it’s cool y’all

‘Round 9pm and Sharaun’s out (more on that later).  I’m listening to the iPod on shuffle, just switched from some late 50s free-jazz to Radiohead’s “Stop Whispering” to James Brown live at the Apollo.  I love shuffle.

Just another Friday here in America.  You know, no closure on our government’s taxpayer-backed $700B Wall Street bailout; the largest bank seizure ever with Washington Mutual being commandeered by the FDIC before it can crumble on it’s own, then later sold piecemeal to JP Morgan; even China won’t lend us money anymore

It’s cool y’all.  Don’t worry.  Oh!  Did you see the new Real Rules Road World challenge!?  I totally almost choked on my Grilled Stuffed Chalupa when that one gay dude was making out with that inflatable sex doll in Vatican Square!  It was, like, so hilarious, I had to put down my People magazine and full-on got Fire Sauce all over the picture of Brad Pitt’s newest and blackest baby.

What a mess; what a mess.

We can get past this.  Let’s write…

At work, I usually run the MSN instant messaging client in the background on my laptop.  We have our own internal-only sawmill IM client, but I use the MSN one to talk to people outside of work.  Typically this is limited to Sharaun, and maybe on or two other friends who don’t happen to work at the same sawmill or live in the same state/country as me.  It’s useful for quick communication with Sharaun though, particularly if I’m tied up in a meeting – as I can type out a quick answer to things like, “Hey, can you pick up some milk on the way home?” and the like.

Sometimes though, IM just doesn’t cut it.  That delay between reading and writing can really gum up the gears of a conversation.  Take, for example, this exchange between Sharaun and I this morning.  She was at home, presumably eating bon-bons and doing her toenails, and I was at work, winning bread or some such.  Marvel:

sharaun says:
you know color me mine
that pottery painting place by the bounce place

dave knows all your secrets says:
i don’t really know it, why?

sharaun says:
I wanted to go if that was ok with you

Straight-forward enough.  At this point, I think I understand what’s going.  There’s some paint-your-own pottery place around here (apparently next to the bounce place we sometimes take Keaton) and she wants to go.  I’m not sure, however if she’s asking if I want to go with her, or if she’s asking if she can go with a friend (meaning she’s actually asking me if I’m OK with Keaton for the evening).   So, I proceed to inquire down this path:

dave knows all your secrets says:
are you asking me to go?

sharaun says:
that’s what “I wanted to go if that was ok with you” means

OK, makes sense now.  She’s asking if we all want to go, as a family, to the paint-your-own pottery place over by the bouncy place we sometimes take Keaton.  Glad I asked.  At this point, I’m already typing up the explanation of why I misunderstood her the first time.  See, I want to explain that I was just unsure if she was asking me to go, or asking if she could go with a friend.  But, right before I hit send on that message, she replies again:

sharaun says:
anyway, there is a MOPS moms night out there tonight at 6:30

And, seconds later, I hit “enter” on the sentence I’d been typing”

dave knows all your secrets says:
i thought you might be asking if it’s OK if you go w/liz and spend money or something.  when?
you want to go tonight?

On her end, confusion blooms:

sharaun says:
I said 6:30
not Liz
are you reading what I type at all?

Man, I hate it when this happens.  Now we’re exactly one thought out of sync.  I try to type a little faster and make my seemingly misplaced explanation a little more clear:

dave knows all your secrets says:
when you asked me if it was OK, i didn’t know if you were asking me to go or asking if you could go w/someone else (assumed liz)

There, that’s totally clear, right?  I just misunderstood her.

sharaun says:
no. It’s tonight at 6:30. Do you mind?
I can have dinner ready beforehand

OK, now I’m getting confused.  It’s the phrase “Do you mind?” that out of place here to me.  I need some further clarification, and attempt to get it:

dave knows all your secrets says:
do you normally ask someone if they “mind” when you’re trying to invite them somewhere?  sounds like you’re wondering if i “mind” you going w/o me?
how long would we be there?

