Monday, April 30, 2007

This guy is no Jedi......

We have a new clerk at the corner 7-11. He looks like he’s about fifty years old but he’s always outside smoking so he could be in his twenties.

He’s maybe five feet five inches tall and couldn’t weigh more than a buck forty soaking wet.

He loves to talk about working out at the gym and all the ladies that he dates.

Oh… and one other thing.

He lives in his van.

I didn’t realize that in 2007 that a 1990 Chevy Van was the happening place to go ladies. Heck if I’d have known that I would have…. well… never mind… my wife won’t let me get me get a van.

But the point is I had to ask him a few questions.

“So let me get this straight. You ask a woman out… What do you do? Pick her up in your house? I mean how exactly do you get a woman to get in that van?”

“Hey man chicks dig a van.”

“That van?”

“My van’s unique man, it’s alive, it’s got a soul. The rust says it’s been places. It’s seen the world. It has experience.”

“It’s an old van.”

“Trust me. I get the babes with that.”

(Now in my mind I’m thinking, a clerk from 7-11 wants me to “trust” him about getting babes. If I ever ended up single would I, in my wildest dreams, seek dating advice from a 7-11 clerk that lives in his van? Well? Would I? A very tiny voice way in the back of my head was saying to me, “What if this guy is the Yoda of 7-11 clerks that live in their vans?)

“Do these women know that van is your home?”


“What kind of a woman goes out with a 7-11 clerk who lives in a van?”

“Homeless chicks.”

“I… uh… homeless chicks. You cruise around looking for homeless women.”

“No man I’m not some kind of pervert. I meet them at the gym.”

“Homeless women work out?”

“No they just use the showers.”

“Well that’s a plus. How do you know that these women at the gym are homeless?”

“I can spot em.”

“They really stand out do they?”

“Like a Christmas Tree on the 4th of July in Montana.”


“And they get right into your van?”

“Yes siree sir.”

“I’m sorry but I’m having a hard time believing that any woman is going to get into a van with some guy they just met at the gym.”

“It’s a free meal man; trust me they hop right into it.”

(There he is with that “trust” thing again.”)

“So you have no problem at all getting women to “hop” into your van?”

“No man never… well… no… never.”

“You paused for a moment. So you do have a problem.”

“Well… it’s just…. well… sometimes I forget where I parked.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

Monday, April 23, 2007

I hate snakes.....

We’ve all gotten the e-mails asking if we want larger breasts and a bigger penis. I believe these are sent to us by the wife of the King of Nigeria. People have written and joked about these e-mails for years.

There’s really nothing new to say about this stuff right?

Well the e-mail I got this morning was a little different.

“Hey Tony, (they know my name) would you like to have an "Anaconda" in your pants?”

Um… Not particularly.

I saw the first “Anaconda” movie and I’m not sure that’s something my wife is actually looking for in a mate.

An anaconda?

Why not a sperm whale?

Wouldn’t that make more sense?

I’m not saying I want a sperm whale in my pants. The last thing I want is to be followed around by Norwegian whalers.

But an anaconda?

Why not a rattler?

At least it vibrates.

I know… I know… I’m getting close to the edge here.

But I’m just getting a little tired of all this bigger penis, bigger breasts sex stuff e-mails.

Does anyone actually buy this crap?

Is there some lonely guy out there thinking, “man, if my penis only had fangs….”?

And for the idiots that do buy this stuff….


Let’s assume for a moment that all this stuff actually works.

Has it dawned on any of these people that if you’re the type of guy that actually wants an anaconda in your pants you probably don’t have a…. um…oh what’s that word?


I have a friend that called me up all excited about “scoring” some Viagra.

That’s just sad.

It never dawned on him to get a GIRLFRIEND. What’s he gonna do with that thing? Build a birdhouse? Come on!!!

But forget the stupid spam mails for a moment.


Why? Why? Why?

Do I have to see a commercial on television for a “personal lubricant”?

I’m not talking about “Marvel Mystery Oil” or “WD-40” either, although in a pinch I’m sure both would do the trick.

It was bad enough to have to watch commercials about feminine needs. Those stupid commercials have it all wrong anyway. I’ve found what most women need is a higher credit card limit and chocolate.

