I came home from work and went upstairs to change into my oh-so-comfy ‘Cinnabun fat’ clothes.
As I took off my shirt I noticed that my armpits smelled/reaked of rotting onions.
WTF? [how about some garlic?]
I am usually meticulous regarding my personal hygiene and stinky garbage pits make me run to the shower.
But I didn’t work out.
I didn’t work in a coal mine.
And I didn’t even stretch my legs, or even my eyebrows.
Hell, I didn’t even stir a hot chocolate from Starbucks which can require a massive amount of energy.
So where the hell did this stench come from?
Homeless shelter smell, I am not.
Tomorrow morning I will shower for twice as long.
Will it help?
Only my armpits will know.
And the previously crying people on the commuter rail home as well . . .
I know you’ll never read this but I wanted to take a few minutes
and tell the world how very much you mean to me and Maureen.
We miss so many things about you; your laugh, your smile, your once bright eyes,
the way you used to drive Mom nuts whenever you tried to sing,
how proud you were of your wonderful grandchildren,
even the way you used to wrap yourself up like a mummy whenever we went to the beach so you wouldn’t go all ‘lobster’ on us.
I’ll be visiting you this Sunday and will undoubtedly feed you lunch,
maybe give you a shave if you need one.
It’s really sad that there isn’t more I can do.
But at least I can do that.
I haven’t been keeping up with the Red Sox like I used to either.
That was something I did when you were better so we’d have something to talk about besides the weather.
These days the weather isn’t worth talking about anyway.
I saw an older man sitting on a bench on the Boston Common the other day that looked just like you.
I absentmindedly started walking faster towards you him before I caught myself.
He wasn’t you.
He could never be you.
Then again no one could ever be the man I call my father except for you.
On Sunday, Maureen and I pray a small part of you knows how special you have always been to us
and will continue to be.
Maureen says it best when she gently puts her hand on your cheek and says, “You are the greatest Dad ever, you know that don’t you?”
And so I will say, “Happy Father’s Day, Dad,”
because in my heart I know you’re still in there somewhere.
Just so no one thinks I’ve gone off to join a monastery.
Saw this outrageous parody clip of U2 and had to share it.
Talk about laughing a bit too hard.
Will someone please check the microphone that the Edge is using?
Saw this via Raincoaster.
Heart my coconut
Forever full moon
My daughter Sarah came by the house a week or so ago and decided to
lounge around on the couch and do some work for school.
Methinks she needed a break from the campus crowd.
At one point she got up to go into the bathroom and I heard her start laughing.
Holding my precious bottle of Headlube, she looked at me and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” I said.
“Headlube? Come on, Dad. It comes in a friggin’ water bottle for God’s sake!” (she’s still laughing)
“So what,” I said, “It’s usually 8 bucks and I got it for 2.50. It’s just moisturizer and besides it’s my head.”
“See you got the ‘matte’ finish. Nice.” she said.
Yeah, I’m all about the silky smooth but understated cueball noggin’ I guess.
Hmmm . . .
Can’t wait to see how long it will take for the comments to plummet this post to rock bottom.
Yeah, I got it coming with a product that sports that kind of name.
As it says on the bottle, “It’s your head. Buy this lube.”
So, I did and I might add that some days my glabrescent dome is a blessed work of art.
IMHO . . .
I had to laugh this morning when I counted @14 bottles of hair products littering the shower stall.
There’s Luminouscolor glaze, Berry Tea & Orange flower conditioner, coconut conditioner, Aussie 3 minute miracle, brightening shampoo (huh?) and we even have some stuff called Ana Banana shampoo/ conditioner.
The list goes on but I’ll stop there.
And this doesn’t even include all the mousses, gels, sprays and numerous detanglers in the bathroom closet; this is stuff I will never use. btw- What the hell is a root lifter and would I really want to put that shit on my head? Sounds to me like a useless and possibly detrimental genetic consequence.
I have no hair whatsoever and it makes me laugh.
Maybe I will never understand the hair thing with women.
They’re never happy. Evvvver.
Even after spending more than a weeks worth of groceries on a haircut from a guy whose name I can’t pronounce, they look in the mirror and sigh, “Oh, I just don’t know.
What do you think?”
My wife gives me the ‘one of these days, I will kill you’ stare when I stupidly reply,
“Oh, you got your haircut?”
Maybe as a man I’m not supposed to understand all the hardware either with blowdryers, straighteners, bobby pins, brightly colored hairclips and blowdrying brushes that look more like martial arts weapons than implements used to curl and dry the locks.
Get that stuff away from me.
I need two things in the shower: a bar of soap and a razor.
None of this strawberry/kiwi/mango body wash crap.
I’m a guy, not a freekin’ fruit salad.
Anymore than that and I’ll just get confused anyway.
Bald is beautiful, man.
Or maybe I’m just too damn stupid to have hair in the first place . . .
A bit of a bald guy infomercial here.
I bought a Headblade the other day after hearing about it from a friend.
The idea and technology involved make it a desirable product for those of us with a naked coconut.
So Fuzz and Ash and any other crazy cueballs, check back in a few days for a full review.
I also joined the ‘HB Street Team’ through their main website.
They send you bumperstickers and various cool Headblade promo stuff for free.
Pretty cool tool and at 15 bucks a pop, it’s affordable too.
Stay tuned . . .