The Curse of Mrs. Martin

You don't know her and you probably never will, but Mrs. Martin is a straight up GGMILF.

Probably the only one. Ever.

Sure, she's got a wig, pushing 97 years of ripeness, has sons that are actually 70 years old, but she's one hot piece of old-lady eye candy.

I can't help it. You should see the way she dresses. Old people pants with old people shirt. You know she ain't wearing a bra either. Nasty. She's asking for it. You know what it is. I don't need to explain.

"Hey, Mrs. Martin. How are you?"

When she talks, she doesn't. Words don't come out. She mouths something and you're left assuming she wouldn't say those types of things out loud in a restaurant. Not an old lady at least. It looks like she's saying, "Good, how are you?" But you know she's not. She's probably regurgitating some lyrics from a Ludacris song.

So you put them away in a vault, your secret hiding place in your brain until you get home, rest on the couch, only to be unlocked when you shut off Ellen during the dancy parts.

The other day my heart almost broke to see a walker by her table. When she got up, I thought it was a miracle.

"Mrs. Martin, you can walk again."

She couldn't hear. How can she unclog 97 years of filth. Instead, she walks crisply to the counter to pay for her meal and left.

"You left your walker Mrs. Martin! Mrs. Martin." Nothing. Just kept walking. She knows she wants it.

Old people: you keep getting older, and they stay the same age. It's like playing catch-up.

(Townie shakes head and realizes what's been typed cannot be untyped. He wishes for a virus to poke its head into his already lousy laptop. There is no turning back. He must forever go through life convincing people he has no lust for old people, especially said Beef Barn regular, Mrs. Martin. It is his curse.)

Question of the day:

Did referring to women as "maam" come from their maamories?

Up, Up, Down, Down, A, B, A, B, start:

1. I'm a fan of free t-shirts. Give me one and I'll promote whatever you got.

2. BUT when it comes down to it, no free t-shirt will ever be as good as the "My Vote Counts" tee I got way back in 2003. Wearing a shirt like that post-election seems ironic when the person you voted for never got into office.

3. G-chat is a new technoword I can't wrap my head around or forgive.

4. Cutting your fingernails too short is detrimental to playing ripping solos on my guitar.

5. Saying "word" was never cool, but that don't stop me.

6. There's a kid on the Mount golf team with a set of huge knockers. At least C-cup.

7. I have the type of relationship with my boss, a 70-year old lady, where I can tell her "I also have skills with wood," and she can retort without a pink slip.
8. "After Billingsly finished the second inning, he told team trainers that he felt a little discomfort in his groin. They pulled him." Is this a good thing or a bad thing?

Filling Your Cup With Knowledge

I spent Saturday night in Boston and saw a good share of homeless people. For the first time in my life, I don't think I gave any of them my wallet. That was weird to me because in year's past I have. Without thought. Without provocation.

It dawned on me. I have rules now. And when you have a set of rules, you must list them. While it may sound like I'm talking to bums in this post, I'm not, bums certainly don't have a laptop in their dormroom. I'm merely encouraging you good-hearted people to stop being so good-hearted like me.

Here is my "If you're a bum, I'm no longer giving you money" criteria:

1. You're not disgusting. If I've looked worse than you on any given Friday night, you're certainly not getting money from me. This is a depression, son. Get used to people not having money for ya.
2. You're standing in front of liquor store. Come on, buddy. You're that lazy that you can't move away from that place? Try a Denny's or a supermarket.
3. You don't have a bell like those guys from the Salvation Army. It's just tougher to ignore somebody with wild-bell-technique.
4. You're collecting people's loose change in a Starbucks coffee cup. I can't even afford Starbucks! You need to start getting that Newman's own shit at McDonalds or that Green Mountain hot black tar they sell at Cumberland Farms for 69 cents a cup.
5. You don't have a beard. This includes the homeless women too. If you're more well-groomed than me and most of my friends, I want your razors. You need a Moses-like beard for me.
6. If you're good looking. Just a code of conduct. You were dealt a better hand than millions of people and Mark Cuban, Ben Wallace and the chick from Ugly Betty still became more successful than you.

There's the criteria for feeding the homeless. Go now and share your new-found knowledge.

Question of the day:
Why does all German porn look like rape? I'm not admitting to watching porn here (okay, I am. shocker, right?) but there's some very important questions that need to be answered and never get cleared up because people are too scared.

Other useless knowledge:
1. I've officially accomplished the post-4-mile-run/weight lifting workout-trip to McDonald's. A McGriddle sandwich and McCafe later, I'm certifiably McFatass.
2. Speaking of being a McFatass, I think it's time to try one of those waffle sandwiches at Dunkin.
3. I probably would've used that phonebook in the street to call Park Ave. Pizza, but it's been run over 211 times.
4. I ate Japanese food for two straight nights and my shits were strong, healthy lincoln logs. Then I eat American food once and my shit turns to gravy.
5. Spring is back, which means unnaturally orange tans and guys with jacked upper bodies sporting guts are back.
6. Nobody believes a word I say 90% of the time.

Cat Scratch Fever

Like I said previously, we have a stray cat that lives here on 187 The Cottage. Sadly, that cat will live here for ever, as I don't have the time to kill it nine times.

So, instead of going ape on this feline, I'm basking in its glory.

How, just how, have I done this?

Well, for starters, I've taken some time recently to watch this little pussy scratching itself, slashing trash bags in our dumpster and protecting my house, under armour style.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, ever happens during this time of significance, but I have taken the whole experience as watching those stupid Animal Planet shows. I have, in my brain and to a very small extent, become a zoologist -- save the hot wife and education and the money and the house on hill, splashing cash like I wrote Thriller.

In my amatueric observations, I've noticed that pussy can jump. Get these things on the court with some human hands, 80's style short-shorts and a pair of slick-ass Converse All-Stars and we're talking back-to-back-to-back AAU titles Tom Emansky-style.

I figured the cat jumped a good four and a half feet or the height of my dumpster, which is about a foot more verticle leap tha that of Kobe Bryant. And we call Kobe a great athlete? Please, Garfield would be dropping triple-doubles every night if he had real hands; 10 points, 10 blocks and 10 cat turds all over your face!

So I say screw Kobe, screw Air-Bud, screw Jordan wearing the 45. There's a new pussy in town, and it sells.


Tough question:
Why is it "you're full of bologna?" We couldn't find a better deli meat to pick from?


Other things I learned today, that quite frankly, nobody gives a shit about:
1. If I sing alternative lyrics to songs that incorporate somebody's name that's around me, ultimately, nobody will know I really don't know the lyrics to any songs.
2. The last two things you want to hear a cook say are, "Oops" and "I remember you, you're the asshole that delivers my mail."
3. You should never invest your time in a 4-hour pitch game. That kind of time is invested for Risk and Risk only.
4. I used to weigh eight pounds.
5. The newspaper business is treading water in a puddle.
6. I have no idea what to do with the remaining five percent of my last three bars of soap.
7. My apartment didn't have a smell before I cleaned, now it smells worse.