How About A Quick Game Of "Does Anyone Remember...?"...

Does anyone remember that episode of "Little House On The Prairie" where that deaf baby seal died of rickets on Christmas Eve?

Hint: It was the one where Nellie Oleson was acting like a real bitch.

If you haven't seen it, try and Netflix it. It was hilarious!


This Has The Looks Of A Cliché Post About The Nerdiness Of Wearing Dark Socks With Sandals...

Well, think again.

I was at the grocery store today and saw some guy (a different one) with sandals and dark socks up to his knees. I find this look very refreshing. It's a not-so-subtle way of saying "I don't give a shit what you think of me and how I dress, fellow grocery store patron." In fact, I'm very close to making this a wardrobe staple, with one slight alteration meant to add a little panache. I think I'll wear my socks OVER the sandals. I bet I'll be the only one doing it.

Plus, just imagine how annoyed Megan will be! Win-win!

The Nice Thing About This Bra...

Go ahead and laugh all you want, but if shit starts to go down in some snowy part of the world, this guy's left breast will be completely invisible to the naked eye thanks to the camouflage cup. And you know what lies beneath the left breast, right? The ol' ticker. The one place you don't want to get shot by an evil-doer. This guy is smart. He's taking necessary precautions during the Global War On Terror, something all of us could stand to do a better job of. Sure, some "doctors" will tell you your heart is in the middle of your chest. Hogwash! I don't know about you, but when I recite the Pledge, I put my hand over my heart ON THE LEFT.


No More Jelly Roll...

Some of you may notice that my video a couple posts down is no longer available. I hope you all got to see it because it truly was a masterpiece. Ask anyone. Turns out, some agency working on behalf of Mr. Morrison informed me I was violating Mr. Morrison's "moral rights". Now, normally when somebody starts telling me what I can and can't do, I turn into a little bulldog and fight back tooth and nail. However, this guy (the "Web Sheriff", as he is known) was so freaking nice and funny about the whole thing, I decided to give in and take it down without much of a fight. I invited him to check out my blog during our correspondence. I hope he (or maybe she) does.



Everyone knows how much I hate wasps and yellow jackets. Earlier this summer, Megan bought this trap for $9.99. I had my doubts about how it would work, but I was pleasantly surprised. They are attracted by a scented cotton-ball, fly in, but can't fly out. As you can see, we caught a shitload of these little bastards, something I'm sure will have the PETA people all over my ass. I decided to empty out the trap yesterday and tally up just how many got nabbed. There were 48 whole ones and a few bits and pieces of the others. I decided to honor their wretched lives by naming them:

  1. Bitsy
  2. Mitzi
  3. Waspy
  4. T.J. Hooker
  5. Greg
  6. Inky
  7. Blinky
  8. Stinky
  9. Skidamarinky
  10. Snoopy
  11. Prickly Pete
  12. Leonid Brezhnev
  13. Tito
  14. Jermaine
  15. Jackie
  16. Randy
  17. Cheesy Gordita Crunch
  18. Johnny Big Nose
  19. Mongo
  20. Pax
  21. Shiloh
  22. Suri
  23. Manolete
  24. Pantuflas
  25. Billy Clyde Tuggle
  26. "The Dude"
  27. Walter Sobchak
  28. Lightnin' Hopkins
  29. Elmore James
  30. T-Bone Walker
  31. Fart-breath
  32. Pookie
  33. Schnookums
  34. Gargamel
  35. Azreal
  36. Snowball
  37. Waspy Jr.
  38. Old Man Gigglesnort
  39. Dirty Dragon
  40. Dick Ruthven
  41. Dick Tidrow
  42. Steve Ontiveros
  43. "The Gooch"
  44. Boner Stabone
  45. Booger
  46. Bob Loblaw
  47. Charles
  48. Chachi Arcola

Ways I Annoy The Shit Out Of My Girlfriend, Part 83...

Megan really likes Van Morrison. She had some of his music playing last night when I got home. I made the observation that Van mentions "Jelly Roll" in all of his songs.

"Not ALL of his songs," she said.

"Well, at least 50% of them he does."

"OK, maybe 50%."

For the remainder of his CD, I started replacing various lyrics with "Jelly Roll". She was not amused. I was. It went something like this:


The Canadian Maple Shark...

Sorry about that last post. I didn't mean to give you all grabbers (a "grabber" is a heart attack).

