I’m no longer allowed to talk about sauna boners and this is not really about sauna boners

I’m on another business trip and was informed by my wife today that she ‘read the blog.’ Which was odd because when I told her I was going to start a blog phrases like “you’re an idiot”, “go mow the lawn” and “I can’t wait until dancing with the stars comes on” were tossed about.

I always suspected, but could never prove, that she had snuck a peak or two at the blog. In fact I’d even conned her into proofreading a few of the entries. So both of those updates that were generally free of spelling errors, incomplete sentences and didn’t use the work fuck five times in a row where ones she proof read*.

I knew there were a few sentences or phrases or even thoughts here that she might, question. It’s not Howard Stern circa the mid 90’s wife level of “what the hell is he doing?” But still. There’s photo after photo of cleavage shots that don’t belong to her (I’ve thought about doing an entire update about cleavage shots … look for an exciting poll regarding that topic later in this update, if I remember! Oh crap I did remeber but I put it here and not at the end, because I’m awesome), there was a discussion of vacuum cleaner sex and hell there’s Sasha, remember Sasha? I do! Hi Sasha!

Also Blitzboy76 wants me to drink more and write more. I hear and obey Blitz, I hear and obey.

So what was her comment about the blog? It was, as you’ve guessed, sauna boners.

Now I realize this blog, because of a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point, is dangerously close to becoming the “INTERNET’S NUMBER ONE STOPPING POINT FOR ALL THING NAKED SUANA”. Hell I’m considering selling “sauna boner” coffee mugs, “naked sauna” tee-shirts here and … well no I’m not.

Her point was, and she was only mildly angry, that I shouldn’t write about sauna boners because people would think I was some kind of pervert.

I would like to all of you know that I am not some kind of pervert; I’m a specific kind of pervert thank-you-very-much.

When pressed, she explained, that sauna boners were not the kind of thing I should be writing about because again, people would think I was a pervert. When pressed, as in “I used the term in a very joking manner, never once referring to an actual erection (okay there had been that ONE time but that was ages ago) so I’m not sure how you could conclude that?”** She had no answer, meaning she hadn’t read much other than the headline.

I’ve known her too long for these kinds of shenanigans damnit!

Was I a better writer, better journalist, had I ‘had a few beers’ or even just been a dick I would have grilled her about her objection to the term.

Me: What exactly is wrong with the term sauna boners?

Her: It makes you sound like a pervert!

Me: I see perhaps erections in a sauna would be better?

Her: No, no that’s not what I mean.

Me: Wood in a hot wooden sweatbox?

Her: ewww!

Me: Stiffy in a sauna, that way there are two S’s in the phrase, but we should be careful with things like SS.

Her: No that’s not what I mean!

Me: Maybe something medical sounding? “Fully aroused male subject inside of a temperature controlled enviro …

Her: Shut up!

I wish it had gone that way but alas it did not. I asked her what was wrong with that term in the context I used it.

She of course couldn’t answer that because she hadn’t read it. I knew this, of course. Back, years back, when I was an Army journalist there had been a similar fight. She was mad about something I had written and when pressed I quickly learned she hadn’t read what I’d written.

Taking the time machine back to ; ; ; three, I was a young and eager U.S. Army journalist. Oh boy, eager beaver indeed! At the time there were two kinds of enlisted journalists, those that gave a fuck and those that didn’t. A sort of Tale of Two Cites opening paragraph if you will of Army journalists, meaning it was exactly the same as today. Most of the assignments the editor handed out were of the “cover boy scout troop 1043’s race-car derby this weekend” or “Go to this housing area’s meeting and find out if they’re going to change garbage pick-up day to Thursday”.

Boring shit right?

But then there were the other assignments, the ones where you, and I’m not trying to toot my own horn, but my horn shall be tooted (which is much dirtier than sauna boners for those of you still reading this), lived in the field or worked a long weekend or even worked all night. I always took these, always. I point this out because sometimes when something real to report on (real for Army journalism) came along I got first fucking dibs. Sometimes real was covering a forest fire on base and me and another of the journalists, John Barker, tag teamed that like meth addicted prostit … oh wait that’s as bad as sauna boners, maybe worse.

But a really, really sweet assignment came up when the installation I worked for canned the head chef of the officer’s club. I don’t know how much I want to disclose … okay fuck it, it was the chef at the United States Military Academy at West Point. The fact that they just hired a new one was my story but my editor turned me on to a lot of negative, very early, internet bitching about the old chef’s fuck ups. When I interviewed the new chef I had all the bad-ass questions about how he would address the complaints of the customers and to his credit he had all the answers. It wasn’t Pulitzer but it was Army Pulitzer …

Anyway as you can predict the story ran with me saying what a douche the old dude was and what a shit-hot addition the new guy was about to be.

Moar Boobs!

Anyone that just read that deserves a look at some cleavage … here you go.

Did I mention that Dagmar worked there? Not as the head chef that just got canned but as a bartender. Some faithful ally of the old Chef’s regime had put the bug into her ear that I had called the establishment a filthy cesspool of filthy cess or something.

Basically, without doing what I just did in our imaginary back and forth at the start of this, she called and asked how I could call the place she worked at a shitty place to eat and I replied that I hadn’t, I’d said it was kicking ass these days. Yada, yada, three bags full, have you read it honey? No was the reply.

And that kids is how you write a fuck lot of words about sauna boners and never once refer to a sauna boner.

Also honey, if you’re still here, Sauna boners.

* There are a few others that proof read for me … they remain nameless as long as they keep paying me to remain nameless … July’s coming up girls!

** Look there’s plenty of retarded shit here that I would have to defend, maybe, if she ever read it. Sasha, the second helicopter (she doesn’t KNOW YET … SHHH!) and that fact that on the last night of this trip I plan to have a private candlelit ceremony where I knight my left testicle Sir Droopy

One response to “I’m no longer allowed to talk about sauna boners and this is not really about sauna boners

  1. YES! Now THAT’s what I’m talkin’ bout! Boobies AND a shout out! Ha ha… Tell Queen Dagmar thank you for letting you write. Also…sauna boners.

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