See, the whole “Do you mind” thing really makes it seem like she’s asking if I mind her going… it just seemed like an odd way to ask me to join my own family at the paint-your-own pottery place up by the bouncy place we sometimes take Keaton to.  I mean, she clearly told me above that she was asking me to go with her… right?  Her response:

sharaun says:
I am asking if you mind watching K

Oh, wait… what?  Now she is asking if I mind her going and leaving Keaton with me.  By now, I am royally confused, and have decided we are having two totally different conversations.  I let her know this as tactfully as I can:

dave knows all your secrets says:
good god you make no sense

There.  That should do it.

sharaun says:
what about that makes you think you are invited?


dave knows all your secrets says:
you never said that

Whoops, my first mistake.  I was spotless up until here.  I should’ve been reading a bit closer back there I suppose.

sharaun says:
sharaun  says:
anyway, there is a MOPS moms night out there tonight at 6:30

Oh, I see.  She copied her own sentence from a few lines above.

dave knows all your secrets says:

sharaun says:
I never said that?

OK.  Whatever.  This conversations is almost over.

dave knows all your secrets says:
i’m going to punch off your face

sharaun says:
not if yours is already laying on the ground and you can’t see me

dave knows all your secrets says:
no sure, that’s fine.
i don’t mind.
i like watching her

sharaun says:

dave knows all your secrets says:
plus i get to listen to music when you’re gone.

sharaun says:
I’ll make you a pretty piece of pottery

dave knows all your secrets says:
OK, make a bong so i can smoke tons of weed…
and then maybe you’ll make sense

sharaun says:

dave knows all your secrets says:
love you.  sorry i don’t read right.

A flawed technology, I tell you… flawed.

Well, Sharaun’s car decided to crap out on the side of the road today.  I went to rescue her (and Keaton) and the thing was towed off to the local shop.  No word yet on the damages, but I suspect some kind of transmission problem (because, as you know, I’m an expert in all things car).  So, we’re doing the one vehicle thing with her taking me to work (which also means she has to take me by the donut place beforehand tomorrow – can’t come empty handed on my turn for the rotating managers-bring-donuts Friday). It’s cool, two cars is overrated.

Hey, Bill put up some pictures from our “extended lunch” the other day when we drove downtown to meet Sharaun and Susie at the circus.  Since I haven’t posted pictures of Keaton in ages, you should go check out what she looks like with her new retro bob and black dye-job.  Man… I think Bill’s camera needs an adjustment, I look globular.

Goodnight friends, have a good weekend and I’ll holla at you Monday.

in arrears

A good Thursday to you, internet denizens.  Once again, work has me buried. Night after night I have nothing to write about since my days involve nary a stray thought from the bits and bytes and ohms and amps and watts and picoseconds I’m steeped in for eight hours a day. But, late today, in one of my meeting-free hours, I plopped the headphones over my ears and set about PowerPointing and Outlooking as the Pod slid into a smooth shuffle, easing me from the Band into some Steely Dan.  It was a nice break from the fast-paced chaos for a moment.

Anyway, let’s get this started.

Today when I got home from work, I came into the house through the garage like I normally do.  But, because I’m expecting a couple packages, I poked my head out the front door onto the porch (where the UPS or FedEx guys sometime leave them).  While there was no package, there was a little piece of paper attached to our doorknob.  Now, most of the time, these are advertisements for carpet cleaners or lawn services or pest control or something, but this one looked different.  In fact, it was pretty plain on the outside – having just our house number written by hand on a line.  Intrigued, I tore it off and opened it.  Inside, I read:

Dear Customer:

Your gas and/or electric service has been disconnected because of an unpaid past-due bill or credit deposit.

And, in red:

The Total Amount Due, prior to service being restored, is the Subtotal written below Plus a Reconnect Fee.

