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MySpace blog 03.20.07

Oh I wish I was in de land o' cotton...wait....I am.... Current mood:Truculent Category: Blogging Even though East Texas is growing pretty rapidly (Texarkana and Tyler, I'm talking to you....Queen City, you may be excused), I'm sometimes struck by how rual we still are. For example, there is a lot of confederate flag decor. I started noticing this......really noticing it...... just a little while ago. It led to the formation of my much-touted "Rebel theorem". The Rebel theorem, condensed to just the salient parts for all you non-scientific types, states that the property value of the house is inversely proportional to the amount of confederate stuff on / around it. Thing is, now I've started seeing this stuff on automobiles.....really seeing it.....recently. The other night I was driving in to work when I spotted a truck. Actually it was the truck. The truck of a rebel flag-lovin' mutherfucka. Seriously, there were no less than 8 confederate stickers on the back truck glass (I counted). That's not counting the 2 bumperstickers....Yes, before you ask, one of the bumperstickers was the "They can have my guns when they pry them out of my cold, dead fingers"......Yes, before you ask, the other bumpersticker was "The south shall rise again".   As a bit of an aside, let me just interject that I love living in the south. Not too terribly cold, and for the most part the people are friendly. Lots of folks are missing teeth, so my congenital birth defect is not soooo noticable. But....c'mon guys.....did you learn history at all (psssst....I don't wanna spoil it for anybody, but the south lost the civil war) between going "Frog gigging"? Bubba, are you aware that if the south had won the civil war, it would have left America fractured and weak, and we would have been invaded and plundered? Why, if the south had won, we prolly wouldn't be speaking English right now.....we'd be speaking Spanish.....ohwait.......well nevermind that last point.....   But back to the subject of the supertruck. There were stickers on the glass that didn't make any sense. Sure, I understand the "Southern born and southern bred...." sticker, but how about the one that said "Cousins are for cornholin'"....WTF?!? There was this one decal that had a lil' confederate Calvin taking a leak on the Ford logo. Huh? Did the southern soldiers really hate Henry Ford, or is the owner of the truck expressing his own opinions? Obviously, the Order of the Confederate Chevy has splintered off from the Fraternal Brotherhood of the Confederate Ford. Astute readers may be wondering "What did the occupants of the supertruck look like"? Sadly, they had his/hers mullets. The lady of the truck was truly dedicated to the theme.....Her hair was red, her skin was white, and the dark circle around her eye was bluish. Ah well, that's what ya gets for being so damn slow with that TV dinner... As the supertruck pulled in to EZ-mart for $ 3.50 worth of gas, I briefly thought about pulling in after them and explaining "Ya know guys, it's always the low socio-economic demographic that feels the need to hyper-express their pride. Is that because pride is all you really have left?" My eye wandered back to that "cornhole" sticker and I decided to keep going.......Hey, I've seen "Pulp Fiction" and I don't have any desire to meet the gimp.   I've been re-considering the matching mullets for me and Ciss......
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MySpace blog 4.3.07

Do you like the smell of Blog-pouri? Current mood:mawkish Category: Blogging So, it's become a bit of a tradition for me to write an introductory blog every time I get a new reader. Everybody, meet M-….She is a big fan of The Damnwells music, which puts her street cred as "legit. Too legit to quit". M-, this is everybody. This week's special guest lurker may very well be Mr. Dezen, who recently did me the great honor of subscribing to this blog. I must confess, though, that it makes me a little nervous knowing that somebody that has a real talent for words may be watching. Dezen, if you are reading this, please know that I tried to auction off both my pinky fingers on EBay to attend the premiere of Golden Days and subsequent concert. My wife kept nagging me to throw in a kidney. THAT's how big a fan she is. Anywho, not a whole lot has been happening lately. And I like it that way. So, there is only one thing that I can write about: My Vasectomy. After the birth of my daughter, it was decided that I'd better have a vasectomy. By that I mean that my wife decided that I'd better have a vasectomy. So, I went to see the urologist. Of course, the doc wanted Cissy to come in for the consult. After all the talking was done, the doc (who is probably a full 14 inches shorter than I am) said, "Okay, take off your drawers ('cause we are in the south, after all.) and let's take a look". Now, this brings me to the very essence of this story: What is the protocol for what to do with one's hands while getting his scrotum examined? It didn't seem like I should place them behind my back, like I was listening to a speech. It didn't seem like I should clasp them together behind my head. I damn sure couldn't put them on the doc's head. In the end, I did what I had to do. I placed my hands on my hips, arms akimbo. Awkward, yes. From my vantage point, I couldn't see the doc's face, but Cissy could. She reported that, as I lowered my undies, a look of awe crossed the doc's face. "Why…", the doc stammered, "…Why I can't ethically do any work on this perfect