Monthly Archives: December 2014

Do they know it’s Christmas? How the hell could they miss it?

Here are some things about Christmas that just flat out piss me off.

The first thing that pisses me off is the fact that’s I’m writing this. Basically, nothing says “privileged, white, middle-aged douche bag” like a privileged, white, middle-aged douche bag complaining about the holiday season. You know, it’s that time of year where giving, caring and forgiveness are in vogue, and here I am bitching up a storm about pointless holiday things that piss me off.

“Oh, lets all read what Mr. No Reason To Be Unhappy has to say about why he’s unhappy,” I can hear you all saying over the din of a million eye rolls.

And your largely right, except that having no reason to bitch about something absolutely gives me all the more inspiration to bitch about it. I’m all about the challenge with these kinds of topics. None of what I’m about to complain about is even vaguely valid or important in anyway, but I’m going to bitch about it anyway. I even like watching video’s of kids opening presents they’re really excited about. Watching a 7-year-old rip the wrapping off of a G.I. Joe with a Kung Fu grip (or whatever — I’m out of touch with the toy markets for 7 -year -olds) is always a great thing.

But there’s some other things (oh boy, are there some other things!) that really piss me off.

Let’s review:

Look at these presents under our tree. Ninety percent of them are gifts I’m giving to my wife or she’s giving to me.

Spoiler: These are all socks.

Spoiler: These are all socks.

What the fuck sense does that make? We’re two financially well-off adults. The other 364 days of the year, if either of us wants something, you know what we do? We buy it for ourselves. But this one day of the year we each toss $500 at Amazon for the other because “something” told us to?

It’s the same head-scratching situation every year. What do I want for Christmas? I don’t know the answer to that question even though it’s a valid question. It’s a fucking stretch to come up with ideas because for throughout the year we’ve just bought whatever the fuck we wanted. Kind of leaves the old “gosh it’d be cool if I had this item,” list a bit lacking you know?

So, you know what you end up with under the tree? Shit you didn’t want badly enough to purchase yourself. I don’t mean things I couldn’t justify buying for myself, and I don’t mean things that I couldn’t afford to buy for myself. No, I mean things that I just couldn’t be bothered to buy for myself. For instance, the complete series of Battlestar Galactica is under the tree waiting for me on Christmas morning. I watched part of season one once while traveling for work and thought, “Meh, that show’s OK.” But I couldn’t actually bother to log on to Amazon to, you know, buy the fucking thing myself.

So here I am in my mid-40s waiting to open gifts I was too lazy to buy for myself.

Next year I’m going to suggest she take her $500 and blow it on whatever she wants like massages, pedicures, cute hats for cats, whatever. I’m taking mine and investing heavily in strippers and beer because that at least would be good blog

It's Joseph would've wanted.

Santa and baby Jesus can come too but they have to bring their own money.

Another thing that bugs the fuck out of me about Christmas is the “Why” of it all.

Stay with me here.

Neither my wife nor I have a religious bone in our bodies. I’m an atheist and I can’t think of her ever having a single religious thought. It’s not like either of us are excited about Christmas because it’s the day Jesus was born. As a lot of people know, the idea of a midwinter holiday actually predates Christianity. Because why not throw down and party in the gloomy middle of winter?

But the midwinter theory kind of pisses me off even worse. Now I’m following some ancient-random custom because those fuckers didn’t know if they’d live ’til March? What the fuck?

I once read that it was kind of a last -ditch celebration before the starvation of January and February set in. Which is fine, I get that. But how the fuck is that valid today? The vast majority of us aren’t starving anymore in winter, we have fully functional heating systems and I can make it as bright as the sun in our house through the use of that wonderful invention the light-bulb.

The thought that people used to celebrate this time of year because it was the midway point between fall and spring makes no fucking sense to me in this day and age.

At least you Christian types believe there is a valid reason to celebrate and I envy that. I’m stuck trying to figure out what a busybody fat man in a red suit living with elves and reindeer north of the Arctic circle have to do with the birth of some kid in the middle east.

