TMI Thursday: Anybody got a mint?

It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!

One night, after a visit to his girlfriend, my friend Chuck was driving his red Camaro through the front gate at Camp Lejeune, N.C. When it came his turn for the sentry to wave him back into the welcoming arms of the Marine Corps, instead of the usual perfunctory “move along” signal, Chuck got directed to the side of the road.

[Little background: If you ever visited the different services’ bases pre-9/11 you may have noticed how they all handled security in their own special ways. Army bases often had state highways running right through them. The folks guarding Air Farce bases generally thought “security” was an investment option. The Navy, because it can’t be trusted to do the job itself had Marines on post (especially on bases where there were nukes). And the Marine Corps guarded the keys to the head (nautical terminology for bathroom) and the whole of their bases with the same tenacity it showed at Khe Sanh. Now you have to give blood, stool, urine and hair samples along with fingerprints and a detailed FBI check before you're allowed to even look at a military base, let alone go aboard one.]

So, doing as he was told like the good Marine he was, Chuck pulled over to the side, got out his ID card and awaited the guard’s questioning. (So good a Marine, in fact, that within the year Chuck would be selected as a Marine Security Guard. He spent the next three years guarding the U.S. Embassies in Budapest and Rio de Janeiro.)

After a glancing inspection of my buddy’s ID, the lance corporal on duty set to work finding himself an evil-doer. It should be pointed out at this juncture, my pal Chuck was a corporal, one grade senior, and while he was a pretty easy-going guy, he took his responsibilities as a non commissioned officer seriously.

“Where have you been tonight?” the guard asked.

“Out,” was Chuck’s response.

“Out where?”

“In town,” Chuck said, now a little annoyed at the disrespectful tone he’s hearing.

“I think you’ve been out drinking,” came the accusation.

“Dressed like this?” Chuck replied, pointing to his bare feet, running shorts and tank top. Apparently, he’d had to leave in a bit of a hurry when her father, a colonel, arrived home unexpectedly.

No balloons being handy, the sentry took off his cover (Marine for “hat”), put it in front of Chuck’s face and commanded, “Breathe into this.”

Knowing he was innocent, Chuck later told me with a sly grin, he complied.

The guard pulled his cover back up to his face and inhaled deeply.

“You like that?” Chuck asked, “Her name’s Heather.”

With an angry wave he was sent on his way.

Monday Six-Pack

Growing up in Pittsburgh our pastor was able to get us in-and-out of Sunday Mass in 42 minutes flat. He, like everyone else in the congregation, needed to get home, get breakfast out of the way (for the congregants, a big Sunday breakfast for their massive Catholic families) and then settle in for the day’s Steelers game. No one could give a more meaningless, but most importantly, quick, homily than Father Rogers.

So today, Super Bowl Monday*, I’d just like to offer my congratulations to my Steelers on their breathtaking victory over the Arizona Cardinals and sixth Super Bowl championship. I am the kind of fan who believes in “any given Sunday,” and the Cards almost pulled it off last night. They gave the Steelers all they could handle, but in the end I think the deciding factor came down to the Chris Collingsworth “Kiss of Death Pick.” Throughout the playoffs, every team the NBC broadcaster has picked has gone down in flames.

So I’d just like to thanks Collingsworth for picking the Cards. Keep up the good work Chris.

Sex Sells
There was a lot of sex in the Super Bowl ads last night. We expect that, of course (seriously, where do you think the Budweiser Clydesdale was taking that circus horse? He was going to sow his wild oats), but one of my favorite ads is one many people hate. The ad in question, the Career Builder ad that kept repeating itself – the woman screaming in her car and the guy crying at the bus stop and so on and so forth – added a new phrase to what I thought was, until that very moment, a thoroughly closed lexicon.

Let me present to you for your consideration, the newest euphemism for masturbation. Adding to the glory that is whacking off, spanking the monkey and pounding the pud, I offer this: Punching the koala, a phrase I feel works equally as well for men and women alike.

So next time you find yourself heading off for a little “Me Time,” instead of using one of those tired old euphemisms, try this: “Well, time to go punch the koala.” Your friends and family will thank you and, more important, you’ll feel better about yourself.

