiled as they screamed for more. My heart pounded in my chest and I was one with the music.

The song ended and I made my way towards the bar with the sounds of adoration ring in my ears. Cupcake wrapped her arms around me and was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. I hugged her back and signalled for the bartender to give us a moment.

“That was the greatest thing I have ever seen,” Cupcake laughed as she regained her ability to talk. I had left her speechless. I was prouder of myself in that moment than I could have imagined. I had turned a possible fail into a total win.

“I do have some moves,”I shouted back in the open space between us. Her laughter nearly doubled her over.

“You looked just like Elaine from Seinfeld,” Cupcake cheered “It was like your whole body was trying to throw up.”

I stood aghast. I was brilliant. I was magical.

I looked out over the dance floor and saw the assembled girls frantically copying the dizzying array of dances I had pulled off while laughing hysterically.

” I am starting a new tradition,” Cupcake smiled as she rubbed my shoulder ” Every year on my birthday we are going to come back here and recreate that performance.”

To this day, the tradition still holds up and my invitation to join them stands.

Now if you will excuse me I have a nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven more hours of dancing to practice before I will ever step foot in there again.

Lost In Translation


When I was in college I toyed with the idea of teaching English as a second language in a foreign country.

The only real issue I had was the fact I would have to learn a different language in order to survive. I likely would have starved to death or ended up sold on the black market as someone’s piece of “white chocolate” before I even realized it happened. I just can’t imagine how difficult it would be for someone to navigate a foreign culture .

As the winter begins to wind down, all the suppliers we have put on massive sales pitches to contractors from all over Southern Ontario. The idea is financially sound for them as it gets new products in our faces so we can add them to our arsenal for the coming season. It’s usually wrapped around a relatively decent buffet but sometimes they go a step further.

I had heard of the Fastest Shingler competition from a few guys that had taken part in it. It was as revered in our industry as the World Hot Dog Eating Championships were at a Weight Watchers meeting. It was scheduled for the same day as our biggest supplier unveiled their new product line. I pride my self on being able to bang product on as fast as anyone else so I figured it was time to put my skills to the test. The prize was one thousand dollars, a trophy and a shot at the Canadian championships. It may sound a bit odd to people but the winner of the whole competition stood to win ten thousand dollars. I like shingling. I like money.

I had to admit I was a bit nervous as I saw the set up for the competition. Eight contractors would face of head to head in timed heats to see who could shingle a small set up that included a toilet stack and a roof vent. I walked by the line of guys waiting for their turns and eyed up the time boards. I snickered a bit as I saw some of the leading times while watching the techniques the group that was hammering away was using. I figured I could make the leader board with a solid effort.

I walked back to the registration area and filled out the forms necessary to enter. A small Asian woman took my paper work and eyed me up and down over the top of her thick black framed glasses before gesturing for me to take my spot in the line.

As I walked down the line I eyed my competition and while a few of the guys seemed reasonably competent I was quite excited by my chances.

” Excuse me,” I heard a thickly accented voice say to my right ” Is this the line for the gang bang?”

I burst out laughing at the joke only to turn toward the voice. The tallest and duskiest skinned Jamaican I had ever seen looked down at me with an earnest expression.

” If it is,” I answered ” I sure as hell don’t want to go after you.”

I was expecting his expression to break at least a little but he still looked as solemn as ever. He tilted his head a bit as he tried to puzzle out my meaning. I laughed again in spite of myself.

“I was told there was a gang bang at the end of the line and I should bring my tools,” the man continued with earnest eyes. I could barely breathe I was laughing so hard.

” I am sure you swing a mean hammer,” I continued when I could get enough air in my lungs to form words ” But this is for the best in the industry.”

” No one bangs as fast as I do,” the Jamaican responded to my perceived insult and it elicited fresh peals of laughter from me and a couple of others that had been listening in.

The Asian woman who had taken all our registration information at that point sidled up beside him and placed a hand at his lower back. She looked expectantly at him as to what was causing such a dilemma.

“Is this the line for the gang bang?” He asked her with the same puzzled tone he asked me and she smiled as smile usually saved for lottery winners. She nudged him away from us and toward the competition area.

“Right this way,” She said as she gave us the same beatific smile before sashaying away. I stood in stunned silence. Perhaps I was in the wrong line. I am certainly not shy but the idea of dropping my pants in front of a set of bleachers full of people was not exactly what I had in mind today. Not long after, an equally dark-skinned but much shorter man was searching around the line. I knew he was looking for the guy we all would regrettably have to follow.

“Looking for someone,” I asked almost rheotorically.

” Yes,” He answered with a thankful look at me ” I brought a guy with me to compete today.”

” I think he’s at the front of the line,” I responded ” But he is here for a competition I don’t think the rest of us are involved in.”

A wickedly evil grin spread across the man’s face that I was helpless to not reflect in one of my own.

” He’s likely the fastest guy here,” Wicked Grin answered back ” But he speaks about fifteen words of English. We have been telling him for weeks he was coming to a place where gangs of guys bang shingles on for money. He’s been calling it a gang bang ever since.”

The Yes Movement

The simplest of words have always held the most power.

As writers we use a massive vocabulary of verbosity to voice our inner thoughts and convey the message we have to share. Yet all around us is a world of single words and slammed doors. Rejection at every turn.

From the earliest stages of our lives we learn to fear one word answers. From the “No” you get from your parents when asking for something to the “No” you get when you ask that girl you have had a crush on for as long as you can remember if she would go the dance with you there is nothing more crushing than a one word rejection.

We are conditioned to say “no” to anything that makes us feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable. We are taught to say “no” to the things that seem strange to us. We are taught to say “no” to anyone that makes us feel something we aren’t accustomed to.

Saying “no” limits us in every way. It argues for us to limit what we do or think or feel. When we argue for our limitations we get to keep them.

No. That’s too far to travel.

No. That can’t happen.

No. This will never work.

There is a reason that twenty thousand people want to chant a single word over and over at a basketball game. There is a reason people gathered together around the world can easily band together and scream at the top of their lungs. It may have started out as a gimmick for a relatively mid level professional wrestler but its power can’t contained to one venue. On street corners and in high schools. In churches and rooftops. People around the world are chanting a word we don’t hear very often in our lives.


The most powerful word in any language is “yes”.

Saying “yes” opens doors to things you didn’t even know existed. Saying “yes” opens you to a world where you have no idea what’s going to happen, often with people and places you have never seen before. You are not in control. So say “yes.” If you’re lucky, you’ll find people who will say “yes” back. Now will saying “yes” get you in over your head at times? Will saying “yes” lead you to doing some foolish and dangerous things?

Yes it will.

But don’t be afraid to be foolish. You cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Cynics don’t learn anything. Cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no.

Saying “yes” begins everything.

Saying “yes” is how things change.

Saying “yes” leads to knowledge.

“Yes” is for young people.

So for as long as you have the strength to, say “yes.”

Say “yes” to a day spent in your pyjamas.

Say “yes” to sing a Britney Spears song at karaoke if you are a guy.

Say “yes” to dinner with your mom even though she picks at the waitress like a tag on a pillow.

Say “yes” some help even when you don’t think you need it.

The next time someone asks you to do something just that little bit outside your comfort zone understand that the magic words that make things happen are not hocus pocus or walla walla washington.

It’s just “yes”.



The Memory Remains


Fortune, fame, mirror vain, gone insane but the memory remains – Metallica

The tremors started in my hand when I heard the first scream.

It was involuntary and I reached into my pocket to dig my truck keys into my palm. Hoping in vain that the bright pain would stem the dark tide I could feel washing over me. The tingle of every follicle of hair on my body standing on end was as electric as the ozone after image from a thunder-storm. I watched my daughter and her friend run ahead of me screaming that care free screech of the tether being loosed on childhood. That scream that only two young girls can manifest when their feet are flying over solid ground.

Lights flashed in the periphery of my vision like flashbulbs and I briefly looked over my shoulder to see if the predicted storm had finally broke. A waving hand caught my attention and I turned back to see my daughter frantically motioning me closer. I passed booth after booth of garishly colored animals and mirrors reflecting the swirling bodies around me as I weeded my way closer to them.

The call of carnival barkers broken off by a derisive wave of my hand that I was trying to control in vain. Music pulsed at ear drum shattering levels that seemed to be in time with the pounding in my chest. My internal temperature dropped and I shivered despite the oppressive Indian summer humidity. The breeze kicked up long enough to dry the cold sweat that had broken out on every inch of my skin. A low animal growl of thunder in the distance broke my reverie and I made my way over to the impatiently bouncing girls.

My daughter’s smile briefly quelled the wave of anxiety breaking on the shore of my memory as I saw what she was pointing at.

” We are going in here,” She said in the tone she has that leaves no room for argument and had already kicked off her shoes . Her friend followed suit and I watched in near abject fear as they climbed inside the huge dome of the old-fashioned bouncy castle. It’s red and white stripes dulled by some many seasons of travelling from farmers field to farmers field. I reached out tentatively to run my hand over the mesh on the windows and pulled back as the texture of it felt like spider webs.

I felt the motion of the bodies inside it and heard the screams that you can never be sure are fear or laughter. I leaned my head against it and closed my eyes. The dream came back just as vivid as it had been when I woke violently from it the morning before.

The smell was the first thing I remembered. The musty wetness of damp ground as I walked  the stone bridge to the island I ran the trails on. The leafy canopy of the trees as you stepped on to it shielding me from the early morning spring sun. The trail feeling soft under my feet as I walked slowly towards the field where I always began running from. I started for a moment as I saw I wasn’t alone.

I saw her standing in the full light of day with the gossamer fluff of dandelion fronds dancing around her. Her tanned limbs stretched out to kiss the sun back. A smile broke on her face as she turned on her toes with a dancers grace. Her eyes lighted on me and I could feel my heart hold its breath.

“Chase me,” she called out and turned toward the lushly groomed trail.The turned her whirling hair into a blazing comet’s trail as she picked up speed. My heart leaped into my throat and I bolted after her braying for her to wait like a blood hound on a scent. My arms pumped furiously to drive my muscles to the breaking point and yet she seemed to be gaining speed. The ground felt at times insufferably muddy and other times as barren and harsh as the mountain tops. I chased her over vast fields grape vines and oceans of desert sand. Her musical laughter at my plight causing me to let loose the maniacal giggle that lay trapped behind my gasping chest.

The trees enclosed around the path again as the sun rose high over them. The oppressive humidity causing the air to hang heavily laden with moisture. The horizon I could just make out between the thick limbs began to darken as a storm was building drawn at a maddening rate by the thick air. I could see her toned limbs flash around every corner I passed and I redoubled my efforts.

I came up over a small hill to see a vast field spread out in front of me. Endless miles of wild strawberry flowers lay on the canopy floor giving the first hint of early summer. I saw the whisper of a gossamer shift flicker on the edge of my vision just as I felt a hand cup my own damp palm. My heart hammered once before freezing in that way things do when a moment holds its breath. Long fingers wrapped around mine and I turned my face to see a beatific smile. Her lips grazed over my jaw line and up to my ear where I could feel her heart pounding in the tight pants of her breath.

