BLOG: 6's & 7'S
When my kids were little, seeing them in their Halloween costumes was as much fun for me as it was for them. But as they got older, the costumes they chose became a lot stranger and sometimes, not as cute. And one particular Halloween, things just got weird.
Theron was fifteen-ish and he and his friends decided they were going trick or treating, or as they called it, begging for free candy. I don't mind teenagers knocking on my door, but if they aren't in costume, it kind of pisses me off. So I told Theron that, and being the good boy he has always been, he decided he would 'create' a costume for the occasion. Ten minutes later, the crack whore showed up in my living room.
"Holy crap," I said. Not just that he had dressed like that and intended to go out in public, but because he really did look like a crack whore. I mean, how do you go from this:
I had to smile at his creativity, but he was so realistic, I was a little bit worried. The wrong house, he might get the wrong kind of candy.
"Don't worry," he said when I told him to bring me his bag so I could check the contents, "my friend is dressing as my pimp."
Great. I felt so much better.
I debated letting him leave the house, knowing he'd be throwing some of those poses that I'd just seen in my living room. But, in the end, I had to give in. It was just too good not to share with the neighbors.
So I kissed my little crack whore goodbye, gave her a pillow case for candy, and sent her out into Vegas on a candy beg with my final words of advice:
"Fine. Stay off the Strip and when you say Trick or Treat, if anyone says 'do a trick', run like Hell."
Note to haters: My son is now an adult and gave me his permission to do this, so lighten up.
I wrote this post for Erica Lucke Dean last year and since my funny bone has been way too serious this week, I thought it would be fun to replay it here:
I’ve always been open to new experiences and the stranger the better. I’ve swam with sharks. I’ve been slammed in a mosh pit. I’ve performed in a pickle costume. It’s fun to say, “oh, yeah, I’ve done that,” and I say that a lot. But I’ve yet to be asked if I ever mud wrestled, so I’ll just answer that for you right now. Oh, yeah, I’ve done that, too.
Twenty years ago, I worked as a Nurse in Tulsa, Oklahoma. My good friend, Sue (name changed to protect the innocent) was a Physical Therapist. That was her day job. On the weekends, she mud wrestled at a local bar dressed as a medieval princess. One night, her designated opponent had called in sick, and she asked if I would step in.
Female mud wrestling was not new to me. In my early twenties, one of my roommates mud wrestled for extra money. Twice a week, she would put on her French maid costume and prance around a mud filled ring, then strip down to a skimpy bikini and roll around with another girl to the delight of a bar full of men. A bar full of men with a lot of money, I might add, as she would bring home more in her two hours than I brought home all week.
I had my reservations. It wasn’t the rolling around in the mud, or the googling eyes of horny men that bothered me. It was the bikini. Although I was in one of my ‘thin’ stages at the time, I had never worn a two piece bathing suit. Call me a prude. But after being told I would be paid one hundred dollars for a five minute bout and a promise that I could wear a low cut, side out onsie, I said sure, why not? Always willing to help out a friend.
I met most of the other wrestlers in the dressing room, very normal young ladies, most with respectable day jobs. They went over the rules with me, keep it safe, no ripping off bathing suits (it was a high class bar) and make it a show. It was all very…nun-like, and I use that particular word for a reason. Yes, after putting on the costume I was to wear for the evening, I would soon be making my mud wrestling debut as Sister Sludge, the One Fun Nun.
The plan was to wrestle for five minutes, then to let Sue pin me for the win. She would then move on to the next round and my work would be done. But as the crowd cheered, my competitive nature kicked in and I got serious. “What are you doing?” she whispered to me as we rolled in the muck. “You don’t want to win.” Oh, yes I did. I slammed her a little too hard and crawled on top. Nuns rule.
After taking my celebratory hosing down, I went back to the ring, ready to take on the cute little daycare worker I’d met backstage. But it wasn’t her that showed up. It was the Cave Woman. And not sweet little Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear. It was Andre the Giant in drag. I turned to Sue who was standing in my corner. “What the hell? She wasn’t in the dressing room!”
“No,” Sue replied. “She has her own dressing room.”
I reminded myself that this was a show and there were rules. Confidently, I turned back toward my opponent, just in time to be hit in the face with a mud ball the size of a small dog. “Start prayin’, Sister,” she snarled. And, that I did.
The Neanderthal picked me up and twirled me above her head like a baton, then threw me to the ground and stomped me with her size 13’s. I rolled to the side of the ring as she grunted through bared teeth, and lumbered toward me with her arms raised high, exposing underarm hair that would shame a Sasquatch. I was trembling, I feared for my life, and raised my hands to cover my face. And that’s when I noticed.
I had broken a nail.
This bitch was going down.
I remembered my Dad always said that everyone has a weakness. I went first for the testicles. The Wookie was not pleased. She picked me up and wrapped me in a bear hug. I had no choice but to hug back. Then I remembered another bit of fatherly advice: Cheaters sometimes win. I quickly untied her bikini top and held on to the strings. She slung me to the other side of the ring, but this time I was the one that came up laughing.
That match was quickly called, and I was forever banned from the mud wrestling ring for ‘breaking the nudity rule’. Whatever. I had two hundred bucks in my pocket and an undefeated record.
Check out Erica's blog for a daily funny!
This is how you drink wine.
As we Americans approach another episode of Presidential Election Gone Wild, I keep hearing the question "What kind of country do we want to leave to our children?" Of course, this is thrown out there every four years in a effort to make voters feel guilty and convince them to vote for whatever they were going to vote for anyway. But, these are our future leaders, people! And that brings me to: Butt Chugging.
Yes, butt chugging, the trend that has become popular on college campuses of giving oneself an alcohol enema in order to get drunk faster. As if vodka tampons were not enough, now you can bypass the more comfortable cotton tip of a tampon and just stick a tube up your behind, attach a box of cheap wine and give happy hour a whole new meaning. No, it's not a great idea, it's not even a good idea, unless you are trying to die from alcohol poisoning.
Kids, if this were safe and effective, your parents would have figured it out a long time ago. Trust me, they tried worse. I have pictures to prove it. And you know, you have the benefit of technology. You can google it and find out that this is just stupid. Your parents would have had to call the Information Librarian.
Think about how you will explain this party style when you are running for office someday. Although Bill Clinton 'didn't inhale', what is your excuse going to be? I didn't actually squeeze my cheeks together?
And I'm very curious, how do you invite someone to a butt chugging party? "Hey, Mary, wanna help me polish off this cardboard box of wine?"
"Oh, I'm so excited! I just bought a new enema bag, can't wait to show it off!"
And I don't even want to know how beer pong has been advanced in these changing times.
So back to voting. 'What kind of country do we want to leave our children?' Here's an idea. Quit using them as a political talking point, and instead talk to THEM. While you are busy arguing with your friends over the 'issues', they are in a dorm room somewhere butt chugging alcohol.
And kids, pull the tube out of your ass and go vote for the kind of country you want.
NOTE: BUTT CHUGGING IS EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!
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