Beached Wail
Things were going so well here at Wombat Beach HQ, right up until this morning.
That's when my cell phone started leaping up and down and screaming at me. It was screaming to the tune of the Star Wars cantina song, because... well, because it seemed like a funny thing at the time to have my ringtone be the Star Wars cantina song. I'm re-thinking that whole "funny ring" idea now. Stop laughing at me.
That wise old voice in my head said "Answer not the ringing cell phone. No good can come of it... Leave that fucker be." Sound advice. But I have never once heeded sound advice, because I, my friends, am a complete dumbass. Answer that phone I did, and thus began the past 4 hours of work-related calls, work related stress and work related scheduling of business trips that keep me away from my beloved Sal.
They also keep me away from my beloved home toilet. You know what I'm talking about. Nothing soothes the weary butt like a familiar seat.
Look, blog-pals, I totally get that for me to come down here to Wombat beach HQ and bob around in the ocean, and then start bitching about my stress levels is... well, it's bad form. Most of you are currently bobbing around in cubicles and soaking in the halogen, so I understand if my current predicament sort of pisses you off. What can I say? Please refer to my above comment about my dumbassery.
Now back to me.
The long and the short of it is that I'm very stressed out right now, because I have to fit 4 weeks of work into the next two weeks, all while winging all over the eastern US measuring malls for that big red asshole, Santa.
"So why," you are probably wondering, "do you feel the need to dump your stress on us, you beach-lounging, whiny asshole?"
Actually I didn't get bloggy today to dump my stress on you. I got bloggy today to make myself feel better in the usual manner: by publicly embarassing myself.
And to that end, I present the following absolutely true story.
About (you guessed it!) my ass.
--------------
One night about 5 years ago I was awakened in the middle of the night by what I can only describe as an irritatingly persistent itch in my asscrack. In understanding what I did to relieve the itch, you must first understand two things about me.
One: I sleep in the nude. I have done so for years now. Don't try to picture it, you'll only hurt yourself.
Two: I am incredibly lazy.
No way was I going to get out of my warm toasty bed, and no way was I going to stick my fingers in my butt and scratch. I'm disgusting, but I'm not that disgusting. (well, actually I'm pretty disgusting, as you'll see.) So instead I did what anyone would do (if by "anyone" you mean "untrained monkeys")... I grabbed a handful of the covers, shoved them in my asscrack and scratched the itch through the covers. Then, having a) eliminated the itch, and b) proven that I am utterly unfit for integration into human society, I went back to sleep.
Sally was not amused the following morning when we woke up to discover a 6 inch long skidmark on the inside of the sheets. Oops. I really had thought I was... you know... clean, when I scratched.
Oooooooops.
Well, Sally and I moved past that little incident and now she only gives me a hard time about it, oh... once a day. Let me offer some sage advice to all of my male readers out there. Fellas, skidmark the bed just once, and you lose any leverage you will ever have in any argument for the rest of your life. Just imagine it:
YOU: "Baby, I'm just saying that I'm not sure painting the bedroom peach with cream stripes really... you know... works for me..."
HER: Oh really? Well which one of us shit the bed?"
YOU: "Peaches and cream it is, then."
See how that works? Wear underpants, or if you can't do that, at least duct tape your crack closed before bed.
---------------
Well now I feel much better. Or at least, now I feel huimiliated and ashamed, which has taken my mind off my stress. Thanks, Blog-o-buddies!!!
PS: I do realize that at the end of my last post I promised you something high-brow. To that end, I offer the following sentence:
"When Richard realized he had mistakenly chosen the 9-iron, I was thunderstruck and nearly dropped my Long Island Iced tea onto the green!"
Happy now?
That's when my cell phone started leaping up and down and screaming at me. It was screaming to the tune of the Star Wars cantina song, because... well, because it seemed like a funny thing at the time to have my ringtone be the Star Wars cantina song. I'm re-thinking that whole "funny ring" idea now. Stop laughing at me.
That wise old voice in my head said "Answer not the ringing cell phone. No good can come of it... Leave that fucker be." Sound advice. But I have never once heeded sound advice, because I, my friends, am a complete dumbass. Answer that phone I did, and thus began the past 4 hours of work-related calls, work related stress and work related scheduling of business trips that keep me away from my beloved Sal.
They also keep me away from my beloved home toilet. You know what I'm talking about. Nothing soothes the weary butt like a familiar seat.