” Let’s go have some fun,” She teased as she used her nose tip to turn my face to see the huge dome of the bouncy house. It’s striped exterior giving a red tinged hue to its shaded interior. I felt the first drop of rain from the storm before the first massive clap of thunder shook the ground around us. Her smile and laughter dragged me towards the relative shelter as much as her tugging of my hand. Rain spattered the ground like crystal tears as the sun dipped over the tree line and the dark clouds enveloped the sky. Lightning arched through the teeming rain and I heard the same laughter that urged my frantic chase draw me inside the air-filled dome.

I felt hands on the side of my face and eyes lock on mine. I could feel my feet sliding on the wet surface but was held fast by a grip as sure as steel. I was pulled into an embrace that was as safe and warm as anything I had ever known despite the rain that continued to chill my soul. I looked out the spider web style windows to see the last of the fall leaves being lashed away by the gale force winds pounding through the clearing. Lips grazed mine on their way to my ear and a voice breathed over my brain.

“Miles don’t matter and time changes nothing,” Her voice echoed in every fibre of me ” But it’s time to wake up.”

I felt the embrace fade like a shadow in the sun and the rain turned to snow crystals on my eyelashes. I rushed to the woven windows to see her walking back up the path towards the trees. My heart exploded in my chest at the same moment the scream tore from my throat calling her back.

” You going in,” A voice gruff from years of smoking said blandly as I blinked the dream away.  I could hear my daughter and her friend laughing and screaming in that way kids do when they think no one is watching. My hands shook violently and I gripped my keys harder as I gulped down a breath. I shook my vision clear to see a young carnival worker gesturing towards the entrance of the bouncy house. The first drops of rain began to fall as the storm finally broke around me.

” No,” I answered in a near whisper ” Once was enough for me in there.”

It was true. Time does change nothing. The pain may fade. The heart does heal.

But the memory?

The memory remains.

The One For The Road Story


The first warm day we had after a month of blistering cold and damaging snow storms had my phone going off like your dad does at his office work Christmas party after he’s had nine beer and found out the company wasn’t giving out bonus cheques this year. The accumulated snow leads to ice dams along the edge of the roofs which can lead to wide-spread leakage and damage if not attended to. The majority of people just leave the snow and let nature take its course but the best course of action is to at least remove it from the perimeter.

The first call of my morning was an overly long snow removal with a woman who grilled me so hard about what I was doing I began to get a Joan Crawford “Mommy Dearest” kind of vibe. I actually flinched when she went to the closet and pulled her coat off a wire hanger but when she followed me outside grilling me mercilessly about the rationale behind removing snow from a roof I realized she was likely just a lonely old lady who just beat her own kids with coat hangers.

Mile after mile, house after house we pulled literal tons of snow off buildings. The muscles in my upper back and shoulders were burning like a painful bowel movement brought on by a night of dollar store tequila. The temperature continued to drop and I was getting to the point where I just didn’t think I could do much more.

I checked with my office and there was a call for snow removal not that far from where I was so I figured I would do the responsible thing and attend to it. If nothing else it got me one step closer to soaking in my bath tub with my army of plastic sharks and Spider-man bubble bath.

The snow was piled up on the house in giant meringue puffs that likely tasted terrible but I set to work with my snow rake. Great lumps of the stuff fell around me and did nothing to improve my mood that was souring as quickly as milk left on a sidewalk in St. Louis in summer.

I made my way around the back of the house and just started pulling the snow off the low garage when I heard a laugh and a splash.

” Now that looks like hard work,” I heard a voice call out. I turned with a half-smile and a sarcastic retort hanging off my teeth that never made it to my tongue. In the midst of the snow drifts sat a steaming hot tub occupied by two gentlemen who had to easily be in their late seventies. Their white skin and even whiter chest hair stood out against the starkness of the landscape like a polar bear walking across the arctic if he was drunk and horribly lost. There was a litter of empty beer bottles strewn around the base of the tub and a cooler not very far out of reach. Both men beamed smiled as bright as the mis-aimed headlight in an 86 Hyundai.

“It sucks ,” I answered back as the laughter I had forced down bubbled up like a fart in a thong. Both men raised their beer and half saluted me before draining them and tossing the bottles into the snow.

” You really need one of these at home,” One of them called out across the yard and pawed drunkenly at the lid of the cooler. His grizzled mat of chest hair floated like angry sea weed as he splashed his way towards the edge.

” I wish,” I laughed as I thought about my sad little bath tub. I took a longing look at the hot tub and cooler. Maybe someday.

“Well, we are moving out tomorrow so at least stop over for a beer before you leave,” Chest Hair yelled as I moved further down the roof edge. I turned to answer him when I heard a splash and water sloshing onto the ground. My eyes stopped on a pale set of wrinkled ass cheeks bobbing up out of the water as Chest Hair stood to open the just distant cooler. He turned to hand his companion a beer and his junk flopped against his opposite leg like a dog shaking a sock with an orange in it. It was almost at perfect eye level with his tub buddy and it didn’t phase him at all.

They sank back down into the water and had an arm over each other as they each took a long draught from the newly opened bottles. I had now seen it all. I had tangled with a sunbathing cougar and now had run across two hot tubbing bears. Lions and tigers and bears my ass.

” Sure you don’t want one,” Chest Hair chided again waving a beer bottle in a manner far too close to the motion his old junk had just conjured up.

I stopped and in a brief flash I realized my day had essentially been filled with the same kind of people. From Joan Crawford chasing me through snow drifts too deep to beat me to death in to the drunken Grizzly bears. They were just lonely. Seeking the companionship that even a few simple words from a stranger or a hot tub reach around can give.

That brief moment of connection to someone else that lets them know that they are not completely alone. Hell, I was guilty enough of it but anthropomorphizing plastic sharks in my bath tub. No one really likes to be alone. If these people found comfort in each other then who was I too judge them and quite frankly the beer looked really good.

” I have time for a quick one,” I replied as I tossed the snow rake aside and reached for the still junk dangling bottle.

A Matter of Faith



I don’t believe in a lot of things.

I don’t believe that the electric car isn’t a viable option but the big oil companies keep it suppressed.

I don’t believe that most people know how to properly use the word “awesome” because most of the things they use it to describe hardly inspire awe. “Awesome” describes seeing your first child born not the new sandwich at Wendy’s.

I don’t believe being older makes you any smarter. I know far too many older people who are still just as dumb as they were when they were younger but are now just more ignorant about it.

I don’t believe that Facebook, Twitter and Instagram are training our kids for anything other than data entry jobs.

I don’t believe your friends should always tell you the truth because if you have to ask their opinion of what you are wearing you already know you look ridiculous.

Mired deep into the third month of what has to be the longest winter I can possible imagine, I don’t believe it will ever end.

Yet when I find myself frozen driving down a back road to another place hopeful to make enough money to make it through the week and doubting spring will ever arrive I happen upon something truly awe-inspiring.






I don’t believe Mother Nature and I will ever see eye to eye but I will be damned if sometimes she doesn’t do something truly awesome.

Standing there watching them watching me I believe we both had the same thoughts. We were all waiting for Spring.

As much as I have struggled through the depths of winter I will always believe that things are going to get better.

It’s really just a matter of faith.


You don’t have to call it God or Jesus. That’s religious humbug to a lot of people, but you’ve gotta believe that nature and spiritual things surround us. That is what put us here! I thank the universe for that every day of my life.” Jack Lalanne

Ordinary Heroes



The small face pressed up against the glass greeted me with a wan smile before vanishing.

I knocked on the door and was almost taken by surprise as the door almost imploded inward. A young woman held the door open and I could tell by the pallor of her skin and the blush on her cheeks that the temperature was dropping rapidly in her house. The same ghostly little face appeared from behind her and smiled a little before bolting to a low couch across the room and submerging in an ocean of blankets. The slow creeping frost on the interiors of the windows was as thick as the frost on the outside.

” I guess I don’t need to ask if its cold in here,” I started jovially but instantly regretted it as the woman pushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear. The almost imperceptible flash of indignation that crossed her chilled skin told me that my usual humorous banter was unnecessary.

” The wind last night knocked our chimney over and the wood stove is our only source of heat,” She said ” I called a chimney company but they said if I needed any new parts to fix it that it would take over two weeks for them to get them and get here.”

” That seems a bit long to go without heat ,” I answered her unspoken question ” Let me see what I can do.”

The strong wind gusts and a mountain of falling snow had ripped the steel chimney out of its housing and crushed the top of it. I sighed and rubbed my scalp as I looked at it. I wasn’t confident it would go back together but as I stood there looking at the crumpled remain I felt a gaze falling on me. I looked at the window again and saw the same pallor and flushed cheeks on the boy whose image greeted me. He waved quickly and disappeared in a whoosh of blankets not unlike a cape unfurling.

I stared at the chimney and felt the cold wind blow around me fluffing the fine dusting of snow that was falling into my eyelashes. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t really have a choice.

I ask myself every day ” What makes someone a hero?”

I look at the men and women who rush into burning buildings to rescue something as relatively trivial as a set of glasses for an elderly woman or the people brave enough to take up arms for our freedom when others just as easily turn a blind eye. These are the people we know to be heroes.

But what about the ordinary heroes?

The moms who work a double shift at a factory then finds time to make a Halloween costume the morning of the a theme party.

A dad who sits on a frozen bench in a sub-zero arena watching his daughter fall over and over trying to figure skate.

The people who volunteer their time at no kill pet shelters cleaning up dog poop.

To me, a hero is anyone who goes out of their way to make a difference to even a single person and asks for nothing in return.

It took four trips to the hardware store and a second ladder borrowed from a neighbouring farm-house over the course of four hours in arctic level winds but I fixed the chimney. After putting all my gear away and trying in vain to shake the cold from my limbs I knocked on the door.

” Can I use the stove now ?’ the woman said as soon as the door opened. I could hear her teeth clicking as she turned and looked over her shoulder at the blanket wrapped boy. I nodded and smiled. She practically ran across the room and started stuffing huge hunks of wood in the black monster as fast as her hands could move. I stood with the bill I had written out in my hand watching her and I cleared my throat as the first sparks caught fire to the kindling she had laid across the logs.

” My son thinks you’re like Superman,” she said with a warming smile as she turned and reached out for the invoice I had in my hand. I burst out laughing. I think I actually had my Superman underwear on underneath my Superman thermal pants. I saw a wide smile peek out from beneath the pile of blankets and I laughed even harder. The little boy popped up from the couch and put his hands on his hips to proudly show me his Superman t-shirt. I handed the young woman the bill and told her she could just drop the money in the mail. Warmth had already started to spread through the room as I stepped outside into the cold.

I would have loved to have seen her face when she opened a bill that read ” No Charge”.




It’s The End of The World As We Know It ( And I Feel Fine)


I almost punched an elderly woman in the face while waiting in line at the grocery store.

Normally, I don’t pay attention to a lot of the boring blathering babble most people are streaming as I stand in line with my basket full of kale, green apples and almond milk covering the box of cinnamon rolls I say are for my kids but her statement caught me so off guard I clenched up.

” It’s nice to see us having a good old-fashioned winter again,” She spouted with a smile on her weathered face and my hand immediately curled into a fist I knew would likely shatter any hopes she had of being in the seniors edition of “Modern Bride” magazine and me in jail with a small Latino cell mate named “Pepe” who continually offers me his pudding in exchange for protection from the skin heads.