set of testes. I might as well deface the statue of David…". After much begging and pleading from my wife, though, the doc finally relented and agreed to the procedure. After we left the office, Cissy asked "Why did you have your hands on your hips? That looked extremely posed, and more than a little gay". Thanks for the support, Ciss…. Well, the office gave me a printed list of instructions. The night before the procedure, I could either shave the coinpurse, or they would do it for me. Being the go-getter that I am, I decided to tackle the problem head on and start a-shavin'. Unfortunately, I haven't had too much experience. I say that because when I laid back on the table, the nurse took a look and brought out the shaving kit. After calling two more nurses in for some lifting help, I was successfully shorn. After that, the actual procedure was a breeze. But…..I had to have a follow-up semen test to determine that I was, in fact, sterile. Now, for all you non-medical types, let me line it out for ya. They give you a cup with a threaded top and tell you that the sample needs to be provided in a timely manner (that means within 15 mins). Big problem….I live 45 mins away. So, either I get down to business in the car (hopefully with Cissy driving. I mean, I'm a multi-tasker, but….) or I get to get auto-amorous in the clinic bathroom (which is no big deal, except for the wonderful aroma, the potential of getting caught, and the incredibly limited space). In the end, I was able to use my local community hospital for the test, which meant I could "go to town" in the privacy of my own house, watching my collection of Golden Girls DVDs……Cissy refused to "help out". Thanks for the support, Ciss…...
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MySpace blog 4.13.07

Perhaps I'm "marked", or star-crossed Current mood:dichotomious Category: Blogging So, I was in a MySpace conversation the other night. It is very rare for me to have somebody to talk to, unless I have a student watching over my shoulder (verry rare indeed.....hey, SOMEBODY has to mentor young minds). I was relating to this person a strange little story that had happened when.....out of the blue it struck me.....I realized that really weird things happen to me all the time. Ok, maybe not life-changing, channeling the dead type of weird.....but "Twin Peaks" kind of weird. I decided that this week's blog would be dedicated to some strange things that have recently happened.     People engage me in strange conversations. I don't mean friends. I'm talking about nebulous acquaintances, if not full-on strangers. Last week, I was walking into work and fast approaching somebody leaving work. While this person is a familiar face to me, we barely have a "nod" relationship (you know....a slight nod as a greeting when we pass....maybe the occasional "good evening"). Out of the blue, this lady stops and says "Hey (because she doesn't know my name).....Have you ever cooked Tilapia? (As in the fish)". Well.......as a matter of fact.....actually I have. But how did she know? How did she know? So I spend the next 15 mins in the parking lot in a Forrest Gump moment (You can fry tilapia.....you can bake it.....grill it....broil it.....steam it.....carve it into sushi....make fish tacos.....etc.) discussing a flavorful fish. I did not forsee that. Here's another odd little tidbit. People often cross me in line. I don't mean that they cut in front of me. I mean that, if there is a long line stretching in one plane, and people need to cross to get to the other side of the line, then the point in which they will bisect the line will be directly in front of me. I used to be stumped by this. The odds are astronomically against ME being the cross point, but yet it happens 90% of the time. After reading the excellent Freakonomics, however, I looked at this mystery in a different light and have come up with two solutions: 1)- I am a big man, and my personal space requirements are big as well. Therefore, in any given line, I have probably more space between me and the person in front of me. That creates a more attractive crossing point. 2)- People are drawn to my raw, magnetic sexuality like Mark Foley is drawn to male congressional pages. I'm still looking into this. Strangers tend to see me in two polar ways. Either I'm a big, physically intimidating, creepy man, or I am a big goofy "softy" type. Most kids are not scared of me. On the contrary, they like to scale my mountainous belly (to be sure, this can take a couple of hours, which is a testament to its size) and climb onto my shoulders. The parents, however, are not usually so impressed. It was not so long ago that a little girl came into the sleep lab for a test. I explained to the mother that she would have to stay in the room with the girl (I know, I know....but you'd be surprised at how many parents want to drop their children off for some parental free time)and explained that after 2-3 hours of sleep, I would come back in the room and place a medical device on the girl. So, the girl goes to sleep and the time comes for me to go back into the room. As I open the door....*BANG* *CRASH*...the parent had rigged an "alarm" by putting a chair against the door, and putting the trashcan on the chair. So much for not scaring your kid, lady. Sorry that I'm such a creepy bastard that you had to barricade yourself in your hospital room. Next time I'll put my trousers back on, ok? The truth is....I'm actually a big "teddy bear" (by that I mean that I have glass eyes and often sleep with children <------Kidding! What? Too much?)
