I usually try to be funny in my blog posts, sometimes informative, today I’m neither. Today is Mothers Day, and I urge everyone to spend it with your mother’s. I lost mine almost four years ago and feel her loss everyday.

Sandra Lois Armstrong, July 3rd 1947-November 14th, 2017.

Never gone. Never forgotten.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

Yesterday I listened to my Twitter buddy SavageKC, tell a guest on her podcast that she’s not just blowing smoke up his ass. That got me to thinking (keep your comments to yourself) is that thing? Blowing smoke up someone’s ass? That had to get started somewhere or it would not have become a saying. I could have researched it, but if I had then it would have made this blog post unnecessary. So I’m wondering, could this have been some type of profession? If so, how did you apply for it?

Seriously?

Blowing smoke up a person’s ass isn’t as self explanatory as it sounds. Is it some type of pervy pleasure? A woman smoking a cigarette and then leaning in to blow it up a paying customers behind? Sorry, I’ll keep my money. Besides for a job like this I’m certain one of the requirements is to have iron clad nasal passages. Sure as a fat man wants food, some of the smoke that goes up his ass is going to go out of it with greater and deadly force. Think before you apply. This quiet literally is a stinking job.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

“I’m Tom Bodett, for Motel 6 and we’ll leave the light on for you.” The bland Midwestern corn pone drawl so bland and inviting, conjuring images of a bespectacled fat man in a John Deer cap and fishing vest. Meant to invite you to take a load of for the night at a reasonable, let’s call it what it is…cheap, price.

Cue ominous music.

A Motel 6 is cheap for a reason. It’s because they suck. When I say suck I don’t mean like a coke through a straw suck. I mean like a golf ball through a garden hose suck. Dark and dingy even when doing their best to look clean. Putting you in mind of every crime movie you’ve ever seen. The slaughter scene from No Country for Old Men comes to mind, but instead of Anton Chigurh, it’s Tom Bodett with a chain saw uttering a killer line, “I’m Tom Bodett for Motel 6, and you’re going to die.” Move over Norman Bates, am I right?

So word of warning. Beware comforting friendly voices inviting you to stay. Especially at a low low price because you get what you pay for. Keep driving, or the meat in the lunch buffet may be you.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

While watching the news this morning, if you can call anything out of the mouths of these talking heads news, I saw a story about mail order brides, so I thought hell, let’s talk about that. So your up Mr. Mail Order Bride Casanova.

Some men look through an IKEA catalogue to order furniture. You look through a catalog in order to find a woman to clean the furniture, (make sure they do windows). Czech, Ukrainian, Russian or any number of foreign countries. Nothing says love like the quick swipe of a credit card right before the nuptials. Women dream of hearing a man say, “I do,” in your case it’s, “I do agree to pay $5,000 America upfront.” We salute you O’ Credit Card Casanova, because while your bride may full priced, you’ll always be the better half.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

Today we’re going to talk about someone who is hazardous to your health. Not Dr. Fauci, although that is a natural assumption. We’re going to talk about that man who not only offends someone with delicate nasal passages, but could also make the statue of a gargoyle flinch, we’re talking about:

The TOO MUCH COLOGNE WEARER GUY!

Like an early warning system, your cologne announces your imminent arrival five minutes before you do.

Here a splish, there a splash, splish splash you’re taking a bath. You don’t stop until every inch of you is covered in stink from a fancy bottle.

Woke up late. No time to shower. No worries. You’ve got ten gallons of cologne and a full proof plan that no amount of body odor can face.

So here’s to you, Guy who wears too much cologne. It’s the sweet smell of success to you. But to the rest of us, it just stinks.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

Yesterday we talked about the designated hitter. Yes, we’re still talking about baseball, it’s my blog so we talk about what I want to talk about! I’ll come up with something tomorrow. Sheez. Anyway, today we’re going to talk about the designated sitter.

What’s that?

It doesn’t exist.

Wrong.

It’s exists in sports you’ve just never noticed. A designated sitter is someone who sits on a bench in order to weigh it down and keep it from flying through the air and hitting someone in the stands. (Let me catch my breath, that was a long sentence with no commas).

Better.

Where was I?

Designated sitter. Thanks.

Now you might ask how did I come up with an idea like this? Too much time on my hands maybe. Well yes, but no. Actually the idea was my girlfriend’s

It’s so unusual I wish I could claim credit for it, but no. This one is all Poops Ahoy. One day while discussing baseball, (remember this is where it started) I mentioned that the average player who sits on a bench for all 162 games of the regular season and never plays even one inning, still makes an average of $1.5 million, she shouted, “I can do that!” and it’s been her goal ever since. To sit on her butt and get rich doing it. Living the American Dream. 🇺🇸

According to her she sends her days sitting behind a desk at work and the rest on a toilet, so who better? She even has her team picked out: The Los Angeles Angels, formerly the California Angels, formerly the Anaheim Angels and more recently the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, (christ that last one sucks. I can’t believe someone was paid money to come up with that one. Pick a name already.) Her reasoning, the Angels, being in the American League use the designated hitter rule, unlike their counter parts in the National one, so they’ll be more open to a designated sitter, that and she’s from Los Angeles. Can’t argue with that logic, and it’s too exhausting to try.