The fact its been a brutal winter has so many people on edge that I think it’s really only a matter of time before someone snaps. More than likely that person will be me. So I figure if I am going to unleash months of pent-up cabin fever and aggression on the unsuspecting masses I should likely have a plan.

Jack Chaser’s Fool Proof Plan For Destroying the Planet

Step 1

Ok, first we have to prepare. Know some yoga, or relaxation techniques? Use them. Calm yourself down. Inhale scented incense. Deep breaths, now. Ok. Ready? Are you calm? Really? Good. Now we begin.

Now that we’ve prepared, we will think up a plan. We need a good plan, now, otherwise a super hero or someone like James Bond will stop us. Or even worse, your mom will find you in her basement and send you to your room without dinner right before she checks your browser history.

We’re most likely to blow it up, but there are many more possible ways to destroy our planet. Below we have described in detail some of the most popular ones. Once you have chosen your particular method, proceed to step 2.

There are a few basic safety guidelines we need to follow though to ensure
  • DON’T tell any governments, organizations or ANYONE AT ALL about your plan. It’s a surprise after all.
  • DO use your weapons of mass destruction safely and always read the instruction manual. NO ONE is above reading the instruction manual. There are not always extra screws when you put something together no matter how many times your dad tells you there are
  • DO carefully plan your alliances. After they have completed their end of the deal make sure you kill them. Even your best friend because we both know he will say it was his idea all along
  • DO make sure you have a suitable  or mothership to live in after you’ve destroyed your home.
  • DON’T put your elbows on the table when eating dinner. Youre destroying the planet not basic civility
  • Remember to chew each mouthful 20 full times during dinner as it helps strengthen your jaws for all the military rations you are going to have to gnaw through when all the real food is burned to ash or mutates into weird animal/fruit hybrids like in “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2″

Simple Strategies That Will Almost Always Fail But We Can Try Anyway

The Dr. Evil Bomb

Although this seems obvious, dull and unoriginal, there’s more to blowing up and entire planet then you think. First you must collect the suitable explosives or super-weapons, and then deviously detonate them below the surface of the planet . This will make the earth explode, sending pieces spinning wildly in all directions. Everyone will die, whether from being disintegrated from the explosion, or, if they are not killed, their section of earth will either spin towards the sun, where they we will melt slowly, or plummet into the outer rim of our Solar System, killing them from the cold.

As you see this is a very effective way to destroy the world, and is a recommended strategy.


African Witch Doctors are a great help in a world destruction. Simply make a cotton model of Earth and let the Witch Doctor blow it up with dynamite. If they insist to stabbing it with pins instead, do not argue. You may suggest they takeout all the Gingers first but they may give you that weird stink eye that freezes mens hearts in their chests. Witch Doctors are creepy. However, if you would like one, feel free to kidnap one from Africa or purchase one on Craigslist. I hear they go for a few hundred bucks.


Creating the next Day After Tomorrow is a fun and easy way to destroy the earth. Simply find your nearest wizard and make them unleash a fury of hurricanes, hailstorms, maelstroms and other natural disaster. Be creative! Mix different disasters at different places to create a unique blend of destruction and death! This method is not only effective and impossible to be stopped by mere human powers, but it’s fun too! Personally, I am hoping for a Sharknado cause that was just too great a movie to not wish it was real.

Ask God for a Favour

I mean, seriously! God IS just sitting up all the time in the clouds, why should He care about the earth? Just ask Him to destroy it for you. If He doesn’t, He will probably destroy you instead for interrupting His peace, so this method can be risky, but if you succeed you will have very satisfactory results! You can also bet God that he can’t blow up the world.

Befriend an Alien Army

If science fiction has taught us nothing its the fact that all aliens races have two goals. One is to probe our rectal cavities and the second is to destroy the planet.

Unleash a Plague

This is a particularly nasty but relatively effective way to destroy the world and everything in it. Simply hire a scientist to create some super bacteria and then unleash it into the water systems of all the cities in the world, just like in ‘Batman Begins’. The people with suffer horrible deaths as the only thing left to drink will be beer leading to some drunken politician finally pushing “the button” as his frat buddies egg him on.

Send all the rubbish on earth to space

If you are tired of recycling and composting, this is the best one. Create billions of 510-ton missiles filled with shit and launch them into space, on low earth orbit. Wait for several decades and its orbit will decay, therefore creating a storm of raining refuse. Once the earth is completely covered with soda cans and used condoms I doubt anyone would be able to live in this planet.

Invent cars that are powered by rocks

Yeah, that’s right. Rock-powered cars. Once the earth is depleted of rocks there will be no more land, no more ground, no more Green Peace hipsters in their tweed jackets and shoulder satchels carrying manuscripts no one will ever read, no more annoying kids taking a dump on your lawn, no more anything! Since rocks are the most fundamental part of life existing on Earth, separating life from rocks would lead to the destruction of the world.

Step 2

So, you’ve picked your strategy? Now it’s time to apply it to your situation. Destroying the earth can be an enjoyable experience, you just have to know how to do it properly.

There are many things that may stop you from completing your task. Budget, governments and super heroes in spandex are the three biggest problems the earth-destroying newbie will encounter, and even experienced evil-doers will have to fight hard to destroy these problems.

  • Budget: Compared to destroying the world, robbing a bank is a simple activity and can easily be achieved. Mowing the lawn for your parents and neighbours could help too. If you’re really desperate, and have a thin or athletic build but have an irrational phobia of guns and mowers, try prostitution. If you have a heavy build, try sumo wrestling or stand-up comedy.
  • Governments: If you have solved the budget problem, taking care of governments should be no problem. Bribe them to leave you alone, or hire spies and infiltration agents to keep everything quiet. Better yet,use your prostitution skills and take selfies of you and government officials in group sex with midgets, farm animals and clown. No one like clowns.
  • Superheroes: The hardest problem. Seemingly the easiest way to solve them is to hire a super villain. However, no villain has ever beaten a superhero, so you may have to resort to fighting these pesky guys (or hot chicks) yourself.

Step 3

You may be tempted to flee as the world is being destroyed but make sure you give yourself enough time to watch the inevitable CNN special report as they find the dumbest backwoods rednecks to put on television as all the rational people are spending time with their wives or girlfriends or trying to convince their wives to have a three-way with their girlfriend.

Saying goodbye to all the things you will never have again is an important step but a better thing is doing all the stuff you will never get the chance to do again like throwing eggs at crying Goth teenagers or eating a box of Hostess pies.

Last but not least I highly recommend finding that elderly lady that started this whole process and punching her as hard as possible. When she stares bewildered up at you and asks why, you simply answer ” You know why”.

Emergency Broadcast


This is a test of emergency broadcast system.

In the event you are attending a three-day business seminar to be trained to install a brand new type of steel roofing product and happen to excel in the training demonstration, you may find yourself in the company of the twenty something boy millionaires poised to take over the company someday.

These young men may find your applied knowledge to be just as valuable as your ability to take all their money from them at a charity casino held at your hotel later that night to benefit the brave heroes who fight for our freedom but come home wounded and rather than take some cheap door prize you donate your winnings to a television renovation host that is actually doing the work just for a photo opportunity.

This gesture may further endear you to the company higher-ups who want to thank you for your generosity by buying you as much alcohol as you can ingest for the rest of the evening.

Should you find yourself in this position, a drink called the Four Horsemen is to be avoided at all costs. It is a mix of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Johnny Walker and Jose Cuervo in volumes that should be saved for poisoning rodents. The first one may seem like a good idea but I assure you it is not. Especially when it is followed by another.

Further, once these fine gentlemen have entered your blood stream you may be tempted to drink things like Irish Car Bombs, Sicilian Kisses and Monkey’s Lunch. This is also a tactical error as some time in the near future you will need to use the bathroom and someone using drunk logic will offer their room as its closer than the one not twenty feet away. At which point you may end up on the floor of a hotel bathroom with your testicles on the wet tile floor wondering how you got down there and why no one is helping you get up.

Waking up naked from the waist down with a strange bruise on the back of your thighs may also happen as well.

In the event that any of these things occur, do not contact your local hospital or poison control centre or the CDC.

You aren’t dying.

You’re just an idiot.

This has been a test of the emergency broadcast system.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

A Matter of Perspective

Working construction in the winter is its own little slice of Hell.

Nothing ever seems to go the way its supposed to and making a single dollar is a fight.

There is more than a passing thought that this way of life is simply not worth the effort.

That there has to be an easier way to make a living.

That maybe those corporate sales yes men have it right with their hundred thousand dollar a year jobs and six weeks of paid holidays.

Then I stumble across something like this.



I may have a shitty job or I may be having a shitty day.

This guys job is just……….. shit.

Keep your shoulders back and your chest out. Be proud of what you do.

Cause in the end you aren’t getting paid to stick things up your ass.

Out of Synch


The acrid tang of chlorine touched the back of my throat as I walked the humid hallway between the change room and the pool doors. As part of the Cross Fit program, we had to take part in a deep water fitness class. My fear of dancing was lifting with every step I took as I exited the change room in a whoosh of stagnant chemicals. I breathed deeply before rubbing my hands together at the thought of normally yoga clad bottoms floating around in bathing suit bottoms not big enough to keep bikini stubble dry. At least for one class I would be able to keep up with the movements and when I couldn’t I would just hide under the water and pretend I was doing something other than making the air fart out of my inflated pockets.

I saw only one person from class standing beside the pool as I made my way toward the deeper water. She was clad in a swimmers suit which while clingy was far too covering for what my brain had imagined would be a ring of synchronized camel toes rising out of the water to Madonna’s “Celebrate” with me in the middle spinning lazy circles. She had a bemused look on her face as she looked at the group already paddling around. She turned and arched an eyebrow at me and I gave her a half-smile before I turned my gaze to see where she had been looking.

There were at least a dozen women already in the pool. I think the youngest of them was in the neighborhood of sixty. There was more wrinkled white skin than the giant vat of Wonton soup at a Chinese buffet. My brain immediately went to the assumption that their class was finishing up and they would be getting out of the water. They were laughing and joking in that way women do when they have seen each other naked one too many times.

I saw the young aquatics instructor wheeling a speaker towards the pool and for one gleeful second I thought she planned on dumping the electric monstrosity into the pool to cook the entire floating mass like some geriatric bouillabaisse.

” Okay, who do I have from Cross Fit?,” she asked and the few of us brave enough to actually show up raised our hands.

“Well don’t be shy,” she laughed ” Join the class.”

I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don’t speak German. Anyway, it’s a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don’t know the name for those either. I heard a splash and saw Dave the Ginger bobbing along beside the Menopause Mafia. There was no way I was going to be upstaged at this point so I cringingly slipped into the water. I swam out to the deepest point and stayed afloat as the music from “Sweatin to the Oldies” started.

I could feel the eyes of the women flicking over to me as I tried to keep pace. Treading water while doing spirit fingers above your head might seem easy but I assure you it isn’t. I began to tire fairly quickly and looked at the clock. Twenty minutes of an hour class had passed. I knew at that exact moment I was going to likely drown and be resuscitated by the Little Mermaid’s grandmother. I began to cheat my way over to the shallower water and sighed a little as I felt my toes touch the bottom of the slope.