Look, blog-pals, I totally get that for me to come down here to Wombat beach HQ and bob around in the ocean, and then start bitching about my stress levels is... well, it's bad form. Most of you are currently bobbing around in cubicles and soaking in the halogen, so I understand if my current predicament sort of pisses you off. What can I say? Please refer to my above comment about my dumbassery.
Now back to me.
The long and the short of it is that I'm very stressed out right now, because I have to fit 4 weeks of work into the next two weeks, all while winging all over the eastern US measuring malls for that big red asshole, Santa.
"So why," you are probably wondering, "do you feel the need to dump your stress on us, you beach-lounging, whiny asshole?"
Actually I didn't get bloggy today to dump my stress on you. I got bloggy today to make myself feel better in the usual manner: by publicly embarassing myself.
And to that end, I present the following absolutely true story.
About (you guessed it!) my ass.
--------------
One night about 5 years ago I was awakened in the middle of the night by what I can only describe as an irritatingly persistent itch in my asscrack. In understanding what I did to relieve the itch, you must first understand two things about me.
One: I sleep in the nude. I have done so for years now. Don't try to picture it, you'll only hurt yourself.
Two: I am incredibly lazy.
No way was I going to get out of my warm toasty bed, and no way was I going to stick my fingers in my butt and scratch. I'm disgusting, but I'm not that disgusting. (well, actually I'm pretty disgusting, as you'll see.) So instead I did what anyone would do (if by "anyone" you mean "untrained monkeys")... I grabbed a handful of the covers, shoved them in my asscrack and scratched the itch through the covers. Then, having a) eliminated the itch, and b) proven that I am utterly unfit for integration into human society, I went back to sleep.
Sally was not amused the following morning when we woke up to discover a 6 inch long skidmark on the inside of the sheets. Oops. I really had thought I was... you know... clean, when I scratched.
Oooooooops.
Well, Sally and I moved past that little incident and now she only gives me a hard time about it, oh... once a day. Let me offer some sage advice to all of my male readers out there. Fellas, skidmark the bed just once, and you lose any leverage you will ever have in any argument for the rest of your life. Just imagine it:
YOU: "Baby, I'm just saying that I'm not sure painting the bedroom peach with cream stripes really... you know... works for me..."
HER: Oh really? Well which one of us shit the bed?"
YOU: "Peaches and cream it is, then."
See how that works? Wear underpants, or if you can't do that, at least duct tape your crack closed before bed.
---------------
Well now I feel much better. Or at least, now I feel huimiliated and ashamed, which has taken my mind off my stress. Thanks, Blog-o-buddies!!!
PS: I do realize that at the end of my last post I promised you something high-brow. To that end, I offer the following sentence:
"When Richard realized he had mistakenly chosen the 9-iron, I was thunderstruck and nearly dropped my Long Island Iced tea onto the green!"
Happy now?
posted by CommonWombat at 3:04 PM
10 Comments:
weaponry disguised as sports equipment and long island iced tea is supposed to be high brow?
i'm pretty sure the kind of people who are named richard and know what a nine iron is drink things like mojitos and mimosas.
and wine from bottles, the uppity snobs.
I do not believe I actually continued reading and laughed at that post!!
In a pure ACW fashion...
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Fool
aw man! i think i just puked in my mouth a little...but mostly because i was laughing while i was eating my lunch. i am in the process of painting my apartment; the area where the bed will be is going to be like a coffee bean brown color. let's just hope no one does anything in my bed that will ever match the walls
I love your "high brow"-iosity. Very nice.
As for your method of buns relief -- I think your solution was quite good. You just have to remember to use toilet paper when you go to the bathroom. It will really solve your "skid mark" issues.
Why is it that only guys have these issues?
I have to protest, though, your duct taping of said ass crack. I see only trouble ahead. What happens if you have to toot?
Ack. Christ, why do I keep coming back to this foul-smelling blog?
Oh yeah, I remember. It's because teasingly tucked amidst the putrid ass references is the occasional prize that makes it all worthwhile. Today, it's "that big red asshole, Santa."
This SO sounds like something Honey would do. He hasn't, yet, but I know that day is coming.
Bahahahahahaahahhahahahahaa!
I'm glad neither James nor I sleep in the nude, else I'd find skidmarks galore!
Bahahahhahahahahhahahhahahaa!
That is the best story I have heard in a WHILE! Hahahahahahahahaha!
Actually sounds like something I would do. :-)
I'm crying.
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