Be honest with me here, this has baffled you too. What the fuck does chopping down a tree, putting lights everywhere, exchanging gifts and singing obnoxious songs that contain the phrase “fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la” have to do the birth of a baby?

None of that shit passes the commonsense test, not even for a moment.

Some fat old man sneaks into your house after spying on you for a whole fucking year and leaves you presents? No, fuck that. That sounds fucking creepy actually. I’m pretty sure grown up Jesus would punch that dude right in the dick for pulling that kind of stunt.

Like this, only with Light Sabers.

Like this, only with light sabers.

Here’s another thing that pisses me off about the holidays. This I think pisses a lot of people off actually. Why the fuck do stores have to start putting up holiday shit immediately after Halloween or even earlier?

The answer is sales right? Gotta get those precious holiday shopper dollars into the till because the holiday season is the only time that a lot of stores make any profit. That’s the answer, right?

Look, I didn’t major in business or anything, but I’d hazard a guess that if your business model succeeds or fails because of sales during eight specific weeks out of a year, then your business model sucks.

I could be wrong, hell I probably am wrong, but that just seems like a stupid way to do business. What if I approached you and asked you to invest in my new business, but we were going to lose money 10 months out of the year and then, only if the economy was good, make money during a narrow eight-week period?

You’d think I was a fucking idiot.

It’s even happening here in Germany, at least on the military bases. Once Halloween is over, out go the princess and vampire costumes at the Post Exchange and it’s all ho, ho, ho from that moment onward. I made the mistake of going into the “Power Zone” (a military store that specializes in electronics) on Black Friday because I needed a small adapter for a computer on Black Friday. I never made it past the front door because there was apparently a riot going on.

In an overseas enclave of Americans who rely largely on the mail for most of their purchases there was a Black Friday shopping frenzy going on.

Next year I’m suggesting to Dagmar that I buy her a pack of playing cards and that she buys me a Playboy.

Actually, never mind.  Fuck the Playboy.

Actually, never mind. Fuck the Playboy.

Finally, and thanks to a good friend Adrian for this suggestion, the war on Christmas really pisses me off. It pisses me off because there is no fucking war on Christmas. There’s not.

I consume my cable news before going to work in the morning and it’s a choice between Fox News and Tavis Smiley (who names their kid that by the way). I choose Fox because even they don’t suck as much of Tavis does. Sorry, it’s the truth. Those of you who know me know I can be a rabid liberal and even I would rather have right wing talking points hurled at me over my morning coffee than listen to Tavis’ pointless banter with which ever guest is shilling a new product on that particular day.

So I do hear that shit all the time. There’s a war on Christmas! The progressives, liberals, communists, and for all I know sweet baby Jesus are waging a war on Christmas.

Listen up, I don’t want you to take this personally, I don’t want to offend you and I don’t want you to stop reading, I just want to clear this up: There is no war on Christmas. None. Zero. No shots fired, no casualties, no territory lost or gained, because there is no war.

Some people even alluded to this on Facebook. “I have to say Happy Holiday’s now I can’t say Merry Christmas it’s a war on Christmas!”

Is it a war on Christmas if you stop and consider that the person to whom you want to wish good tidings might not celebrate Christmas? If that’s offensive to you, then save your tidings because you don’t give a shit about the person anyway.

Nativity scene removed from a public building?

This is American where there’s a separation of church and state. Once upon a time, not so long ago, that was enforced. Then Glenn Beck came along and turned a lot of loud-mouthed people into holy rollers-ala-Beck. Now if someone says, “Ya know, that Nativity in the middle of the courthouse lobby seems to fly in the face of separation of church and state,” those people are persecuted.

Someone at Walmart wished you a Happy Holiday, not a war on Christmas.  Your boss said Season’s greetings to you, not a war on Christmas. Did you’re crazy Uncle Ed send you something about that Muslim bastard from Kenya proposing a new law that would ban Christmas in the United States?