We are back from a sailboat trip up in the North Channel, a chain of uninhabited islands along the northern shore of Lake Huron. You can watch some video from last year's trip HERE, but I'm sure most of you have watched it hundreds of times already. It is a beautiful area.

Unlike last year, we saw quite a bit of wildlife this time. We saw tons of loons, a beaver (a nice one), a bald eagle, and a black bear. We had been hoping to see a bear. The one we saw was galloping across the highway in front of us on our drive home. We were thrilled.

Megan, who spent her childhood going to the ocean, is always commenting on how nice it is that she doesn't have to worry about sharks while swimming in fresh water. I reminded her of the Canadian Maple Sharks. They are twice the size of a Great White with three times the appetite. These sharks can be identified by the small Canadian flag they affix to their flanks so that Europeans don't confuse them with the more obnoxious American sharks from America.



Well, the time has come to say goodbye. I've reached the end of this long, winding path called "Some Guy's Blog". I've given all I have to give. I want to thank each and every one of you who made this such an enjoyable experience. We've had our ups and downs and our sidewayses, and through it all I think, together, we've made this crazy world a little more bearable. Actually, I'm just fucking with you. I'll be back Sunday.


Clothing Dilemna...

I am in the market for a new wolf shirt. Megan accidentally used my old one to mop up some cat puke the other day. That's the second time she's done that! She really needs to be more careful. Anyway, as with all my major life decisions, I'm leaving it up to you, my readers, to decide which one I should get. I have superimposed my avatar onto each one in order to assist you in your deliberations.

This one is nice. There are four wolves. Three are looking this way and one is looking over there, probably at a chirping grasshopper or something.

This one is a little flashy, but who knows? Maybe I could use a little more flash in my life. There's only one wolf, but he's got a very "come hither" stare, like "Hey, baby. Can I buy you a drink?"

This one epitomizes my "bad boy" side. Plus, I do drool a lot.

This one has three wolves singing. It kind of reminds me of the Kingston Trio. I can just hear them singing "Tom Dooley" in perfect three-part harmony.

This one kills two birds with one shirt. I show my love of wolves AND my love of the stars & bars. America, fuck yeah!

OR, maybe I should go in a totally new direction and get myself a kick-ass rhino shirt.

You can see now why I have come to you for help. I can't possibly be expected to make a decision like this on my own.


Fats Domino=Happiness...

For me, it is hard not to feel happy while listening to Fats Domino, even a song like "Blue Monday" that sounds like it should be sad. This is one of my favorites, "The Fat Man", for your listening pleasure.

My New Million-$ Idea...

Blogger trading cards.

Come on, people! It can't miss!

I've heard there are certain baseball cards worth like 73 million dollars! Even if mine sold for 1/73 of that, I'd still be a millionaire! Here's the plan:
  1. Everyone make their own personalized trading card HERE. Be creative. If you can find a cooler trading card generator online, use it. I didn't have a lot of time to go searching for the best one like some of you nerds.
  2. Post your trading card on your blog.
  3. Print out maybe twenty of them on decent card stock. Trade ten of them with your favorite bloggers (I can hear it now. "I'll trade you two Grant Millers for a Dick Small!") and keep the other ten for yourself. Keep those remaining ten in a secure, dry place. These will be your meal ticket some day.
  4. Wait fifty years.
Now, after fifty years, the fact that there are such limited quantities of these cards will excite collectors like you wouldn't believe! It won't matter that they don't know who the fuck any of us are. All they care about is how rare the card is. Cha-ching! (That's the sound a cash register makes when it opens so that we can put all our money into it!)

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that if we post our trading cards on our blogs, any schmuck with a printer could reproduce thousands of them, thus reducing their value. I've considered this, but decided that it shouldn't be a problem since most people are lazy. Believe me, I've thought of everything.

I'm telling you right now. Cash in your 401Ks and your IRAs, everyone. You won't need them. This is your new retirement plan. Here's mine:


Ways I Annoy The Shit Out Of My Girlfriend, Part 3...

I walk funny.

Okay, I know I'm not going in order so I hope you can follow along. A big mistake a girlfriend can make is letting it be known when she finds something her boyfriend does annoying. Doing this creates an even greater incentive for us. This one has been in my arsenal for a long time. I like to do it when we're at the grocery store or walking down the sidewalk or when we're together in view of other people. She cowers, red-faced, but I know deep down she loves it.