” Okay, lets lay on our backs,” I heard the instructor call out and I flipped belly up. I was grateful for the rest as the last series of exercises had been rough. I stared at the ceiling as the next set of instructions were called out. I wasn’t completely sure what I was doing so I lifted my head out of the water to see pasty white flesh rising in unison. I came to a couple of shocking revelations at that moment.

First, I saw the reason why I was nearly drowning and no one else was even losing their breath was the simple fact they were all wearing flotation belts so they didn’t sink to the bottom.

Second, when women raise their legs out of the water when they are laying on their backs a bathing suit bottom doesn’t necessarily cover all of their bottoms. Or their fronts. Or anything in between.

I inhaled sharply and sucked in a huge lungful of water. I coughed harder than a sleeping dog farts trying to expel the liquid and nearly choked myself faint in the process. The instructor blew her whistle once and I saw life guards that I have underwear older than walking towards me. I waved them off and swam slowly over to the edge of the pool. I pulled myself up on the ledge and took a couple ragged breaths.

“You okay,” the instructor asked as she knelt down beside me. Every eye in the entire pool area seemed to be trained on me and every ear listening to my wet coughs.

“I think so,” I answered as I felt tears roll down my cheek ” It’s just the chlorine in the pool.”

I kept repeating “It was just the chlorine, It was just the chlorine” the entire drive home.

Precision Timing

puke in pool


Why is there always that one kid?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs at the exact same time that a lifeguard pulls the kid from the pool permitting him to projectile vomit all over the pool deck?

Why is there always that one kid at a birthday party at the gym that needs to eat his hot dog and everyone else’s along with an entire family sized bag of chips and the remainder of the five and a half-foot sheet cake that’s more icing than cake before running screaming around the pool area getting himself so worked up that he pukes not only in the lap pool but the therapy pool as well while his step mom that is only ten years older than he is and has a typical white trash name like Becky-Lynn is not paying attention to him while texting her friends about how much she hearts things as the older divorced moms make snide comments about her yoga pant and UGG boots combination that draw the attention away from her obvious new boobs at the exact same time that a lifeguard pulls the kid from the pool permitting him to projectile vomit all over the pool deck at the precise moment I have decided that I need to work on my cardio by swimming because my body hurts from head to toe from shoveling snow off roof tops for more than six hours a day for the past week and I get splashed with frosting blow back all over my feet and legs making it look like I had stuck my lower half into a unicorn’s vagina?

More importantly, why is that kid always a Ginger?

Blast From The Past


I couldn’t believe it when I saw them in the racks beside the coffee.

I usually took a long wistful look at the prepackaged foods as I grab a mug of morning motivation. I remind myself that while sweet and tempting, I will regret it later. It may have only been a knock off of the greatest dessert food ever made but a wave of nostalgia ran through me and I grabbed one off the rack and put it on the counter. There was no way I was going to resist even an imitation of a Hostess Fruit Pie. I hadn’t seen anything even close to it in years and as I ripped open the package standing there at the counter. I was transported back to a world of twenty-five cent comic books and Spokey-Dokes destroying the rims of my bicycle tires.

In our organic, gluten-free, farm to table world I believe we have lost an ability we once had to enjoy the perfect moment of pleasure brought on by something as simple as the foods of our youth. There was no thought as to whether the things we were stuffing into ourselves were good for us. I don’t even know if there was ever any thought as to whether the flavors sometimes worked together but the late seventies through the early nineties were a magical time in the chemically diverse world of food.

Some of the greatest concepts were the simplest ones. Like multi colored ketchup.


Ketchup is one of those foods that you either love or hate but who could resist the chance to buy a tomato flavored gloop that was green or blue or that God awfully sick purple that looked like someone had vomited grape Kool-Aid all over a perfectly unassuming pile of greasy French Fries.

Drinks werent exempt from chemical gastronomy of the time either resulting in the disaster that was Orbitz.


Another simple concept that could have been magical. A liquid of one flavor with floating balls of a contrasting taste. The result was a nightmarish concoction that couldn’t be sipped but had to be gulped down to muscle past the gag reflex. It was like trying to swallow a live gold-fish on a dare at some party when you were too drunk to care but everyone else was sober enough to remember and tell you all about it the next day. I also think it taught an entire generation of cheerleaders to swallow without thinking so it is a loss that high school will never recover from.

Sometimes the greatest foods were the ones that exist now only in legend. Whispered about in hushed reverence like the Mc D.L.T or Crystal Pepsi. The greatest of all had to be the P.B. Max.


The P.B. Max was the bastard child of the Cadbury family trying to destroy Reese peanut butter cups. It was a whole grain cookie draped in creamy peanut butter topped with crunchy rolled oats and them cocooned in Cadbury milk chocolate. It was a virtuoso creation of flavors that had money in your hand to buy another one before the taste had left your mouth. Washed down with a Dr Pepper, it was a bubbling tingly symphony of brain melting pleasure. Eating a Reese peanut butter cup was like give oral to a homeless guy that had sat out in forty degree heat all day by comparison. They were discontinued in the early nineties because the Cadbury family simply didn’t like peanut butter.

My love for Hostess fruit pies was likely rooted in those twenty-five cent comic books. The advertising was beyond brilliant back then. What kid could resist wanting one after being sold a story where Spider-man foils a bank robbery powered by a cherry pie than made some ridiculous pun about the villains getting there “just desserts”. It was like subliminal messaging designed specifically to destroy my impressionable brain.


A bit of research has led to me finding out they still produce the original Hostess fruit pies in a factory in Kansas. They also make a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle one with green pie crust and vanilla pudding filling. I sure hope my mom kept my old BMX bike cause its gonna be a long ride down memory lane to get there. Hopefully I can find some New Coke and Jell-O pudding pops along the way to keep me going.

Hating Ginger


I remember the first kid that ever beat me up.

First grade is rough enough to begin with what with the no more afternoon naps and a full day of school. It’s also the stepping stone for the pecking order that will exist for most kids for the rest of their lives. So when I decided that I wanted to play in the sandbox with the metal Tonka trucks that have left more skulls dented than Mike Tyson’s fists at the same time as Billy Leurman I knew it would end badly.

Billy was doomed from the start to be picked on. His daily attired consisted of a yellow button down shirt and a bow tie that must have been purchased at the nearest Big and Clowny. Coupled with the fact he had no discernible difference between the width of his neck and the width of his head, it left him looking exactly like a number two pencil. Right down to the eraser. His fire engine red hair was the source of much consternation as he was the only Ginger in the entire school. It took one simple remark about his nose that was perpetually running into his mouth and the tongue that seemed to be constantly licking it to have him swing a right at me that left my nose bleeding and my cheeks burning with embarrassment. It was hard enough being a chubby little six-year-old but to be embarrassed in that fashion was something that I couldn’t leave unresolved.

I walked the long hallway to the fitness studio dreading another cardio funk dance session to “Groove Is In The Heart” by Dee-Lite. I couldn’t make more wrong steps than I did the previous week. It simply wasn’t possible. It was bad enough to see myself do it in the mirror but it was another thing to do it in front of the Butt Cleavage Brigade.

My foot steps faltered as I rounded the corner and saw something I was totally unprepared for. There, standing in the fitness studio, was another guy. I had a momentarily gay squeal escape me before I covered my mouth. There was no way I could possibly embarrass myself now. Not with another guy to at least divert at least some of the disaster. His attire was fairly similar to mine with a compression shirt and long shorts right down to garrishly colored shoes with the exception of a ball cap he had on.

” I am ever glad there’s another guy here tonight,” I laughed as I walked over with my hand extended.

” Dave,” He replied clasping my hand. It took a second for me to notice the smattering of freckles up his arm as I was transfixed by the fact he was a Ginger. The tell-tale Wendy’s red hair was poking out from the sides of his ball cap.

“Jack,” I said trying not let my voice betray the momentary lapse six-year-old me had into mild trepidation. I wasn’t that kid. Hadn’t been in a very long time so what did I have to worry about. I brushed it off and was just happy that I wouldn’t be the only one floundering around.

” Last weeks class was……” I managed to get out before Dave shot around me and grabbed the bucket of skipping ropes that had just walked into the room.

“Here Kim,” Dave blurted like a wind up yappy dog in a cable knit cardigan ” Let me take those from you.”

In a half a heart beat, the dynamic in the room shifted from one of two guys standing against the tyranny of the Vagina World Order to grade one all over again. A huge smile was plastered all over Dave’s face as he trailed behind Kim handing out skipping ropes and agreeing with every squeak her shoes made. I could hear my teeth grinding in my ears as I looked at the predicament I was now in. Not only was Dave a Ginger but a teacher’s pet as well.

My heart sank as I looked at the limp dangling noodle of rope in my hand as they passed by and flopped it in my hand. I felt like a white girl having sex with Kobe Bryant. All that length and no idea what to do with it. My inability to skip went hand in hand with my inability to dance. I could do all the moves but I couldn’t put them together into anything that didn’t look like a full body dry heave.

The warm up started with some stretching and then progressed into different levels and speeds of skipping rope. I looked like a cross-eyed cowboy trying to rope a three-legged goat wearing an afro wig. Dave was skipping like the Brooklyn public school system double dutch team. I got so frustrated at the four-minute mark that I fired the rope across the room like a used condom and just jumped in place.

” Everybody ready to take it to the next level ,” Kim yelled into her Britney Spears head mic. The girls all responded with their usual “WOO” and Dave answered right along with them garnering a beaming smile from Kim. I could feel my six-year-old inner child cringing a little as the Ginger teachers pet lead the pack in a series of moves that made Flashdance look like hopscotch. Dave looked over and gave me that knowing look that said I couldn’t keep up. I felt that same feeling I did when Billy walked over and punched me in the face. That embarrassing indignation.

“Okay,” Kim called out ” It’s time for some old school sports fitness. Everybody on the line for suicides.”

I worked my way between Dave and two yoga short divas and gave him a half-smile. Kim switched on some dance beat song and yelled “Go”. I bolted of the line in step with Dave and we raced out and back stride for stride. I could feel the lactic acid building up in my muscles and I smiled. The girls were passing between us as we raced back and passed between

“Almost” I thought barely containing my grin.

Basic body science dictates that as your muscles burn they create chemical reactions. Those reactions often create gases. Mainly carbon dioxide but sometimes methane. Methane usually only has one way out of the body.

I drove my legs at the floor and bolted ahead of Dave. I looked at the clock. It was going to be close. It was going to be exceptionally close. I was separating from the girls and dropping to Dave’s other side with every pass. I saw Kim look at the clock and I could almost hear her intake of breath as she readied herself to stop us. I paused on the far side of the room briefly and looked up to see Dave and the girls running towards me. I bolted for the other side of the room as Kim called the exercise to a halt.

I stood looking at everyone’s reflection in the mirror as the girls began gulping down air. They quickly stopped and looked at each other before taking dainty sniffs and looking at Dave. Dave grinned at them and they looked at him with disgust. I smiled as they sniffed again and walked away as quickly as possible. My brief pause on that side of the room allowed me to drop a monster fart that they had all run into and stopped. I heard them whispering about how gross it had been to eat that redheaded guys fart and I busted out laughing.

