I'm a happily married, boring guy who likes to blend in. I'm 64 years old (the last time I looked) and I try to act my age. I have a Grade 8 education with a B+ in geography. I bank my money. I have grey hair. I was in Grade 3 when JFK was shot. I was 12 when the Leafs last won the Stanley Cup. My car is a Toyota Highlander. It blends in well and doesn't cause a fuss, like the driver. I part my hair. I vote Liberal but don't admit it. I wear sensible leather shoes, polished, and sleeveless undershirts without irony...or ironing! My kids yawn in my face. I eat pizza with a knife and fork. I wear slippers in the house. Any dog I've ever owned won't come when I call it. Watching paint dry is more exciting than my life. You probably think I'm kidding... I'm not.
I'm kinda shallow and uninteresting. Anything written above grade school level is 'way, 'way over my head. During the day, I work my monotonous job, then go home to my lacklustre bungalow and have a drink with my loveable wife of over 30 years. The poor woman! she must get restless, suffering day after day, in silence, living with her dreary, boring husband, but she loves me too much to say anything. At least, I think she does. Even after all these years, I can't tell. I wonder sometimes why she hasn't left me for greener pastures. Like... I never watch anything interesting on TV, other than the news and curling, but she gets first choice of what we watch on TV. Sooo...cooking channel, Survivor and Bachelor! She likes TV shows with desert islands and younger men in bathing suits...this begs the question: do you think she's contemplating a fling? Don't answer. I do have a wild side....I just suppress it. For example, when the mood strikes, I release the inner gonzo by putting premium gas in my car, then driving around with the sunroof open, playing Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass! I know, right? And in order to keep up with younger men, I'm experimenting with yoga as a route to enlightenment, flexibility and inner peace. This weekend, if the weather's nice, I'll vacuum my car. Thoroughly.
Even More Detail:
I curl all winter. I ride my bikes, fish and sail all summer, but drink beer all year long, except in winter, when I switch to rum and coke. With the delusion typical of a middle-aged male, I see myself as a cyclist rather than a mere bicycle rider, citing the credo 'Riding a bike is what you DO, but a cyclist is what you ARE'. I read books about sea captains in the age of fighting sail. My taste in literature has been called 'juvenile'-probably because I like defined roles...good guys, bad guys and the women that love them. Every modern-day head of household needs a place to get away, and my garage is my refuge from the hurly-burly of modern life. I have an FM stereo radio and TV set out there, plus my bar bells, comic books and lots of Mountain Dew. That weightlifting is paying off. I get compliments in chat. Just the other day a female chatter squealed "Wow Blame...you remind me of my ex!" and all the other girls signaled their agreement by lolling. And last week I was compared to Pee Wee Herman for liking my bicycle so much. It's nice to know I get respect from my peers.
2 wee jokes that will have the milk coming out your nose:
#1-My wife found out that our dog (a Schnauzer) could hardly hear, so she took it to the veterinarian.
The vet found that the problem was hair in the dog's ears. He cleaned both ears, and the dog could then hear fine.
The vet then proceeded to tell Andrea that, if she wanted to keep this from recurring, she should go to the store and get some "Nair" hair remover and rub it in the dog's ears once a month.
Andrea went to the store and bought some "Nair" hair remover.
At the register, the pharmacist told her, "If you're going to use this under your arms, don't use deodorant for a few days."
Andrea said, "I'm not using it under my arms."
The pharmacist said, "If you're using it on your legs, don't use body lotion for a couple of days."
Andrea replied, "I'm not using it on my legs either and if you must know, I'm using it on my Schnauzer."
The pharmacist says, "Well, stay off your bicycle for a week.”
#2-A male patient is lying in bed in the hospital, wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. A young student nurse appears and gives him a partial sponge bath. "Nurse,"' he mumbles from behind the mask, "are my testicles black?" Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, "I don't know, Sir. I'm only here to wash your upper body and feet." He struggles to ask again, "Nurse, please check for me. Are my testicles black?" Concerned that he might elevate his blood pressure and heart rate from worrying about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and pulls back the covers. She raises his gown, holds his manhood in one hand and his testicles gently in the other. She looks very closely and says, "There's nothing wrong with them, Sir. They look fine." The man slowly pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her, and says very slowly, "Thank you very much. That was wonderful. Now listen very, very closely: Are - my - test - results - back?"
Tell that one to your adolescent nephew or neice at Thanksgiving and you'll be their hero.
Okay...saving the best for last...
Girls....will not find this joke amusing in the least. That just makes it funnier, IMHO.
Once upon a time there was a middle-aged woman who was deeply unhappy about her personal appearance, and began to explore various avenues to make herself more attractive.
She did the botox thing, had a tuck job or three, bunions done, suntanning sessions, dentures...and on and on...she spent a LOT of money.
One of the final surgeries she planned was a reduction in size and volume of her pussy lips....but she had a real concern with confidentiality. She made this perfectly clear to the surgeon, who comforted her and told her she should have no worries, as the privacy of his clients was one of his biggest concerns.
The fateful day arrived, the surgery was done, and the woman groggily awoke in the post-op ward to find a small vase with three red roses beside her bed. She was furious, to say the least, and rang for the doctor.
When the doctor arrived, she demanded and explanation. She felt her privacy had been totally compromised. Who knew about this? Who told them?
"There, there", the doctor said, calming her fears.
The first rose, he explained, was from him, as a token of his appreciation of her pain and suffering, and thanking her for choosing his clinic.
The second rose, he continued, was from the head nurse on the surgical team, who had taken a great interest in the procedure because she was contemplating the surgery herself.
And the third rose, the doctor said, was "from a patient in the burn unit upstairs, who now has a new set of ears".
Enough vulgar, adolescent humour. I do have a thoughtful side, believe it or not:
Read this poetry:
I dream in Gmail
PMS winter solstice, the hereditary gist of a fractal
interior. I buried another yesterday by the back door
Of this expanding universe just before I dreamt in Gmail.
As if all new oracles visit digitally; a reply all Cri de Coeur
From Athens, a bcc promoted punk tour streamed
Via a cave system linked to the romantic history
Of strange quarks, spooky action at a distance. I slid
Down a bank into a northern stream even further than you
Slid, nearby, down a bank of thick snow while you smiled
At me as if you like me now, now that my ass is wet.
At midnight that stream became the border between
New France and my dream of being intelligible.
Then I'm awake in the garage with my firstborn thought,
A thought that sublimates into a braid of snowflakes
To find me an office in the February pension; a warmth
That only makes its way into the deepest pockets.
A novice love that can't help but become a flight risk.
by Liz Howard
Since I copied this from the paper, I better put something about Liz: