AnonymousCoworker

I realized this morning that I’m a pretty lucky fella. I’ve got a lady, so I don’t have to muddle around with all that dating garbage. I don’t have to worry about sub-contexts of phone-calls, or the hidden message I give out depending on whether or not I open the car-door for a date, or chew her food for her.

And all you single people out there who would prefer to be otherwise, I feel for you. All those single bastards who prefer to be single make it look like so much fun, and all of us coupled fuckers are constantly trying to set you up with that drooling, clubfoot mongoloid with the back-hair extensions and the female-pattern baldness from our significant other’s office.

I would apologize to you for your situations, but that wouldn’t really do you any good, would it? No. I’ll do you one better. I’ll let you have the top ten pick-up lines that I used to great success during my wild, uninhibited, and fun-filled single days. None of these lines ever failed me, and some of the better ones worked so well that I had to be careful not to say them to the wrong people, lest I spend another evening in jail after being charged with “Sexually acrobatic and perverse acts performed in public in front of women and children”.

So here you go. Use them wisely:

You look hungry. Lucky for you my peener is “All you can eat”.

Are you tired? Because you can use my peener for a pillow.

Let’s play doctor. My peener will be the thermometer. The rectal thermometer.

People call me LL Cool P. That stands for “Ladies Love Cool Peener”.

All work and no peener makes you a peenerless peener-holster.

Are you a parking ticket? Because you have ‘fine’ written all over you. And I want to pay the fine with my peener.

Is that my peener in your pocket, or am I just good at seeing the future?

Hey there beautiful. I’d like to put my peener inside you.

Did anyone order an enormous peener? Because my peener is enormous and is available for consumption at any time.

Is there any Irish in you? Would you like a huge amount stuffed into an orifice of your choosing vis à vis my peener?

Today started like any other day. I woke up at 7am to reset my alarm for 7:15am. I brushed my teeth while trying to keep the cat out of the sink, and I went to the bathroom while trying to keep the cat out of the toilet. I have no idea what his fascination is with things that come out of my body, but I suspect it has something to do with him being a stupid cat.

I jumped in the shower and nearly killed myself because we have sliding shower doors, and if you try to jump into a shower that has sliding shower doors you will smack your face on the upper door-track, crush your genitals by landing on the edge of the tub with one foot in and one foot out, and finally smash your head on the edge of the toilet where your cat is frantically trying to lift the lid and cover himself in water swimming with fecal colliform bacteria.

After my shower I got dressed, went downstairs, and ate 3 of my shit cookies. I figured that they were full of fiber from the oats, and protein from the peanut butter, so they’d be a perfectly bland tasting breakfast treat. They remind me more and more of Powerbars. After 74 glasses of milk to wash down the 3 cookies, I was on my way out the door.

I jumped in the old Tercel, checked my new mirrors, and was on my way. In a few minutes I was merging onto the highway, and the trailer I had suddenly accumulated a la Katamari Damacy was being pulled along splendidly. Wait. What? I don’t live in a video game. What the hell is behind me?

I checked the rearview mirror again and realized that the thing that I had assumed was a trailer (because only a trailer would have a reasonable excuse to be that close to me) was an idiotic woman (I know, it’s redundant) in her Camry, so close to the rear of my car that I could see clearly that she was smoking a Virginia Slim and her pink lipstick was coloring the filter.

I quickly realized that she was planning to slowly massage my tailpipe open and begin to slide her car inside like some sort of porno flick for Herbie and Christine, and I wanted no part of it, but I did want her to pay for her grievance.

I took my foot off the gas. My car, being a 96 Tercel P.O.S., began to slow down immediately. Within 10 seconds I had slowed by 15 miles per hour, and the Camry behind me clearly wasn’t happy that my tight little Tercel tailpipe wasn’t presenting as nicely as it had been before.

