MY VASECTOMY OPERATION



A few years ago, I had two operations in the space of a couple of months. These were not major operations. Although for most men, I believe they would prefer triple heart bypass surgery instead... No man alive has ever looked forward to either of these operations. In fact, I can guarantee you the following statements have never been said by any man in existence:

#1 "Oh good, today is my vasectomy!"
#2 "Oh good, I'm finally getting the circumcision I've always wanted!"

Yes, dear readers, 1990 was not a good year for a member of the family. My member, my private part, my willy, my manhood, my good luck charm I carried wherever I go.

First I will tell you about the vasectomy. (I hope you have strong stomachs.) Men who know I've had this delicate operation always ask me how bad it is. I tell them the truth. Except for the unbearable pain and embarrassment, it's not bad at all. The embarrassment of laying on the operating table as the doctor strolls in, so cocksure. (Pun very much intended...)

Let's just say,it was very uncomfortable when the doctor lifted up the blanket to look at his next job. Very perturbed, he stated "Mr. Graves, in order to have a vasectomy, you have to have a penis." I assured the doctor that it was there. I pointed to the very spot it was located. The doctor sighed heavily and murmured "I can't see dick all!" As the doctor tried to control his anger, he asked his nurse to bring in a microscope. After searching for a few minutes, he located what he believed to be my manhood (okay, boyhood...) I could be imagining things but I swear I heard some discussion about contacting the Guinness Book of World Records.

The operation honestly wasn't too bad. It was actually the constant laughter during the operation which caused me the most pain. When the vasectomy was completed, I was thrown a couple of pain killers and told I could go home. Very gingerly I walked out of the hospital. My legs spread apart as far as possible as I shuffled towards the parking lot. Needless to say, everyone who saw me knew what operation I had just had. As people gawked and pointed at me, I felt like a real dick.

The circumcision was basically the same, except I was knocked out for the operation. When I awoke from the operation, I felt like I was being woken up from the dead. I looked down at "it" and noticed it was in some kind of cast. I started to have visions of girls wanting to sign my cast. Silly dreamer I am... Being the comedian I am, I asked the nurse if they had enlarged it for me.
She stared at me in shock and said "I don't think so."

Another dream shattered...

Before the operation.
A smile only a mother could love

I possibly overreacted a bit but the doctor had a steak knife in his hands

What is the perfect word that matches hell? Why, it's camping! Camping is the purest form of hell. In fact, camping and hell go hand in hand. A perfect marriage made in hell, so to speak...) In fact, I bet while God was busy creating the woods and all the cute little birdies, Satan was in his basement making up plans for the first campsite on earth.

I know that camping would not be my first idea of a fun summer holiday. I'd much rather prefer sitting at home picking my toes or watching Baywatch reruns, lovingly caressing my remote control. That sure sounds like a perfect holiday to me.

There were a few problems with our first camping expedition. Some of them were minor but most of them were major. The first problem was that you cannot put much else besides the cooler in the trunk of a Pontiac Sunbird. If you can manage to get the cooler in the trunk (with the help of a crowbar and some vaseline) you're lucky. The other few odds and ends (like the tents, pillows, sleeping bags etc.) are stuffed in-between the family members in the car, with a large bottle of aspirin wedged securely between my legs. Luckily, we decided not to bring the cat or I would have had to stick her on top of my head.

Of course, our arrival at the campground in Algonquin Park coincided perfectly with the arrival of my wife's P.M.S. I knew I was in for quite the camping experience when we began to try to put up our tent. I have enough trouble trying to tie my shoelaces. Anyway, I made the mistake of asking my wife a question about putting up the tent (something along the lines of "Where does this thing go?") and her replying that I was "brain dead". Maybe I'm just being too sensitive here but I believe calling your husband brain dead at the start of a camping trip is not the best way to start a holiday.

We finally got the tent up after my youngest son helped my wife assemble it while I sat in the car and sulked for a couple of hours. I will not go into detail here about the struggles we went through to get the campfire going on the first evening or the struggles we had to put out the campfire five minutes later.

The first night in our tent was not a pleasant experience. First of all, I knew I wasn't going to get what I wanted, as my two sons were wedged in-between my wife and I. Finally after a hectic day, I managed to relax and was ready for a good night of sleep. Wanting the experience of true campers, my wife had decided we would not bring anything remotely comfortable to lay on. Anyway, our sleeping bags were at least a good quarter inch thick. After a few hours I almost didn't mind the roots of the tree digging into my back...

Within a minute of closing my eyes I was ready to drift off into dreamland and get out of the damn campsite. Then I heard a sound. Not actually a sound but a noise. My oldest son had just dozed off and he was snoring very loudly. I shook him gently but he kept on snoring. I shook him gently and he kept on snoring. I elbowed him in the ribcage and he whimpered. It was at this point I realized it wasn't him snoring. It wasn't my other son or my wife snoring either. I knew it wasn't me snoring as I hadn't fallen asleep yet...

I finally realized the snoring was coming from a tent about five feet away from ours. I don't mind having neighbors but this was ridiculous. This man was really good at snoring. If there was snoring in the Olympics he'd get perfect marks. As I laid there awake hour after hour, I started asking God to forgive me for all of my sins and to stop that goddamn bastard from snoring so loudly. My prayers went unanswered once again. Finally, in the middle of the night, I fell asleep, only to be woken up by my youngest son. He grabbed onto my wife's arm and cried out "Mom, there's a bear! There's a bear! It's right outside our tent!!!" I thought to myself, "Great. First I have to battle my wife's P.M.S. and now I have to battle a bear." The only weapon in the tent was a plastic fork and one of the teeth on it was broken... I soon realized that what my son was hearing was not an enraged bear but our beloved neighbor happily snoring the night away.