It just amazes me that we have to be politically correct about so many things but “personal lubricant” (pardon the pun) slips by.

And who decides in what order television commercials get to air? Last night I saw, in order, an ad for Victoria’s Secret, then the personal lubricant commercial followed by and ad for a Hummer followed by an ad that showed a San Diego Padre hitting a “home run” telling us to watch the Padres on “Cox”.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Hat’s off to the programmer who thought of that line up.

Back to the e-mails.

Everyday I get the same stupid spam mails. Buy this penny stock, get a bigger penis, get bigger breasts and now one that asks if I want a pet in my pants.

I admit I do check to make sure that at least one of those is not forwarded to me from my wife.

I just want to get even somehow.

I wish I could spam them back.

“Would you like a bigger vagina?”

You never see that one.

You would think with all this technology we could come up with a way to just hit “reply” and a huge penis would just pop up on their screen and lock out their computer?

Now that’s technology!

We can put 20,000 songs into an iPod but we can’t get a big penis to pop up on a spammers computer screen?

Where are the scholarships to MIT for that?

What’s wrong with the education system in America?

“Huh? Where am I going with this?”

“I’m not sure. Who’s asking?”

“I’m the good voice in our head.”

“Why are you interrupting this post?”

“Well first of all we don’t usually talk about penises and breasts and I thought the line about wanting a bigger vagina was definitely over the edge. I mean it was funny, but I thought I needed to jump in and end this before you get us into trouble.”

“I’m perfectly capable of finishing my own blog post.”

“I’m not so sure. We hadn’t posted in a couple of weeks and then you bang our head and that’s what stimulates us to write something and then we follow up with this post? I think we may have a concussion.”

“What do you mean “you” bang our head? What if you’re the reason I banged our head?”

“Duh… Because I’m not real…”

“Look I just got fed up with this stupid spam I get everyday and I decided to write about it.”

“We get everyday.”


“We get everyday….WE. I’m in here too.”

“You just said you weren’t real.”

“Are we going to argue with an imaginary voice in our head or just end this post?”

“Well you interrupted me. What are you a “spam” voice? Just popping in announced whenever you feel like it?”

“Hellooooo…. Imaginary voice here.”

“Okay fine… Post ended.”

Friday, April 20, 2007

This is gonna leave another mark...

Getting older sucks.

I seem to be finding more and more creative ways to try to decapitate myself.

My head has taken a beating over the past fifty years.

I’ve run under a barbed wire fence, and forgot to duck.

I’ve scaled stadium walls and forgotten how to climb down.

I’ve closed the car trunk, and forgotten to remove my head from it.

I’ve raised two sons to adulthood and as they saw it, forgot everything about my youth.

According to my wife I have on occasion forgotten to remove my head from my ass.

But this…

This was….

This was the moment in time where I finally realized I’d totally lost my “cool” factor. I’d grown out of it. It was over. I’m never getting it back. Never again can I walk into a crowded room and have a throng of admirers look at me and say, “That’s Tone, he’s so cool.”


It could happen.

But not anymore.

Yesterday I split my head open because I changed the ink in my printer.

I’m officially a dork.

I keep the ink for the printer in the cabinet.

Above my computer.

The cabinet with “doors of death”. Vicious doors that reach out to maim the unsuspecting innocent.

You’re getting the picture.

I didn’t completely close the doors.

When I stood up from the desk…


Let me put it this way.

I hit my head so hard on that damn door… for a moment I actually thought that “I” was personally responsible for “Global Warming”.

I mean I nailed it.

It’s a funny thing when you hurt yourself without knowing you’re going to hurt yourself. When I fell off that wall at the stadium… Oh…. I knew it was going to hurt.

This was more like a really crappy hotel wake up call.

I just didn’t expect it.

So I couldn’t “brace” myself.

There was noooooooo bracing.

I stood up.


I fell down.

But on the way down I managed to break my fall a bit by hitting my left elbow on the paper tray of the inkjet printer I had just installed the new ink cartridge in snapping the tray off and catapulting the printer almost on top of me.

I was saved by a screwed in parallel port cable. If it had been a USB cable the printer would have landed on my head.

That would be the bright side.

I was sitting on my butt thinking, “Man I’d really like some fat free, sugar free, raspberry Jell-O right now.”