Current & Past Due Bill                      $  445.46

My huh got disco-what now?  Four-hundred and how many dollars?  What?!

How can this be? I have my gas bill, like every other bill, on an auto-payment system that drafts money right out of my miles card each month.  I hardly ever notice the bills being paid.  In fact, I know I’ve been getting e-mails each month from the gas company notifying me that my online bill is ready to be viewed (and, I thought, paid).  They must have got the wrong house…

Holding the paper, I went inside to call the number listed – and check our gas.  I flicked on the burner on the stove and it fired right up with a bright blue gas flame.  Confused, I turned it off and simultaneously picked up my cellphone to call the number on the notice and sat down at the computer to log onto my account.  I got to the representative at about the same time my account information loaded on the monitor in front of me.  I relayed the contents of the notice to her as I clicked on “Billing History” online.  I mentioned that, despite the note telling me my gas was off, our stove seemed to be working fine.  And then, the “Billing History” screen loaded.  Here is what I saw:

Yeah, that’s right.  The last time I paid a bill was in July of 2007.  That’s exactly a year to the day.  Holy crap.

As the representative confirms what’s now right in front of me on the screen, I click onto the “Setup Automatic Payments” link.  You currently have no autopayment options configured, the website tells me.  Dang.  Something happened to my autopayment data.  I quickly look at a couple payments prior to July of last year, and verify they were automatically drafted off my credit card (as expected).

I tell the representative what I’m seeing, tell her something must have busted my autopayment options… that I had no idea my bill wasn’t being paid.  Initially, of course, she assumed I was either a deadbeat or could just not afford to pay my bill – and suggested some sort of installment plan which would allow me to get my service reinstated. I tell her that the bill isn’t an issue, and that I’ll go ahead and pay the amount due right then and there online while she’s on the line.  She’s obviously not used to this, but is now amused at my situation.

It strikes me at that point that my gas probably is turned off, and I walk back over to the stove to check something.  I fire up the burner, wait ten seconds, and confirm what I figured: Once the residual gas in the line burns, the flame slowly winks itself out.  I tell the representative, “Yup, our gas is off alright.”

The conversation at this point got pretty hilarious, with me cracking jokes about how I could possibly not realize my bill had gone unpaid for a year – and how I couldn’t even cook Ramen now.  How I was a bad husband and father, and would likely wake tomorrow to find our furniture repossessed to boot.  For her part, the representative was simply amazed that they’d let me go a full year, and said it’s the longest she’d ever seen someone in arrears.  At one point I said, “You know, everyone is going to make fun of me when I tell them this, right?”  She cracked up, and kept reiterating how odd it was that I “got by” for a year without paying.  I echo her sentiment, and keep saying variations of things like, “Man, this is crazy.”

Oh, and, in the end, I had to pay a $25 reconnect fee and they’re gonna hold two times our average billed amount as a “deposit” which, upon one year of me not defaulting on payment again, will be returned to me with interest.  I consider the combination of these fees, which totaled something near $90, to be my “idiot fee” in this case.

Five-hundred or so dollars later, the gas man comes tomorrow to give us back the gift of fire.  And thankfully, they didn’t contact any credit bureaus.  Sheesh.


i could totally date natalie portman

Well folks, we here at sounds familiar aren’t even remotely into the gossip or pop-culture bloggin’ biz, but I couldn’t resist writing just a small break from typical today for some important personal commentary I want to get off my chest.

First let me start by saying that, out of all the women that God has ever created, I think Natalie Portman is my favorite. I’ve felt this way for a while. That may sound presumptuous to some, as I’ve likely only seen some infinitesimally small percentage of the aforementioned inclusive group of women – but I’m willing to extrapolate the date from the .0004% of womanhood I have seen and go out on a limb here. She is, ranked against my standards of female physical appearance, simply tops. Beyond that, I saw her once on the David Letterman show and fell in love with her for more than just her beauty. You may find it hard to believe, but in those scant five minutes we made an intense connection through the cathode ray tube, and I totally “got” her.