OK, that one’s probably legit.

There is no fucking war on Christmas. Go outside, look around you. Christmas is everywhere. Christmas is the world’s most powerful military. A million times more powerful than today’s most powerful military and if there was a war it would consist of four guys drinking in a bar at four in the morning and talking shit about how they could totally destroy Christmas.

Maybe I suck at metaphors, but there isn’t a war on Christmas. Never has been.

Next year when Dagmar donates $500 to Greyhound Rescue charities, I’m using my $500 to start a war on Christmas. My arsenal will be a bat and I will scurry about in the dark of night bashing in inflatable-Santa faces and eating Frosty noses. Except, that sounds like more of a war on yard ornaments. I’ll have to give it more thought.

Seasons greetings!

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A tale of three (practical) jokes …

The best practical jokes were the simplest.

Do you have a three-hole punch in your office? Does it have a bottom on it that collects the punched holes and, after a lot of usage, needs to be emptied?

If you answered yes, then you my friend have a great, ready to go, practical joke.

What you do is this. Take the hole punches and empty them on to your desk. Then push them all into a neat little pile.

Next you take an important-looking memo, document or folder and, on the back of that item, you tape a smaller piece of paper, or light cardstock, with only one piece of tape so that it makes a trap door. Then you load hole punches between the document and the trap door and carefully place the whole thing on the targets keyboard or desk so that when they pick it up, hole punches rain down like confetti.

We called this trick confetti bombing.

I learned this little trick working with a group of guys who perfected, then redefined and further perfected the office practical joke.

I’m not kidding. During the years 2000 to 2002 I worked with a group who took office practical jokes to a level I never considered possible.

These are some of those stories.

A lot of you know Mike from my Facebook feed. He’s a good friend, the best of friends actually. What you might not know about Mike is that he’s a retired Marine. A retired gunnery sergeant, in fact. If you know anything about Marines you know this — befriend one and you have a friend for life.

While Mike was taking his son to school one day, his truck had a flat tire. Fixing a flat, as you know, takes time. This made his son late for school, but hey, that’s what flat tires do, they make you late. Mike assumed this explanation was good enough. A flat tire is a reasonable reason to be late. Unfortunately, for Mike his son already had some tardiness issues and his son’s proclamations that Dad’s truck had a flat fell on deaf ears. The school threatened to suspend the boy unless Mike stopped by the office that day.

Mike, being a bit hot under the collar, did not understand why the school would not take his son’s word for it. At the conclusion of the school day, he pulled into the parking lot and proceeded to drag the flat tire straight into the principal’s office. I know he did this because I was in his truck with him when he did it. Mike and I taught photojournalism to military students at the time and as such always had a camera of some sort with us. I took photos of Mike leaving the school’s administrative offices carrying a flat tire with a slightly apologetic smile on his face.

Flat but with more anger.

Flat but with more anger.

End of story right?

Yeah no.

We were devious bastards. When it became known that Mike had gotten hot under the collar and taken his flat tire into the office of a local high-school principle the others in my officer were giddy. This situation was ripe joke fodder and ideas began to gel.

We ran with it. Someone, I don’t recall who, drafted up an official-looking memo, purportedly from Mike’s Marine Corps leadership, instructing Mike that he would have to repay the school community for this gross transgression. First, the letter directed, Mike was going to have to give a class to the entire student body about anger management, second he was going to have personally apologize to the principal and staff for dragging a tire into their office, and finally, he’d have to write a personal letter of apology to the principal, Mr. Seymour Dicks.

Both Marine officers in our department, who were all too happy to help with the joke, called Mike into the senior guys “office” which was nothing more than a glorified cubicle with little, if any, privacy.

So about the letter. You see what we did there right? The three things Mike was directed to do filled him with so much rage, he never noticed the “see more dicks” part of the joke. It took one of the officers actually verbalizing to a red-faced Mike that he’d have to write a letter of apology to “Mr. See More Dicks,” for Mike to finally get it. The officer has to literally break it down for Mike because he was so furious.

“No Gunny, you’re not getting it. You have to write a letter to a Mr. See. More. Dicks. Get it? See more dicks Gunny.”

When Mike’s lightbulb went on, all eight or nine of us gathered outside the cubicle erupted in a wave a laughter that seriously caused several of us to have to sit down. I don’t recall if it was relief that the whole thing was a joke, or that he the realized he’d just been a butt of a pretty elaborate practical joke (or a combination of both most likely) that caused Mike to, between his own fits of laughter, swear revenge.

It was that kind of office. Were you in hurry to leave early on a Friday? Did everyone know it? Expect to find your car keys in a frozen bowl of ice in the office freezer. Did you not lock your computer before leaving to teach a class? Then you could expect to send an embarrassing email to the rest of the staff in your absence. Your car would even be routinely moved and your keys placed exactly where you left them so that after work you started to think you were losing your mind.

We had a Coast Guard warrant officer who was an insanely talented photographer, a great instructor, a huge, with a capital H, fan of baseball and a devious-practical joker.

He was about to depart for a few weeks of leave and I started thinking about how I was going to get him back for the jokes he’d played on me. I had seen a photograph on the internet of someone having their cubicle filled with packing peanuts. I knew from experience that our supply people routinely had vast, and I mean vast (they couldn’t be carried by one man), bags of packing peanuts.

Like this but with less foil and more peanuts.

Like this but with less foil and more peanuts.

Chief went on leave and I mentioned my idea to a co-worker. The details were worked out and yeah the Chief’s cube was duly filled with packing peanuts. I can even recall thinking we set up the joke too quickly. The Chief wasn’t due back for a few weeks and every visitor to the office wanted to know what the hell was up with that office cubicle.

In fact, the joke was almost anti-funny by the time he finally returned. Anyone on vacation for two weeks in that office knew they were walking back into a joke scenario of some sort. He came back, cursed and laughed, tore open the saran wrap barrier we had erected to hold in the packing peanuts, packing peanuts went everywhere, we eventually cleaned it up for him (hey it’s only fair) and everything was rainbows and puppies going forward, right?

No, that devious motherfucker’s head got to thinking. I mention before that this guy was a huge baseball fan and had all the memorabilia to prove it. All of it was in his cubicle. A hat signed by some famous baseball player, an autographed glove and above all a shit-ton of baseball cards. Many of them prominently on display.

He was really into baseball cards.

He waited about three days to enact his revenge, and then came to talk to me in my cube.

It was a great joke he said, he wished he’d have pulled it off himself, he said. He thought it was great, but there was one problem: One of his more expensive baseball cards was missing. He asked me when we had filled up his cube, and he said he needed to know because if it was right before he returned it could mean someone stole it from his cube. I told him we filled it up the day that he went on leave.

He sighed.

He told me that he thought we might have thrown the card away during our cleanup efforts. There was really no other explanation and it kind of made sense. There were fucking packing peanuts everywhere for the love of god. I knew, I’d cleaned them up. Had we inadvertently thrown away a valuable baseball card? It was possible.

Now, if we’d have pulled the prank the day before he came home, then there were all sorts of other explanations about what might have happened to the card, but considering that the cubicle was covered in packing peanuts, there was only one real explanation.

I debated with him for a moment or two, but it became pretty obvious to me that yeah, I’d probably somehow swept it into a bag with all the packing peanuts. I admitted that I was likely the cause of the loss and asked him how much it would cost to replace. He told me. I don’t recall how much it was, but it was enough that I was going to have to tell Dagmar about my fuck up.

I told him I’d bring him a check the next morning and he thanked me, apologized again for the situation and let me stew until the next morning when I showed up with the checkbook (which Dagmar rarely let me use) before falling on the floor in a gut-busting fit of laughter and let me off the hook.

Yeah, maybe revenge IS the funniest joke after all, dickhead.

And so it went.