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MySpace blog 5.10.07

I love Paris in the springtime Current mood:enthralled Category: Blogging So, I look up and it's been almost 2 weeks since I last blogged. Damn job. Actually, it's not been crushingly busy....more like steady. I can't complain. Except for the rats. What I seem to be getting lately is an influx of spam in my in-box. It's always a message like "I was bored and looking around MySpace and I saw your page", or "I'm new to MySpace and my page needs help", or "I'm moving to your town soon and don't know anybody". The rest of the message is always the same. The sendee wants me to "holla" at her through AIM or Yahoo chat. The interesting thing is, every message that I'm being sent is from a different MySpace sccount. Different display name.......but the display pic is (mostly) of the same girl. Also, at the end of the text, she (or maybe he.....see how I think outside box? That's how I roll) signs her name....Paris. That's right. She uses different accounts, but signs the same name. That's how I know it's all from the same person (told ya I was sharp....). I used to just delete these things, but just for variety, I've changed my routine. Lately I've been responding back, usually in a non sequitur fashion. Here are some of my random responses:   Day-um, that ass sure is fine, yo!   Would it be weird if I asked you to spread jelly on my calves and call me "Herman" ?   Could we get together and eat potroast sometime? I'd like to introduce you to my mom!   You've changed your look. I think the "tranny" fad is awesome. Keep up the good work, Hottie. BTW, you ARE a chick, right?   Hun, any chance I could tickle yo ass with a feather?   I'm bored too! The local train station has started running off the hobos, so the "hunting" has really dried up as of late. Boring!   I guess the whole point of this blog is this: Spammers, please reply back to those that reply to your original spam. It's that personal touch that will persuade somebody to subscribe to your webcam, holla at you, or buy those penis enlargement pills. Come to think of it, maybe I should moonlight as a spammer and put my brilliant people skills to good use.
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MySpace blog 5.16.07

Dante wrote an instructional manual......for me Current mood:ribald Category: Blogging So.....I know you're probably wondering what has happened to my blog page. When I view it, it seems to be all scrunched up. I don't really know what happened. I changed the text in the title box a little bit, and BAM! It is widely known that I am techno-tarded (or computarded, if you rather...), but I think that this problem is beyond that. I think it may be a divine punishment for the topic I am about to discuss......namely:     I recently crossed paths with the ugliest woman ever !!   Lest you judge me too harshly, let me 'splain. I am all too aware that very few ladies consider me handsome (At least I have you, Mom......I'm still your special, special boy, right Mom?), so if I mock somebody's appearance, it's all in good fun.....I never make fun maliciously.....so believe me when I say that I met a woman this week that was so unattractive that I found myself silently "cheering" for her. First I will describe her. Keep in mind that this is a real person that is 30-something: 1) She was very short (like Brandi short) but built kinda weird. Huge belly, smallish boobs and smallish butt. Hey, she was built kinda like a Buddha. I didn't make the connection at the time.... 2) She was extremely bald on the crown of her head, but even worse, wore her hair in a female "combover" type of style. Her bald scalp was covered with a puffy, blotchy rash. 3) She had very thick glasses (even thicker than mine, people.....That's saying something) with an odd yellowish tint to the lenses. When she removed the glasses, I noticed she had a lazy eye. 4) Her face had several (each cheek, forehead, and chin) large moles. I mean the huge witch-type moles. 3 of the 4 moles had stubble growing from them, like she had shaved them recently.   So....I was facinated with this woman. I told myself that surely she must have something going for her. During the course of my conversation (which was significant......we chatted for probably an hour or so, all totaled) I didn't see that she had much of a sense of humor, or was reasonably bright. I put her to bed and spent the rest of the night bothered that I couldn't find any beauty in her. In the morning, I went in to wake her up at the designated time. When she swung her legs off the bed, she farted. I don't mean one slipped out. This was the fart of somebody that doesn't care. It lasted probably 2 seconds (Do this for me now. Look at a clock and make a "raspberry" sound for 2 continuous seconds. Yeah. That's how it was). What did she say? "Excuse me". I'm sorry, but I'm *not* going to excuse that behavior. When I told Cissy about my experience, the first thing she said was "Well is she married?".......Is she married?!? Hello?!? No she's not married! I doubt that she's ever been to "first base".   So there it is. Yes, I'm prolly gonna burn in hell for this blog. But maybe, just maybe I can atone......I think I'm going to get her a copy of "Witty Things that Trey Said" (If you would like a copy of this book, just ask Pam) so she can impress guys with her conversational abilities. Then maybe she'll change my blog page back to normal.     PS- after I posted this blog, I found how to fix the page. See? All must be forgiven, eh?