Is There A Scatologist In The House?...

Megan was out on her daily scat safari in our yard when she happened upon this odd looking turd. It was very dark and had sort of a pine cone effect happening. It should be established that the quarter you see was not part of the original poop. It is merely for scale. We thought is was from a deer, but deer scat looks more like THIS or THIS. If this is from a deer, I'm guessing it's pretty a constipated deer. Granted, I'm no expert. This is pure speculation on my part.

Documentary Film Of The Day: Surfwise...

As those of you who follow my recommendations have noticed, I am a huge fan of docs about subjects that are unconventional and nonconformist. During the 1950's Dorian "Doc" Paskowitz was a prominent physician with a bright future in politics when he realized that his love of surfing trumped a life of materialism and ambition. He found a sexually compatible wife, ditched his medical practice and political aspirations, and together they raised 9 children in a cramped motor home, spending their days surfing and learning through experience. It was a utopian existence of sorts. Things eventually changed as the kids reached puberty and started to rebel. Some realized how ill-equipped they were to deal with a world they had not had much exposure to. "Surfwise" is an fascinating film about a very atypical family. Check it out!


Ways I Annoy The Shit Out Of My Girlfriend, Part 45,672...

I fake cry.

She can't stand it. Part of why I do it is that I'm so damn good at it. I would feel guilty if I deprived others of such talent. That Meryl Streep thinks she's hot shit, but I think you'll agree after watching this brief video that I'm gonna give her a run for her money at the next Oscars! For those of you who are curious, I received my formal training from Lee Strasberg (Hyman Roth of "Godfather II") at the prestigious Actor's Studio. Enjoy!

Production notes: Pay attention to how easily I am able to transition between various emotional states. The is what we in the business refer to as "range". It is a critical skill for any of my readers out there who may be aspiring actors. I encourage you not to feel too bad if my acting intimidates you and makes you feel like you'll never measure up. This took YEARS of practice - not to mention blood, sweat and tears - in order to perfect.

Keep at it. Hone your craft. You can do it!


Mish-tur D!...

That's all I remember this kid saying when he was on Diff'rent Strokes. It was always Mish-tur D this and Mish-tur D that and "Mish-tur D, Arnold stuck his thumb up my butt!" Dude, enough with your whining to Mish-tur D already. He ain't your daddy! Hoyt Axton was your daddy. Mish-tur D is a multi-millionaire who could buy and sell your freckled ass. He doesn't want to hear your mewling. Come to think of it, neither do the rest of us.

Even I don't know what prompted this post. Your guess is as good as mine.

*- For those of you who didn't watch Diff'rent Strokes, "Mish-tur D" was actually Mr. D - short for Mr. Drummond (or "Phil" as I liked to call him). He was the patriarch of the Drummond household. He was played by classically-trained master of stage and screen, Conrad Bain.

On a related note, you know what really made this show what it was? It wasn't Arnold. It wasn't Pearl, Adelaide, or Mrs. Garrett. It wasn't even Abraham, the black goldfish. It was the apostrophe. One single piece of punctuation gave this show attitude - gave it zazz. These were not, after all, Diff-ER-ent Strokes. They were DIFF'rent. Remember that.

They'll have theirs, you'll have yours, and I'll have mine.

And together we'll be fine.


The Commercial That Refuses To Die...

I know it's lame to be the fucker who complains about commercials. I have not yet sprung for a DVR, so it's my own fault. Many of you know I watch "Jeopardy" regularly Monday thru Friday (and, if I'm home, Saturday) at 7:30 P.M. I don't know how regional this sort of shit is, but where I live this fucking commercial (above) has been playing AT LEAST once during "Jeopardy" repeatedly for the last six months - maybe longer. Whereas even the most clever commercials eventually fade from view within a few months, this god-awful cell phone ad continues to haunt me with its complete lack of any discernible humor or value whatsoever. It needs to be taken out behind the barn and put out of its unfunny misery.

If Megan Had Her Way...

...our house would look like this.

That's right. We have another cat. It had been abandoned by some people who moved away after losing their home. After mounting an emotional campaign on the cat's behalf, I caved and agreed she could keep it. After all, I've found that the smell of cat pee can be very refreshing once you get used to it.

It seems like a nice cat so far. It's a Manx so it has no tail - just a little stump.


Some Guy Lies...