What’s more – I find her relationship history (as revealed to me by the ever-infallible tabloid press) to be quite reveavling. For instance, take the fact that she used to date Zach Braff (the hilarious dude from Scrubs, you know, they did that movie together that had the Shins song on the soundtrack, remember?). And now, she’s apparently “dating” Mr. Devendra Banhart, an indie music darling who crafts a modern brand of roots music which the music press has labeled “freak folk.” Personally, I’m not a huge fan of his music, although I admit there’s some interesting stuff there (mostly the Spanish language tracks, which I find compelling and mysterious for some reason). Before I expand on why I think these two men in Ms. Portman’s life are telling, I need to make another point.

I fully believe that I could make Natalie Portman fall in love with me. No, I’m serious. I have come to convince myself that I could get Natalie Portman to fall in love with me. I truly believe that I have sufficient powers of woo to win her over, regardless of the fact that I’m neither famous, terribly wealthy, nor an Adonis. I’m for real. Give me three months of close contact with her and she’d be mine, I can all but promise success because I am that confident. To the naysayers, I’ll need you to suspend disbelief for a minute – disregard my plump, well-fed physique, overy-follicled body, and thinning crown, and just take me for me word here: I can do this; I got it.

I totally got this guy… right?

You see, I’ve decided that, if she can date that Scrubs dude and the freaky guy you see above – she must fall for the funny artistic types. And, at the risk of tooting my own horn, I laugh at me all the time, and… writing is some kinda art, right? I mean, even if you don’t write well, you’ve sorta got an artist’s “heart” or something… yeah? You just get me a role on her next film as an extra, I’ll show you.

I could totally date Natalie Portman.


you’ve been sacked

Hey hey Tuesday night. Glad you could join me again today for another installment her at sounds familiar. I seem to be on a roll as far as the posting-regularity goes this month, so here’s hoping I didn’t just jinx it by saying as much. Should be a chuckle of a blog today, if I did my job right. So let’s get right down to it then, shall we?

OK, before I do this next bit, I’m going to ask, dear readers, that you either cast your memory back a couple days, or go quickly read this post from Thursday last week.

Done reading and/or refreshing your memory? OK, good.

Now, if you weren’t lying when you responded in the affirmative to that last sentence, you’ll remember that, when I was sharing the “hotlink prevention” story with Ben, he suggested that I take screen-captures of all my “victims.” Well, bored the other night, I started paging through my referrer logs and doing just that. Turns out, it was a great time looking at all the surprised people out there who’d previously been “borrowing” bandwidth from my site when their intended image got “sacked” with my new script. I had such a good time, in fact, that I wanted to share with you some the various places my new “hotlink stopper” image is showing up in cyberspace.

For your convenience, I’ve pixelized the NSFW image in the screencaps below, but you can always take a peek at the real-deal right here if you’ve forgotten the hilarity/horror of it all.

Let’s start off with a relatively low-impact MySpace profile picture. Looks like “mumu” might want to update his-or-her profile…

A lot of people seem to link my pictures in forums, here are some examples. (That last guy was attempting to link to a picture of a middle-finger-salute from my site. Funny enough, I think the same sentiment is conveyed even with the image-swap):




A tad more embarrassing, some people even used hotlinked images from my server for their forum avatars. Sorry Soda Popinski:

Looks like that hotlink-replacement image transcends the barriers of language as well! Here are some Spanish and what I think might be Finnish forums where I got the drop on unsuspecting hotlinkers. (I especially like the English reply in the Finnish thread, “Mmmmm.. sexy….” Anyone read Spanish?):


Switching gears, a lot of MP3-blogs hotlink to my Question Mark & The Mysterians album covers to accompany their posts about the band’s classic 1960s output. Funny, I didn’t realize genitals were featured this prominently on a rock album cover before Lennon did it:


