But, not anymore.  Now, when I see a giant woman in stretch pants, I want to cry.  Herpes no longer brings a chuckle, it makes me MAD!  Dorky B Movie celebrities make me want to wave a white flag and yell, “I surrender!” (OK, bad example, they have always elicited this response from me)…. But most of you will know what I mean.  Most of you women, anyway.

It’s simple…I am getting closer to entering the land of the female moustache, the universe of the stomach that is getting impossible to lose, the (EGADS!) city of surprise chin hairs!  Yes, I am speaking of menopause.

For those of you men, who will never know what it is like being female, will never have to go  through MENOPAUSE, and has yet to come up against a woman in the throes of it,  let me give you a visual example…

If one day, you come home from work, and your sweet little woman is standing at the door with shave nicks on her chin, a butcher knife in her hands, murder in her eyes, holding an “ABS of STEEL” DVD, and muttering “I don’t KNOW what’s wrong with me today”,  you’ve just met MENOPAUSE…

RUN as fast as you can….!

Thanks to Face Book, I recently got back in touch with my childhood best friend from Maine, Melissa. (Hi Melissa!).  She and I were as thick as thieves when we lived on the now defunct Loring AFB – WAY back in 1970′s.

Maine was, as it is now, a beautiful place  - and is also home to some of the poorest people in the nation.  But,  since Maine has always been the largest producers of potatos, the poor had a yearly opportunity to make some extra cash by signing up at one of the many potato farms, and volunteering to do the back breaking work of picking those spuds.

Now, because this was a state-wide event, even the schools closed down for a month – this so the CHILDREN of the poor could also take to the dirt and pick potatos, and help their families make even MORE dough.  When Melissa and I were in school at Limestone High,  I remember us being thrilled at the upcoming month of November because we thought WE were going to be FREE to do whatever we wanted for a whole 30 days!  And of course, why wouldn’t we assume this? Both OUR dads were in the air force, and hell, our families weren’t struggling, so BRING ON THE PARTY, right?

WRONG.  I forgot which set of parents started the process in motion, but to make a long story short, Melissa and I were informed that our plans had been changed for us.  Yes, instead of goofing off for 30 days, we would be picking potatos from 5 a.m. to dusk, EVERY DAY for the month of November – just like the common folk!  After bitching about all those cool prank calls we WOULD’NT be making while our parents were conveniently out of the house, and out of our hair, all month,  we decided potato picking just might  be FUN – IF we did it with a bunch of our friends, of course.  At this point, I recall Melissa, myself, boys named Lance and Mark, and another girl named Jaime SOMEHOW getting lucky enough to all be hired on by Thompson Farm.

And, s0 the fun and games began.  (Back then, the experience might start out, and end up, like this):

4 a.m. – Get rudely awakened by Mom to “get ready” to meet the bus. Curse your little sister for being too young for the torture, as you searched around for a clean pair of thermal underwear. Then, half asleep, being zombie-walked to the car so you could be driven to the “bus station”.

5 a.m. – Get on a bus driven by a grumpy woman who must have been the original idea behind the “Sit Down, Shut Up” bird lady of South Park fame.  And, since finding an empty seat next to someone who DID’NT already  have B.O. that early in the morning was nearly an impossibility, you had to somehow hold your nose, and learn to breathe through your mouths during the drive.

5:30 a.m. – Arrive at the farm in time to be hauled like cattle to the frozen fields to collect the potatoes where they lay – which was wherever they landed after being “dug up” by the guy on the tractor.

5:31 a.m. – Already getting sick of the “fun” of potato picking, because the barrels you had to fill were HUGE, and throwing in rotten potatos – or those with “eyes” – didn’t count towards your barrel’s quota.

6  - 7 a.m. - Wondering if the barrels were actually hollow, or if it just seemed that way because it was so damn COLD!

8 a.m. – Listening to the french-canadian people, AKA those who were actually there to WORK so they could eat, bitch about  ”spoiled, lazy asshole kids” in French.

9 a.m. – The dawning realization that you now WELCOMED trouble – screw the potato picking at 40 cents a barrel. And more importantly – Screw your parents!  What were they going to do, reward you by GROUNDING YOU?

9:30 a.m. – 5 p.m.  Beginning a group hunt for the nastiest, most rotten spuds you guys could find. Why? To build up an arsenal, of course. And what was that arsenal for, you ask? Why to throw at your target, of course. Your target being the sadass man driving the tractor.  A wrinkled-up,  toothless, glimpse into your doomed future as a decrepit, angry old person who only had sags, pains and the grave to look forward to.

OUR target in our situation was the poor pathetic tractor driver I thoughtlessly christianed “SHRIVEL”.