There used to be (and for all I know still is) a feature in Microsoft Word that allows you to automatically change a word into another word when its typed in a document. Did you just type the word “awesome?” Well, there was a way to make word “awesome” automatically change that word to “fuckface.” It was a handy feature for the jokesters. Endless fun was had by those in the know when some new person came along. A favorite in my office when I was teaching photojournalism was to change the word photograph to pretty picture. Oh, the howls you’d hear from the uninitiated.

The third and final epic joke involved one of those “executive” cubicles with the walls that almost, but not quite, reached the office ceiling. It belonged to one of the instructors who taught the advanced courses and it had a door that locked. The key to the door had long ago been lost so if the door was closed you were forced to climb over the wall and jump down to open the door.

It was a rarely used gag employed to get a quick laugh if the instructor was in a hurry.

Someone, I don’t recall who, suggested we fill the fucker with balloons. At first the idea seemed folly. How the hell are we all going to fill enough balloons to cover such a huge area? Then someone mentioned they had an electric air compressor that could easily fill balloons and the idea went from “if” to “when” territory.

When the target of the joke took a Friday off,  poor guy took time off, it was game on. We became some sort of assembly line of mischief, filling, tying off and placing balloon after balloon into the locked cubicle. Some evil bastard even placed a few water balloons on the floor so the poor guy couldn’t just pop them willy-nilly. We honestly worked late into the night making it happen. Eventually, the cubicle filled up.

Monday morning, all of us gathered around the community meeting area with cups of coffee and watched as the target once again climbed the outside wall of his cube, only to discover his office filled with balloons. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

This normally mild-mannered, soft spoken, polite and well dressed man turn his head toward us from atop his cubicle wall and said, “You motherfuckers.” It’s a speech I will never forget. Someone told him about the water balloons (I think we had rethought the wisdom of that decision over the weekend) and one of us volunteered to jump in and open the door. As always we cleaned it up. It’s not funny if someone suffers, the only fun is the reaction.

It all ended of course. Nothing that awesome can go on forever.  A new member to the team came, and a few people knew her and warned me about her. I was the guy in charge by this point and I’d been taught to let people stand on their own legs. Don’t prejudge. Which is what we all agreed to do, let her stand on her own two legs and we’d form our own decisions.

She honestly fit right in. You couldn’t leave an unlocked email account around her, she had an excellent ability to bullshit and she honestly brought a fresh viewpoint the jokes.

Case in point. We had one massive classroom that, in the back had several cages the held the student’s camera equipment. Each instructor had the key to his own cage. She waited until all the students were out of the room and had her students move my camera equipment cage so that the doors were reversed and against the wall. She had her kids drag this huge metal cage out. Turn it 180 degrees and put in back so that it looks completely normal until my kids tried to put their camera’s away.

Well done, well fucking done. She was upping the game.

It ended with a piece of cake. That’s it a piece of cake.

Someone on my team took a photo of the new girl eating a piece of cake. Then, in what in that office would’ve been considered a rather boring joke, photoshopped the cake to make it look like her plate held a massive amount of cake. Get it? In the photo she’s eating a lot of cake, like an amount of cake no person could ever possibly eat.

On a funny scale of one to ten it’s barely a two. No one considered it even anything more. It was a sort of lame, vaguely funny but not really joke.

Except she didn’t think so. Turns out she had a bulimic, anorectic or what the fuck ever eating disorder as a kid and didn’t find it funny at all*. She went straight to the grownups. The school’s leadership got wind of it and before you knew it I was sitting before the man assuring them that the games were in fact over, that we would stop the shenanigans and yes, I understood that this time they really meant it.

But all the while I couldn’t help but think, really? This is what pushed us over the edge? This cake photo? You’re kidding me? Did anyone ever tell you about the time we signed that Air Force guy up for all the gay newsletters?

Really, this ends with a cake photo?