Don’t ask me, that’s just what came to me at the time.

Global warming and raspberry Jell-O.

I need a life.

Then I felt the blood trickling down my forehead. I wasn’t that worried about it. I’ve had stitches before and I’ve got plenty of scars. Actually this new scar will look good next to the scar I got from the trunk door of my car.

What really sucked was that I was going to have to explain this to my wife.

I hate that. I mean she married me for a reason. And it wasn’t because I spent a lot of time unconscious or in the emergency room.

I used to be an athlete. I used to be cool. I had muscles, coordination, long hair and a black Camaro.

Now I need a nurse, a bodyguard and obviously a helmet.

My wife heard the impact and came rushing into the den. She knew I was hurt so she showed me the kindness and compassion you would expect from a mate of 29 years.

“What did you do now?”

“I was testing the cabinet to make sure it was earthquake proof.”

“Um… you’re going to need stitches again.”

“No kidding.”

“Did you break the printer?”

“No… It committed suicide. It had been depressed for a while, price of ink, so it decided to hang itself.”

“Do you think now is the best time to be a smartass?”

“Why not? I’m already bleeding.”

“You’re going to have a nasty bump as well.”

“Oh joy.”

“Don’t put hairspray on that.”


“It will sting.”

“Hairspray? Hairspray? What would make you think I need hairspray?”

“You don’t put hairspray on your head?”

“No I don’t. I’m a man.”

“Uh huh… I’ve seen you use hair spray.”

“Um… no… I use a manly hair cream.”

“Whatever, don’t put it on that gash.”

“Not a problem.”

“Why didn’t you close the cabinet door before you stood up?”

“Global warming. It threw the door off its axis.”

“Fine be an idiot. I don’t care if you answer or not but it wasn’t very smart not closing that door.”

“Really? Ya think?”

“Thank god you’re a hard headed Italian or you’d be dead by now.”

“Seriously, how bad does it look?”

“It looks like you had a hair transplant and they forgot to add the hair.”

“Beautiful. I don’t suppose bleeding and balding turns you on.”

“Oh yeah… I’m all hot and bothered right now.”

“And I’m the one that has a headache.”

“That’s actually very funny babe.”

“Do we have any Jell-O?”

Friday, April 06, 2007

Out of the mouths of babes.

The following conversation took place with my gransdon in my car while I was driving to get the whole family dinner one evening. He was sitting in the back in his car seat asking me a zillion questions when the following conversation ocurred.


“Yes Alex.”

“We’re doomed.”


“We’re doomed Poppa, we’re doomed.”

“Um…. Why would you say that little buddy?”

“Cause you don’t know where you’re going.”

“I know where I’m going.”

“No you don’t, this isn’t the way… we’re doomed.”

“Uh… I know where we’re going. We’re going to get Chinese food.”

“This isn’t the way to get Chinese food. I know the way Poppa and this isn’t the way. We’re doomed.”

“I don’t think we’re doomed pal. This is the way to my Chinese restaurant. It’s different than the way to your Chinese restaurant.”

“Poppa? I think we need to go to my Chinese restaurant.”

“Well your Chinese restaurant is ten miles from here. My Chinese restaurant is real close.”



“We’re doomed.”

“Pal we’re not doomed. Trust me we’re real close to the Chinese restaurant.”



“I can’t get food from your Chinese restaurant.”

“Why not?”

“Cause it’s crap.”


“Um…. It’s not crap pal. You shouldn’t say that.”

“You said it.”

“I said it?”


“I don’t think I did pal.”

“The last time we had Chinese food you said you couldn’t eat that crap.”

“Um… yes… well… Poppa made a mistake. I didn’t mean that there was something wrong with the Chinese food. I just meant that I couldn’t eat it because it’s not on my diet.”



“Yes Alex.”

“Can you have cheese?”

“No I’m not supposed to have cheese.”

“I like cheese.”

“I like cheese too. I just can’t eat it.”

“Because it’s crap?”

“No because it’s fattening.”



“Can you have pizza?”

“No I’m not supposed to have pizza.”

“No pizza?”

“No pizza?”



“What’s not fattening?”

“Fruits and vegetables.”




“This diet is crap.”

We're doomed.........