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MySpace blog 6.18.07

This is not Lifetime! This is, like, a PARODY of Lifetime... Current mood:fallacious Category: Blogging So, I read recently that Ciss and I have a "Lifetime" -esque love story that practically yearns to be shared (Ok, let me first point out that I've actually heard this a lot. Cissy thinks this, and so do the strangers that we meet that she shares our story with (Anybody remember the couple from the Gomez concert?). Secondly, let me point out that my above use of the word "yearns" was intentionally ironic, since "yearns" is very much a Lifetime word.....not so much a Trey word. Thirdly, let me point out this may be my longest use of the parenthesis to date. I've even managed to work in the much-coveted parenthesis-within-a-parenthesis. Impressive, eh?). Well, to be fair, I used to think that too. Upon later reflection, though, I have changed my mind. "But why, Trey....why?" you ask. Good question. What follows below is a list of reasons that refute the Lifetime theory.   1) - I was never an abusive boyfriend that both scared and excited Cissy at the same time. 2) - Cissy's mother never uncovered long-buried dark secrets from my past that would come back to threaten all that I hold dear. 3) - My ex-girlfriend never plotted harm to Cissy in a passionate, yet ill-thought-out plan to win me back. 4) - That scary Wank Wank Wank violin music is not audible when I enter a room with a scowl on my face. 5) - Cissy doesn't have an identitical twin sister that she was seperated at birth from that would later come back into her life to wreak havoc. 6) - Ciss and I never teamed up to investigate the abduction of a local young lady, only to have the trail lead to a white-slavery ring that we broke up using only our bravery and wits.   Oh, sure I could on, but I think I've made my point. If anything, our romance is more akin to a Spike- style movie. "Trey....", you may be saying, "You can't spring a theory like that and have no examples to back it up". Well, actually, yes I could, but because you and I have forged a genuine emotional connection, dear reader, I WILL show how The Trey and Cissy Story could totally be made into a spike-tv movie.   1) - I have a cool catchphrase ("What's up, mothafucka?") that I like to spring when nobody expects it. 2) - Ciss is kind of like my "sidekick". We have witty banter. 3) - Although I have the physical size and martial arts prowess (Aikido, mothafuckas......see how I did that? Catchphrase, my friends, catchphrase....) to be a total badass, I am really a friendly, sensitive guy 4) - Three words: Daily car chases 5) - Cissy is one stone-cold hottie in a league waaaaay above me, yet she's clearly devoted to me, mind, body (hehheh) and soul. 6) - We are considering getting a liscense to carry a concealed handgun. Why? Because we can.   Again, I could go on and on, but I think I've proven my point. Tune in next time when I may compare my marriage to Starsky and Hutch......or maybe LaVerne and Shirley would be more applicable.........