I'll always remember my first night of camping. For the sake of the children and my own sanity I put on a happy face that morning as the thunder rolled in and the rain poured down on our happy little piece of paradise. Naturally, to start off this beautiful morning it started to rain. In fact, this rainstorm was what my one son called a "real doozy", whatever that means, I knew it wasn't good. Rain was not going to dampen my day, although deep within the recesses of my brain I heard those magical words, "I am not a happy camper".

We decided we would either sit in our damp tent playing cards all day (while starving to death) or go to a restaurant. We ran like hell to the car and drove off like a bolt of lightning. As we sat inside the lovely restaurant eating our delicious breakfast and drinking the best coffee my wife and I had ever had, it finally hit me. I looked over at my wife and she did not have single trace of P.M.S. She was happy...contented...relaxed. My two sons were in a great mood and not a single punch was thrown. They almost liked each other! This was now a real holiday. Sitting in a warm, cozy restaurant being served. Not a single mosquito to swat. Not a single care in the world. I was now experiencing the perfect family vacation. My wife has decided that we will be going camping again this summer and I'm only going to do one thing differently from last year. I'm going to pray for lots of rain



*SINCE I DO NOT USE VULGAR LANGUAGE ON MY WEBSITE, THE WORD "SHIT" HAS BEEN REPLACED WITH THE WORD "DOO-DOO


I have had no luck with dogs. I would have to say the only dog I ever owned that I had any enjoyment out of was my first dog. It's also the only dog I ever abused. I'll tell you one thing, Ex-Lax sure works great on a dog. (It was my friends idea...)

A few years back, someone my wife knew was giving away a dog. We went to this person's home to meet the dog. It was a lovely dog named Rez. The woman stated that it was fully trained and loved to be outside.

We brought the dog home. It was a lovely, cute, adorable floppy eared three year old mutt. I worked the midnight shift that night. The dog stayed in the house throughout the night in the living room. I came home from work in the morning and walked into the living room. The dog had shit, oops, I mean doo-doo'd. Major doo doo. I don't think this dog laid down all night. There were droppings on top of droppings. This dog was excellent at shitting. I looked at the dog in disgust, the dog looked at me and smirked. "This is what man's best friend does to him?" I mumbled.

After I cleaned up the mess, I took the cute, adorable, floppy eared dog out to his backyard leash. Forced myself to give him a pat on the head. "Enjoy your day, Rez". I went back in the house and flopped on the bed in exhaustion. I quickly fell asleep. Then I heard a noise. It was the dog. The dog was barking, constantly. The dog that loved the great outdoors. I went to see the dog from hell. I looked at the dog in disgust and the dog gave me a smirk back. At that precise moment I wish I had a gun collection. I let the cute, adorable floppy eared dog back in the house. I finally fell asleep. I heard the odd noise or two but managed to sleep for a few hours. When I arose, I had a sense of deja-vu.

Suddenly there was a certain odor in the air and it wasn't perfume... I stepped out into the living room and there was doo-doo all over the living room floor. I stared at the dog in disgust. Damn dog gave me a smirk back. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something I could not believe. It was my television remote control. My beloved remote control. The heart and soul of my whole reason for living. The remote control was on the floor. It had been chewed (probably in-between doo-doo's) It had been chewed so badly that the tubes inside were now on the outside. I never thought I would get to see the inner workings of my remote control. Amazingly, it still worked. (I always thought it was a quality product. To doo-doo all over the house is one thing but to destroy a man's remote control is another.

I also noticed my wife's underwear from the laundry on the floor. The crotch had been eaten completely out. I knew I didn't do it. There was also something else he had chewed on that I won't mention. Let's just say this dog must have been part bloodhound... The only thing the dog never chewed on were my underwear. Even with his cast iron stomach the dog must have known his limits.

It would be very embarrassing having this dog around the house when company was over. This was one horny dog. This dog would hump the hall rug until he was satisfied. He would hump my friend's leg. He would hump the cat. That was the first time I ever heard a cat say "yeow!" instead of "meow!".

We finally gave the cute, adorable floppy eared dog back to his owner after only three days of torment. As they pulled out of the driveway with him, I could see that damn dog gazing out the back window. I gave him the finger. He looked at me in disgust and I just smirked.





Once in a blue moon I have been known to do stupid things. (check the other true stories...) I believe this story cuts the cake. Christmas was nearing and I wanted to get my wife something special. Growing up, she had never had a real "Barbie" doll. I knew that she loved the Barbie "Hallmark Special Edition" doll she had seen at the mall. One day, right after work I scampered to the mall to purchase it, before she got off work herself. When I got home, I wrapped it the best I could and I actually did a halfway decent job this time. It almost looked like a gift. I had one major problem though...where was I going to hide it? I was going to keep it at my brother's but there were already too many of the kid's presents hiding there. I sat down and thought it over...until a bolt of lightning went through my brain. I will hide this very delicate, easy to break present in the wall! Yes, in the hallway there was a little door which housed the fuse box and there was a shelf to put it on (at least I thought there was a shelf...) I knew she would never, ever go in there.

Later, on the same day, my brother came over. (This is always a bad sign when he's in the picture) After a bit of small talk, I wanted to show him what I had gotten Nancy. I also wanted to impress him with my hiding skills. I opened up the fuse box door and my mouth dropped to my knees. The gift was NOT THERE. I grabbed a flashlight and began my search. At the very bottom (inside the wall) glowed her present. Soon, laughter filled the air. Not MY laughter, but my brother's. There was no way to get it, as my arms were not six feet long...After my brother's laughter had subsided (three hours later...) we had to decide how to get it out. There was a broken hockey stick nearby, so I tried to lift the present up the inside of the wall with the stick. No luck at all. It would make it about a foot up the wall and then fall again. It was around this time I was getting a nauseous feeling in my stomach. It was also around this time my brother started laughing hysterically again.

