Walking out of Quick Trip yesterday I ran into a chick I used to date about 10 years ago. I still can’t remember her name. I think it was Leanne or something like that. But anyway, we exchanged the normal pleasantries, “How have you been? – What are you doing these days?” – yada, yada, yada…

She explained that she lived in a house a few blocks away. “Do you want to go see it?” she asked.

“Do I want to go see your house?”

“No, do you want to go to my house and fu*k?”

Now I found her question to be odd because if I remember correctly, we never fu*ked before. Leanne (or whatever) was one of those girls that just loved giving BJs.

I grabbed her left hand and asked, “Aren’t you married?”

“Yeah, but he’s out of town.”

“He’s one lucky fellar.”

She gave me a look, pulled her hand back and walked away. I was thinking, “Why is this nasty slut looking at me like I’m a dick?”

Seriously.

I met an old mistake, walking down the street today. I didn’t want to be mean about it, but I didn’t have one good word to say.

Mr. Orange, Mr. White, and Mr. Pink

Today’s blog title is courtesy of Gina Party. This song was playing on the radio today while we were on the phone. She was convinced it was sung by 38 Special. I was thinking more along the lines of Corey Hart. She was right. I was wrong. Besides, I owe her a few props. She’s been letting me sleep in her house after I consumed a lot of barley drinks. That’s like handing a match to the Unabomber.

And I haven’t even mentioned that she let me use her washer and dryer to wash my bed sheets and blankets last weekend. It wouldn’t surprise me if she took Monday off and spent the day scrubbing her laundry room in a hazmat suit.

Joke of the Day

A father walks into his teenage son’s room and catches him masturbating. “You better quit that,” the dad tells his son.

“Why?” the son asks.

“Because you’ll go blind.”

The son waves his arms and says, “Dad, I’m over here.”

- Diddy: Lower oil prices so I can fly on private jet. What a douche. NSFW

Don’t say it’s over. I just can’t say goodbye.

It’s an investment. Don’t judge.

A lot of people probably don’t realize this, but I invented the half-tuck.

I’ve also invented a new drinking game – Obama Beer Party. The rules are simple – line up shots of your favorite beer, and drink one every time he says the word “Change.” I got loaded during his acceptance speech at the DNC. For advanced drinkers, you can include shots of hard liquor that can be drunk whenever he says the word “Unity.” You may want to consider taking the next day off of work.

I seriously need to rethink how I spend my weekends because having withdrawals on Mondays is getting old. Gina Party’s new house has become a satellite office for Melrose Place. I spent Friday night there – went home to shower on Saturday – back there again on Saturday afternoon - Ozzie’s on Sunday to watch football.

GP was kind enough to purchase a vinyl mattress pad for the bed in the guest room. And by kind, I mean concerned. But I’ve been opting for the plastic air mattress. I sleep down in the basement, and try to buy pay-per-view porn by hacking the pin number to her cable box. Drink, I said box.

I added a photo album from Labor Day Weekend. Crowe Dog worries me. 

And maybe it’s a little too early to know if this is gonna work. All I know is you’re sure looking good in my shirt.

Last night my DSL went down, so I was forced to call AT&T tech support. Their interactive voice response system was my first nemesis. After speaking my telephone number and problem (no internet connection), and answering a dozen more unrelated questions, a recording told me that I could access their website for a possible resolution. WTF? I couldn’t get on the internet, so how was that going to help me?

I finally reached a woman in India who asked me to jump through the usual hoops – reboot the modem – reboot my computer – make sure all the cables are connected – blah, blah, blah.

“Don’t you think I already tried that?” I asked her.

“Sir, I am trying to help resolve the issue,” she read from her script.

I played along, came back to the phone in a few minutes and said, “None of those things fixed the problem.”

“Sir, I have to assign your case to another department. Do you have a pen to write down the ticket number?”

“Go ahead.”

“B as in Balloon – 95 – E as in Echo – 3 – Q as in Qubic – 89.”

“Did you say Q as in Cubic? That’s spelled with a C.”

“Sir, I said Q as in Qubrick,” she replied in a raised voice.

“Kubrick is spelled with a K.”

“Okay. Q as in Queen!” she shouted. And then she hung up on me.

Oh you’ve been so much more than kind. And you can keep the dime.

Dani-girl is a finalist for Ms. Westport. You can vote for her to win the title by following the instructions below:

1. Click on the ‘Ms. Westport’ link above
2. Click on ‘Danielle H’ and enter a valid email
3. Check your in-box. A confirmation will be sent to your email address immediately, and you must confirm your vote to be counted.

Note: Voting ends in a couple of weeks, so don’t procrastinate.

Also, don’t forget to vote for The Summer of Benny as Best Blog and/or Best Local Website in the Riverfront Times – Best of 2008. Be sure to follow the rules on the linked page.

Spread the love by clicking the ‘Share’ button below and put a link to the SOB on your favorite social networking sites. Drink, I said spread.

Would you believe this man has gone as far as tearing Wallace stickers off the bumpers of cars? And he voted for George McGovern for President.

30-pack abs

I can sometimes be a bit immature. Shocker. Late one night, I took a few complimentary candy bars from the gift shop at a local hotel. And by one night, I mean the statute of limitations has expired.

I had a long walk home – I was hungry – and there wasn’t an employee in sight. Well, at least there wasn’t when I walked in. But there was one waiting for me when I walked out.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah, I need to charge these to my room,” I replied holding a handful of goodies.

“No problem. What’s your room number?”

“212,” I quickly responded.

“What’s your last name?”

“Johnson.”

She typed the room number into the computer and said, “I’m sorry, but that room number is registered under a different name.”

“Oh, it must be under my buddy’s name.”

At this point, I thought about running out the door.

“That’s okay,” she said as she put the receipt on the counter, “Just sign here.”

“Okee dokee.”

I scribbled ‘Tim Johnson’, walked down the hall and exited through a side door – leaving a trail of wrappers in my wake.

Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream.