Archive for the ‘true story’ Category

Man, a lot can happen in twenty days. That’s how long it’s been since I last posted, not that it matters.  Hmmmm… where to start?  Let’s see. I switched jobs. Yup, just like that. I don’t know what everyone is bitching about. It was pretty easy to get a new gig, especially when you have a particular set of skills like me.  Kidding… sort of.   Actually, I am working for the company I worked for before I left to take the job I just left. Get that?  Try to keep up. The great thing about it is the guy who I “worked” for last time now works for me….. It’s called Karma, dude, and she’s a miserable bitch.  So now I’ve got about 6 people who aren’t real happy to see me around.

What else?  Well, Ol’ Rod’s love life has been a bit ….oh let’s call it…. interesting.  There’s actually some funny shiz here but before I post about it I’m going to ask you a question.  How much time should elapse from the time you meet a woman to the time she feels it’s perfectly ok to enter your house while you are at work and make herself at home for the entire day, to include inviting two girlfriends over to ‘talk and watch TV’ ?????  I’m seriously asking, but I’m pretty sure the answer is longer than three dates.  My life is like a bad comedy.

Next up, got another call from the Army, more to follow on this.

And finally, I lent my services to one Denny DelVecchio over at and wrote him the consummate personal ad.  And while I certainly think there were better entries, he picked mine to help him score tons of Wisconsin Trim.

Bonne Chance, Senor!


X+Y=Z (hint Z is around 2hrs)

Posted: December 14, 2010 in humor, true story

Keep the questions rolling in.  Don’t be bashful about putting them on the other page though, unless you think the email route is the way to go. Then do that. I promise I won’t publish your email address or give your real name. Here’s the latest gem.

Q. Ken asks, ” Rod, I hate math. What’s the answer to:  T = d + D = sqrt [ x 2 + 5 2 ] + sqrt [ (20-x) 2 + 10 2 ] ?”

A. Ken, I’m no mathamagician. In fact, that doesn’t even vaguely resemble anything I ever did in a math class. Like any sane person would, I googled it, and apparently it’s something called calculus and it relates to minimum distance. Ken, are you a nerd? If so, I recommend that you get one of your nerdling friends to help you with this. If you are not a nerd, find one fast. It’s your only hope.

However, I’m not one to leave you hanging. Here’s what I know about minimum distance.

  If X is equal to a bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint Schnapps that you purchase at a liquor store in Montpelier, Vt.,  and Y =  Greyhound Bus travelling East at snail’s pace toward my parents house in Maine , then Z is = to the amount of time it will take you to drink X and be kicked off the Bus (Y) somewhere near St. Johnsbury, Vt. for trying to get a hippie girl to give you a hummer in the bathroom. Hope that helps.

To say that I’ve been ill the last three days does not even begin to describe it. This was simply by far this sickest I have ever been.  The only time that I can remember even coming close was in 2003 when I ate a Lamb kabob bought from a street vendor in Baghdad. Despite the fact that said Lamb kabob was delicious, during the two days that followed my digestive system revolted and decided to teach me a lesson. The only time I was able to stop vomiting was when I was tearing at my belt and trying not to shit my pants.

The past few days were far worse than that. Tuesday morning I felt fine, but by noon I had a killer headache. Somewhere around two in the afternoon my eyes started to hurt so bad they felt like they were going to melt out of their sockets and I could feel the chills setting in. So, for the first time in as long as I can remember I left work early and headed home to ride it out.

Usually, I can suck it up and still get things done but not this time. I spent the rest of Tuesday afternoon and all of Tuesday night in bed buried under three blankets shivering uncontrollably. The shivers got so bad I pulled a muscle in my back and couldn’t even stand up without looking like an eighty-year old man.

It got worse. I only remember pieces of Wednesday. I remember the room spinning like I was drunk and trying to pass out. I remember searching frantically for a thermometer to find out if I was just dreaming that I was on fire or if my fever was anywhere near as high as I thought it might be. I remember it being 104.56  and thinking that sounded pretty high. I remember my two dogs whining and crying and then at some point howling like wolves. I think I was delirious for a while and remember some crazy dreams which might not have been dreams but I’m not so sure. It’s too nuts to try to explain, but trust me they were in the realm of schitzo.  I really thought I was gonna check out for a while there and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I couldn’t even lift my arms or my head off the pillow never mind get out of bed. I remember thinking they’re going to find me here melted into the mattress in a couple of weeks.

I don’t remember calling my sister in Maine at 4 in the morning, but I did and left a goodbye voicemail.  She called back at 11 am on Thursday and gave me hell for leaving a drunk voicemail on her phone in the middle of the night. When I told her the situation she said,” Huh, really? ummm well, glad you’re not dead.” Ya, Sis. Me too.

The fever broke sometime Thursday morning and I spent the rest of the day sweating and drinking water and eating Advil like candy. My dogs were in a considerably better spirits but they were watching me pretty closely, like they weren’t so sure they weren’t going to have to find another meal ticket.

Today, I’m a little weak but I sort of feel like my usual self.  And I’m like ten pounds lighter, which pretty much makes the whole experience worth it.

Have a great weekend.

If you ask me, the time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s  is my favorite time of the year.  Now, nevermind all the waxing poetic about the magic of the holidays and family get togethers and reflecting about the turning of the seasons and another year past, because I’m not talking about any of that crap. As I have referred to previously, I spent the better part of a decade as a Teacher and, as any Teacher knows, this part of the year is the Sweet Spot in the calendar.

Why do I call it the Sweet Spot? There are several reasons. First of all, as a Teacher if you’ve done things right, by now you have set the tone in your classroom and by that I mean that you have instilled fear into your students and the certainty that you will lay the smack down for any transgression of the rules hangs over them like a heavy cloud.  I made it a point to be serious as a heart attack for the entire first quarter. No jokes, few smiles, firm but fair with no bending of the rules. In short, I was a huge prick from Day 1 to Parent Teacher Conferences and the message was clear; Do not fuck with Mr. R. 

With the proper tone set, I entered  a period of time within the Sweet Spot I liked to call the Season of  Asskissing.  Why? Because Christmas was in sight. (I taught at a Catholic School. If you aren’t Catholic replace Christmas with whatever Heathen Holiday you celebrate. It doesn’t matter, you’re going to hell anyway.) My students knew if they screwed up now, the potential for a shitty holiday was a very real thing. I taught middle-schoolers for the majority of my tenure as the fool talking to the walls.  Middle-schoolers like to try to make everyone believe that they are mature and worldly and full-grown, but secretly a good many of them still wear footed pjs and cuddle with mom on the couch before bedtime.  While they might not completely believe in Santa, they haven’t yet lost their innocence (except Jasmine, she was a total ho at 13). The bottom line here is that they were always on their best behavior to secure a spot on the nice list. They washed boards and took out trash without being asked.  Homework was neat and completed on time. Even the smelly kid turned his act up a notch and bathed a little more regularly. (quit picking your nose, Ryan).

It’s not just the kids who took part in the Season of Asskissing. Being the only male on the faculty and a very snazzy dresser, I found that during the Sweet Spot/SOA I was beset by a bevy of middle-aged cougar moms wanting to help me with everything from decorating the classroom and organizing the class act for the Christmas Play to finalizing all the details for the pinnacle event of the Season; The Class Christmas Party. Being a straight male, and therefore lacking any panache whatsoever when it comes to interior design, I would sit back and ‘supervise’ as the ladies descended upon the class with their decorations and Thermoses of Hot Chocolate. One year, the principal poked her head in to see what was going down and shot me a look mixed with shock and admiration. I winked and nodded at her and held out my mug for a cocoa refill. She walked away shaking her head.

With the classroom aglow and the details of The Party set, it was pretty much smooth sailing in the Sweet Spot. It’s the shortest ranking period of the school year so being a lazy  smart teacher, assignments were doled out at a minimum ensuring little in the way of  my time spent afterschool grading papers and much in the way of visiting the local watering holes for Holiday Happy Hours. As a result,there were a few extra Movie Days during the Sweet Spot.  This is also where I’d loosen the noose a little as well. A joke here or funny story there went a long way in getting the kids to see that I wasn’t a complete ass and it also primed the pump for receiving gifts at the Classroom Christmas Party.

Look, I’m not a total dick. Every year I would put out a letter to the Parents stating matter-of-factly that I did not expect to receive any gifts and that the opportunity to shape the young minds of their fine children was in itself a Christmas Miracle.

And every year they bought that shit, Hook. Line. and Sinker.   When the day of The Classroom Christmas Party arrived,  students with cougar moms in tow would arrive bearing extravagant gifts for yours truly, but before you get all indignant on me, realize that the gifts weren’t as much for me as they were to show up the other moms. If I got a ten-dollar paperweight from Derek’s mom, I could be sure that I was going to get a twenty-dollar paperweight from Renee’s mom. One year I got a pair of very expensive silk boxers and a personal letter smelling of perfume from Jasmine’s mom, but that is a different post all together. All in all the competition for out doing each other in the gift giving department was ridiculous, but I made out like a fat rat and I friggen loved it.

Once the Party of the Year was over and the kids were sent home the best part of the Sweet Spot started. Winter Vacation; Ten days of bliss and family get-togethers and reflecting on another year gone down the crapper and all that happy shit.

This is the only time of year that I miss teaching and the Sweet Spot between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, not counting Summer Vacation of course.

If you ask me, I am goddamn glad that Thanksgiving is over. I guess I could write the obligatory post on how my holiday was filled with crazy, hilarious hi-jinx, but that seems a bit played. I mean really, what would I write about?

I could write about how after an eight-hour drive to Maine with my two dogs, the inside of my truck looked like I’d had a three-way with a couple of Yeti. Nah, that would only be  good for like 42 words max.

Hmmm. I suppose I could put some funny shiz in there about seeing my parents for the first time in four years. But in reality the funniest thing happened when I walked in the door, said Happy Thanksgiving to dear old mom and she replied with, ” Happy Thanksgiving?  My turkey is gonna be drier than a popcorn fart, the dog has been up my ass all day, and your Father is driving me crazy. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving to you too.” 

Of course, I could write about a holiday miracle by describing how my 18 yr old niece overcame seemingly insurmountable odds and has learned to love again only two short weeks after breaking up with the love of her life, a high school drop-out and part-time chalupa maker at the local Taco Bell.  Her new love? Why he’s a twenty year old high-school dropout with an aspiring career in dirt track racing, once he saves up enough money working part-time at Tire City to buy an actual dirt track racing car. But, theirs is a love for the ages and she remains confident. Her text messages are tagged with his initials and the words ‘true love forever’ so it must be true.  I won’t write about that though, because, as I was made acutely aware by my social worker sister, teasing 18yr olds about their love life is childish, and I’m the only one who finds it funny.

I suppose I could tell you all about my encounter with my high-school nemesis, Dan, at an Alumni Hockey game, but it’s pretty weaksauce. Really the only thing worth saying is that we haven’t seen each other in twenty years and I was trying to politely ignore the dick while he kept asking increasingly personal questions.  When he asked,” So, Rod. How much money you making at that cushy Government job of yours?”  I nearly snapped. “Really, Dan? I haven’t talked to you in twenty years and within five minutes you manage to ask me how much money I make?  More than you, you fat fuck. When was the last time you saw your dick in the shower? How’s that for a question?  As I walked off I actually was pretty proud of myself for that one…. but the rest is just fluff so I’ll skip it.

So I guess I haven’t got shit to write about. I’m just glad it’s over. And I think I’ll spend Christmas at home with my dogs and maybe a twelve pack.

 The reasons why aren’t really relevant, but a couple of weeks ago I had to get a physical.  You know where this is going, don’t you? Anyway, every physical I’ve ever had has pretty much been the same. I go in, fill out a questionnaire on which I  lie about my alcohol and nicotine intake, and then proceed to give up some blood and get my junk fondled.

It’s no big deal really , especially the part about the fondling of the twig and berries. Back when I was married to wife 1.0, and going through a period of my life I refer to as “The Quest”,  I got my business handled by a lot of dudes in white coats.  We were attempting to create new life and not having so much luck, so we embarked on a humbling journey into the land of infertility medicine. Now I’m not going to spoil a lot of future comic gold by recanting all the awesome details of “The Quest” but lets just say, I’ve had my stuff viewed, touched, poked and squeezed a little too hard by more dudes than any straight guy ever should. All in the name of science, of course.

