I came across Meatbag's blog several months ago, but a little pop up that said "ADULT CONTENT" stopped me from going any farther. I mostly blog at work, so I was a little hesitant to click on anything with those two words, loudly proclaiming my intent to go against policy. Poor Meat thought I didn't like him. I finally got over that ridiculous fear and started reading anyway. After all, even though I don't classify my blog under "ADULT CONTENT", I still talk about penises almost daily. If I'm going to get in trouble, it won't have anything to do with him.
Anyway, Meat is my funny muse. (It's because of him that you were able to experience the Richard Simmons's story.) He writes some of the most hilarious posts I've ever read. Today he's graced us with something a little more heartfelt. Something about this week's topic has really brought out the love in the fellas. Pussies. (Kidding. Sort of.) Go Meat!
So when Alyson asked me to do a guest post for her this week, naturally, I said "What's the topic, you harlequin?" She thoroughly implored me to go fuck myself, but then she lightened up and said "Oh, the topic will be about a meaningful relationship, either past or present, or maybe a humorous dating story"...OK, just kidding, she never told me to go fuck myself, although I am sure she wanted to, but that is what the topic was really about.
The truth is, until 11 years ago, I never had a real relationship of any substance in my life...at least I wouldn't consider them of any substance on my part. There aren't a lot of good dating stories in my life, or relationship stories, and not too many good memories for me to dwell upon with girls in my early days, so I retracted myself into a pseudo-party boy lifestyle, especially when I was old enough to frequent clubs, but I wasn't happy, not even in the slightest sense of the word... nothing mattered to me...until I met her.
I met her in September of 1998. We got married on April 30, 1999. So yeah, we knew quickly that this thing we felt was real. We clicked on every level. We shared the same warped sense of humor, we shared a love of The Simpsons and Seinfeld, our upbringings were different enough to pull that old "opposites attract" theory, and oh yeah, we most definitely found instant chemistry in the bedroom...wink, wink!
I never thought I would find anyone that would accept me for everything that I am, and admittedly, I am flawed in many, many ways. She doesn't care...she accepts me, she helps me through my pain, she puts up with my idiosyncrasies, she puts up with my KISS music, she deals with my old wrestling tapes, she put up with the deafening loudness of my drums for all of these years, and I feel damn lucky...every single day, I feel damn lucky. I thought I would wander this world all alone. How in the hell I found my soul mate in the most improbable chance meeting of all time, I will never know, but I'm not going to question it.
Eleven years later now, we are still as happy as ever, we still laugh incessantly at each other, and life is good. We never had any kids, but we do have a dog and a cat that we consider to be our kids. Will this whole "procreate and repopulate the Earth" thing happen with us? Maybe...you never know. We're not trying but we're not avoiding it either. If it happens, it happens, we'll just have to wait and see.
And oh yeah again, just to snuff out any possible questions about it: Yes, we are still red hot in bed. Hehehehe...yep. We have managed to keep things exciting through the years. Like the time we had sex in our old apartment complex's indoor pool, or the many times that we would open the patio door right outside the same complex's outdoor pool and have sex on the floor in full view of anybody out by the pool. And oh yeah, did I tell you about the time we were stuck in a complete traffic jam on I-75 North between the Georgia and Tennessee border? Yeah, we had sex in our old truck. Right there. In the middle of the traffic jam. With people walking alongside the interstate next to us to see what was causing the traffic jam. Well, I'm sure they were walking by us to watch us having sex. That was hot...hahahaha!
So do you see why I love this woman?
Showing posts with label Thanks Meatbag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thanks Meatbag. Show all posts
Friday, November 06, 2009
Friday, October 02, 2009
Fat kids are fun. Richard Simmons has a vagina.
What is the definition of food?
The chief comfort Southern women are born and bred to provide to their loved ones.
The Grandmother isn’t a true Southern woman in a lot of ways, but that heifer can cook. Fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, rice and gravy, biscuits. And bake...Boston crème pie, cheesecake, pound cake, peach cobbler. When she wasn’t cooking, she was feeding me store bought goodness. Cheetos, cookies, ice cream sandwiches, candy bars.
I would sit in my brown wing chair, watch “Clarissa Explains it All” marathons and stuff my chubby little face. Then I’d lock myself in my room and read about horror (Goosebumps) and pre teen angst (The Saddle Club).
Misty water colored memories....
Until...TG decided she was tired of my expanding, adolescent waist. She began her campaign then and there by making the most beautiful cheesecake I’d ever seen.