* In hindsight, getting older and heck I don’t know, just trying to be a better human I know completely understand that this could’ve been traumatic for her. She didn’t ask to be assigned to our little joke-filled office and did her damn best to keep up until a seemingly innocent joke from our point of view stirred up some crappy emotions for her. I’m sorry Air Force lady, no one ever meant for a second to upset you.

An insane person cleans my house

After this many years of marriage you would think I’d have a clue. But here’s a clue: I don’t. I don’t have one clue about when the deep clean is about to happen in our house until I walk into the middle of it. This usually means I walk into a room on a Saturday morning to discover my wife has morphed into a Tasmanian devil and is vigorously scrubbing each cat with Pine-Sol while yelling something about cleansing our home of germs with fire.

I think my wife, when she’s in the cleaning mood, could be declared legally insane. I’ve often considered recording her actions and showing them to mental health professionals for future legal use when she eventually decides my innards are germ-encrusted disease factories (If you’ve ever smelled my post beer-binge farts you might agree.), and she fixes that problem by knocking me out and administering an ammonia enema or something.

Like this, only with hatred for germs.
Like this, only with hatred for germs.

You think I’m kidding?

Let me explain a few of her maniacal cleaning antics.

Our house is strewn with rugs. Not carpet — rugs — the kind that can be flipped upside down. During these psychotic cleaning sessions not only does she vacuum the tops of the rugs, she turns the rugs over and vacuums the underside. Now, I can hear you say, “That’s a good idea, there’s dirt there and vacuuming both sides of the rug is a great way to ensure it’s clean.”

To which I say, you’re a fucking mess and are probably just as dangerous as she is.

There’s one thing I want to be clear about here. I’m not just some husband who is bitching about cleaning the house.

We clean our house basically every weekend. It’s not the kind of cleaning where we rip apart our entire house and ruin our weekend in search of dirt.

It’s a pretty normal kind of cleaning. Vacuum, mop, dust, laundry, wipe down the kitchen and “sanitize” the old internet history (if you know what I mean), kind of clean the house.

I do that with her every weekend. I’ve learned a lot by doing it. I know I can’t run a vacuum for shit, but I can fucking mop like a pro. I know not to clean the countertop with Windex if the wife is looking. I’ve learned I’m better and faster at changing the sheets on the bed. I’ve learned I suck at the washing of the laundry but rock at folding it, and I’ve learned I’ve gone on too long now about my household cleaning abilities.

I’m not talking about a husband who hates cleaning the house. I don’t like it, but hell, I helped dirty it, so I don’t mind helping to clean it up. What I’m talking about is when she has the desire to strip a room of everything and absolutely create a cleaningpalooza atmosphere that will take exactly the entire weekend to finish. That’s today’s topic: Those odd moods when she gets to just go all Rambo on the house and fires off disinfectant like a commando.

I get that cleaning the house to within an inch of its life is a needed and valuable thing on occasion. We humans are filthy beasts. We’re constantly shedding skin flakes, we urinate and defecate, we prepare food that can be thriving with germs and viruses and I fart a lot.

What I don’t get is why the decision to clean the hell out of the house has to commence with the secrecy of a military operation. She has never given me any warning that she’s decided she’s going to do it some particular weekend.

Never once has she said, “This weekend we are going to napalm the fuck out of all the germs in the house.”

Not once has she ever turned to me on any weekday and said, “Hey this weekend — I’m going to work you like a rented mule cleaning every nook and cranny come Saturday.”

That’s the part that drives me nuts. Why? Why would that be so hard to do? Just fucking say, “Hey honey, here’s the plan for the weekend.”

Why the secrecy? Are the germs on guard, tucked down in bunkers waiting for an invasion? Dagmar launches these attacks seemingly out of the blue. After all these years I have nary a clue when the weekend is about to be consumed in pursuit of germocide. One minute it’s Friday night and I’m swilling beer, and the next it’s Saturday morning and I’m hungover holding a mop. It’s like I went on a bender and was drafted into some weird cleaning crew army while blacked out.

It could even be OK if she made an announcement that very morning over coffee.