My brother told me the only way to get to it would be to cut a hole in the wall. He went home to get his drywall compound and other tools. When he came back, he was about to put a hole in the wall when I decided to try something else. Back to the hockey stick again, although this time I was going to put a SCREW on one end of it. I put the stick inside the wall and tried to poke the screw gently into the present. After a couple of failed attempts, I finally latched on to it (like a baby latching on to his mother's breast, but I'm getting off course, aren't I?) I slowly lifted it up, up, up and out of the wall it came! Success at last!!! Except for a hole in the box (about the size of a screw...) it didn't seem to be broken. (I could just picture my wife opening up the box all happy Christmas morning and then screaming at me, "Her head is at her feet!")

I tore off the gift wrap and the doll seemed to have survived the hell it had been through. Has a Barbie doll ever been abused more than this? (I don't think I want to know the answer to that, sorry.) When my wife came home from work, I tried to act like nothing had happened. The gift was now hiding where it should have been the first time, at my brother's. Yet, "Nancy, The Detective" noticed Christmas wrapping paper in the garbage, which she thought was rather odd. Then she noticed the following:

The door to the fuse box was slightly ajar... drywall compound and various tools in the hallway...there was a broken hockey stick with a screw sticking out of it... So, my wife peered into the fuse box door and noticed a cute, green bow laying on the wall inside. Quickly she put two and two together and got an idiot of a husband.






I hate to say this but the following is another true story. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, except for me. My name is Larry Graves and I am an idiot. This is a rather short true story but I will make it longer by dragging it out as much as possible. I could also force humor into the story but there is no need to do that. Trust me...

My wife does not know about the following story because I sort of forgot to tell her. I will hide this story in amongst my other true stories and perhaps in a few years she will find it and read it. Hopefully by then she will have compassion for me and not roll her eyes and mumble "Oh My God...".

My next door neighbor is a good man and a great gardener. Every time I look out my kitchen window, there he is working in his garden, cutting the grass, cleaning out his shed and helping out his next door neighbor, sometimes all at the same time. I am opposed to anything involving the great outdoors, especially in the spring, summer and fall when there are mosquitos, bees, ants and real men outside.

I have never had an interest in flowers. Yes, they are pretty but don't expect me to come across a dying flower and water it. There is always the possibility there is a bee hidden deep inside the crevices of the flower, ready to attack and sting me in the eye. I am not paranoid, just very
very careful.

My next door neighbor is the greatest gardener in the world. I know this for a fact because his gardens in the front and back of his little house are perfect. I have seen him watering his flowers even while it was raining. He spends at least two hours a day in his small gardens making all of his flowers look perfect. My wife handles our garden, which of course looks nowhere near as good as his. (I can say that because there is no way in hell my wife is going to be reading
this column.)

On to the main story...

Our garage is in pretty bad shape. The roof has needed replacing for the past five years. The paint has been peeling off for the past eight years. It is one hell of a sore sight. I finally decided to get my virgin scraper out of the mothballs and scrape some of the old paint off. I also decided to take my hammer out of my Big Bird tool box. I did not really need the hammer but I figured it would impress all of the other neighbors.

Suddenly I had visions of actually scraping off all the old paint and giving the garage a fresh coat of paint. I knew I could do it, although it might take me six months. TODAY WAS THE DAY I WOULD BECOME A REAL MAN. Amazingly my next door neighbor was out for the day with his wife, so I could take my time and do the proper job I knew I was capable of.

As I started to scrape, I noticed that the little pieces of paint were falling into my next door neighbors garden, which was right beside my garage. Thanks to the rather strong wind his beautiful and perfect garden was getting sprinkled with bits of white scrap paint. This was not good. I thought it over in my head on what to do until I came up with a brilliant idea. I would bring out the old door that was in the garage and lean it up sideways beside my garage. Now the paint scrapings would hit the door and land in my driveway instead of his immaculate garden. Am I a genius or what? I vacuumed up the tiny bits of scrap paint in his garden very carefully and avoided sucking up his flowers.
So far, so good.

After about ten minutes of scraping I felt something rather strange. I was beginning to sweat. I did not like this rather odd sensation. Also, all the local bees could smell me and I could see them coming straight for me off in the distance. They were lined up in perfect order and I knew what they were communicating to each other. "It's Graves. It's a miracle! The bugger is outside! Let's get 'em, boys. I'll take out his left eye and you can go for his butt!" I knew the only way to lessen an attack of killer bees was to drop everything but my pants and get the hell back into the safety of my house and nuzzle up to my remote control.

This is where the idiot part comes in...

About an hour later I glanced out my kitchen window to marvel at the three or four scrape marks I had made on the garage. Suddenly my eyes bulged out of my head and I could feel my heart drop down into my left shoe. It seems I had forgotten to put something away. The nice big heavy door that I had used to prevent little bits of scrap paint from going into his immaculate garden was now laying perfectly across his once erect flowers, slowly but surely suffocating the little roses or whatever the hell they were. The first thing that popped into my head was "Thank God my wife is at work right now!" The second thing that popped into my head was "Thank God my wife is at work right now!". It was at this time I swore to myself that I would not tell my wife what happened and I most certainly would not tell my neighbor. Sometimes dishonesty is the best policy, if you want to remain alive.

I ran out and lifted up the heavy door. The flowers looked in pretty bad shape but at least they did not have any paint scrapings on them. For a split second I was going to give each individual flower mouth to stem resuscitation but I knew that would not work. I grabbed one of the limp flowers and shook it. "I'm sorry! Please don't die on me!" and shook the hell out of it and gave it a good slap.

My neighbor could be coming home any minute now, so I had to act fast. I knew I would have to hide all of the evidence of me being outside. I quickly vacuumed up all of the paint scrap in the driveway and threw the bastard of a door into the garage. I tried to straighten out all of his forty or fifty flowers the best I could. I finally stepped back to see how his garden looked and to be totally honest, the garden didn't look bad, if it had just been in a major earthquake, that is...