(There’s a long list of things I’ll do for good cheesecake and most of them are felonies and/or crimes of a sexual nature.)
She brought said cheesecake out on a lovely glass platter and called my 10 year old self into the dining room. “Look what I made”, she said as she extended her arms, bringing the platter level with my face.
As I looked, it sang its cheesecake siren song and demanded I inch just a bit closer. So I did. But as I took that one tiny step, TG took one back. I looked up at her in puzzlement. This was my offering, was it not? I was the chosen child, was I not?
“Oh, I forgot...you can’t have this”, she declared. Then she whipped around and toted it back to the kitchen.
That was the day my sister became the undisputed favorite and I became the “Oh, you can’t have that” grandchild. Even 15 years and a normal weight later, I’m still the “Oh you can’t have that” grandchild. Old habits die hard, I suppose.
Once TG started her campaign to shame me into losing weight, my mother jumped on the band wagon. She realized that she had found the perfect work out buddy to help her lose that 2nd baby poundage.
I saw my life flash before my eyes when she purchased matching work out clothing and a box set of Richard Simmons exercise videos.
But no matter how much I protested, I was told that the Department of Social Services most certainly wouldn’t consider it child abuse. No amount of threatening, begging, or bargaining with my candy stash could keep her from her goal: 3 days a week mimicking Richard’s scary, tan legs pump pump pumping away at the pony.
Have you ever seen a fat kid and her mom do the pony in spandex shorts? Don’t. Ever.
To this day I can’t listen to most oldies songs for fear of regression. If I hear Peggy Sue, my feet start doing the quick step heel toe heel toe heel toe and I start pulling out my hair in panic. When I watch Dirty Dancing, I put the TV on mute through the Wipeout song montage.
But copying and watching that giddy man stomp away wasn’t enough punishment for the fat kid. NO.
My mom thought Richard Simmons was sexy.
While we ponyed across the living room, he ponyed across the TV screen in his tiny red and while stripped shorts...tan, shiny legs flashing and afro bouncing.
And she would say, “OOOOO WEEEEE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AT THOSE SEXY LEGS! Huff, puff right. I’D LIKE TO LICK THOSE CALVES SOMETHIN’ FIERCE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AL, LOOK AT UM MMMM MMM! Huff, Puff right.”
Her favorite saying though, was “Richard Simmons’s legs were hand crafted by Jesus.”
Once she said it in front of my dad and through him Crown Royal replied, “Jesus don’t craft fag legs.”
My daddy was (is) an eloquent, well mannered drunk.
As you can well imagine, after weeks of being subjected to this treatment I was growing more and more agitated. Rebellion was inevitable.
It came on a Saturday afternoon. My mom had some kind of lunch get together for her friends and one brought their daughter for me to play with. Her name was Suzanne and she was a walking fence post. Of course I hated her.
As they fixed our lunch plates, our mothers discussed Richard Simmons and his “Sweatin’ to the oldies” tape. And then it came.
“His legs were hand crafted by Jesus”, my mom said reverently to her nodding friends.
And the angry fat kid in me heard those words, saw all the vegetables on that fucking lunch plate and lost it.
“Daddy says Jesus doesn’t craft fag legs and with shorts that small he probably has a vagina. And I bet he’s right! Richard Simmons is a woman!”
Crickets.
Crickets.
“Excuse us”, my mom said.
She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down the hall, into her room, and beat my ass with the biggest belt she could find. I laughed.
She banished me to my room with my plate of vegetables and the fence post Suzanne. I dug out my candy stash.
“Are you supposed to be eating that”, she asked.
“No”, I said.
“But what if you get caught? You could get spanked again.”
“So what?”
“Well...I’D be scared!”
I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and grinned. “That’s because you don’t have any padding, fence post.”
Then I did the pony out the door.
(Ok, so I didn’t do the pony part...but that would have been awesome right?)
After everyone left, my mom called dad at work to tell him what I’d done. When he got home that evening he stopped by my room.
“Here”, he said, handing me a $10 bill.
“What’s that for”, I asked.
“For making me laugh and pissing off your mom’s friends.”
I bought lots of candy with that $10...and I never did the pony again.
The chief comfort Southern women are born and bred to provide to their loved ones.
The Grandmother isn’t a true Southern woman in a lot of ways, but that heifer can cook. Fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, rice and gravy, biscuits. And bake...Boston crème pie, cheesecake, pound cake, peach cobbler. When she wasn’t cooking, she was feeding me store bought goodness. Cheetos, cookies, ice cream sandwiches, candy bars.
