Category Archives: Piece of Ass

I wish I could promise this would be the last poo post, but clearly that would be a lie.

Remember Bobo’s colonoscopy last week? MP does. We arrived at gymnastics Friday and pulled into a parking spot next to Bobo, who was sitting, waiting for us in his truck. MP saw him and smiled.

“Heeeyy … I didn’t know POOP DUDE was gonna be here today …”

And now Bobo has a new name. The beautiful thing is she came up with it completely on her own.

So last night Bobo and my brother (Uncle Paulie) were over — Uncle Paulie’s visiting from Denver with my SIL and nephews — and the whole Poop Dude thing came up. And because Bobo is such an easy target, especially when my brother and I get together …

Uncle Paulie to MP: Why do you call Bobo Poop Dude?

MP: Because he had to have a tube put in his POOPHOLE!

UP: (laughing) Do you know WHY Bobo had to have a tube in his poophole?

MP: Ummm …

UP: (nodding, laughing) Because he LIKES it.

MP: (laughing) Noooo! The DOCTOR had to look around.

UP: Ooooh. There’s a special kind of doctor that puts a tube up your tush. Do you know what that doctor is called?

MP: (shakes head)

UP: That would be a DEN-TIST.

My brother. He sucks.

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Birds of a feather flock to the gym.

I hate the gym. Squeezing a workout into the day is a challenge. I have just 30 minutes after work allotted to the treadmill before having to pick up MP. Preschool closes at six.

If I don’t leave the office at exactly 5 p.m. or a few minutes before, I’ve blown it. Usually I blow it. Which means I make it to the gym on average … once a week. Which is stupidity. The Girl’s Trip is coming up fast. I have two months to get rid of the gut and at this rate, I might as well just stay home.

Today, during my frenzied 30-minute workout, I’m on the treadmill next to an attractive 40ish guy. There’s something a little different about him … I can’t quite put my finger on it …

Until, sweaty and excited, I realize I have come in contact with the highly elusive and low-key small town homosexual.

Rural homo cornholius.

Even in a small town gym, gay guys got game. It just looks a little different. It sounds a little different. And, to the casual observer, probably goes unnoticed.

“Hey Fish & Game Guy …” my neighbor calls with a big smile to a burly guy with a thick, redneckish Fu Man Chu, wearing standard government khakis. “What do you think of the .40 vs. .45 caliber semi-automatic?”

The innuendo is thick.

Oh. Bad.

I squint my eyes and hope for the best. Please no ass-kicking, please no ass-kicking, please no ass-kicking.

To my amazement, Big Fu smiles and comes forward.

And just like that, these two people, who only moments before were complete strangers, found common ground and were engaging in conversation.

Just two gay country guys talkin’ ’bout huntin’. (Had to be code.) I was so busy trying to remember this priceless exchange and NOT pee my pants, I didn’t hear much more. They are, after all, rare birds in this neck of the woods. And I loooves the gays. They always have a way of making me feel like the most beautiful creature in the world.

*sigh*

As for me, the gym is the LAST place I’d ever hope to find a love connection. And I have to admit, it IS a little irritating how EASY they made it look.

Not that I’m looking.

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LMAO

Here’s my contribution to Make Me Laugh Monday … if this isn’t good for a guffaw, something’s terribly wrong.

Enjoy!

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Because You Can Never Hear Too Many Fart Jokes

A most excellent fart post yesterday by PJMomma included this clip from the Canadian Idol auditions. Naturally, I had to steal it.

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Who Left Porn On The Printer?

Someone left porn on the printer at work today. I have five female co-workers. My boss is male. Between a few of us, I think we were able to narrow it down to a likely suspect. (You make the call.)

I actually have nothing against *most* porn. It has it’s place. But, now I know a certain unnamed someone is “looking for a fug buddy,” (and doing it at work, no less – eeww) and …. I just threw up a little in my mouth.

This is Fug.

The Profanity Pug.

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