Later in the evening my neighbor came home. He pulled into the driveway and I was hoping and praying he would not notice his garden had just been to hell and back. As soon as he stepped out of his truck he walked directly over to his beloved garden and started to give it the tender loving care it had so badly been lacking for the past eight hours. He straightened out all of the flowers the best he could and he erected cute little stakes for them. Around this time my wife came home from work. She had mentioned to me that she was going to water his flowers in the back earlier but she said "They looked pretty dead so I did not want to touch them and end up getting blamed for killing them or something". Later in the evening my wife and I were sitting in the backyard and my neighbor was still working on his garden and he mumbled to us "It must have been awfully hot here today, all my flowers collapsed".

I would like to end this column by saying a few words to my good neighbor.

Sir, I am sorry for what happened to your garden. It was an accident. I hope you will forgive me. I also hope you will never read this.







We were visiting my wife's Uncle and Aunt a few summers ago. Uncle Ralph mentioned a water slide park in Barrie, Ontario. My two sons got all excited. I got all excited. My wife had P.M.S.

We were on the highway, following Uncle Ralph to the water slide park. My two sons were very excited. I was very excited. My wife still had P.M.S.

Our family of four was following Uncle Ralph's car to the park when suddenly he signaled for me to pull over. He excitedly ran up to our car and told us that he had heard on the radio that the TALL SHIPS were coming into Georgian Bay. He thought it would be interesting to go there first and then head to the water park afterwards. I was not thrilled at the idea but seeing as my wife loved her uncle dearly and had a good case (or bad case) of P.M.S. I was not about to say anything negative.

We drove to the large dock at Georgian Bay and there was a tall ship docked there. It was very tall. It had sails. There was a crew on the tall ship. Some of the crew members were tall also. I enjoyed it for perhaps five minutes. I noticed I was sweating a lot and my enjoyment of the tall ship evaporated into the hot, muggy air. Please forgive me for using bad language but I must say a bad word in order for you to appreciate my unappreciation. (If that is bad grammar, please forgive me again as I never said I was a writer...)

If you do not like bad language, please stop reading now, otherwise you will be reading a very bad word which might offend you. The bad word will be written shortly. I personally am excited at the thought of typing a bad word. For those of you who can not wait, skip to the next paragraph where the swear word is located. If you are offended by swearing (or tall ships) read no further.

It was fucking hot. It was so fucking hot I had to say fucking hot one more time. Fucking hot. Fucking hot. Fucking hot. I am so glad I got that off my fucking chest... There were also twelve billion mosquitos there that seemed more attracted to me then any other person at the dock.

There was a very large crowd at the dock and surrounding park. Hot weather and large crowds do not make me very happy. In fact, I think I would rather be at a country club line dancing to "Achy Breaky Heart".

After about half an hour I wanted to leave. My two sons did not want to be there anymore. I did not want to be there anymore. My wife had P.M.S. so it would not matter where the hell she was. We sat down on the ant infested grass as dozens of tall ships came into shore. There were a lot of tall ships but once you have seen one tall ship, it will do you for a lifetime (trust me) All I know is if there are tall ships in heaven I am going to commit suicide.

Once in a while I would turn to my wife and give her a blank expression. (This was my subtle way of telling her that I was not having fun) She would look back at me with her P.M.S. eyes and I would very quickly go back to admiring the tall ships.

No one was enjoying the tall ships except for Uncle Ralph. His wife wanted to leave but did not want to upset him. After about three hours of counting my mosquito bites he asked me what I thought of the tall ships and I told him they were "very tall". We sat on the grass for a good two hours as the beads of sweat ran down the crack of my ass, which I honestly enjoyed more than the tall ships. I turned once more to my wife and gave her a really good blank stare. Her P.M.S. was now in top form and she gave me a Satanic stare back. Once more I turned away from her to admire the tall ships... We ended up staying there for the entire day and never did go to the water slide park. (Is it just me or is my life one big party?)

Now, whenever I see a tall ship on television I remember back to the end of that special day. The terrible heat, my wife with an excellent case of P.M.S., the hours of boredom, the mosquitos and ants, my two sons whining and Uncle Ralph happily watching the tall ships sail into the fucking sunset.






I love all my neighbors except when they are living right next door to me...

My next door neighbor is very friendly, perhaps too friendly. I have to admit he and his wife are much better than the last young couple who lived next door. The woman would almost daily be in our shared driveway, screaming at the top of her lungs for her young son, who had a bad (or perhaps good) habit of disappearing into thin air. She would scream ""NATHAN!!!".......and follow it with five seconds of silence......then repeat the scream three more times........then four seconds of silence.......then repeat the scream one final time until her lungs burst from the pressure.

Her boyfriend (who I will call Stephen since that was his name) loved to fix snowmobiles. Snowmobiles are very, very loud. He loved to fix them in the middle of the summer. In the middle of the summer in Canada there is no snow, believe it or not... He would rev up the engine several times. This was about as much fun as listening to Yoko Ono's Greatest Hits. Between the snowmobiles and the woman with the big mouth, I had a daily headache.

They also had a pit bull who would be kept in their backyard a lot and the ugly beast of nature would bark constantly. One day I swear it barked for three or four hours straight. We should have complained about all the noise but we always try to be good neighbors, even though some of our neighbors act like they are in a Satanic cult.

One day I was getting into my car and before I could sit my big butt down the dog with the devilish eyes jumped in and sat down on my seat. Perhaps he had heard rumors that I was good at picking up chicks in my 1984 Oldsmobile... I very gently prodded him out of the car and then I quickly hopped in and squealed out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.

After over a year of torment the young couple moved away. When they left the house for the last time I did a cute little jig on the front lawn. If only I had known then that another couple would be moving in shortly...

