Blogroll Filler

Oh, wait. That isn't the new dog. That's the designated house super hunk. Grrr... 

Cute, no? He was adorable up to the moment he laid a steaming pile of dogshit on each of our three floors after being let outside for an hour to complete that very task. Bowser is only 3 months old and is already infinitely offensive to eye, ear, and nostril. 

And this is where that magnificent mound of steaming poo came from. His balls haven't dropped yet, as you can see. When they do we'll have to get him laid. As it is he can't get enough of my leg. Apparently my leg looks and smells like a real bitch. 

I'll preface this by saying I was not drunk when this occurred.

So I was taking a shower after a long day's work and felt completely exhausted. I rarely have the time or patience to reflect on time passed, so the shower is like my Fortress of Solitude. I closed my eyes, relaxed, and let the medicinal stream of water wash away my worries. The water started to get into my ears, disrupting whatever balance can be attained from the little hairs inside. My eyes being closed as well, I had zero feel for up, down, right, and left. Before I knew it, I went crashing through the shower curtains and tumbled onto the bathroom floor, invoking images of Kong plummeting to his own end.

Of the six roommates, three were in the adjacent room watching the tube. Expecting a hearty and well deserved verbal applause, I was surprised at the apparent lack of concern for my well being as I furtively left the bathroom. My elbow was still bleeding and blood was slowly creeping down my shin. Two of the bastards never turned my way. The third slowly peered over his shoulder to see what the commotion was about, saw the blood, farted in acknowledgement, and turned back to Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Beats living with women.

A moral victory is equivalent to finding the perfect woman only to learn she is actually a man. It's not much to write home, or gloat, about.

If I had a dollar for every Texas A&M football moral victory, I'd have $11. I could buy 3 Sonic milkshakes with that.

That is all.

So I was taking a shower at the gym and discovered I needed to blow my nose; I had a mighty congestion. Being in the shower, a place of infinite cleansing powers, I decided it was the ideal setting to let loose with a gust of hurricane force nasal winds. I was impressed by the quality and quantity of the expelled substance. It had enough mucus to allow smooth passage for the larger congelations but wasn't too liquified to seep between my fingers. Towards the end of this momentous occasion I gave it one more zealous push and felt a lone booger exit my right nostril. I looked down into my hands and couldn't find the little bastard. Where did it go? Flustered, I thoroughly ruffled through the hairs on my unshaven face and chest for the missing booger. I am certain it didn't fall to the floor, because I gave it a good lookover as well. I didn't care so much for the safety of the booger as much as my own personal hygiene. Don't get me wrong - I felt bad for the little shit and would gladly have rescued it had I successfully located it. I was more concerned that I, or someone with boobs, would come upon it at an unfortunate time when a randomly placed booger would hinder my ability to play the part of the devastatingly studly and debonnaire southern gent.

I often wonder about my mushy mucus sidekick. I pray it finds its way home, which is anywhere else but on my forehead or inside my boxers.

The End.

Somehow I knew Master Chief and Samus would have ugly kids. Other than not having any clear indicator of gender, "it" also has a bladder control problem. Notice the little floating fecal morph balls. He got that from his parents. Have you ever noticed how Master Chief and Samus never stop to take a dump? I would hate to be the guy who cleans their suits.

It might not be much in comparison to the wrath of Khan, but it still hurts like a bitch. 

Maybe I'm a giant walking vagina, but this creeped me out as I was climbing the ladder. The neighbor's garage opened, no one came out, and this chilling little cretin was the only humanoid in view. I would look over my shoulder every 5 mintues or so hoping the anklebiter had left. After 15 horrifying minutes of sweaty nervousness, I realized it wasn't an anklebiter at all. I relaxed a bit, but still had the nagging feeling that he/she/it would come alive, sprint across the street, climb the ladder below me, and ravage my body with a morning star similar to what the Witch King used in Lord of the Rings.

I need a beer to restore my man juice (no, not that kind of man juice). 

As promised, this is the north side of the house. I may have exaggerated when I mentioned there was little difference between the old and new paint. Still, it's a major pain in the ass. I could be murdering Huns and Greeks instead of doing something productive.