Sadly, most of the threads that get “sacked” with the image-swap are long-dead, and thus aren’t impacted much by the hotlink-hijinks. I saved the funniest bunch of screencaps for last, however. These are the ones where the “sacked” thread is still “alive” enough that people notice the image-swap. I love the response in the below thread:

My absolute favorite of them all, though, has got to be this very-much-alive thread over at the “306 GTi-6 & RALLYE Owners Club” forums, where the poster is off-topic and asking anyone if they’ve ever had their back waxed (the original hotlink was referencing the picture of an extremely hairy back which accompanies this post). As a bonus for this one, you can click that link above you here to read the actual thread, complete with hilarious responses and one stymied poster who eventually asks this:

Oh man… good times. Thanks for the suggestion Ben. Funny thing is, I steal 99% of my blog-accompanying images myself, I just have the decency to actually host the pilfered images on my own server with my own bandwidth. C’mon you other unscrupulous web-types, get some scruples…

And, before I go I should acknowledge that I bet some of you came here today looking for my week-one Enzyte Challenge update. Well, it’s coming, it was just a bit of rough night and I had this entry pretty much canned and good to go – so I left the thing on auto. You’ll get your update soon enough, don’t fret.

Oh hey Pat’s got some pictures up from their New Year’s Eve party, check ’em out.

And, with that, I’m gonna cut this thing loose. Have a good night folks, and, to those of you with difficult days ahead – we’re here for you. Love you all and goodnight.

what was in my yard

Before work this morning, as is my routine in these pre-Halloween weeks, I went outside to take the props off of “night” mode (which is a no-motor, high-light mode aimed at theft deterrent). Upon opening the door and stepping onto the porch this morning, however, I was shocked to see something foreign amongst the foam tombstones marking faux plots on my lawn.

My shocked sucking of breath made one of those airy whistling sounds as I instantly began shaking my head and exclaimed, “Oh… oh my God.” Sharaun, in the kitchen stirring the milk and Splenda into her first cup of morning coffee, must’ve heard me and immediately assumed we had once again been victims of Halloween thieves. “What now!?,” she bellowed from the kitchen, with just a hint of exasperation in her voice; after all, being robbed twice would tend to get a fella down. “You’ve got to come out here now,” I say, punctuating the sentence with giggles. Noting from my tone that this was likely no common robbery, she started towards the door. “Get the camera,” I requested, as I moved in for a closer look.

Once I realized what it was, staked there into my yard and towering above me by a good two feet, I immediately knew who’d done it. I left the thing up long enough only to appreciate its humor and take a couple pictures, then I immediately removed the installation and promptly took it inside. I told Sharaun to call my prime suspects, and in short order the whole thing was admitted. With the culprits outed, I arrived at work and was urged to check my e-mail. I did, and found a cryptic mail with a ZIP archive of pictures. And, if you follow the link below, you’ll be able to experience this whole thing much as I did – and you’ll understand exactly what I’m on about.

Click here to see what I found in my yard.

Top work, lads and ladies. I applaud you and am flattered by the effort.


hot is your excuse for everything

Tuesday’s gone (with the wind). Had my two-week Lasik appointment today: my vision is still 20/15 and my eyes are supposedly “healing nicely.” They feel a lot better, with some occasional dryness and irritation – but I’ve still got minimal problems at night with halos and glare (although it’s already markedly better than it was last week). My new eyes are great, and I love them.

The other day we got one of those “put your old clothes in a bag on the curb for charity” fliers stuffed in our doorjamb. When those fliers come, Sharaun always decides to “go through” my closet and give away my clothes. I don’t know why God chose to give women this instinct, this notion that they have an idea what clothes men should and shouldn’t keep. What worse is, they always seem to target the items I love dearly. Shirts she deems “dingy” and “old-man looking” are the shirts that fit me best, don’t bind on the shoulders, have plenty of “skirt” to make for strong tucking, and have no pokies or scratchies to speak of. So here we are, me sitting on the couch in the living room while she brings out handfuls of clothes-laden hangers to parade by me, not really asking as much as telling me what I do and don’t wear.