So, mentally I felt prepared for this past physical. In fact, I thought it would probably not actually involve any molestation hernia checking at all because I was having it done at a military facility.  Military Drs. are notorious for half assing stuff. Basically, they ask you how you feel and if you say, “I feel good” they check the block  on the form and send you on your way. If you say, “I feel bad” then they check the block on the form,  sneer at you, accuse you of malingering, prescribe some 800mg Motrin and send you on your way. Althougg I’m not on active duty, I’m still technically an Army Officer, and since I work on an installation I’m entitled to use such amenities. 

And I was almost right. Almost is the key word here. It pretty much went according to plan. I filled out the papers with the requisite lies. They strapped me to an EKG, drew some blood and then I waited for three hours until they called me in to see the Dr. So, by now you’re probably thinking, C’mon Rod you’re being wordy, get to the part about the anal fingerbanging.  Hold your horses, it’s coming.

 I walked down the hall to room 2c where the “doctor” was waiting for me. My first impression was,” Wow, this guy is a dead ringer for Jason Alexander.” (George Costanza from Seinfeld)  Seriously, I so badly wanted to say, “And you want to be my latex salesman? ” But I held my tongue.  He introduced himself and told me to have a seat on the table.  I took up a perch on the table and ripped the paper, which I always seem to do, and he began to run through the checklist. EKG is good, check.  Blood work is good, check.  Then he smirks and says,” 1 to 2 drinks per week, huh? I’m looking at your file and on your last physical you reported 6-10.”  He busted me. I sorta shrugged and went, “Ummm yeah about that…”  He cut me off and said, “How about we go with 4-6?” 

“Sure, I can live with that,” I replied.  “Great,” I’m thinking. This guy’s working with me. The checklist continued.

“Still smoking? 


“Thinking about quitting?”


Then he looks at me all serious and makes a little waving motion with his hand, ” Penis and testicles?”

” True? I mean, yes? I have them?”

“They work fine?”


He nodded and made some squiggly lines on the chart. “It says here you’re 42.”


Then he said, “Okay then, looks like there’s just one thing left to do.”

Maybe I was just being naive, but to this point the thought of the anal probing really hadn’t crossed my mind so I asked, ” One thing? What’s that?”  Now, you’re going to have to imagine this next part because there isn’t any real way for me to describe it other to say that he raised his eyebrows, stuck his index finger in the air like he was making the Number 1 sign, made a little circular motion with it and, at the same time, did a two-part whistle that sorta sounded like  Hoo Hoo.  Yeah, really.  So just imagine  Costanza in front of you doing that and you will immediately understand what I’m talking about.

“ohhh… that.” At that point the wind completely left my sails.

“Yeah, so what I’m gonna need you to do is drop your pants, bend over the table and spread your cheeks. You can use the table for support if you need to.”

I’m thinking, “Use the table for support???  Good God George, what are you planning to do back there?”  As I turned slowly and dropped trou I was thinking a couple other things as well. First of all, I was thinking a Liberator Cushion would be just the ticket here, and second of all I was thinking the last time I was in this position I was in an Asian massage parlour in Mississippi, which honestly was worth every penny of the 60$.

I was also a little worried that my johnson was going to remember good times in Ol Miss and think it was wakey wakey time. Now, as a straight guy, there is no cool way to spread your cheeks and bend over a table in front of another dude. I mean really, how do you do it? If you cock your ass up a little you totally seem slutty and if you go with the shitting dog pose, well that’s just frustrating for everyone.  Anyhow, I figured shitting dog was the way to go for a straight guy and assumed the position. 

 So there I am bent over the table praying, “Please no boner, Please no boner”  and it felt like an eternity before ol dr. hairy knuckles started rooting around. Apparently my cheek spreading method was insufficient because he used one hand to assist me in that endeavor while using the other to poke winky right in the eye.  I just thank God for his small girlish fingers. The worst part of it all was that just as he found his mark he went, ” And there it is…”

WTF!  And there it is???? Really, dude was that necessary?  Why not just yell, Eureka!