This halloween mask closely resembles SHRIVEL

Poor Shrivel – whose name was probably really Obama or something like that – he probably never stood a chance. Over the years, he must have gotten pelted by so many rotten potatoes that he eventually came to resemble a geriatric pez dispenser that had been dipped in putrid marshmallow cream.  In hindsight, it was an atrocious thing to do to an old man who was probably just praying for Jesus to take him. Imagine coming to work to a job you had had, and HATED, all your life.  There you are, all bent over with arthritis and bound up bowels, ill-fitting dentures half dangling from a mouth that hadn’t had a good thing to say about life since you were 9 or 10 years old.   Imagine, starting up that old, piece of shit tractor for yet ANOTHER thankless potato season in an endless sea of them, only to have GROUPS of spoiled brat teenagers pelt you with smelly, slimy GARBAGE – just because they were BORED!

Poor Shrivel.  It’s a wonder he never went postal.  And, I wonder how many times a day he thought about exacting revenge on us prepubescent assholes?  But now that I come to think of it, maybe he didn’t NEED to do this, simply for the fact that he already knew that one day, each and every one of us would come to know what it was like to be SHRIVEL, in some way.  For some of us, it may looking into our mirrors in our latter years, and gazing in disbelief at a mouth that’s now caved in from tooth loss.  Others may see SHRIVEL every time we look down at a saggy belly or baggy knees – body parts once firm, but not anymore.   Still more of us may think of him every time we go to take a crap – and can’t – because our bowels don’t work so well anymore.

And, Shrivel was probably also aware that at least a few of us would at one time in our lives, play the role of Shrivel in some capacity, to a future generation of bored, spoiled-brat teenagers.  Helpless elderly pawns in their games of “just because”.   So, in the end, maybe Shrivel did get his revenge without having to lift a single finger.  After all, there is nothing sweeter than the revenge of taking in the smug faces of the “know it all-ness” of youth, and laughing because you realize the spoiled brats have NO idea of  what is in store for them…

Match.com profile #1:

“Hi, I’m Brad. I’m a successful executive in the gaming industry.  Not only do I DESIGN the games for virtual online playing, I also market them all over the world!  I am into my health, I’m hygienic, and I believe in the sanctity of the body. I am looking for a woman who is sure of herself, believes in her own inner beauty, has a plan for the future, and is looking for a one on one relationship with a quality human being.  I love dogs, children and living life in general.  If this is you, I want to meet you as soon as possible!  All beautiful women of every size and shape are welcome to reply – I love them all!”

MISmatch.com #1 profile reality:

“My name really is Brad, I’m 26, and I live in my Grandmother’s basement.  I am into playstation 3 games, and I play them ALL day, while I’m telling that old bitch I’m online looking for a pizza delivery job.  I only WISH I had the talent to design the new arrivals, like Call of Duty, but SHIT! I can’t even spell my last name!  In fact, I don’t really even know what my last  name is. My Grandma justs keeps referring to my father as that “transvestite bastard”, and tells me…Carla, SHUT UP and quit asking questions!.  Anyway, I’m healthy enough to sack away a dozen donuts every morning and I even remember to take a shower once in awhile.  I am looking for a woman – ANY WOMAN – to get with me so we can “go steady”  I don’t have much experience in the intimacy department- except for that time with my grandmother’s poodle Coco, but then he ran away. (Kids don’t like for some reason, but I can’t put my finger on it!) Please, ANYONE! Call me! as you can see I LOVE breasts and have my own! So, even if yours aren’t so great, we can kill time playing with mine!  Hope to hear from you soon!

Well, your problem may have just been resolved!

From the makers of that groovy sleep attire/casual out-door wear -Pajama jeans – comes a NEW, convenient – and fashionable – way for the lazy asshole to once again, acquire what he or she wants without ever having to DO THE WORK to get it.  Introducing….

THE MAGNETIC DONUT SHIRT!





It’s a shirt AND it’s a MAGNET!  It’s a shirt that attracts DONUTS with a fat-target magnet!   That’s right!  Just put on this cheap-ass TShirt, with the handy built in (but hidden) magnet, and watch the donuts as they are DRAWN to you!

Imagine!  With the Magnetic Donut Shirt covering your blobs of fat, you will NEVER again have to:

Wait in line at the donut shop, hoping that there are still 2 dozen cruellers available for your mid-day snack, because they will be within your fat grubby hands five seconds after they are out of the oven!

Sneak into the the office breakroom – for the third time in fifteen minutes – just to grab the 3 remaining bear claws!  Nope, just sit in your cubicle as you normally do, reading online JUGS magazine and pretending to work – don’t worry, the donuts will soon be at your fingertips!

Trick little Suzie or Johnny into thinking Santa has made a surprise visit in their living room in the middle of July, and sending them out of the room to CHECK – just so you can grab their donut holes!  That’s right, for this manuever, all you need to do is fart, and play pull my finger, and those holes will be in your gaping maw before the kids have even realized their goodies have disappeared from their plates!