“Enjoy this rare moment of calm, honey, because I’m about to go ape shit on some full-fucking house cleaning, so strap the fuck in,” she could say as I flicked the sleep boogers from my eyes.

But nope, it just happens.

The signs are clear once they appear. Every room is systematically stripped of anything she’s strong enough to move, which is most of it. The last time it happened I came up from the basement (where the man cave is located) and discovered a heap of living room rugs on the stair landing. I knew it was game on. I’ve played this game before, I’d seen this movie a thousand time and I was just as terrified as the first time I experienced it.

The best move I can make on “kill all germs in the house” day is too listen to orders and when possible, escape. I valiantly volunteer for missions I would normally balk at.

Need me to run to the store to return 25 items you bought but lost the receipts for honey? Not a problem. Need me to pick up feminine hygiene products that won’t scan correctly at the check out? I’m your man. Need me to stab myself in the eyes while driving away from this crazy, crazy scene? Hell honey, let me start a list, because I am going to do all these things for you if it gets me out of insane clean the house day.

Here’s some things about “kill all the germs in the house” day that I’ll never understand:

1: Vacuuming both sides of the rugs. But we’ve already covered that.

2: The lifting of TVs, DVD players and assorted electronic devices so the area under them can be dusted.

3: Removing the ceiling fastened lighting domes from every room and washing them in the sink.

4: Using toothbrushes that are dedicated to getting to the bottom of who knows what. I’m too terrified to look. I think it involves plumping though.

5: Routinely moving major appliances to clean under them.

She used to scrub all the floors on her hands and knees, because, I don’t know. One of the greatest accomplishments of my marriage was the introduction of the mop. It was like showing an undiscovered primitive tribe in the Amazon a Bic lighter.

She once instructed me to move a stack of firewood in the garage to the other side of the garage so she could sweep where the pile of firewood once was. I’m not joking at all. That was literally the request. This is the same woman who will sweep the dirt up from a patio into a trashcan and not into the grass.

This is the level of weird cleaning I’m dealing with.

There were warning signs in the beginning that this would happen to me, sure. But I ignored them all because who the fuck as a newlywed notices shit like that?

“Sure honey, I’ll scrub the tile with a toothbrush with you because hell, we’re naked together,” was my reaction back then, but now it’s just like, “Why the fuck are we scrubbing anything with a toothbrush? This is just fucking weird and we’re wearing clothes for fuck’s sake.”

Facebook weighs in ...
Facebook weighs in …

Post script:

As I was writing this, I learned a lot by talking to you all on Facebook.

I learned that most of you reading this are either lazy as fuck or filthy animals. In some cases probably both. How many of you fucks are billionaires or some shit.

“Well, Todd, I don’t do a deep-clean or clean at all. I have a person who does that for me, it’s called the cleaning lady.”

What the fuck? You have people come clean your house? Seriously and shit? That thread is like 80 responses deep and I went way off the chain in it, but seriously, a lot of you either just don’t clean or have a house cleaner? That’s amazing.

OK, I wanted a house cleaning person too and joked with Dagmar for years in the military that when I was promoted to master sergeant we were hiring a cleaning person. Then, when I found out I made master sergeant and I called and told her about my promotion, she said something like, “Great, but we’re not getting a fucking cleaning lady.”

And here’s the weird shit to toss around in your brain. While she fucking cleans like a maniac, other shit in the house that you think would bug a clean freak doesn’t seem too. Our bath towels aren’t fit to dry a homeless dog. Most of them are threadbare, frayed fucking antiques that predate our marriage. They don’t so much as dry you off post shower as sandpaper the water off of your skin. I wouldn’t use one to apply pressure if either of us were ever bleeding from a knife wound. They’re that sketchy. Yet I’m expected to dry my balls with them. A shitty fucking towel tucked into a spotless cabinet. What the fuck sense does that make? I’ve suggested more than once we just replace all of them and I always get a look from her that makes me think I’m the weirdo.