I walked out the glass doors and looked down to see six-year-old me walking beside me. I reached down and took his hand. I couldn’t let the ghost of Ginger bother him anymore. All it took was timing ,chemistry and a broccoli smoothie.

Punxsutawney Phil and the Global Warming Conspiracy

APTOPIX Groundhog Day

I am an animal lover by nature and appreciate the culture of Groundhog day but I have decided that every one of the miserable little bastards must die.

Six more weeks of winter? I would rather not.

The Germans used to believe that on Feb. 2, the Christian holiday of Candlemas — tell me you didn’t forget to pre-order your Candlemas roast? — any hibernating animal who saw his shadow could personally extend global winter for six months. Since this superstitution wasn’t already fucking insane enough, some kooks (or, more likely, savvy tourism boosters) in rural Pennsylvannia began dressing up in top hats, tuxedos and bow ties and calling themselves the Inner Circle. They declared that their groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, was the One True Weather Rodent, and that only they, the Inner Circle, could decipher his behavior, which happens to translate directly into rhyming verse, like this year’s forecast: “Many shadows do I see: six more weeks of winter it must be.”

Nice con. Its as big a scam as Global Warming.

groundhog 2

This morning, Punxsutawny Phil came out of his burrow on a unseasonably cold, sunny day, and predicted six more weeks of winter — but much of North America could have told you that already. Punxsutawny, like most of the United States, has been experiencing a freakishly cold winter,and yet people still believe the planet’s temperature is warming up. A record low  was set in Punxsutawny on Tuesday. Today, instead of the chilly, snowy 17-degree morning that was normal when the Bill Murray film was made in 1993, the crowd cheered on the groundhog at near record-setting cold temperatures.

Much of the country is experiencing a “Polar Vortex,” with thousands of daily record lows set in January. Even including Alaska — which has been seeing some record-cold temperatures as the Arctic climate grows more unstable — there were 19 more record-setting low temperatures as there were record highs in January. (Without global warming, one would expect about the same number of record highs as record lows.) Excluding Alaska, the lower 48 states saw 29 times as many record lows as record highs.

I might be in the minority but I hope Global Warming is real.

Imagine all the cavemen and woolly mammoths that are frozen in the ice that will be unthawed and be running around when the ice caps melt. Imagine if those cavemen are like Fred Flintstone. They could film the newest reality television hit that would rapidly eclipse “Duck Dynasty” as the most popular family in history. Captain Caveman trying to find his way in a modern world. The Wal-Mart line of clothes would be amazing.

In an important publication recently released, it states that an international research expedition to the Southern Ocean has confirmed that if it were left alone, the global climate would be naturally heading towards another ice age.

“We’re headed towards an ice age but our (man’s) presence here has delayed it but not for good”, stated Professor John Tarrance. Cores of marine sediment going back several hundred thousand years has confirmed that in the pattern of climatic fluctuations, we had passed the mid-point of an inter-glacial cycle and were now heading slowly towards a glacial period.”

Who really wants that?

I will tell you who. The groundhogs.

An entire industry and culture is built around the furry weather prognosticators. If an Ice Age is in our near future all of them will be out of jobs as people simply accept the fact that winter is never going to end. Punxsutawney would become a ghost town over night. Groundhogs will be free to run rampant over the country side and breed faster than teenagers in an Alabama trailer park. Soon they would cross over into inter species breeding creating a hybrid Groundhog/Grizzly Bear that would develop a taste for human flesh. That would quickly follow a break down of social systems as people locked themselves indoors to avoid the rampaging Grizzly Hogs. Families would soon resort to inbreeding to perpetuate the human race resulting in generations of deformed mutants with monstrous strength sent out to fight the Grizzly Hogs that have now developed wings to give them the tactical advantage of divebombing prey from above. The resulting nuclear conflict sparked by the Koreans blaming the Jews for everything would leave the world a grey,desolate husk where Mad Max style gangs driving vehicles powered by disconnected hamster brains would scour the lands for the last Twinkies.

So as the temperatures begin to plummet around the world you will likely find me roasting groundhogs over a burning pile of old MacDonald’s styrofoam containers. When people ask what I am doing I will just tell them I am fighting the end of the world.

Last Man Standing


Cross fit must be the anti Fight Club because the first rule of Cross Fit is you never shut up about Cross Fit. I don’t know anyone that has taken even a single class that cannot bring it up in every conversation they have with absolutely everyone.

Last summer, I had trained for and competed in a Zombie Run that was essentially a five kilometer uphill climb of three lengths up and around a ski hill. I turned in what I figured was a respectable time for my first timed race and was standing at the finish line panting like a dog in heat watching lesbian poodle porn when I say a group of high fiving young men who could have been on the cover of any issue of Modern Fitness Modeling For Douches. Each of them were wearing a black form-fitting t-shirt emblazoned with the name of the newest Cross Fit gym in the area. They had absolutely crushed the course and looked like they had barely broken a sweat. I was utterly exhausted from cross-country sprint but promised myself that my next race would be a much better result.

I was leafing through the program book at my gym when I saw they were now offering a “Cross Fit” style course. Apparently Cross Fit is a copy righted name so unless you have express written consent to use it they send a group of compression shirt wearing thugs in day glow green shoes to your house where they beat you half to death, impregnate your daughter and steal all the change off your dresser unless you promise never to utter the word again. I knew if I wanted to close the gap between cross-country running on my island and the ridiculous fitness level I saw that day I was going to have to find a way to push myself.

The night of the first class, I geared up and popped my headphones in. Pounding drum beats filled my ears courtesy of Avenged Sevenfold and I shook my testicles into a more comfortable position. I was ready for anything the class had to throw at me. I stalked down the hallway like a wolf hunting prey and rounded the corner towards the doors already open awaiting my arrival.

I was greeted by a tall, smiling woman in the shortest yoga shorts money could buy. Her bright and cheery demeanor completely disarmed me but not as much as the other people already waiting for the class to start. I entered the room to see a group of young women clad in matching yoga pants and tank tops. It took less than half a heart beat to notice a very distinct lack of penis in the room. I shrugged and hoped at least one other guy would show up albeit fashionably late but realizing that a guy who showed up fashionably late on purpose was likely going to be wearing yoga pants and wishing his outie was an innie.

” Okay everybody,” the instructor called out as she adjusted her headset ” My name is Kim and welcome to instability training.”

A chorus of clapping and woos responded to her and I chuckled a bit. Woo girls. Just my luck.

” If you will all grab a BOSU and a set of weights we will get warmed up,” Kim said as she motioned to the blue mushroom-shaped half balls. Before I could make an ill-timed joke about blue balls, I looked at the stack of small hand weights. The heaviest they had been ten pounds and there was no way I was going to get much out of that.

” I am gonna grab some weights from the gym,” I said in a tone that must have channeled Chris Farley in “Tommyboy” looking for the weight room because Kim gave me a look normally reserved for three-legged kittens with a hair lip.

” I will be right here,” Kim replied enunciating each word and nodding after each syllable to be sure I understood. I could tell she was looking for an excuse to pat me on the forehead.

I walked down the hall wondering which of the Little Rascals was her favorite and grabbed a couple of heavy dumb bells. If I was going to do a girls workout I was at least going to look like a guy doing it. I had just made it back to the place I had picked out in time to join the gyno Canadians in the warm up. I snickered as the beads on sweat started to show on everyone else and I hadn’t even taken a deep breath yet. Then my worst fear was realized.

I can’t dance. I have about as much rhythm as lava lamp and am just as wobbly. Watching me was like watching someone dry heave. Kim led the group through a series of steps that left me gasping to keep up. I was bouncing on the hall ball in what I figured was perfect timing only to have my feet tangle up with the girl beside me resulting in some unintentional butt touching.

” Okay,” Kim called out, ” Let’s grab the heavy weights.”

Finally, I thought. Something I could handle.

What followed was a disaster of recockulous proportions. Ten reps into a combination move that involved balancing on a giant rubber ball doing shoulder presses while at the same time executing what must have been the crane kick from “The Karate Kid” with a yoga pose that could only be described as “Crotchal Nightmare”, I was a sweaty mess. I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes into an hour class. I looked like I had run the New York City marathon pushing a wheel barrow full of pickled pig’s feet. My muscles were screaming from the weight but there was no way I was going to let a bunch of jazzercising girls see me go down.

” Everybody ready to take it to the next level ?” Kim laughed into her mic while eyeing me in the mirror. A round of “woo”s that would have done Ric Flair proud covered the sound of my tears hitting the floor. We all dropped our weights and sat down on the floor. I resisted the urge to vomit into my water bottle so no one saw.

” Feet up on the ball,” Kim called out and I laid back on the floor.

“Thrust up,” I heard and turned my head to see yoga clad crotches sky-high. I burst out laughing. I was Robinson Crusoe trapped on Camel Toe Island. A series of moves followed after the thrusting that brought my eye line to Gina Town with nowhere else to look. I couldn’t help but continue to laugh. I decided I only had one safe place to look. Right at my groin. I figured if nothing else all the girls in the class would think I was a typical guy and fascinated with my junk.

Mercifully the class ended quickly there after. Apparently time flies when you are laughing at floating vulva. The girls were continuing to woo it up and I just sat on my giant blue balls staring at the floor. I wiped the sweat running from my bald head and saw Kim giving me a look I was unprepared for.

It was almost pity. She had kicked my ass with a class I had never seen a single guy take and likely with good reason. Especially those of us that can’t do the Running Man while holding a weighted bar in our butt cheeks.

” You okay ?” Kim asked as I gracelessly stood up.

” I think so,” I replied with a shake of my head that indicated the opposite.

” Well I hope you come back next week,” Kim said with a smile ” It’s yoga boot camp. You should consider getting some yoga pants so you can keep up with the rest of the girls.”

Worth a Thousand Words


“A great photograph is a full expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense and is thereby a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety.” 
― Ansel Adams

There are some images we see that move us so much we have no choice but to put pen to paper. Document those emotions with prose just to stop the bottled up emotions from spilling over. Images of such beauty and intensity that we wax poetic just to share the vision with others. A thousand words could easily become ten thousand from a single photo of a child’s first smile or a loved one’s last.

Some images burn their way into our soul that we are left with no choice but to write to purge the feelings that cause our hearts to swell and our nerve endings to tingle. That rush that brings blood to your cheeks and that warmth to your fingertips. Tongues dance with verbiage and raise voice to spread truth.

Yet some images evoke such power we are left with but one word to describe them. A single utterance so fitting that it is a moment of perfection. The moment where vision and language meld together in such symbiotic harmony that they will forever be linked. A single etching of time that will be spoken of among peers until the end of days.



Open Mic Night


There is always a moment when I have finished writing a piece that I find myself hesitating to publish it. The same hesitation every performer feels the instant before they begin. Be it a stripper or stand up comic. That moment is always there.

That brief flash of indecision. Is this all I am? Is this the piece where someone finally notices I am not just a collection of dick and fart jokes? Is this the piece that finally tells a story worthy of getting me Freshly Pressed? Is this the piece the one where the laughs end and it all disappears?

It’s that brief moment of holding my breath where the possibilities seem endless. Like the brief moment of “What if?” that we all tell ourselves is possible when we buy a lottery ticket. Dreams of a better life because someone eventually has to win it and the half a heartbeat of malaise that follows when you see the first number is nowhere to be found on your ticket.