“You never wear this one,” she says, hoisting a blue t-shirt into the air for my inspection. “I wear that all the time,” I say, “Just look at the paint stains on the front, that’s a good painting shirt.”

“You got this in college!,” she proclaims, as if clothes bought in college are things of evil. “So what,” I say, “It’s still a good shirt, fits me fine, and I like it.”

“Why are those jeans in the donate pile?,” I demand, “Those are the only jeans that truly fit me well all over.” “They’re so old, you have all these other jeans that look so much better.” “But I hate those other jeans,” I protest, “The legs are all fat and bell-bottomy… I hate that.” She rebuts, “It’s not called ‘bell-bottom,’ it’s called ‘flared leg’ and it’s the only kind of jeans that are stylish.” “Well I don’t want to be stylish then,” I say, “I like the legs of my jeans to fit around my ankles, not swing back and forth as I walk.” She fires back, “You know you’re talking about ‘tapered leg,’ right? No one wears tapered leg jeans anymore, not even cowboys.” “So what,” I say, “I want to wear them. I’ll single-handedly bring them back into style.” At this point she’s getting angry.

“Here are a pair of jeans with the tags still on them, you probably never even tried them on,” she begins, turning a brand new pair of denim over for inspection. “I did try them on,” I challenge, “Remember, at Christmas? They were all twisty in the hips, I asked you to return them.” “No, you’re thinking of another pair – you never even touched these,” she maintains. Apparently, I am not capable of being able to recognize my own clothes, as all my assertions about certain items are challenged on the basis that I’m “thinking of a different one” or am just plain wrong. Now my answers are beginning to reflect my frustration.

“What about these,” she asks as she puts yet another pair of jeans forward. “Those are too big,” I reply curtly. “What do you mean by ‘too big?,'” she asks. “What do I mean by… well… the size of my lower body is proportionally smaller than the amount of fabric that Levis decided to use when manufacturing those particular pants. Therefore, there is more actual jean than there is me.” She stops me before I can go into a brief discourse on relative volumes and capacities, holding her hand in the air as a silent “stop,” signalling that my humorous approach has come across as intended and she understands.

Eventually, because I am so incapable of recognizing and identifying which of my own clothes fit and which don’t, the whole exercise turns into a 11pm “try this on so I can see” marathon. I hate trying things on, loathe it – and she knows this. I don’t want to try things on right now, I’m hot, and I don’t want to robe and disrobe over and over to prove to you what I know is true. It’s true, you know, I’m a naturally hot human being – maintaining a core temperature that I’m convinced is several degrees higher than most everyone else. This rationale, however, is not flying.

“Hot is your excuse for everything,” she says. “You’re too hot to try on clothes; too hot to hold the baby; too hot for everything.” While this is true, I am often “too hot” to do things comfortably, in the middle of this moment of shared frustration hearing her say it comes off as the funniest thing to me. “Hot is your excuse for everything” sounds freaking hilarious to me, and start cracking up. “Hot is my excuse for everything,” I chuckle.

Luckily, the whole thing degenerated into sweet, sweet lovin’ on a pile of soon-to-be-donated clothing items (sorry beggars, but hey, can you really afford to be choosers?). Nah… I made the sex part up; but we did end on a happy note and a respectable three bags of clothes for the less-fortunate.