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MySpace blog 8.2.07

Lettuce compare bad dates ( NOT the fruit) Current mood:Sylvan Category: Blogging So, before I get started I have 2 important announcements: 1) - Our newest blog friend, Misbehaving ( I assume everybody has met MB and read his blogs? M, I'm talking to you.....don't be shy......he writes good stuff) pointed out that I've totally ignored my tradition of dedicating a blog to the newest kid on the block, so to speak. This blog is dedicated to you, MB (although the "honor" may be a little dubious). 2) - This blog has been blatantly inspired by MB's latest. Ciss kinda went into it in her comments, and I realized that the story has to be told. In all of its ugliness.   To really understand how I got into this mess, everybody needs to understand 2 things about me ( side note- Is this "2 things" a recurring theme? I don't know, my friend.....I don't know): I have trouble telling people "no", and I'm waaaaay too nice. I understand your skepticism, but it's true.   The "dog-eat-dog" atmosphere of Atlanta High School was so oppressive, that I had gained a reputation as a "really nice guy" (no better way to get laid in high school, right? yeah) by doing nothing more than NOT insulting people to their faces. Apparently I'd also, by my junior year, captured the attention of a senior lass (Her name is ****). Her father and my father were......not good friends, exactly, but......they knew each other really well. Throughout the year I had avoided going to ****'s Halloween party ( She told me "I'll be wearing a toga"), ****'s Thanksgiving party ( "We're gonna play seven minutes in Heaven"....I didn't know what that was, but I didn't like the sound of it), and ****'s Christmas & New Year's parties ( I knew all about the hazards of mistletoe and 12:00). Spring was rolling around fast, though, and so was prom season. At my house, hints were getting dropped that **** wanted to ask me to her prom. This was an actual conversation:   Dad: "I saw Jerry ***** today." Me: "Really." Dad: "He said his daughter thinks you're a fine young man, and so does he" Me: "........." Dad: "He thought you might be a good date for her prom. She's cute." Me: "Dad, she's kinda ugly" Dad: "........." (sending out silent, powerful waves of disapproval)   The very next day at school, **** cornered me and asked me to the prom. It was a little awkward, because we almost never spoke. I hemmed and hawed, but for every half-excuse I gave, she had a comeback (I cracked under pressure and couldn't think of a iron-clad excuse. Besides, I was trying to give her the opportunity to save some face, but she was having none of it). Finally, she administered the coup-de-grace: "I've already bought the tickets, and there's nobody else to go with...PLEASE?"   Prom time. Everybody parked their cars at the high school and boarded a chartered bus to go to the big city of Texarkana. The whole ride down (about 45 mins) was incredibly awkward and silent. I didn't have any friends in the SR. class of 1987, and I didn't know squat about my date. Since it was a chartered bus, the chaperones were not exactly vigilant about screening for alcohol, and everybody was drinking like a fish (except.....somebody forgot to give me the memo. And I could have used a stiff drink). All throughout the night, I fought off a tipsy, dry-humping **** who was trying to kiss my neck. At one point, my date told me "You ought to take off your shirt and just wear your jacket and bowtie".....(WTF?!?). I declined. It was a looooooooong dance. The bus ride back was even worse. It was very dark, and the slobbery sounds of kissing seemed to be preternaturally amplified. I stared straight ahead, thinking how much of a good-night kiss I'd have to pony up to avoid being talked about. At this point, **** takes my arm, puts it around her shoulder, and for good measure, down the front of her dress. So now I've got a handful of boob (Another sidebar....as a commited boob man, that part wasn't so bad. It was just a little unexpected). It was time to man up and take one for the team, so I made out with her. Just for a little while. When the bus arrived back at the high school, **** and I went to my car (unluckily, like MB, it had bench seats. Because I'm a quick, quick learner, I planted my right hand firmly on the steering wheel). **** leaned over and breathlessly wispered "I don't have to be back anytime. My parents trust you....we can do anything you want.....". What I wanted to say was "Ok, then.....we're off to find some hot chicks". Instead, what came out of my mouth was "Er.....It's already a little past my curfew.....I have to go home". I thought that would get my point across. Wrong. **** was incredibly unfazed, saying "....Well, call me tomorrow and we can do something then". Wow.......I didn't call.   Every so often for the rest of the year, My dad would ask if I'd seen **** around, or had heard from her. I would just look at him in stony silence. He got the message.   Years later, Ciss and I saw **** at the local Super Wal-Mart ( the social nexus of Cass County) going grocery shopping. **** was loading her buggy up with frozen entreees. "Hmmmmm", said Ciss, "Dinner for one, ****?" It was the best and meanest line I had heard in a long time.