Our new next door neighbor is honestly not bad but I still have to get a couple of things off of my hairless chest. Every time my wife and I step outside he is outside fixing his truck or doing yard work. If I take out my lawnmower he will ask me if the blades need sharpening. He will look at the blades and decide they need sharpening and sharpen them on the spot. I personally don't care if the lawnmower blades are sharp or not. As long as my wife sees me with the lawnmower and I am sweating good I know I am safe from getting hit over the head with a frying pan. That is all that matters...

My hearing is not the greatest and my neighbor is hard to figure out sometimes as he does not talk very clearly. One time he handed me some rope and he said something along the lines of " Oakin salomona de gardenia a ropeia da wife dee pleasa". I said to him "pardon me?" and he said "Thisa ropeia dee grassian oaf la wifea swish swish" or something along those lines. I finally gave up, thanked him, took the rope and threw it in our back yard. As I write this the rope is still laying in the same spot in the backyard, wondering what the hell it's purpose is in life. Hell if I know what I was supposed to do with the rope. Hang myself???

A couple of days ago our friendly neighbor came to our door and presented my wife with a handful of radishes freshly picked from his garden. My wife smiled and thanked him. Both of us hate radishes but I know he was just being friendly. (I personally would have preferred a slice of pizza or instructions in plain English on what to do with rope that is given to you.) The very next day the neighbor asked my wife "How were they?" and she was puzzled and said "How was what?" and he said "The radishes, were they good???" "Oh, we have not gotten around to eating them yet but I will let you know when we do". Boy, just writing about this makes me want to rush to the kitchen and make a toasted radish sandwich...

I was on my way back from the store yesterday when my neighbor asked me if I could help him with his old truck. When it comes to fixing anything I am completely useless but all he wanted me to do was pump the brake pedal repeatedly while he bled the air out of the brakes. (This is technical stuff that I do not understand but I am trying to fake it here...)

I would pump the brake pedal about ten times and then hold it down while he bled it. I did this about five times in a row. I had lower back pain for the past few hours and this did not help it. My back was really hurting but I wanted to be a good neighbor. He finally thanked me and I quickly ran into my house to lay down from my five minutes of hard labor.

A couple of minutes passed by when I heard a knock on the door. It was my next door neighbor again. He told me his truck was now running and he asked me if I could do the "brake thing" again. I slowly and painfully entered his truck and started pumping his brake pedal over and over again and then held it down to the floor. I did this about five or six times again. My back was now in major pain but I did not cry. He thanked me again. I believe I was in my house before he finished the "you" in "thank you".

Five minutes went by and there was another knock on the door. This was one day I did not have to ask myself, "I wonder who that could be?" I opened up the door and his hand was extended. "Here you go". I was face to face with a bunch of freshly picked radishes. All I could think of to say to him was "Wow". Normally I would only say "Wow" if I was seeing some sleazy stripper at a night club but I saved up this wow for this special moment in my life.
I plopped down on to the couch and I held the radishes in front of my face with a dumbfounded look. My wife turned around and when she saw the radishes and my stone face she burst into laughter. After holding the radishes in shock for a couple of minutes I put them on the end table. I turned around a minute later and noticed that our dog Elmo had his head laying on the end table. It seems he had quickly fallen in love with the radishes. Perhaps I will mix them in with his dog food and he will very quickly fall out of love...




I am so bad with directions, I am surprised that when I was born I did not come out of my mother's rear end. I get lost unless I am sitting in my living room watching Bay Watch reruns. Directions are so bad for me that it is almost painful. When we moved a few years ago to a rented house, as I was walking home from work early the first morning, I could not find the street we lived on. I finally found the street our new house was on after about half an hour of panicking... You can call me stupid because my wife had no problem doing that when I finally arrived home.

When my sons were about four and five years old, I decided we would take our brand new puppy for a walk in the local woods. There was no way to get lost, just follow the pathway, which would lead back to the parking lot in about ten minutes.

Guess what happened? Yes, brainless daddy got us all lost by getting confused while on the pathway. I am really good at getting confused but at least I'm an expert on something...

When we got out of the woods we must have been a good mile from where I had parked the car. My sons were not impressed and the puppy was was so peeved he was quickly turning into a pitbull. It didn't help matters that it was hotter than hell and I was about ten minutes late from picking my wife up from work. She was all upset when we finally arrived. She had tears rolling down her eyes and said "You have never been late before. I started having horrible thoughts, like the car went into the lake". I told her I was late because I had went to fill up the car and there was a big lineup. Quickly my oldest son blurted out "Daddy got us lost in the woods!". There is nothing worse than an honest child when the wife is right beside you...

I can get lost by just standing still, which is very scary. I have lived in my small city of Trenton for over thirty years and I still do not know the names of any of the streets, except for my own which I wrote down somewhere.

When I am driving out of town with the family I always have my wife tell me where to go. (For some reason she loves telling me where to go) Even though she is excellent with directions, even she has failed me more than once. Once time we were heading home from way up north (wherever the hell that is) and she saw a sign for a shortcut. She said "Turn here, it's Highway 2, we'll be home quicker". Like a good husband, I obeyed my wife. After about forty five minutes of driving, we both finally noticed something was not right. We started to see the same buildings we had seen roughly an hour and a half a go. Suddenly my wife let out an agonizing P.M.S. filled scream "Oh my God! We're going back up north!!!" What had happened was we were not on Highway 2, we were on a road just called #2. Boy, was she stupid! I did not panic or get upset because I almost liked getting lost at this point.

I started getting lost at a very early age. When I was six years old I got lost while on my way home from school for lunch. I didn't want my mother picking me up because it was a simple five minute walk. Our house was only about a block and a half away from the school.

I got lost as soon as I stepped out of the school property.

I finally had to approach a stranger (a school crossing guard) and I said to him, "Mr. Man, I'm lost". The police were called and I really enjoyed my ten yard drive in a police cruiser to my home. I tried using this tactic again many years later (saves money on a taxi...) but the police officer wasn't as sympathetic and told me to get a life...