I would sit in my brown wing chair, watch “Clarissa Explains it All” marathons and stuff my chubby little face. Then I’d lock myself in my room and read about horror (Goosebumps) and pre teen angst (The Saddle Club).
Misty water colored memories....
Until...TG decided she was tired of my expanding, adolescent waist. She began her campaign then and there by making the most beautiful cheesecake I’d ever seen.
(There’s a long list of things I’ll do for good cheesecake and most of them are felonies and/or crimes of a sexual nature.)
She brought said cheesecake out on a lovely glass platter and called my 10 year old self into the dining room. “Look what I made”, she said as she extended her arms, bringing the platter level with my face.
As I looked, it sang its cheesecake siren song and demanded I inch just a bit closer. So I did. But as I took that one tiny step, TG took one back. I looked up at her in puzzlement. This was my offering, was it not? I was the chosen child, was I not?
“Oh, I forgot...you can’t have this”, she declared. Then she whipped around and toted it back to the kitchen.
That was the day my sister became the undisputed favorite and I became the “Oh, you can’t have that” grandchild. Even 15 years and a normal weight later, I’m still the “Oh you can’t have that” grandchild. Old habits die hard, I suppose.
Once TG started her campaign to shame me into losing weight, my mother jumped on the band wagon. She realized that she had found the perfect work out buddy to help her lose that 2nd baby poundage.
I saw my life flash before my eyes when she purchased matching work out clothing and a box set of Richard Simmons exercise videos.
But no matter how much I protested, I was told that the Department of Social Services most certainly wouldn’t consider it child abuse. No amount of threatening, begging, or bargaining with my candy stash could keep her from her goal: 3 days a week mimicking Richard’s scary, tan legs pump pump pumping away at the pony.
Have you ever seen a fat kid and her mom do the pony in spandex shorts? Don’t. Ever.
To this day I can’t listen to most oldies songs for fear of regression. If I hear Peggy Sue, my feet start doing the quick step heel toe heel toe heel toe and I start pulling out my hair in panic. When I watch Dirty Dancing, I put the TV on mute through the Wipeout song montage.
But copying and watching that giddy man stomp away wasn’t enough punishment for the fat kid. NO.
My mom thought Richard Simmons was sexy.
While we ponyed across the living room, he ponyed across the TV screen in his tiny red and while stripped shorts...tan, shiny legs flashing and afro bouncing.
And she would say, “OOOOO WEEEEE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AT THOSE SEXY LEGS! Huff, puff right. I’D LIKE TO LICK THOSE CALVES SOMETHIN’ FIERCE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AL, LOOK AT UM MMMM MMM! Huff, Puff right.”
Her favorite saying though, was “Richard Simmons’s legs were hand crafted by Jesus.”
Once she said it in front of my dad and through him Crown Royal replied, “Jesus don’t craft fag legs.”
My daddy was (is) an eloquent, well mannered drunk.
As you can well imagine, after weeks of being subjected to this treatment I was growing more and more agitated. Rebellion was inevitable.
It came on a Saturday afternoon. My mom had some kind of lunch get together for her friends and one brought their daughter for me to play with. Her name was Suzanne and she was a walking fence post. Of course I hated her.
As they fixed our lunch plates, our mothers discussed Richard Simmons and his “Sweatin’ to the oldies” tape. And then it came.
“His legs were hand crafted by Jesus”, my mom said reverently to her nodding friends.
And the angry fat kid in me heard those words, saw all the vegetables on that fucking lunch plate and lost it.
“Daddy says Jesus doesn’t craft fag legs and with shorts that small he probably has a vagina. And I bet he’s right! Richard Simmons is a woman!”
Crickets.
Crickets.
“Excuse us”, my mom said.
She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down the hall, into her room, and beat my ass with the biggest belt she could find. I laughed.
She banished me to my room with my plate of vegetables and the fence post Suzanne. I dug out my candy stash.
“Are you supposed to be eating that”, she asked.
“No”, I said.
“But what if you get caught? You could get spanked again.”
“So what?”
“Well...I’D be scared!”
I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and grinned. “That’s because you don’t have any padding, fence post.”
Then I did the pony out the door.
(Ok, so I didn’t do the pony part...but that would have been awesome right?)
After everyone left, my mom called dad at work to tell him what I’d done. When he got home that evening he stopped by my room.
“Here”, he said, handing me a $10 bill.
“What’s that for”, I asked.
“For making me laugh and pissing off your mom’s friends.”
I bought lots of candy with that $10...and I never did the pony again.
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