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MySpace blog 10.17.07

Sometimes Validation Sneaks up on Ya Current mood:grab-ass-y Category: Blogging Wow. Now that I look back, it's been about 6 weeks since my last blog. Damn you, Information Techs (sorry MB) and administrators, for blocking access to my beloved MySpace at work. Because I'm not generally a fan of lengthy exposition (if a movie has to result to exposition to explain the plot, you are sooooooooo screwed. "Star Wars" is the only exception to the rule), I'll just briefly explain that I was unexpectedly given a night off last night. Hence this blog. Last WeekEnd, we packed up the kids and went to "Six Flags" (which shall henceforth be notated as "6F") with my sister and her 2 boys. We do this in October because:   1) - The temperature in October is much more conducive to 6F than any of the summer months. It's the difference between mildly over-warm @ the peak of the day, and sitting nude on the floor in Hell's boiler-room. 2) - It's usually less crowded than in the summer. Although Cissy & Ryan had a 1.25 Hour wait to ride "The Titan", all the other rides were boarded in less than 45 minutes (.75 Hour, if you prefer to be dazzled by my math). 3) - Because it's Ivey's birthday month, we consider this excursion his birthday party. At least I don't have to go to Chuck E. Cheese, or take a bunch of stranger's kids to a movie and pretend to like them, or anything of that nature. 4) - In October, 6F does the park up in Halloween themes. And I do so love Halloween.   Since 6F does a Halloween theme, one of the first things Phoebe (my little, and younger, sister) and I do is to purchase passes to the 4 separate "haunted houses". They were generally pretty good.......Lots of spooky props and lighting, atmospherically creepy. The only complaint I had was with the "actors" that staffed the haunted houses. They were mostly high-school drama students (although the dude that portrayed Leatherface [ from the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre"] had to be pushing 6'8") that moved a little awkwardly and over-acted quite a bit (pssssst.....teen aged "Blacula"......here's a little hint. I can see right off the bat that you're wearing spooky contact lenses and fangs. No need really to open your eyes as wide as possible [achieving that Graves' disease look] or keep your lips pulled back in a grimace. Sometimes subtle is spookier). And, as a quick aside, I should know about the acting. In high school I was the darling of the one-act play scene. My drama teacher often told me that with hard work and lots of practice, I could achieve the emotional range of William Shatner.   One thing that is a little weird about 6F is the dichotomy of age. Most of the people there were clearly either parents, or teenagers. The teenagers run about engaging in grab-assery that was unheard of in my day (although, to be fair, the grab-assery of 6F is NOTHING compared to the handsy foreplay that kids do at Wet-n-Wild. That's a whole other blog, though). Phoebe and I saw a couple in the pavillion grossly making out. They were so awkward and stiff (no pun intended, heehee) that it was clear that they had met at 6F. It was like thumb wrestling, but with tongues. Cissy and Ryan also observed some high teen melodrama whilst in line for the Titan.   By far and away, the best part of 6F (except for maybe the $10.00 sodas, or $20.00 hamburger baskets) was the people watching. It was like tripping on acid while visiting a steroid-pumped county fair. One of my new favorite games to play was "Spot the European on Vacation". Gee, how about the guy with the 80's haircut and weird foreign jeans? Yup. What about the woman in stirrup pants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt? Right again. How 'bout the man in a wearing a fannypack and dark socks with his white sneakers? Hmmmmm.......I don't know......let's eavesdrop for foreign language.....yes! 3-for-3!!   I was engaged in an intense bout of people watching when Phoebe casually told me that Mike (her husband) always says that 6F makes him feel way "above average" in every way. You know what? It's true. So what if I'm fat......there's 10 guys over there waaaaaaaay fatter. My hair is curled into a Jewfro? Look over there. Think I'm a creepy bastard? Check out the mutant ManChild to my left. The only danger is looking TOO closely and seeing somebody validating themselves while looking at ME...... All in all it was a good trip (I cannot over-recommend the benefits of valet parking. Yes, I know I usually loathe valet. This is an exception to the rule). Except that Phoebe didn't get any funnel cake. Again. There's always next year, Phoebe.