I would get a damn life but someone would have to find it for me first.






TRIP #1


We were on our way to Canada's Wonderland. Wonderland is similar to Disney World, although it is closed for the winter months. Although I was very bad with directions and I didn't have my wife along as a co-pilot, off I went with my two sons and my nephew. Most people turn off the 401 highway onto the 400 to get to this amusement park. This wasn't good enough for me. I had other ideas. I was somehow convinced that there was a gigantic sign on the 401 that said "next turnoff WONDERLAND. When we were approaching the turnoff for the 400, I told my nephew Paul "I'm not going to take it, I'm going to wait for the sign". Well, folks...the sign never appeared on the 401 but we had one hell of a sightseeing tour of Toronto. It was around this time I realized that I should have taken the 400. Believe it or not, I'm very bad with directions.

We finally stopped at a McDonald's in Mississauga to ask how to get to Wonderland. I approached a young man who worked there and told him we were "kinda lost"and could he point my big fat head in the proper direction. As the words came out of his mouth I sighed in disbelief. Of all the people in the world to ask for directions I had to ask someone with a speech impediment. I did not want to laugh (I just wanted to cry...) Another worker came along and helped him out with the directions. I asked this worker confidently "We're not far from Wonderland though, right?" She nodded her head and smiled. "Yes, you are". All in all, it took us three hours to get to the amusement park. Which would never compare to the next trip...


TRIP #2


A couple of months later, my one son, Ryan, my nephew Paul and I were once again on our way to Wonderland. We left at 8 in the morning. I figured that with me not going right through Toronto we would get there at 10 o'clock, or 10:30 at the latest. Everything went fine as we traveled towards our destination. I even turned off the 401 at the right place. We were now on the 400. It wasn't even 10:00 o'clock yet so I was mighty impressed with myself. I figured we'd be parked at Wonderland in about 20 more minutes. Suddenly though, things just didn't seem right. My car was going about 5 miles an hour. This was probably due to the fact that every car ahead of me was going at about the same pace. Once in awhile we would even stop. We would stop for a long time. None of the cars would move an inch for twenty minutes. My son asked what time we would get there. I joked that we should get there by noon. I was only off by a couple of hours...Yes, that's right. We were on the 400 for a good three hours.

When I am in a car for four or five hours straight, I often get the urge to pee. Needless to say, after drinking a coffee and a pop at the start of our trip, I had to pee VERY BADLY. I never whip my manhood out (unless there is an emergency) and this qualified as an emergency. I looked over at my large (thank God) empty Coke cup. I placed this large (thank God again...) cup between my legs. I covered up my lap with my son's jacket. Of course, I really did not need to do this as no one would ever see anything anyway, even if some lady in a van had binoculars...As most men realize, it is very hard to pee when you are under stress...

I tried to relax , but I could not pee. I tried to imagine I wasn't stuck in traffic but I was too uptight. My bladder was about to burst. I started thinking about different baseball teams, until I realized that was used for some other predicament...Finally after about half an hour I was successful. I almost didn't mind being in a traffic jam now. Of course, my son in the backseat had to go too. I handed him my small coffee cup and he filled it to the brim. My always thinking nephew Paul, decided to place this rather large urine sample on the road. Laughter filled the car as a car behind us ran over the cup and the urine flew into the wind.

We finally entered Wonderland just after 1:00 p.m. It took another hour to find a parking space. I didn't know it at the time, but this was a discount day for The Bay, Zellers, Woolworth's and I think, Japan also....After paying $6.50 for parking we didn't even get to park on CEMENT. We parked in a field, which was a good fifteen minute walk from the front gates. I had to go to the washroom again by this time, and it wasn't just to pee, if you catch my drift. After a very uncomfortable walk to the front gates I finally entered a washroom and sat down to do my business. After my business was over I looked to my right. I thought to myself "I think I am trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone". Out of all of the stalls at Wonderland, I just happened to pick a stall without any toilet paper...

Anyway, we really enjoyed the two rides we went on.






Another day and another true story to tell... My wife and I went to a department store which was having a closing sale, with up to 70% off. Sounded like a deal to me. Since I don't find looking at curtains and blinds too exciting, I decided, much like Fleetwood Mac, to go my own way and let my wife pick through all the junk scattered about (like most women love to do.)

I would normally go to the entertainment section but it was completely gone. I looked around for a few minutes at the clothes and found a decent blue shirt for ten dollars (and with 45% off of that!) Sounded like a deal to me. I could hardly wait to show Nancy the amazing bargain I had picked up. If only I could find her. This store was not exactly large, so you think it would be possible to find her in the small crowd of 200 or so shoppers.

I walked around the store once, twice and then for a third time. I huffed, I puffed but I remained cool and calm. I knew I'd find her eventually. Once more, I walked around the store, going down all the aisles, while looking to my left, right, front and behind. It had now been at least ten straight minutes of searching and no sign of her. Patience is a virtue, whatever the hell that means, so I decided to go around the store once more. It's at this time I start wishing Nancy and I both had cell phones so I could just call her up. "Where the hell are you?", I could ask and she could reply "I'm at the Bra's R Us store, at the cash register" or whatever... Anyway, back to the task at hand. Finding my wife... This should become a sport in the next Olympics.

I swear on the Holy Bible I spent at least thirty straight minutes going around the store......walking around and around. I almost got to know everyone in the store. I would look at other men who were shopping and on closer look I would notice that they weren't shopping at all...they were looking for their wives too!!! I would catch a glimpse at one of the dazed and confused men and feel nothing but sympathy for them. Talk about spousal abuse...