Jackass of the Weekend Award No. 1
Dear Jackass in my building,

Next time, when in your haste to finish up your 113 loads of dirty baby clothes you decide to pull two of my three loads of laundry out of the dryer and then toss my expensive and not-yet-quite-dry work shirts on the table, don’t get annoyed at me when I passive-aggressively take my own sweet Goddamn time hanging them up so they don’t wrinkle any more while you’re waiting for me to empty that last dryer.

I set a kitchen timer so I don’t keep you and our other neighbors waiting, and I traditionally set it for 5 minutes less than the running time of our “Fires of Hell” dryers. So I know you pulled my still-slightly-damp shirts and jeans out and put your stuff in before the time I’d paid for expired.

Fuck you very much.

Jackass of the Weekend Award No. 2
This award goes to the not-bad-looking-chick in the Harris Teeter parking lot in Ballston on Saturday who, despite her great ass, is still a Jackass.

Would it really have been that much of an inconvenience for you to have walked that cart back up to the lobby of the store instead of pushing it into one of the very last empty parking spaces? Seriously, you only had to walk about 100 feet and your husband/boyfriend/incestuous brother-lover could have followed you in his BMW and picked you up at the door.

You didn’t seem to be suffering from any physical ailments or handicaps. In fact, it was your long and shapely legs attached to your ass that drew my attention as you loped gracefully across the lot with an embarrassed smile on your face while you selfishly made everyone else’s life just a bit harder.

I hereby place the special Irish Shopping Cart Magnet curse upon you and your husband/boyfriend/incestuous brother-lover’s shiny blue Beemer until you mend your ways. But you won’t, so you’ll just go on pissing people off with your thoroughly thoughtless actions and your car will continue to attract our four-wheeled agents of revenge.

Change we can believe in
Why am I at work today, the Monday morning after one of the most exciting Super Bowls in all of recorded history (at least since The Super Bowl in 1966)?

Now I don’t expect the government to bail us out on this one, since its powers are and should be limited, but I can’t understand why the NFL refuses to play its signature game on Saturdays. If this were the case, instead of being at work I could be at home watching the looped post-game coverage again and again with drool running from the corners of my mouth as I subconsciously contemplate which of your sponsors’ products I want to buy.

Get with the program. It’s February, you’re not competing with college football for air time or visibility. So move the game to Saturday (or the Sunday before President’s Day as an option) and let us sleep in as we bask in the reflected glow of our teams’ victories.

Six down, 994 to go
The whole time I was driving home Friday I was telling myself I was going to bail on my run and, instead, do it the next morning.

But then I found myself at home and realized if I let myself slide this early in the game it’d be the start of a bad pattern. I had no reason to skip the run I realized, and I found myself striping down and pulling on my running clothes.

I did my same 2-mile loop, counter-clockwise this time, and ran farther on the first burst (so to speak, since “burst” will never be a term anyone would apply to my speed) than the last two times. In fact, since goals are important, I ran the whole first mile at a decent pace, and then walked only in short stretches the rest of the way home.

My calves were still tight, but they’re coming around as they get stronger. I’m hoping this won’t be a problem by this time next week. The one concession I am making, since I felt a bit of a twinge in my knee yesterday, is instead of running Monday-Wednesday-Friday this week, I’m giving myself an extra day of rest and going out Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday. The big reason for this is, despite my total inability to complete the loop, I’d like to run on the Mall this coming weekend.

*Hey, if there’s an Easter Monday, there can damn well be a Super Bowl Monday for our country’s most important secular holiday.

It just keeps on giving

Amazing to think Fundies made it on a list* of gifts we don't want to receive this Christmas. Really, I ask you, who wouldn't want a pair of these?

With a slogan like "Half the fun is getting in them, the other half's up to you" you'd think these would be flying off the virtual shelves.

According to Shop in Private, "Fundies are a classic gag gift. Unlike other gag gifts, you can imagine someone actually bringing these home and trying to use them. Ewww. Perhaps you had better not imagine that."

The gymnastics of trying to don a pair of Fundies stagger the mind a bit and, seriously, now that you're in "the position" who the hell really wants to go to the effort of slipping a pair of oversized granny panties on?

Apparently there are uses according to one of the customer reviews: "I bought these for me and my lesbian girlfriend because our double headed dildo was always slipping out. They work great!"

OK, I can see that.

*Gift #1, the "Life Gem" is especially creepy.