Writing is a performance art like any other. It subject to taste and preference as much as painting or singing. Anyone can write in a journal or a diary and keep it to themselves. It takes guts to put a piece of your soul into something and then put it on display.It’s like open mic night at any poetry reading or music show or comedy club.

It’s also scary as hell.

Metaphorically standing in front of all of you with the spotlight on for the select few that read my stuff on a regular basis is like holding a microphone. I can only imagine that a stand-up comic having a set fall flat is the same as having a post bomb. It can be a grind trying to come up with something funny to say every day. To put something down that make people laugh just as hard or harder than they did last time. Comedians take one set on the road and work it over and over but as writers we have to continually produce to keep the interest in our prose at the level it’s at or even higher.

It’s a very frustrating thing and there have been times I have been tempted to take a different tack. I made a conscious choice in my writing to write humorous tales sprinkled in with some drama and real emotion. The reason was always quite simple.

It keeps me sane.

If I didn’t laugh at the things that have happened in my life, I would likely shut down mentally and become a recluse trapped in my house wearing a hand-woven teal poncho and trying to teach myself to play the mandolin.

I could just as easily write endless stories about how hard it is in this economy to be self-employed. Or how hard it is juggling a business and two active kids who play every sport under the sun. I could whine. I could mope. I could end up painting a mental picture of myself that looks like Tom Hanks in “Sleepless in Seattle”.

I choose the opposite.

I choose to hold the microphone day after day and launch the filthy stories I know people laugh at to the point they spit coffee on laptops.

Will it ever make me the darling, bouncing baby boy around here? Never.

Does it limit my overall audience? Definitely.

All it means to me is that when I get frustrated with my musings or get pigeon holed as The Dildo Guy, I will just have to write twice as hard.

Every performer I have ever met gave up the dream when they stopped believing in what’s possible. When you stop telling yourself it’s possible to get to the next stop on the tour or page in the book, then the dream dies.

I chose the opposite.

I choose to believe it’s possible to get my work into a literary magazine. I choose to believe its possible to publish a book. I choose to believe that I can turn a collection of my stories here into a script worthy of being filmed by Kevin Smith if he wasn’t such a narcissist.

Is any of that going to happen? I don’t know. But it’s possible.

All I have to do is keep picking up the mic.

The Problem with Powers


I have a massive hero complex. It’s just as part of my nature. I have tried to deny it but I usually fail.

I can trace it back to my obsession with comic books growing up but as I got older I started to think about the reality of the problems super heroes must really have.

Like would Spider-man hanging upside down all day resulting in a massive headache and the inability to get an erection due to lack of blood flow. Or how his radioactive loads would cause cervical cancer in any girl he had sex with.

Like Superman ending up with people laughing and taking pictures of his unfortunate moose knuckle resulting from wearing too tight underwear over top of his already too tight pants. Or the fact a woman could never fake an orgasm because he could would use his x-ray vision on her brain to see the lack of synaptic response resulting in an instant derection and some very awkward conversation.

Batman is clearly a Furry or why else would want to bang Catwoman. Unless its to cover up the fact he is a card-carrying member of NAMBLA thus justifying his penchant for taking in teen boys.

Wonder Woman clearly a penchant for bondage based on her metal cuffs and magic rope but what guy in his right mind would want to sleep with a woman who can get you to only tell the truth? Who actually would want to tell her that they have had better? That one of her nipples in her massive fake boobs is pointing at the ceiling fan and the other at the goat’s in the side yard?

The one that confuses me the most is the Incredible Hulk.

On the surface the guy seemed to be the complete package. He had the brain of one of the smartest guys ever and a body that would have every bodybuilder on the planet injecting steroids directly into their testicles. I could just never figure out why he was so angry all the time.

Then it hit me. An epiphany brought on by the biggest monster at my gym walking by me without a towel on and his penis at pretty much eye level with where I was putting on my shoes. The guy had to be six-foot four and around two hundred and fifty pounds of nothing but muscle. Well spoken. Articulate. On the surface, any guy would be jealous. Until I saw the fact he was hung like an infant. Hummingbirds likely had larger junk than this guy had.

So it all fit. Chances are at some point some poor unsuspecting super heroine doffed her costume thinking she was going to be having angry dirty fuckery with a mountain of muscle only to have the Hulk drop his purple undies and be seen sporting a penis so small he likely had to use a kiddy splash guard when he got drunk and had to sit down to pee. The laughing and pointing that must have followed scarring the now former jovial fellow to the point he just walked around pissed off at the world all the time.

Then the stories spread as the girl simply couldn’t resist telling all her super friends that the poor guy had a penis smaller than an outie belly button. After that he likely couldn’t even pay a meth addicted prostitute with no teeth and scabby knees to touch him.

Then it would just be long lonely nights staring at a computer screen at penile enhancement surgery ads offering to make him the next Ron Jeremy . A quick credit card payment later sends him an instructional video on the proper way to stick your penis in a vacuum and a rubber band to tie a knot in the engorged “monster”. Neighbour hood kids drawing baby penis pics in the dust on his car only exacerbating the situation to the point the rage boiled over inside him.

Every time a girl snickered at something behind his back at work would be like a dagger in his tiny testes. Every under wear billboard with some British guy flaunting his moose knuckle on his drive to the gym illustrating that he can have all the muscles in the world but still not supermodel to go with it.

I would want to punch everyone in the face too.

Dildos in Everyday Life


I was lounging in the tub early one evening when the email alert went off on my phone prompting yet another fumbling attempt to not drop my phone in the tub. My heart and testicles jumped into my throat as I saw an email from a marketing company. Seems that I had caught the attention of a company that is near and dear to not only my readers but also my penis.

The wonderful purveyors of the finest adult products in the world and I collaborated on a piece of writing and I am happy to present to you the following .

Applications For A Dildo In Everyday Life

In early January, while mired in the miserable frosts of the shifting Polar Vortex — a planet-sized vapor monster hell-bent on cloaking humanity in a new Ice Age—I did something very foolish: I took a stroll through Denver. The reality is that I was stranded overnight in a hotel and had to trudge through the snow to pick up Ruby Tuesday’s . The food was a disappointment, but the journey proved fruitful for another, entirely unpredictable reason: I saw a dildo used in a fashion I’d never seen before. And, I thought, where better to post about the incident than a blog with a running story about a foray into a dildo factory?

The thing is, we all know the carrot-and-coal dick-and-balls trick on a snowman. It’s probably been in about 500 movies and we’ve all either seen it or done it ourselves. But this was the first time I’d seen an actual dildo used in the construction of a snowman, right down there where the carrot-dick usually resides. That’s right: a full-on, lifelike 8-inch whopper straight out of the Adam and Eve catalogue raging defiantly at me through the blizzard, evidently immune to the shrinking properties of severe cold.

Blue sex toy isolated

Well then. With my mind desperately trying to distract itself from the nerve endings that kept insisting it was about -10 degrees, I did the only natural thing to do after seeing a fiendishly erect snowman on my way through town: I began to wonder what other decorative or functional properties such a tool might have. So, to save anyone else who might be so inclined the trouble, here are what I have determined to be the five best uses for a giant dildo in everyday life.

Bird Perch – Birds will sit (and shit) on anything oblong, so why not make it a raging rubber cock? Fasten one of these in the garden or alongside a bird feeder to make nature a bit more amusing.

Target Practice – I imagine this is particularly satisfying for a woman looking to get over a relationship, but either way shooting golf balls (or whatever else) at dicks sounds kind of funny. Try out your new pitching wedge with an all-new form of “closest to the tee.”

Signage – If you really want to have yourself an everyday life dildo-festival, make a sign in which the letters are formed out of dildos. You may just make someone’s day on a miserable, cold evening when he needs a distraction

Bathroom Prank – Building an actual glory hole in a public bathroom is pretty sick stuff, but pasting a realistic-looking dildo to the indoor stall wall can be good for a quick, harmless laugh.

Beach Prank – I can’t help imagining walking down the beach and seeing that snowman’s rager jolting up from the sand. The only explanation would be a nudist who really  likes the feel of sand enveloping his bare body. Or, you know, a childish and dildo-leaden prankster having a boring day.

This is a guest post by Aidan Cole. Aidan is a fiction and poetry writer with an affinity for all things weird or humorous. He contributes to every blog and website that will allow his words.

Myself, I plan on using dildos to get out of speeding tickets from female police officers, using double ended dongs to make young children reenact the fight scene at the end of “Return of the Jedi” and for chasing burglars out of my house because if you think a gun scares off a robber I assure you that nothing scares a home invader away faster than a naked, bald guy running at them in the dark full tilt with a ten inch black rubber cock. When you get shot during a break in, you get street cred. You get knocked out by a giant cock and arrested, you get prison raped. No courtesy spit either.

So stop on over at your local sex shop and buy all your recreational and home security needs. As Roger the Dildo Security Bunny says -

” Be smarter than a rock, protect your family with a rubber cock”

An Open Letter To Netflix



Dear Netflix,

Thank you for completely ruining my life.

How dare you introduce me to a show such as Breaking Bad. That wasn’t a question. It was a statement. How dare you.

A show based around a bald guy with a goatee and a steady decline into becoming a sociopath who will do anything to protect and provide for his family.

I had completely missed this show in its initial run and am now ashamed of myself for that unbelievable over sight.

Shame on you for showing the relationship between Walt and Jesse that so totally is in synch with my relationship with my much younger brother that I am forced to watch episode after episode in shear and unadulterated awe at the expense of my writing.

Damn you for not having the sixth and final season already available for me to watch here in Canada forcing me to figure out some possibly illegal way for me to view it.

I literally cannot stop watching this show. It has consumed my waking hours to the point I feel like one of the meth heads skulking in the shadows. I peer around the corner of the kitchen and look at the television for one little taste of my addiction. One episode. That’s all. I can stop whenever I want. I can put down the remote.

Your free month of programming without commercials and complete seasons of this utterly enveloping show have precluded me from doing nearly anything else. Damn you for only charging me a mere eight dollars a month to feed my growing need. Like the cheapest and easiest drug ever injected into my brain. Mainlined into my soul.

If it is not too much trouble on the part of your programmers, please refrain in the future from having such programs available to people such as myself who get sucked into the story when it is as brilliantly written and acted as this one.

If you will now excuse me, I am off to watch the season 3 finale.

Love always,






The Mystery of What’s In Your Lap


I shook my head hard to clear the cobwebs and ran my hands over my face. Nothing felt out-of-place so I knew I must have still been as beautiful as I was when I walked out the door that morning. The ringing in my left ear sounded like late summer cicadas which actually made me giggle a little when I looked out the truck windshield. I bet there were thousands of them in the swamp I had landed in.

I shoved my door open with a groan and stepped out. A river of coffee washed out around my feet and I groaned again. I had literally taken one sip out of it and the monster mug gently floated out exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t. The cold rain that had been falling all morning washed over my head and with the warmth running down the back of my legs it felt like I was peeing on my feet in a cold shower.