After a good half hour of searching for her, I even went out to the parking lot to check to see if she had gone to the car. No such luck. Then paranoia creeps in. Perhaps she was kidnapped by some crazed person or she had run off with a secret lover. I seriously think what actually happens is all the women go to a SECRET PLACE ONLY FOR FEMALES in the store to gossip and bitch about their husbands, while we poor suckers look endlessly for our wives. Once they are done yacking about us, they simply appear out of nowhere for us to "find".
After going around the store a few more times (I was almost beginning to enjoy it...) I did locate her and it was like falling in love all over again, as I hadn't seen her in ages. She had a handful of STUFF in her hands. I proudly showed her the blue shirt I had found. She wasn't too impressed and she told me I had one like that at home which I never wear... She decided at the last minute that she didn't want to stand in the long lineup to buy anything. So, off we went, back home, empty handed and no money spent at the big sale. At least I had found my wife for the thousandth time. Sounded like a deal to me.





The following is another in a long line of true stories from my pathetic life...followed by a movie review.

September 30/2000

Tonight I went to see the re-release of the very scary movie, "The Exorcist", with my son Ryan, and one of his friends. I had always thought this movie was pretty cool and was fairly excited to see it on the big screen for the first time. I figured this was also a great way to bond with my son, watching two hours of pea soup vomit together. "The Exorcist" had been on television numerous times. Unfortunately the foul language spewing forth from the little girl was replaced with dialogue like "YOUR MOTHER WEARS ARMY BOOTS!!!" which just isn't the same...

Things ran smoothly for the first few minutes of being in the theater. I had my large buttered popcorn resting merrily in my stomach by the time the previews had ended and I was contented. Just before the main movie began, three or four girls came and sat right behind us and started gabbing away. The young girl directly behind me constantly used the "F" word . Perhaps she was preparing me for the little girl getting possessed by the devil in the movie. This was slightly annoying but as long as I did not get one of my famous leg cramps, I knew I would enjoy my two hours in a dark theater with complete strangers.

At roughly the one minute mark of the movie starting a woman a few seats down from me yelled out to her friends on the other side, "I'M OVER HERE!!!" Sometimes you can pick up a person's personality right away and instantly I knew this was one classy lady.

As the movie started, the girls behind me were fairly quiet except for the occasional "F" word. It was around the five minute mark of the movie that my nightmare began. The woman with the big mouth, who sat three chairs away from me on my left side, started to cough. She started to cough a lot. In between the coughs she would sniffle and snort really good. She was constantly eating popcorn and coughing at the same time. I was almost impressed. She kept coughing while shoving the popcorn into her big mouth. I thought she was going to die from all of the coughing or at least I hoped so.

Everyone started to notice her more than the movie. Being Canadians, no one had the nerve to stand up and point at her and say "Get the hell out of this theater so we can watch the damn movie!!!" Three minutes into her constant hacking, I knew I had the makings of a good story to write when I got home. In fact, sometimes I get paranoid and I think to myself that God has sent this woman into my life so my writer's block would end.

I was watching this woman more than the movie. My son said "Oh my God!" about six hundred times in ten minutes. His friend thought it was all quite hilarious and was thoroughly entertained. No word of a lie, she coughed constantly for at least thirty minutes. People in the theater moaned, people groaned but no one complained. It got to the point where I was so infuriated that I wanted to be possessed by Satan himself and give this woman a good slap or two.

I finally told my son and his friend that we were moving. We got up and moved back a few rows. Naturally, we could still hear her cough echoing throughout the theater. I was almost impressed again. After about five minutes of silence I was starting to wonder (or hope...) that perhaps she had choked to death on her popcorn. No such luck, as she began hacking away once more. Halfway through the movie she got up and left and never returned. Perhaps she had gone to the washroom and coughed so much that her head exploded and she died. Oh, if wishes only came true...



Here is an old review I wrote for the movie, for those of you who were not entertained by the constant coughing:


EXORCIST MOVIE REVIEW

This movie is scary.
It is about a little girl who becomes possessed by the devil.
This movie is not for children.
This movie is not for adults (unless you like being scared to death, of course.)
I'm scared right now, just writing a review for it.
Excuse me, I feel weird.
My monitor usually doesn't move on it's own.
My stomach is rumbling like mad!
My cat is looking at me kinda strange.
I'm feeling lightheaded for some reason.

Anyway... this is the scariest movie in existence.
I think that
OH! My body feels sooooo weird!
MY HEAD HURTS! MY HEAD HURTS!!
I might have to do this review some other time but I wanted to post it before/jL>m
My head is starting to spin.
hELP MEE.
My eyes are rolling into my headd.
I'mm havving trubble typingg this revew.
I smel pea soop in the air.
I thunk I is gonna beeesic.
Gotttago
I think666 sklfh0209fh24]f-924 666 7n24nt86669t8249tu0giufd9f]666 klsjhsiohf666'of/lnM
call911
911





Dear Elmo,



I know you can not read but I am hoping someday someone can sit down with you and read this to you. You have brought so much love and happiness to our family. You have been our pet for over a year now and we do not ever regret the day we picked you up at a yard sale. It is not often people get their pets from a yard sale. There were many things that decided we would take you home with us. The most important thing was the people were giving you away for free. Free is good. That always helps in the decision making department.

We decided to keep the name you were named, since you were used to it (even though the name was disappointing to me as I always preferred Ernie or Bert on Sesame Street) Things started out well. You sat between my two sons on the two hour drive home, licking their faces constantly. Unfortunately the people that gave you away must have forgotten to inform us you have a weak stomach. We realized this when you puked really good a couple of times in the back seat. Mother, father, two sons, a dog and puke in a small car do not usually make for the most enjoyable two hour drive home...

Anyway, you have been a very good dog. I think you like living with us although I am sure you have had your "rough" days. (That was a lame dog joke I hope someone can explain to you later.)

Unlike the last dog we had (for two days...) you do not chew on television remote controls (which is a serious offense in this family) and you do not chew the crotch out of the families underwear. Don't get a swelled head though, as you are not perfect...