But at least it was over. Problem for me was that I felt like we’d just had a moment there and suddenly he’s being all standoffish. He was avoiding eye contact and being all aloof and shit.  He said,” Here’s some tissues. Clean yourself up and when you’re ready you can let yourself out. I’m gonna bring this to the lab and I’ll call you if something’s abnormal.”  And then he was gone.

I was suddenly overcome by the feeling I had been in this situation before, only now I was seeing things from the other side of the backseat of my car, and I had a pretty good idea that the bastard wasn’t going to call.

Anyhow, not knowing what else to do, I wiped the lube from my crack, held my head high and walked out of the clinic.  Then I drove back to the office and immediately changed my Facebook Status to It’s Complicated and waited for George not to call me back.

He didn’t.

Thank God.

Hats off to Jimmie Poon

Posted: November 8, 2010 in Army tales, true story
Tags: ,

This morning while doing a little Facebook stalking, I found out that one of my former Soldiers is getting married. The first thing I thought was, “Holy shit, Jimmie Poon found himself a bride.”

I first met Private Jimmie Poon while I was the XO of a Tank Company at Ft. Hood. Although it sounds glamorous, being an XO is pretty much the shittiest job in the Army. Technically you are second in charge. But in reality you are responsible for everything and in charge of nothing and everyone knows it.  Our company clerk, the guy in charge of most of the day-to-day paperwork, was a little weasel of a guy who was , for all intents and purposes, useless. He couldn’t type, couldn’t remember anyone’s name, couldn’t get reports in on time and he did nothing but talk about his love of Asian Porn.  Anyhow, when Private Poon showed up it fell on my shoulders to make sure the appropriate paperwork got filled out.  I went out to the morning formation before physical training and walked up to the  First Sergeant.

“Top, I need to see Poon.” 

First Sgt. Hill was a large black man originally from the Virgin Islands. He had a wicked sense of humor and we got along great.

When he heard me he smiled,” XO, Officers ain’t supposed to talk like that.”

“No, Top. Not that kind of Poon.  I need to see Private Poon.”  I waived the inproccessing papers at him.

He smiled and started to say something then stopped, nodded and hollered to the company, ” Poon! You fish-eating mother fucker! Front and center, XO needs to see you.”

From somewhere in the back this kid all of 18yrs old comes running. He looked exactly like I thought he would; not very tall, kind of pudgy with a big moonpie face. The kicker was that he was sporting  pair of Army issued glasses, the ugliest things anyone could wear. We called them BCGs or Birth Control Glasses, because if you were wearing them you had no chance of getting anyone pregnant.

I noticed right away that Poon wasn’t wearing socks, but I kept silent because I knew what was coming.  First Sgt Hill took a long look at Poon and said, “Poon,  I don’t know what malaria infested, rice eating, shithole of a country you come from, but in the United States Army we wear socks to PT.”

Poon, very matter of factly replied, “I’m from Connecticut, First Sgt.”

“Where the fuck are your socks, Poon from Connecticut?”

” I lost them.”

Though I really wanted to, I didn’t have time to listen to Top tell Poon all the ways he was going to make sure that Poon would never forget to wear socks to formation again, so I cut in and took Poon back inside to have him fill out the paperwork. Turns out, he was a decent kid. He was smart, worked hard and did what he was told. 

He also had some of the most imaginative nicknames I have ever heard Soldiers give one of their own. Of course there was the obvious and less creative, Poontang and Poonmaster. But others were better such as ; Dr. Poongood, Poondragon, Poontastic, Poonman, Poonalicious, Dirty Poon, All up in yo Poon, Poonsniffer, Poonslayer and The Poonhunter.

Some were used in conjunction with others. One guy would call him Poondoggy and immediately another would yell out Poonstyle! 

Some guys would have been pissed, but Poon knew it was all in fun and he took the ribbing in stride. That’s right folks, Soldiers liked Poon. I imagine they still do.

Anyhow, If you ask me,  I’m glad there’s a soon to be Mrs. Poon out there.  Poon deserves to be happy.