In a post dated 8/5/08, I claimed that I "often wonder whether Chaka Khan would have enjoyed the success she did had it not been for her Great-Uncle Genghis paving the way."

I regret to inform you that it was a bald-faced lie. I have never wondered this in my life. Not once. After all, the entire notion that Genghis Khan and his brutal legacy had any impact on Chaka's career is quite ludicrous. I'm now doubting whether they are even related.

By insinuating that somehow Ms. Khan's success was based on anything other than her own hard work and God-given talent is wrong and, quite frankly, insulting. I sincerely hope that she can find it in her heart to forgive me. I will not rest until I undo whatever damage I may have caused with my flippant remarks.


Documentary Film Of The Day: Salesman...

For the longest time I sent e-mails to the folks at Netflix asking why the classic documentary film "Salesman" was not available. It got to the point where I just went ahead and bought it myself because I had heard so much about it. Well, for those of you who like my doc recommendations, this one is a classic and can finally be added to your queue. The movie was made in the late 60's by my favorite documentarians, the Maysles Brothers (Grey Gardens, Gimme Shelter). It follows four door-to-door Bible salesmen - "The Gipper", "The Rabbit", "The Bull", and the movie's main focus, "The Badger" - as they set out to sell keepsake Catholic Bibles to reluctant customers. It is shot in true "direct cinema" fashion, with no interaction or prompting by the filmmakers. It is both funny and heartbreaking. It is a must-see for any documentary fan. Add it to your lists, bitches!


Riding Coattails...

I often wonder whether Chaka Khan
would have enjoyed the success she did...

had it not been for her
Great-Uncle Genghis
paving the way.

You Know Who Republicans Remind Me Of?...

This kid, Nathan, who went to my grade school.
He thought he was a real tough guy.
It's like, dude, you're not tough.
An oversized leather jacket doesn't make you tough.
The fact that your dad owns a hardware store doesn't make you tough.

You're lame.
All someone had to do was sneeze and your fucking nose would bleed.


An Open Letter To The Classic Rock Station Up By Me...

Dear Northern Michigan's Classic Rock "The Bear",

I understand that, as a classic rock station, you have a limited playlist, but you play a ridiculously disproportionate amount of Seger. I mean, at this point, I wish he'd quit talking about it and just fucking go to Kathmandu already for Christ's sake.

Some Guy


The Happy Little Eggplant...

Occasionally as we are lying in bed before we fall asleep, Megan will ask me to tell her a story.

"But you hate my stories," I reply.

And hate them she does. Truth be told, it is very difficult to come up with a captivating story on the spot, even for someone with my exceptional wit. Usually mine start out just fine, usually with a furry brown bear or two engaged in some wholesome woodland activity, but as soon as I lose focus the story quickly devolves into something toilet-related. At this point my audience of one lets out a groan and rolls over, indicating that story-time, for all intents and purposes, is over.

Take, for instance, last night's story. It began:

This is the story of the happy little eggplant. This eggplant lived in a garden with all his vegetable friends. There was Mr. Artichoke, Miss Cabbage, and the ever-precocious Carrot twins...

(OK, let me interrupt briefly. So far I'm off to a good start, right? I mean, anthropomorphic vegetables. Sounds like a subject rife with possibilities, no? You'd think. Back to the story:)

Everything seemed happy in the garden. Everyone got along well. Sure, there was the occasional disagreement about politics or sports, but nothing ever got personal. Unfortunately, not everything was as happy as it seemed. The happy little eggplant was not as happy as he let on. The happy little eggplant had...bulimia. (Megan sighs.) He would get home from work and stuff his face with ice cream sandwiches and pretzels and all sorts of junk food that was either high in sodium or high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS). I mean, this guy would gorge himself on the worst sort of crap you can find. He'd guzzle Mrs. Butterworth and chase it with four or five Hot Pockets (TM) then puke it all up. He was a freaking mess. His garden pals started noticing changes in him. He was withdrawn and looked unhealthy.

"Dude, what's up with you?" asked Mr. Artichoke, "You look like shit."

"Back off you nosy fuck," snapped the eggplant, "Why do you always have to be all up in my grill?"

Then the eggplant, in a fit off bulimia-induced rage, pulled a knife and stabbed Mr. Artichoke. He was sentenced to ten years in the state pen for aggravated assault. He died behind bars after contracting an extreme case of Syphillis. The End.