PS – I added some friends’ pictures to the gallery for this weekend’s camping trip, check ’em out at the beginning of the original set, or get them sorted by date via this link.

the way soldiers salute the president

Today blew. Got horribly lost on the way to my 2nd Lasik consultation/evaluation – making me irreparably, showing up after the doctor had already given up on me. This means that I had to push out my 2nd evaluation, the one I was planning to use as a bargaining chip, until next week. And, because I have no basis for price-matching either surgeon down until I’ve had the other evaluation – I had to reschedule the surgery I booked for this Friday. Bummer… but I figure I can wait another week. You shoulda seen me though, lost in some remote part of town, furious at myself and stressing at 150% like I always do when I’m late for something… I had a headache in an instant. I couldn’t even enjoy the windows-down drive in our excellent 80 degree sunny temps. Woe is me… my life is so tough.

Biding my time while on the can the other day, I made it through another issue of Maxim. Not done with the restroom, I had no choice but to also begin reading the ads at the back. That’s when I came upon the ubiquitous back-of-a-mens-mag penis pill pitch. In a full-page spread peppered with bold, red block-text and lots of suggestive pictures of couple in various states of undress – a company was selling a “pill for male enlargement.” Standard enough, I figured. Heck, 50% of the comment spam this blog gets is for penis enlargement – so it must be a booming business. After all, I suppose there are some men with 11″ dongs who’d want just that little bit more… in case they ever bed a porn star or something. I found some of the ad pretty good, thought I’d share it here – although it’s not graoundbreaking comedy by a long shot… these ads are written to be made fun of. So, you can say I took the easy way out by picking an easy target for jokes, so be it. Some of the claims made in the very wordy pitch:

A longer and thicker penis even when you are not hard. Because there is more blood flow, your penis “hangs” larger all day.

I dunno why they put “hangs” in quotes, perhaps to add emphasis to the nature of the verb “hanging,” such that images of gravity pulling downward on an immense weight come to mind.

Just imagine when your sex partner sees how thick and long and hard you are. Men will gasp with envy the first time they see the new you in a locker room, shower or gym.

As a man, I resent this. The notion that I would “gasp” at another man’s penis is an insult to me. Unless of course, that man’s penis was 4ft long and shouting racial slurs at a funeral. Actually… it really wouldn’t even have to be a penis for me to gasp in that case – shouting racial slurs at a funeral is just plain-out cause for gasping… I’m just trying to keep this related to the penis bit.

You will feel in total command because now any possibility of going soft, and premature ejaculation will be eliminated with your new rock hard much larger penis.

I’ve always wanted to feel “in total command.” In fact – if I’m gonna be in total command, I’m going to have to ask that my sex partner salute me. You know, the way soldiers salute the president? I’m also going to need some medals and a hat that makes me look “in charge” of shit. I want to walk into the bedroom, rock hard penis leading the way a full 15″ ahead of me, sex-medals pinned to the flesh of my bare chest, and have my buck-naked sex partner snap to attention on the bed and salute me. And I want a crisp salute! None of that limp-wristed crap or there’ll be no rock hard penis tonight.

We also included some of the same type of herbs found in Polynesia where the men of the Mangaian tribe have sex on the average of three times a night, every night. While this is not what you may desire, it is nice to know that your sexual performance can improve substantially.

“While this is not what I may desire?” I’ll say. Have you seen any Mangaian women? Those skanky she-males are so hard up for mansword they’d bone me three times a night. No thanks, buddy, you can slay Mangaian women thrice nightly if it’s your cup of tea – I’ll settle for someone who’s hookworm-free once or twice a week. They do it with monkeys too, you know… those herbs don’t discriminate.

Because you are longer you penetrate more sensitive areas of the woman.

I’m hoping for her back teeth. Those mofos can be quite sensitive for some. They’ve even got special toothpaste for women who’s back teeth my new penis will batter during sex. Sensodyne: “For when your teeth hurt because his rock hard penis pounds them during the three (or more) bouts of freaky Mangaian sex you have every night.”

Well, that’s it for me. Canned content, if you must know… because I needed to hit the sack early (midnight) to wake up around ~4am and head to Oregon, again. The last of the travel, mehopes. Goodnight friends and lovers.