I continued to let my car slow until I was going about 35 miles per hour, my rear bumper as warm and appealing as an ice cream cooler in Siberia. It didn’t matter though, because the Camry was a whore, and this raging hard-on of an automobile flew past me and it’s true nature was revealed. I was just an appetizer for a chubby chaser. The Camry looked as if it was trying to get UNDER an 18 wheeler. There’s not enough 10w-30 motor oil in the world for that relationship to work.

What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve been posting about snowball fights, and surprise parties, and music, and other lame stuff like that. It’s enough to give Norman Rockwell the erection of a lifetime. An erection which I’m sure he would use to paint yet another picture of a boy with a baseball glove, a floppy-eared dog, and gangly adult.

And while I’m on the topic of Norman Rockwell with an erection, I’m now realizing that I haven’t posted about necrophilia in ages. I know you’re all always like, “Oh, dude, having sex with dead bodies is so gross, I totally wouldn’t be into the sensuous feeling of an unmoving partner and wrapping my arms around their cold and rubbery body. And embalming gives me a rash on my hoo-hoo bits,” but I know you’re totally into it. You’re probably going to be using this paragraph as erotica for the night later this week when you fill your blow-up doll with gelatin, submerge it in a bathtub full of ice water, and then go “KY” on it’s ass, and we both know I’m not talking about Kentucky.

And while I’m speaking about Kentucky, I haven’t made fun of inbreeding hicks is quite some time either. I know they can’t really read anything I’m writing here anyway, so I don’t fear any recrimination, unless one of you uppity bastards decides to go into the hills, get humped by an uncle, and then teach the filthy bean-farmers how to read. All of a sudden I’m going to be getting anonymous comments from IP addresses in the Ozarks saying, “OMG n00b ur teh gay LOL !!!1!one!!”

And while I’m talking about Internet dorks, I must say that I’m fucking exhausted of that David Hasselhoff video. Me and my boys were making fun of Michael Knight back in the day, and we saw that ooga chaka shit in 2001. Ha ha, he’s painted up like a psycho and dry humping some penguins while wearing a full-body fur suit, fulfilling any number of gay, fur-fetishist wet dreams. I just wanted you to know that I had my fur-fetishist wet dreams fulfilled 5 years ago. Welcome to the party, pal.

Here’s hoping this post is a turning point in my blogging, or else I might have to start my car, put a hose in the tailpipe, and then shove the other end of the hose right up my ass. Just to be on the safe side, I’m also going to kill my cat, so I don’t get any ideas about blogging about him.

He’s a real douchebag anyway. This morning, when I went outside to warm up my car, I found him sitting on the table drinking the milk out of my cereal… oh shit. I’ve gone and blogged about the cat anyway. Carbon Dioxide enema, here I come.

This post inspired by Lexagirl’s post here.

Once upon a time, ACWGF bought some stuff from IKEA. In fact, one might go so far as to say that had crappy, Swedish furniture been heroin, she would still be floating along on a cloud of dreams while the outside world stepped past her bloated and incontinet body.

She had moved out of her parent’s house, and she had a tiny room to move into. She had to make some creative furniture choices (read: cheap and dirty) and decided to buy a bookshelf for her books (duh) and a entertainment center for her clothes (Wha?!). At the time, it had more space than the dressers in the store because it was tall, and it took up less space into the room because it was, um, tall.

She also bought a nightstand, but there’s nothing funny about it. (Except that’s where she keeps all the whips, chains, full-body pleather catsuits, and lube.)

Anyway, the nightstand and the bookshelf went together with no trouble. This was my first time putting together IKEA furniture, and I had heard the horror stories, so I was pleasantly surprised. I also had a fairly high opinion of myself. I remember wearing a tinfoil crown, and standing on the balcony screaming that I was the God of Meatballs, and that I could fly.

Next, I took on the entertainment center. I think it sensed somehow that it was about to be used for something besides its primary purpose, and was able to summon all that is villainous and evil deep from within its fiberboard heart.

First, I put the thing all the way together, except for the doors and drawers. I figured I could do those last. We tilted the big bastard onto it’s feet, and shuffled ourselves down the hallway. Almost. It was too tall for the hallway.

