My Diseased Mind

Confirmed: My Dad Watches Porn

Yeah, that’s right. Let that wash over you. Ok, bad choice of words there…

Yesterday, we went to my dad’s house for dinner. As is often the case on such trips, Alien and The Boy went to the bedroom to watch cartoons on TV. For some reason, they ran into some trouble with the TV, and my stepmom asked for my help in resolving it. So far, so good.

At first glance, the TV appeared to be on the wrong input source. After cycling through a few of them, I found what looked to be either the satellite receiver, or the DVD player, but for some reason, the screen was rolling. I was able the make out the word ‘Natural’ on what seemed to be a DVD menu screen, so if anything, they were watching The Natural, and busied myself with the remote. Meanwhile, Manda and my stepmom both started nervously asking me to turn it off, while the kids wondered what the big damn deal was. Finally, I got the point, and turned it off. Later, Manda told me that along with the word ‘Natural’ she also saw the term ‘100%’.

Short story long, I pulled a muscle vomiting last night.

Posted in Book of the Dad, Family | 2 Comments »

Taking a Sad Song and Making It Better

I needed this:

Sure, he’s probably drunk, but it’s the Beatles.

Posted in Beatles, Youtube | 1 Comment »

What. The. Fuck.

Somebody help me out here. What is this shit?

I think this might be art, but I’m not sure. Either way, I’m subscribing to it.

Posted in Nightmare Fuel, Youtube | 2 Comments »

Pure lust!

I’ll admit it.  I am in most every way a pretty straight laced guy.  Many people might even say boring.  I don’t drink.  Don’t swear.  I avoid porn & any movies with nudity, foul language, or excessive gore.  I love, adore, & still get excited by my wife after almost 20 years of marriage.  I even obey the speed limit.  But there is one thing that stirs me up & makes me lose control.  I want it & I won’t be happy until I get it.  I makes me think of doing things that are wrong & even illegal.    It’s…. 

a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda.

I have no rational thought when it comes to this.  I will have one.  And I really want to restore one on my own.  Get my hands on it.  Get inside it.  Get it’s motor running hot.  Work on it piece by piece with tender loving care.  And then when it’s all ready, get inside & ride.  And the best part is that my wife is all for it.  What a woman.

So if anyone out there would like to find the perfect Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Ramadan/Holiday present for me, make sure that you get me one with a shaker hood & either a 383, 426, or 440 engine.  Don’t worry about the color.  I’ll take care of that.  Thanks.

Posted in Fridays with Joboo | 2 Comments »

Trapped

The lady in front of me at the Wal-Mart checkout line is middle-aged, morbidly obese, and riding a Mart Cart. She’s also leading a second cart, pack mule-style, with 10 packages of Assurance Underpads. I really don’t want to know what she’s soaking up with them. All I know for sure is that I will never use a Mart Cart. I stare at them, practicing my poker face. A look of serene nonchalance washes over my face. It’s a look that says, “No ma’am, I’m not the least bit horrified by what’s in your cart, nor have I been attempting to determine whether or not I can smell urine right now.” I send The Boy to the electronics section to get the Super Bowl score. He returns with the correct score, but with the teams reversed.

The man in front of the obese woman is buying a 12-pack of Keystone. He also asks for some Skoal, and the cashier is apparently baffled as to where his particular flavor is located in the tobacco area. I want to disembowel him with a broken Keystone bottle, only instead of breaking it on a table, I want to crack it over his skull. I’ve never understood why that wasn’t done in TV & movies. Both are classic moves, but they’re never utilized together. If I make a movie, they will be, and a new level of awesome will be created.

Meanwhile, the man waiting for the Skoal has noticed the Assurance Underpads. He looks decidedly nonplussed. I know that I would obliterate him at poker, and this briefly makes me feel better.

The cashier is slow. She stops between passes on the scanner to chat with the customers. It doesn’t help that she apparently knows the morbidly obese lady. I resolve that I will not chat with her, that I will stare coldly into space, thus giving the customers behind me a break.

When I finally reach the counter, the cashier decides that the woman behind me, who isn’t carrying much, should go ahead of me. I agree, because she has been through just as much hell as I, and after all, she is only carrying 2 things. She asks for cigarettes, sending the cashier off on another odyssey in the tobacco section. My poker face cracks for a moment, but then I’m back to serene nonchalance. When my turn arrives, I chat with the cashier, answering her questions about my purchases. I’m such a pussy.

Posted in FFS | 1 Comment »