She’s even selected her number. 5. It’s her birthday. “Screw Albert Pujols! It’s my number and I want it!” Again no reason to argue. She’s a woman, which means bat shit crazy.

Can you imagine her sitting in the dugout and the team manager tells her she’s up?

Response:

“No I’m down.”

“You’re the designated hitter. Now get in there.”

“No. I’m the designated sitter. Clean off your glasses. It says so right here in the contract. I sit on the bench, cheer the team on, slap on the butt when they walk by. Mmm…hard butts. And how dare you interrupt a professional when she’s working! This hot dogs not going to eat itself! And my fries are getting cold! It says I have to have hot fries at all times! Have you ever had cold fries? They’re as bad as this team. Where’s my agent? I can’t work under these conditions!”

Don’t kid yourself this wouldn’t happen. Women can be divas in any circumstances. But if there’s a way to turn this into a regular paying profession, somebody will find away. But I’m betting on her. Batter up! But not her, she’s content sitting down.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

It’s baseball season! So today I thought we would discuss that all important position that keeps fat and over the hill players on the team payroll long after their prime.

The Designated Hitter.

Baseball is a game of skill, athleticism and strategy. Not that you would know because you’re position doesn’t even require you to own a glove. The only thing your required to do is go to the plate several times per game and hit the ball harder than Ike did Tina Turner. Still we would rather see you at the plate than some pitcher with a lower batting average than Maxine Waters’ I.Q.

So raise a glass to the man who is mostly paid to sleep and scratch himself through 162 games per year (unless the team makes the post-season.) Running, catching and throwing are overrated anyway.

Until next time. 🇺🇸

A little information about my lady Poops Ahoy. Two things she really likes to do is clog a toilet and cuddle. Luckily not at the same time. Which leads me to say this in a way that anyone can understand: REAL MEN DON’T CUDDLE!!

Very recently it looked like Poops Ahoy had finally seen the light when she texted me an article explaining why men don’t like to cuddle. The article was accompanied with a one word message:

Even worse she sent me another article laying out in great detail why men aren’t cuddlers, even going so far as to say that it read like I had written it. And again she has chosen to disbelieve it because it was written by a man. It gets worse, not only did she ignore it but went looking for counter-arguments by sissy boys who don’t know the difference between a football and a woman’s breast because they’ve never touched either.

FINE! Oh for joy! For joy! Poops Ahoy and maybe evens thousands of grabby women everywhere had finally seen the light. What a great day! but alas, it to last only a scarce 24 hours. The next day Poops Ahoy, like a defense attorney who has hit their stride, had chosen to disregard the concrete evidence in the article because the author was a man. What a sexist! As if somehow men don’t know what they want, or more importantly, what they don’t want. Once more for a chorus:

REAL MEN DON’T CUDDLE!!

But it didn’t stop there, no. She even found another article explaining in evel greater detail why men don’t like the octopus hug, even telling me that it read like I had written it, then immediately dismissed it out of hand because once again, you guessed it, written by a man. Did I mention what a sexist Poops Ahoy is?…okay, anyway on with this true story. She not only compounded her crime from before by disregarding the brilliance of the argument but searched for counter-arguments in favor of cuddling from squeaky voiced sissy boys, who don’t know the difference between a football and a woman’s breasts because they’ve never touched either.

Needless to say there’s going to have to be a serious sit down with Poops Ahoy, where she finally sees the error of her ways. After all, the man is always right. I’ll prove it now by reminding her:

REAL MEN DON’T CUDDLE!!

Until next time. 🇺🇸

“Run muther f*#cker!”

“My dog could catch better than that!”

They say that those who can play, and those who can’t coach. You prove that those who can neither play nor coach, sit in the stands with their shirts off, fat white bellies glistening in the sun and shout obscenities. Thanks to you the team is spurred on to victory with such helpful tips as:

“Throw it!”

And…

“Catch the f*#cking ball!”

“You stink!”

“That sucks!”

And let us not forget:

“What a bunch of losers!”

And any number of psychological ways which you help the team to improve. Proving that while there is no “I” in team, thanks to you, there will always be an “F” and a “U.”

Until next time. 🇺🇸

I’ve talked about American heroes before but today I’m saluting one who has been badly overlooked. Someone whose artwork you see everytime you step into a bathroom stall. That’s right, the bathroom dirty joke writer.

Your comedic talents make an incredibly dirty place even dirtier. Your jokes make us laugh so hard we pee our pants. Good thing their down around our ankles. You answer our most vexing question: what really did happen to the man from Nantucket? So today we give an All-American salute to you, master of the filthy joke, because when we need to distract ourselves from thinking about the dirty place others butts have been, we turn to you. Keep up the good work!

Until next time. 🇺🇸