So. My team lost, Squat’s team lost, the Reckmonster and TQ’s team lost. Brandon from over to Idaho was the only fan with a winning college football team yesterday, with Boise State. Of the three losses, I have to say that Michigan’s loss to Michi-fuggin State was the worst.
Tennessee lost to number one LSU and my beloved Texas Longhorns dropped one to the sixth-ranked Okie State Cowboys. Each of our teams is filled with freshmen and first-year starters who play hard and show promise to be good.
Michigan lost ugly.
Reck, if you’re listening, if I were there I would poor-sweet-baby you. As a true college football fanatic, I know what it feels like to take a terrible beating and, also, what it takes to ease that pain. I won’t go into all of it here, but think foot rubs, your favorite meals, and…
The little dog formerly-known-as Pi has started to adapt to the Johnson family way of life. The bug-eyed shitbird now called Yoda has started acting more like my dog every day. He doesn’t flinch when Gram shoots him the evil eye, he’s learned to dry his little hooded pecker on the wash cloth after peeing in the sink, and he stood up to the cat for the first time yesterday.
One of the things that drives me the most crazy about myself is (are?) those last few drops of urine that hang around in your pecker after you think you have finished a pee event. You pee and shake, wiggle and pee some more, massage and wiggle and shake and pee another tiny stream. You think you’re finished and then wring the last of it off the tip, wipe on the damp wash rag, and then you wash your hands/flush the sink and move on.
Next thing you know, your sitting at your computer to check all your buddies’ bloggies and you reach your hand into your shorts to hold your pecker. I like my pecker and I hold it every chance I get. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has, at various times, told me that it is: a substitute pacifier; a protective gesture; a reactive gesture to having been raped as a kid; foreplay.
It seems that many primates play with their gentiles and for those many reasons. While I have never flashed my pecker in public on purpose, I have accidentally loosed it before a crowd when my ass show malfunctioned. I wasn’t bothered any of those times. As I said, I like my pecker and enough to take it everywhere I go.
When I was younger, I worried that I would be a flasher if my pecker were one of those giant things. Since it is what was told to me to be “typical for a man of your race and size”[,] I think of it as special to only me and those with whom I wish to share it. But if I had one of those twelve-inch jobbies with the girth of an old fashioned glass…
Well, I’d get a ruler tattooed along its length and a measuring tape around its fattest part, and I’d share.
Anyway, I was sitting at the computer to read with my hand stuffed in my pants, when I sensed a dampness against my fingers as I did that idle-minded pecker-petting we men do. Then, as men do, I removed my hand from my pants and stuck the dampened fingers to my nose for a sniff.
“Ugh,” I said aloud. “My pecker smells like stale pee.”
OK, now everyone calm down. If you didn’t know this about the men in your life, you don’t have fully-intimate relationships. Any of you men who will deny these habits can go fuck your self-denying shithead selves. We ALL do it.
Anyway, at dinner last night I brought the subject into the conversation, wondering if anyone had any ideas as to how to get the last drops of pee to settle anywhere other than my underwear. Mother said, “Oh sweet Jesus, Mooner, is the dinner table an appropriate place for that?” which was a totally predictable response from my mother.
“Quit yer whinin’, Mother. This sounds serious,” Gram started. “What’s it smell like?”
“Well,” I told her, “it smells like urine but a touch stale.”
“Thank God. I was worried you was smelling like head cheese. I hate when a man has that smell a head cheese commin’ outta his hoodie.”
I started to remind my grandmother that I was circumcised at a quite tender age but decided I didn’t want to hear the story of Mother latching my pecker in the steel zipper of a pair of Daddy’s old coveralls. That story is in the book, and the memory too painful to fully relive at this juncture.
OK, what.. in the fuck… was my point?
I guess it doesn’t really make a shit. I’m taking the whole crew fishing. The Carta Blanca beer is loaded and we’re heading out. Manana, y’all.