No biggie, we’ll just lean it on it’s side. We tried again. Success!

Now, just a simple 90 degree turn into the doorway here. Oops, sorry about your wall. Oops. Oops. Damnit. Damnit! DAMNIT HELL ASS FART!

The big bastard was too bastard big. I dragged it back down the hallway to the living room, and took stuff off of it, one piece at a time, and tried to get it into the room without dismantling it completely. Finally, it went in, though after I had reversed about half of my work putting it together.

I went to work on the doors and drawers. The drawers were a snap, no trouble at all. This was nice, since the primary unit had just dragged me, ankles up and bare-assed, over a figurative mile of wild cacti. The doors, however, were a completely different story.

If you’ve never put IKEA furniture together before, you need to know that none of the directions have any words, just pictures. Fine by me, just keep it that way. Don’t show the hinge of the door going on to the hinge of the unit by simply putting the word “Click!” in the space where the two halves of hinge should join together.

I spent nearly a half hour trying to force those hinges together. I got, “Thunk” and I got “Bonk” and I got “Clunk.” Once, I even think I got a “Fuckoff,” but the hinges would not go together. Finally, I noticed something funny going on in the diagram, when in a fit of absolute rage, I stared screaming at the directions.

Those of you a) reading at work, b) offended by strings of obscenities, or c) reading this to children should,

a) skip the next part
b) skip the next part
c) read the next part and replace the word “Fuck,” or any derivative thereof, with bunny-wabbit

“Fuck you, you fuckin’ piece of fuck directions! I fuckin’ clicked! I fuckin’ clicked, and I fuckin’ clicked, and then I fuckin’ clicked again because you still wouldn’t fuckin’ work. What is your fuckin’ deal? Why won’t you just fuckin’ click? FUCKING CLICK! CLICK CLICK MOTHERFUCKER CLICK! FUCK!”

And, as I was about to perform some mighty juju on the paper so I could bring it to life before ripping it’s newly beating heart out and drinking the sweet voodoo blood that I was owed, I noticed that they had printed the picture of the interior hinge upside down.

I flipped the hinge, the door went “Click!” and I’m just about over the nervous tic that I developed from the whole experience.

Click!

I spend most of my time alone thinking. I do it in the shower, I do it before I go to sleep. I do it when I’m walking. I do it when I’m driving. Thinking while driving is definitely more dangerous than talking on a cell phone, or eating a delicious Caesar pita.

Usually, I think about the same things. Big picture things that I try and try again to wrap my mind around. Most frequently I try to find meaning in my life. Recently, I’ve been distressed at the results of my thoughts. We’re born, educated for almost 2 dozen years, left on our own to find a job to earn money so that we can support a mate, and a child or two. Then we die and our children take on their part of the cycle. Learning, earning, birthing, dying.

I was frustrated at the day to day nature of it all. I work today to earn money. Why? So I can eat, and pay rent so I can work tomorrow.

So I thought to myself, “What do I want?”. Did I want to get out of the city? Did I want to earn more money in my job? Did I want a house? Did I want a bigger apartment? Did I want a pet?

I sort-of wanted all those things, but didn’t really want any of those things. I was struggling to figure out what seemed to be missing and I was drowning in the Big Picture.

Finally, something clicked, and suddenly I was thinking about the details- the fun of it all. It’s not just a job, it’s where I blog. It’s not just a family, it’s the time you spend with your family. It was then that I realized that ACWGF was the missing piece of the puzzle if I wanted a family.

People have been pressuring me to get engaged. “Just do it, you’ll never be ready.” Now, I know that’s not true. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t figured it out. I didn’t know what I was missing. I knew I’d be ready at some point and I didn’t want to rush into anything, and now I’m ready.

What I want is to come home to ACWGF every day (or have her come home to me, depending on how our schedules work out.)

Eureka!

Now, to all my blog-friends, and all of Blogsylvania, I introduce, AnonymousCoworker Fiance.