I reached back in through the door and shut off the engine. I felt a slight tickle down my left ear and ran a finger tip over the top of my ear to feel the razor edged sting of pain from losing the top chunk of it. I looked at the ruined front end of my truck sunk nose down beside and realized I was at an angle not really conducive to getting myself out of the mud let alone my truck. I remember seeing the small car drifting towards my lane and reaching for my coffee then a sickening crunch. The car and I must have collided like  two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

I gingerly pulled myself up the slope and saw how deep I was buried. The embankment was at least thirty feet below the edge of the road and I actually laughed at the fact I had survived. I looked down the road and saw a young girl standing beside a small car being comforted by an older woman who had pulled her minivan up behind her. She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn.

I walked towards them and asked if they were alright. They assured me they both were and that the police had been called. I saw the flashing lights of an armada of fire and rescue trucks and was impressed that the display was likely for my corpse that they weren’t going to find.

The first police officer to arrive came over and gave me a stare as the paramedics were checking me for a hernia before the prostate exam. I kept telling them I had only banged my head and the testing was unnecessary but they were quite persistent. The misty rain mixed with the coffee drops that had caught in his regulation mustache and I was contemplating kissing him to get the caffeine fix I had been robbed of when I ended up in the ditch.

” What happened ?” Officer Coffee asked with the bored tone of one too many car accident reports in his past.

” She drifted into my lane and clipped my tire,” I started ” Blew the tire off and when the rim hit the ground it destroyed my steering. I just rode it out. What did she say?”

” She says she just looked up and saw head lights,” Officer Coffee answered.

” Looked up from what?,” I immediately shot back to watch him snort almost derisively and turn away.

It didn’t take a particularly wise person to know what she was doing. Not like the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it. No, there was only one answer.

Texting and driving.

Now ladies, I know your crotches are quite fascinating . I myself am a complete fan of them but you can stop looking at them at least while you are driving.

Due to the new laws it is also illegal to text and drive and proven to cause more accidents than drinking and driving. Just imagine if they had texting and driving spot checks the way they do for drunk drivers. Just imagine what one of those would be like.

Excuse me sir, been doing any texting tonight?

Ummmm, no officer, well I sent one text with dinner but that was like three hours ago.

They ask you to step out of the car and a pile of emoticons spill out around your feet. They give you a thumb flexibility test by making you text the alphabet backwards. You end up getting convicted of texting and driving and they install an app on your phone that you have to blow into so that the phone knows you haven’t been driving and allows you to text safely.

Most people think they can’t be seen texting and driving like most people don’t notice the period is missing in Dr. on a Dr Pepper can but rest assured I am looking for you. I see you staring at your junk and I know you aren’t looking for genital warts.

So the next time you are fiddling with your phone in your lap and driving just remember that statistically its actually safer for you to be driving while masturbating.

The Dawn of a New Age



After an outpouring of entries both in the comment section and in emails, a winner has been chosen.

The judges have deliberated long and hard. There has been some screaming. One shoving match. Someone may have had a dildo slapped across their lips for their ridiculous reasoning but in the end a consensus was reached.

The winning entry and the name that will forever be associated with the first ever fully endorsed Things I See Up Here product is……….



The Big Bang Belt !!!

Congratulations to Winter in NYC for this recockulously fucktastistic name for this new product that will change many a life and stretch open many a ……. door to more products.

This is just the beginning. In the next few weeks, I will be offering up a few of these lovely little gifts for “testing” to various individuals before we move to the next step.

Thank you to everyone who participated in the contest and offered their input on the Big Bang Belt.

I had no idea that a strap on dildo tool belt would be this popular. Makes me wonder if I could build a sex swing out of a safety harness.

I guess the adage is correct : Sex sells.

The Dildo Factory – Episode 5 – The Dildo Strikes Back









Well, today is the big day. The last big thrust towards the great reveal.

So, we end with the last story ( so far) in the Dildo Factory series.

Don’t forget to enter the contest by posting your suggestion for the fabulous product we are endorsing.



It’s a sad indictment of the state of our economy when a factory that fabricates rubber penises isn’t making money.

After all the work and effort I had put into getting the job to put a brand new roof system on the entire building, I got that call that all contractors dread. The job was going to be put on hold. The volume of work that the factory needed simply wasn’t in the budget and there was no Fairy God-Dildo with a magic penis wand that shot out hundred dollars bills to make up the gap in what they had in the bank and what I needed to even start the job.

It was a long , almost heartfelt conversation between the maintenance man, Bob and I over a four-foot deep crate of deformed anal beads that kind of left a lump in my throat. We agreed to try to do some repairs to get them through the winter and see where the budget was when the ice and snow melted off the building in the spring. The biggest issue was a massive hole that had fallen in above one of the offices that allowed a gaping, squirting flood of rain water to fall on the desk of one of the plant managers.

Dart and I pulled into the fenced yard and took a sad look at the place. It could quite easily be our last time ever working on it and I made the mental choice to at least have fun with it. It had rained a torrential amount the night before with more scheduled for that evening so the window of time we had to actually get anything done was fairly tight and obviously moist. As I set up the massive step-ladder we would use to fill the gap on the underside with plywood, Dart grabbed our drill kit and the fasteners I would need. The instant he shut the large metal door to the factory behind him I bolted for the nearest vat of malformed cocks I could find and stuffed as many of them as I could into the pouch of my hooded sweat shirt I could. Rubber dicks of every color were spilling out of my pocket like the worlds worst trail of bread crumbs as I scaled the ladder as dumped them out on top of the small platform on the last step of the ladder.

I headed back down just as Dart had finished cutting the piece of wood into the size we needed and I almost giggled as I took the plywood and drill from him.

” Just be careful when I am getting this in place,” I cautioned ” I don’t want anything falling on you.”

” Just hurry up will you. That shit dripping down on me smells gross.” dart replied as I scaled the ladder.

I quickly put the piece of plywood in place and screwed two long bolts into the one side and looked down to see Dart staring in the opposite direction. Fluids still cascaded down over me as I looked over my shoulder and began dumping dildos on Dart as fast as I could. Cocks over every shapes and size spilled down over him and he shoved himself away from the ladder hard enough to nearly knock me off the top step.

” What the fuck !,” Dart yelled up at me with a scowl that indicated his displeasure at having fake cocks dropped on his forehead as he looked up at me.

I burst out laughing just as I heard a fresh downpour of rain begin to fall on the roof surface just above my head. I turned my attention back to fixing the sagging wood as Dart kicked a large purple dildo off his foot. Just as I placed the next screw in position, the entire surface of the roof mat caved in above my head coating me in gravel, soaked insulation and sticky asphalt. I tried to wipe it away the black goo sticking to my face but only succeeded on spreading it out in a bad imitation of Al Jolson.

” Nice facial,” Dart barked out followed by a snickering laugh. I could only imagine how difficult it was going to be to clean the crap off my face and I set back to work with a half a laugh at how karma really was a miserable bitch.

I finished the interior work quickly and we took the ladder down before putting it back where we found it. Bob had walked through the  factory at that point to inspect the work we had done. He smirked a little as he looked at my soaked shirt and the state of my features.

” Got a little something on you there,” Bob chuckled as he pointed to my face.

” Lucky it’s not worse,” I said with a laughed that tried vainly to match his general good humor ” But I can take care of it with some hand cleaner.”

” Bad enough,” Bob said with a smile that creased his entire face and a blush that reached the roots of his tousled, snow-white hair.,” And you might want to try hand lotion instead”. He flicked the hood of my sweater and plopped out the thick, pink and white marbled dildo I had stuck in it when I was filling my pouch. I had completely forgotten about it but the impact of the chunk of roof must have dislodged it from the sack of my hoodie.

” I always knew you were a dickhead ,” Dart snickered as he headed outside into the rain that did nothing to tone down his laughter.

The Dildo Factory Episode 4 – A New Dildo

Closer and closer we get to the great name unveiling of the glorious product that you can win in the contest found here and we continue the parade of rubber love with the next to most current story in the fucktastic Dildo Factory series.

Don’t forget to get your name in the contest to win your own piece of Things I See Up Here history.



I truly believe that some people’s fates, lives and stories are inexorably linked to certain geographical places. Mine, I truly believe, is wrapped up in the Dildo Factory.

I had actually given up hope that I would ever have the chance to even step foot in it again when the call came in that the owners would like to meet about the quote I had submitted. The roof had begun to leak quite bad due to the shape it was in and the torrential rains we had been having. It would appear that moisture is bad for silicone.

Not that kind of moisture. Perverts.

The molds had been getting wet and it was preventing them silicone from setting properly. As we toured the floor to inspect the areas in need of immediate work, I notices some strange-looking forms . Things that looked like bad Japanese porn cartoons come to life. I chuckled as Bob, the maintenance man showed me all the scrap they ended up recycling simply from moisture entering the molds. Poor dildos that never had the chance to truly live up to their potential and were discarded simply for being a bit different. Dildos like this malformed nightmare.


” You would be shocked how many of those double-headed ones go out of here ,” Bob said with a bemused shake of his head. I think I may have actually snorted as Bob looked back over his shoulder and finished his thought by saying ” The black ones are twice that big.”

As we moved through the plant, it became more and more apparent that this contract had the potential to be really big. Row upon row of dildos waited to be recycled. A sigh caught in my throat as I thought of all the wasted orgasms when something caught my eye.


” New contract,” Bob grunted with a shake of his head,” The moisture is really ruining any casting it touches. The molds just don’t hold the shapes well.”

I actually didn’t think of it at first but the more I looked at it, the concept dawned on me. They don’t make sex toys just for women. It was pointed out to me when I asked someone who this is where your “wanker” goes in. I burst out laughing at that.

The contract was waiting for me when I got back to the office of the factory and the first name that was slashed across it in ink was mine. There truly was no way I was going to turn down work on a factory that now produced Fleshlights.

The Dildo Factory Story Part 3

We continue the march toward the glorious unveiling of the new name of the product found here with the reissuing of the next part of the infamous and much beloved Dildo Factory series.

Don’t forget to put your name in the running by entering the contest in the comment section.


You didn’t really think the story of the Dildo Factory was over did you?

Come on….. everybody knows the best stories are all trilogies. What would The Two Towers be without The Return of the King? What would The Empire Strikes Back be without The Return of the Jedi? What would Fifty Shades Darker be without Fifty Shades Freed……….?

Yes. I read them. The fact you got the reference means you read them too so who are you to point your finger and laugh at me?

When we last saw the Dildo Factory, I was leaving it behind me as I was speeding away with my pants stuffed with multi colored and textured rubber penises. Let that sink in for a second.

It had been a particularly bad winter and after one last freezing blast of snow and freezing rain had coated the area in an inch thick layer of ice. A healthy dumping of snow after followed by a rapid increase in temperature resulted in not only sloppy roads but roofs carrying way too much weight in sheer water volume alone.

The call came in the morning from the factory and I was hesitant to go back. Would they remember me? Had anyone seen me? I wasn’t sure but if they problems they were having were as bad as the maintenance guy lead me to believe, every second I waited would make it worse. Water was apparently streaming out of the drainage pipes and that could have meant a frozen or cracked pipe. Not exactly my area of expertise but if I could clear the drain it would minimize the damage until they could get a plumber in to fix the pipe.

I met one of the maintenance crew , Jim, an older guy with a beer keg belly and a perfect donut of greying hair outside the building and he was nearly frantic.  I followed him into the building and water was literally streaming from the drainage pipe fittings. Thankfully, it was dripping over an unused area of the plant that we had repaired before and was scheduled to have a new roof installed as soon as the weather allowed.