That’s right! You won’t have to move an inch you fat asshole! Because as long as you are wearing this shirt, all pastries within a 50 mile radius will be just as drawn to you, as you are to them!  So, order this shirt now – sit back on your couch, relax, snarf up them donuts – and continue to get fatter and fatter until you have a massive heart attack and die!

RUB-dub-dub, think I'll stay in the tub!

Weener Kleener Soap is a superlative gift for the tired spouse of that “still horney” middle-aged husband, a god send to the next door neighbors of the mid-40′s pervert who can’t keep his eyes off of their cat, and a blessed a relief to the adult children of those GrandDad’s who are  prone to showing ” just a little too much affection to the grand kids”.  How so?  Glad you asked.

Weener Kleener Soap ensures that the user will now have a nifty, unique way in which to “wash” his weener!  His lower gentalia will stay sweet and clean because he’ll be sure to wash down there EVERY day  - hell,  he might even attempt it three or four times a day!  Why?  Because of the numerous hours of  fun and entertainment he will have “cleaning his own house” –  so to speak.  How is this possible?

Well, with Weener Kleener Soap, the user not only has a safe cleansing agent with which to wash, but the cake of soap is also designed with it’s very own “donut” hole.   A hole in which it’s perfectly acceptable for anyone to  place, and get down to the business of “washing”, his own weener.   And, since the user will now actually  have access to a  HOLE all his own – and one that’s custom made for slipping the weener in and out of the  suds – this means that all YOUR holes – and those of your children and pets – will stay pristine, untouched, and in working condition – the way GOD intended! And, again – all thanks to the soap’s ability to provide a legal diversionary venue in which the user can act out his unwanted “hide the weener” games during bathtime!

So, order one now!   Or Hell, order two or three! (Don’t forget the mailman and Uncle Ned).  Then relax – knowing that you and your loved ones will be safe at home, out and about in the neighborhood and at various  family functions from now on.  And all  because someone’s weener is now being cleaned – and polished – by himself, the fun way!

You will now have time to pick your nose thoroughly BEFORE you leave the house, therefore doing away with  the danger of being seen digging for gold while stuck in traffic on your way to Wal-Mart!

With an extra few minutes, you will be able to cram down TWO more Dunkin Donuts, instead of just the usual 850 calorie bear claw. Plus-thanks to the “unbeatable” fit of your combo night/day wear, it appears that your Pajama Jeans are EXPANDABLE too!  So it won’t matter if you gain a “few” pounds over time, as your new “attire” is able to grow right along with you!

And think of this – because these pants are made of “Dormisoft fabric that doesn’t tug or bind and is as soft as cotton”, those of you who are too lazy to even pull them down to take a shit or piss, can simply ADD a pair of Depends – and do away with those pesky bathroom trips that take up so much of your time. And, what this means is that if your Depends happen to SOAK through from overuse, the soft cotton of your Pajama jeans will act as an absorbant filler, preventing Adult Diaper Rash!   DAMN!

Move over SNUGGIE, you’ve been replaced!  The King is Dead! Long Live Pajama Jeans!

Never waste time changing your clothes EVER again!

The concept is simple really…all she would have to do is to go online and LOOK….(trust me, they are OUT there and waiting for someone just like HER)

Enjoy my prototype…

Meet Banana Peel Bachelor Number ONE..hundred

YOU HAVE A NEW “MEETING” REQUEST from LASTGASPDATING.COM – Meet Elvin

“Elvin” is 81 or 82, who knows?  Hell, Elvin is just OLD and he wants sex one more time BEFORE he kicks off.

However, in the majority of cases where both spouses are still alive and continue to live together, I believe it’s because they are STUCK TOGETHER – that makes them snap.  (Just allow yourself the mental picture of two dragon flies to whom the sex act seemed like a good idea at the time, but who are now, unfortunately, literally STUCK together, yet both of them continuing to eternally move in different directions, long after the thrill is gone – until one of them says to the other “fuck it, keep my dick” then breaks it off just so he or she can MOVE ON)

Just a thought….

Those certain holier than thou types who are  unable to even entertain the horrific thought of sending dead fish, an STD lip, or even a sock puppet to someone on their friends list,  as it goes against their RELIGION –  and all that is Holy.

The ones who somehow know that if they  participate the  normal way, they’ll be going to hell with the rest of us sinners.  And we can’t have that, can we?

But it isn’t really fair to leave them out of the fun of Crap gifts, is it?

No, it’s not. So, I have come up with an idea to combine the Crap Gifts of we common sinners with the piousness of those who love and follow our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ – and ram it down the throats of the rest of us, DAY after DAY after DAY…. 

And, I do this from the heart -  so all the Jimmy Swaggert, Al Sharptons, and  Tammy Faye Baker-wannabees can participate in sending crap gifts in their own personal – and Holy – sort of way, without fear of a firey brimstone retribution when they die.  (That is for the REST of us to bare…). 

So, without further ado, I give you the …..

HOLY CRAP! crap gift… 

What do you think? Will it fly at Church Bingo?