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MySpace blog 11.4.07

Friends (I’ll be there for you)....... Current mood:nostalgic Category: Blogging Halloween Weekend was a blast. Ciss and I got invited / crashed a great party (thanks, Lancey). It was mostly a costume party, and most guests dressed up to some extent (On a side note, I have to confess I LOVE dressing up on Halloween......and anybody else that can un-selfconciously wear a costume has earned a little of my respect). Lancey and Shelley's house is beautiful, the party was not a huge event, and nobody (that I could tell) over-indulged on alcohol. Imagine, then, my surprise when I asked where the bathroom was.   "Oh, you don't wanna go in there", Aaron said. "Why not", I inquired. "Because somebody pee'd all over the floor. Really hosed the whole place down" "?!?"   The "Mysterious Pisser" did such a thorough job of wetting the place down that somebody had to actually get A MOP and clean. It was reminiscent of a truck stop bathroom in hill country. I suspect whoever it was was doing his impression of "Man drinking from a water fountain", or "Lawn sprinkler". So far, the identity of the pisser remains shrouded in mystery. This anecdote reminded me of another little gem of a story.....one that has to be told.   Jimmy S. was (technically still is) a guy 2 yrs older than me. We went to school together, and to the same church (his dad is the pastor), and although I knew who he was, we never really hung out in the same circles (in small town Atlanta, Texas, this means that we had different drinking buddies). Until B. developed a crush on Jimmy. See, whenever B came in to see Cissy, she was by default in our drinking group. And B wanted to meet Jimmy, so we usually had to tailor our plans in some incredibly complex Rube Goldberg-ian fashion just so B and Jimmy could cross paths (to which she would act all surprised and say "oh hey, what are YOU doing here"). Whatever. We all went along because we were tired of B's current boyfriend, a nancyboy supreme. The point is, we got to know Jimmy. And to know Jimmy is to like Jimmy. He was very easygoing, loved to drink beer, and had access to a skiboat!!! Jimmy eventually becomes a drinking buddy, even outlasting he and B's relationship.   The introductory pisser story reminded me of something Jimmy once told me. It seems that he had some anxiety about urinating in somebody else's bathroom, due to the "splashing noise". If the room was unusually quiet, he would actually get on his knees and relieve himself, to try and cut down on the noise. Oddly enough, he had never shared this secret with B.   Which kind of opens the floodgates for "Jimmy Stories". There is a city about an hour away that decorates the whole downtown area for Christmas with millions of Christmas lights. Jimmy once told Cissy's parents that they should go see the lights. "It's better if ya wait until dark, though", he advised them, dead serious.   Once Jimmy told me that he and anoher friend were driving around on the backroads drinking beer when they came upon what they thought was a horrific wreck. Police sirens and wet, red meat on the road almost made him throw up......until his friend told him it was just an overturned watermelon truck.   The piece de la resistance, however, is when Jimmy and I were working one summer for the Tx State Hwy Dept. We had to get serious physicals. The kind where ya have to "turn your head and cough", if you know what I mean. When Jimmy went in to do his physical, the Doctor told him to "Drop your pants to your knees", and turned around to scribble some notes on the chart. When the doc turned back around, Jimmy was on his knees, pants bunched around his ankles. "Son, what the hell are you doing down there?" the doc demanded. Jimmy answered "I thought you said 'Drop your pants and to your knees'......" Keep in mind that nobody would ever have known this story if he hadn't told it on himself. Dude had a sense of humor, that's for sure.   Then there was the time that my ex-girlfriend gave him a handjob. Funny stuff, but that's a whole other blog.   By and large, Jimmy is a great guy (even if he wasn't exactly the brightest back in the old days, he sure was a lot of fun). He's married now and has a family. I think he's doing pretty good, except for a freakish mild heart attack that he suffered a few years back. I hope he kicks ass. He was, and still is a very good friend, even if I haven't seen him in years, and I wish him happiness. He did have to put up with B for awhile, after all.....heehee.....
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Warning, read this blog first, I implore you!

I posted some old MySpace blogs on here just for grins. Now what I wrote on MySpace was for a very specific audience of my friends and family....therefore, there will be a lot of "inside jokes" and a lot of un-PC references. Perhaps the most offensive thing about these blogs is that they aren't all that funny.   But hey, If you have some time kill, read through and feel free to mock / jeer / diagree.
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