You see, Elmo, we once had a backyard. It was not perfect but it did have grass. Thanks to you, it is now a series of cute, very deep holes. I measured the deepness of one of the holes and it was over two feet deep. I didn't know weather to congratulate you or give you a good boot. You love to dig holes, don't you? I often wonder why you could not be satisfied digging in one spot. I would happily give you a corner of the yard to dig in. You could dig the day away until your paws were bleeding. If we were planning to have an in ground swimming pool, your digging would not matter at all but Elmo, we are not getting a pool.

The other thing that bothers me is the walks we have together. I do not like running while I am walking you. You are always pulling on the leash. Do you not realize if you calmed down a little and walked slower, the leash would not be strangling you to death? You do not look very comfortable with your eyes popped out of their sockets and your tongue dragging on the sidewalk.

I also realize that you like to pee on our walks. What irritates the hell out of me is that you have to pee on anything that resembles a pole. Every few feet, you have to stop, sniff around and relieve yourself. Does the urine never stop? I would prefer you let it all out of your system at one pit stop. I would gladly wait there half an hour while you emptied your bladder.

All in all, you've been a fine dog. Hold your head up high. Just do me one favor... The next time my wife and I are alone and I call her over to the couch by saying "Hey baby, why don't you sit over here with me!" could you not jump up on the couch and cozy up to me? Thanks. I'd appreciate it, buddy.



Dear Elmo,

It has been three years since I wrote the above story. Since that time you have been through some changes. The most notable of the changes has been you are now fixed. It is nice that we have something in common besides both being in a dog house on occasion.

I seriously thought that after you were fixed that you would calm down a little on our walks but NO...you are the same over hyped dog you have always been. I must commend you though on the fact that you have not puked in our car for a few months. I still get tears in my eyes when I remember that special day last summer when the family went to the beach. We decided to take you with us. After traveling for half an hour we got to the beach area and the roads became very curvy. Dogs with sensitive stomachs usually do not appreciate curvy roads. You threw up just like the good old days really good. It was hotter than hell out. A husband, wife, two sons, a dog, puke and unbearable heat in a small car do not make for a fun trip to the beach.

You loved being in the water and I had never seen you so happy (except for maybe digging in our backyard...) All dogs at the beach had to be kept on a leash but I thought you would behave and not take off. I was right and you did behave, before taking off thirty seconds later when you saw other dogs a few miles down the beach... I really enjoyed my fifty yard long barefooted run along the stony beach as I yelled and cursed and cut my foot on the cute little jagged rocks.

Your day at the beach was cut short as Daddy decided to take you back home so we could enjoy the rest of our day at the beach without a major headache. Naturally, on the way home there were curves in the road and you puked up a storm.

Just you, me and puke in a small car driving into the sunset. It was almost romantic...






1987, the year of The Mouse...

We had a mouse in our kitchen cupboard. We knew it was a mouse even though we never saw it. We did however see it's hundreds of cute little poopies left behind every morning. (We knew from the size of the poopies that it was not our dog because he never has cute little poopies...)

We bought a mouse trap and set it up in the cupboard under our kitchen sink. In the morning we checked it and there was no mouse dismembered in it. We had a long discussion about the mouse trap and came to the conclusion that perhaps we should leave food in the trap. (We never said we were expert mouse trappers...) I was thinking of putting a slice of pizza in the trap (don't laugh, there is cheese on pizza) but my wife had heard that mice love peanut butter. I looked in the cupboard and beyond the piles of mouse poopies I spotted two containers of peanut butter. One was regular smooth peanut butter and the other was Crunchy Peanut Butter Deluxe. I opted for crunchy because the mouse might as well have a good quality meal while being beheaded.

The night passed by quietly. If the mouse was killed in the mouse trap during the night we did not hear any screams of torture. Of course, we would not have to resort to such cruelty to a little mouse if our two cats were not so lazy. If they had any ambition they would have ripped the mouse into little pieces by now but why bother when they live the "good life". Why work for your meals when you don't have to?

I woke up early the next morning and ran excitedly to check out the trap. Once again I was disappointed there was no bloodshed to be seen. I then looked a little closer and noticed that there was a partial mouse there. A cute little mouse leg was caught in the trap. The rest of the mouse was not there. It seems that the mouse was trapped and then gnawed it's leg off to escape. Before my eyes was the dead leg of one hell of a macho mouse. This must have been the Sylvester Stallone of mice. . I know if I was caught in a trap I would not chew my leg off. I
would just cry uncontrollably until I either passed out or my wife decided to finally help set me free.

My wife was quite upset about this ordeal and felt very badly. I could picture the poor mouse being teased by his fellow mice. "Hey Three Legs, been to any good mouse traps lately?"

My wife decided to do the humanitarian thing. She set up the mouse trap once more with the Crunchy Peanut Butter Deluxe. She told me the poor mouse must be suffering and decided to take action. This mouse was going to die but it was going to die nicely. She decided to take a quarter of an aspirin, crush it up into a fine powder and spread it over the Crunchy Peanut Butter Deluxe. I felt like laughing in her face but I could tell she was serious. (One thing I have learned from years of being married is to never laugh in your wife's face when she is serious.) The trap was set for the third night in a row and the anticipation of tomorrow was almost too much to take.

It was like Christmas morning, not knowing what awaited me, as I rushed to the kitchen. I opened up the door and the mouse trap was empty (except for the Crunchy Peanut Butter Deluxe with aspirin) Close by was a small juice bottle and there was a cute, adorable dead mouse with his head stuck inside it. It seems that the mouse somehow had either flown directly into the plastic bottle from the trap or the mouse decided to commit suicide by sticking his head inside a bottle and suffocating slowly. It was the cutest little mouse with three legs I had ever seen.

My wife and I feel badly the brave little mouse had to suffer through so much pain. If only my wife had placed some aspirin inside the bottle...