We made our way through the plant passing by crate after crate of dildos. I noted this time they were not only sorted by color but also by size and shape. I momentarily felt bad for the poor employee that had likely spent endless hours holding fake dick. We climbed up the access hatch and found a veritable lake of ice and water in front of us. An area the size of a football field covered in floating mini icebergs and lumps of rapidly melting snow. I knew right away that there was a blockage in the drain and froze. There was no way. Just no way what I was thinking was possible.

” We gotta get this water off here some how,” Jim intoned with a sigh ” I have some pumps that we can use.”

” That’s a great place to start.” I said looking around. I knew approximately where the drains were and headed there as Jim descended.  Most drains are like toilet drains so you can almost always unblock them with a toilet snake. I fed the wire down inside and as soon as it met resistance, I began cranking it to free it up. I felt the blockage shift and I began to pull the wire back up. Emerging from the depths of the drain pipe like a leviathan rising from the deep was a translucent, pink, nubby tipped dildo at least ten inches long. The dildo plopped out of the drain hole with a loud suctioning sound and the water began instantly draining like a flushed toilet.

” I’ll be damned,” Jim said from over my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him approach and I stood stock straight up gripping the offending giant rubber penis.

” Not sure what to tell you Jim,” I said. I knew it had to be from the dildo war we had raged only months before.

” I do,” Jim said with rage flashing in his eyes ” Those assholes on the floor won’t leave the damn things alone.” He tromped off down the access hatch and I followed close behind. Over the next fifteen minutes I watched as he berated his floor staff while shaking a drain slime encrusted pink dildo at all of them. There was no way I was going to tell him it might have been up there because of me.

” That should do it,” Jim said as he turned to me, ” Thanks for fishing this out.”

” Not a problem,” I answered.

” I caught them outside the other day tossing the damn things around like frisbees so it’s not really a shock,” Jim said with a sag of his shoulders.  We shook hands and I headed for home. A couple of weeks later I headed back to get the contract for the new roof installation and I stopped in my tracks when I walked through the main doors. Right in front of me on the employee peg board beside the sign up sheets for the company softball team and forms for a trip to Canada’s Wonderland was a notice that read:

To all employees,

Please refrain from tossing the silicone dildos outside the factory floor or on the roof area.  The product is a sex toy, not a work toy.

The Dildo Factory Story Part Two

Continuing our march towards the great unveiling of the name for the mind blowing giveaway contest, we proudly reissue the story that made many a lonely military wife happy. Don’t forget to enter the contest by entering your name in the comment section of the contest page.



Now you might think simply telling people that we had worked on a building that housed crate upon crate of not quite but very close to good enough dildos would be enough but much like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, with no proof it was simply just a myth.

So standing outside the office describing the days events to my mom’s next door neighbour, a foul-mouthed but giant hearted military wife whose Newfoundland accent was so bad at times you could barely understand her, she simply brushed it off as a bullshit story.

Challenge accepted.

I knew we would eventually have to be back at the building but that wasnt soon enough for me.  When it was time to deliver the invoice to the factory, I jumped in immediately to deliver it. If nothing else, I was at least going to get a picture of the crates full of the multi hued penises.

After delivering the invoice, I hung around the outside of the building waiting for an opening to sneak back in. What I had never noticed before was that while there were tons of moving pieces of equipment the place was staffed by only a few people. So I simply walked back in.  I headed directly for where I knew they stored the stock to be recycled and I wasnt disappointed. There were hundreds if not thousands of the things.  Some so deformed that I laughed thinking that some poor woman may have ended up with a reject dildo.

There was no way a mere picture would do this justice so I did the only thing I could think of. I stuffed dildos down my pants as fast as I could. I grabbed every size and shape I could find. One in particular struck me as funny. It was a purple dildo with a massive penis head, a corkscrew like shaft and a huge set of balls. It was so odd that I had to take it. This one took a spot of honor. I stuffed it right in my underwear. If I was gonna get caught it would at least look like I had a great big penis.

It was surprisingly difficult to walk back to my truck with upwards of thirty rubber dicks rubbing on my legs and I was afraid one would fall out the bottom of my pants. It might make for an interesting story and maybe even more impressive looks should a woman spy a dick long enough to dangle down by my boots but I really just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.  The purple one I had stuffed in my pantaloons was a particular pain so I pulled it out and sat it on the seat beside me. I had never had a dildo ride shotgun before but it somehow seemed right.

As I drove home I began to laugh at the thought of getting pulled over and frisked by the cops. I might end up being that way too popular inmate very quickly. Without incident, I pulled into the driveway and hopped out of the truck already unzipping my pants.  I pulled every dildo out I could and walked them down to the neighbour’s house.  I left one in her mailbox, one in her car, one on her step, anywhere you might not expect to find a fake penis, I left one.  The impressive purple one I suction cupped to the hood of her car and walked away.

It was less than an hour later that she phoned me at home laughing so hard she could barely talk and given her ability to mangle the english language in the first place, it was really funny. She had found most of them but knew there were more around just waiting to pop out like a Dick-in-the-Box.

The next morning , I pulled into work to find her waiting on her front porch with a stupid looking grin on her face.  As much as I didn’t want to, I knew I had to ask.

” Have some fun with the stuff I left?” I asked, dreading the answer.

” Definitely,” she answered, ” But I am not the only one.”

My stomach caught a bit. I knew she was married and the thought of her and her husband doing anything together was enough to give me an instant de-rection but there was no way to turn back.

” I don’t want to know what you stuffed into each other last night,” I stated flatly and started to walk away.

” Not me, you dumb ass,” She laughed back,” I took all the dildos and gave them to every military wife whose husband is overseas right now.”  I didn’t know if I should be proud or embarrassed.

” But not that purple one,” she continued, ” That one I kept for myself.”

Now it might be another urban myth but apparently those dildos have been sent out as either a gag gift or an actual gift to any military wife whose husband has been sent overseas.  Call me crude if you like but I like the idea of starting an urban legend that gives orgasms instead of nightmares.

The Dildo Factory Story

In honor of the contest running here to name my newly endorsed and revolutionary product and the company who’s product have inspired so much factory rejected joy, over the next week I will be reissuing the Dildo Factory series as a lead up to the unveiling of the product name and its winner.

Don’t forget to get your own chance to win by entering a name in the comment section.

dildo sign 1

As obvious as it sounds, every building has a roof on it. Eventually all of these roofs will need some kind of maintenance. Quite frankly, if they didn’t my business would be just me driving around in my truck looking wistfully at buildings and sighing a lot.

Fortunately for me I am excellent at what I do so we end up on buildings housing every different type of manufacturing and warehousing you can imagine. One of my personal favorites was a factory that recycled all things made from rubber. It’s a pretty ingenious process actually. They grind almost all types of plastic up and they are then molded into little plastic balls to be reused somewhere else. It’s not the most lucrative business but it lead into a maintenance contract that had us at the building about once a month.

I had a couple of questions for the building manager but had to wait for a scrap truck to finish unloading before I could go inside.  As I stood at the edge of the building I watched crate after crate of multi hued rubber being hauled out of trucks and carted into the building. It was after about the tenth crate something funny caught my eye. It was the shape of the products in the crates.

Dildos. Hundreds and hundreds of dildos. Every color of the rainbow. Every size, shape and texture you could think of. Ribbed, rippled and bumped. It was quite mesmerizing actually.

There was no way I could let an opportunity like this slip away.

After I met the building manager to go over our plan for the day, I watched as he left the warehouse floor and I ran as fast as I could to where the crates were stacked.  I grabbed two giant handfuls of rubber cock and headed outside. With a maniacal grin, I heaved them up on the roof.

” What the fuck is that?,” my Dad asked as I sprinted back into the building and grabbed more. One in particular caught my eye. It was an actual rubber fist dildo. Molded in the shape of a gigantic black fist, I giggled like a school girl before running outside with my new trophy raised high.

” Who wants to get fisted?,” I yelled as I climbed the ladder only to find a sight I hadn’t expected. My whole team was throwing dildos at each other. It was like a kaleidoscope of flying rubber cocks.

” Knock that shit off and get the fuck back to work,” my dad bellowed from across the building. Sheepishly, we all went back to work sweeping and shovelling gravel but the dildofest didn’t get any better. Any second my dads back was turned, a dildo was lobbed at someone or something. Every broom and shovel had a giant rubber cock stuck to the end of it.  My brother Matt used bonding adhesive and some duct tape to actually make a dildo-man that is still on the building to this day.

” Can we please get some work done around here?” my Dad asked, his voice bordering on that fine line between anger and laughter.

” Ummm, Dad?,” I asked as I nodded toward his hand. He had his hand wrapped around the end of a broom that had been topped with a semi translucent, green dildo complete with a set of dangling testicles.

He looked over at his hand and burst of laughter ripped out of him.

” I have no idea who they molded this off but he should get that set of nuts checked out,” my Dad chuckled ” That’s just not right.”

The building manager came up the ladder then and saw the mounds of dildos everywhere. He eyed us suspiciously and then let out a laugh.

” Can you believe what they send me to work with?,” he asked. ” They say its the highest grade silicone produced in Canada but these are all the ones that don’t pass quality control.”

” How exactly do they test that?,” I asked trying to hold in a laugh.

” I guess they test them the same way I do,” he laughed, ” My wife loves that black fist one.”

The Gift That Keeps on Giving


I love the holidays as it gives me a chance to give back to the people who have given me so much during the past year.

You, my faithful readers, have seen quite the year and what better way to celebrate it than by giving you the chance to win, yes I said win, the first ever officially licensed product from the brand new Things I See Up Here line of products. All you have to do is help me name it.

That’s right all you have to do is help me name my first ever fully endorsed product and you can win the prototype.

The lucky reader who comes up with the best name for the product I have created will have the product forever be known by the name they have chosen and win one of their very own to use and abuse as they see fit. This product is so revolutionary you will think that I have suffered brain damage. That may possibly be from the truck accident that I was in a month ago but it didn’t stop me from creating a product so fantastic if I were to take it on Dragon’s Den money and underwear would be thrown at me in equal volume.

The time has come to unveil a product that will change lives around the world……..


From the brilliant brain that resides inside my demented skull I present the strap-on tool apron.

Its marvelous features include six different pockets to fill with lube, condoms and snacks for those during sex moments that you really want a peanut butter Snickers. Its belt is completely adjustable to fit all waist sizes and shapes. Its dildo hole can be resized to fit the thickest fake penis and its one hundred percent leather construction can take even the most ardent pounding.

Best of all, it comes complete with the very last factory rejected dildo that I have procured from the legendary Dildo Factory. You can own a piece of Things I See Up Here history by simply helping me come up with a name to market my new patent pending product.

In the comment section below please leave your most creative names and our panel of experts will select a winner.

The contest runs from Christmas Eve until the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve. A winner will be selected on January first as I kick off the second year of making people laugh with dick and fart stories. The winner will receive the dildo apron and an official cleaning towel to wipe down your…….tools mailed right to their front door.

Contest open to anyone worldwide as I really like the idea of my…..tools ending up in someone in the land down under.

Merry Christmas everyone and good luck.