TMI: Too Much Information

There are records and then there are records.

To this date, my mind has probably registered a little over 10,000 records with 9,500 of those coming from watching Sportscenter. All sorts of stats and meaningless information I call banal minutiae. Nobody cares about the records but the people that hold them. Does the home run record really effect you enough to throw batteries at Barry Bonds? Does it put your kids in college? Does it help you make kids? If you answer yes to either of those, you are, in fact, a kid.

What gets me more are these people trying to get into Guiness Books of World Records for something, training for months to perfect one simple task as stupid as balancing a book on their head for three days straight, then failing, or perhaps worse, achieving then getting handed a piece of paper that resembles the old honor roll certificates in elementary school.

The reason I start my blog with this isn't because of Roger Federer and his 15th and record-breaking major championship, but it was impressive. Not important in my life, but impressive. The reason for this isn't even that Joey Chestnut eating 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Impressive, but not important.

What is more impressive is a record I have recently come across as an historic day: the day (name shall remain anonymous) manually achieved climax 14 times.

That's an round-about way of saying jerked off. Seeing that I just explained what I meant, there was no reason to actually say it in a round-about fashion.

This record is actually significant to me.

For one, it makes my personal record very, very small. Almost to the point where I feel I should be manually achieving climaxation more, that I'm insufficiently producing in the lonesome.

It makes me feel less like a pervert, which feels pretty good.

The number, I must say, is a little daunting for any regular in the self-pud-pounding committee. 14! That's one more than a baker's dozen.

Now, I know somebody out there has done more, but this number alone makes me ask so many questions. Perhaps more startling is that when I asked around a couple more people said they had gotten above 10 times! I can't believe that. That's like multiple people breaking the color barrier in major league baseball. Jackie Who?

Don't get me wrong, I've been around the bases in my day. Never have I gone above three times. That was a lonely ass day. Nothing going on. Nobody was around. Still, STILL, only got to three. I think if I went further into the game my arm would've needed Tommy John.

The endurance shown on such a day is shear athleticism, like seeing somebody hit for the cycle twice in one game.

How does one have enough time for that kind of feat? After every time you need a nap or a cold shower to process the shame. And forget about the actual state of your johnson afterwards. I can't even imagine holding it to take a piss after 14 times. I'd have a better time climbing Mount Everest with snakes biting me and diarrhea.


Other notable moments of TMI:
1. On boxers: if the dickhole points to the right, my c-n-b's flap out, but if it points to the left, they won't.
2. Ask me to pose for a picture and I will give you what I call "The Senior Portrait".
3. I felt more American because I ate four hamburgers on the Fourth.
4. Job Lot doesn't sell obnoxiously ugly Patriotic shirts so don't try. Where do these people find them?!
5. I also felt more American when somebody complained about the fireworks on Spring Lake when they were essentially put on and funded by residents on the Lake. Kind of brought things into perspective a little bit, ya know?
6. The best investment I made in the past three months has been this little Lasko fan that blows directly into my face, no more than 15 inches away from me.
7. I'll likely never golf at 6 a.m. ever again.
8. There's a lady that comes into Beef Barn with Parkinsins and if I don't register that she's got the disease right away, when she looks up at me, I think, "What the hell's her problem?"