The Full Monty

I know it doesn't really show with my more recent submissions for Half-Nekkid Thursday, but I am slowly becoming completely obsessed with it. I bought a camera for it. I start checking Osbasso's blog around seven on Wednesday. I spend all day Thursday checking for posts. I am becoming depressed because I don't have one tenth the imagination of some of the people posting for HNT. I'm running out of ideas and while I would like to come up with something intriguing and artistic and original, I keep coming back to the same idea that frightens me.

The full monty.

Nobody has done it yet, so it would be a first, but I fear that HNT would loose something if I did. It's HALF - Nekkid Thursday for a reason. Right now it's a collection of innocent snapshots of peoples lives and some small amount of titillation. I can't speak for most guys, but I know that I am thrilled when one of the women that posts shows a little bit of flesh not normally seen by the public. Maybe it's the voyeur in me, maybe it's the thrill of seeing somebody use their imagination, maybe I'm just a blathering pervert.

I would think that most women, with a few exceptions, aren't quite as fascinated with the male body. That isn't to say that they don't appreciate a nice curve, a firm jaw, or a manly set of hands, but I think if you compared the two sexes, men are much more into "just show them to me already."

I could be completely wrong. I have run into a few very randy women recently. I guess the reality is that I don't see that much that is attractive about the male genitalia. Women are soft and curvy and smell good. Men are intrusive, stanky, and hairy. I think I'm a lesbian.

The point is, I can't decide on the full monty. It wouldn't be to impress, believe me. I don't think for a minute that anybody of either sex would think "break me off a piece of that!" It's just my need to try to one up people and the fact that I have little imagination.

I guess I need some internet guidance. What do you say blogger peeps? Full monty or no? Feel free to comment, but leave a definite aye or nay and I will abide by the blogger community's wishes.

Drive it like you stole it.

Hobbit Feet = HNT

Ok, first let me say there have been way to many attractive feet on HNT. I'm not a huge fan of feet, they kinda creep me out. Perhaps after taking a gander at one of mine you will understand. My big toe seems to be all by it's lonesome. In addition, it pops up vertical when I walk. I always had trouble with canvas shoes because my big toe always wore the top of the shoe out long before any other part was worn. Also note the hair. I am descended from hobbits without a doubt. Please no comments on the pedicure, it's self inflicted.

How I Disappointed My Dad

I've talked before about how my step-father raised me. When I talk about my Dad, that's usually the person worthy of that title. My real father is something else. I harbor no ill will to the man, I barely know him. I saw him twice a year, birthday and Christmas, when I was growing up. After I got my license, S.L. only visited my twice. Once when I graduated high school and once for Thanksgiving. Oh, by the way, S.L. isn't some cutesy attempt to hide the man's identity. That's what he goes by. His name is Sammie Lee Cates, everybody calls him S.L.

After I started driving, I had to go visit him. He lives in the Missouri boot heel and when I was in college I drove up for something called "Homecoming," which is just an excuse for everyone to drink and eat goats (you heard me).

We went across the street from where he lives for a beer at the local tavern (which happens to be owned by the Sheriff). After a couple of cold ones, he started in on me about college. "I don't understand why you are even bothering with college. I got drafted, did my time in the Army during the Korean war and then went to work. I didn't need any college."

Like most men that age, I had thought about the armed services. To my thinking, it seemed almost like an obligation, a civic duty and I often felt guilty because I had declined to serve. When S.L. started talking about how when he got drafted, before he shipped out, he gave his car to his best friend and his records to his girl, etc. etc. because he might not be coming back, I started to really feel the guilt. At the time my best friends Dad had been a decorated fighter pilot in the Vietnam war and his step-dad won the Silver Star as an Army Ranger in the same conflict, so I asked S.L. what he did during the Korean war.

He got quiet and then took a swig of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He turned and looked me in the eye and I was bracing myself for some horror story about killing babies.

"I was stationed in D.C., my outfit cooked mess for all of the units shipping out that traveled through there."

I stared at him blankly and then chugged down what was left of my beer in one big gulp. I never let S.L. make me feel guilty about anything after that night.

HNT

It's vain I know, but I'm really glad that there is still grass on the playing field. Actually it's kinda funny. As a young man, like many young men, I worried about losing my hair as I grew older. Oddly enough, in my 37th year on this rock, I have more trouble with unwanted hair sprouting from strange places. My ears, my back, the end of my nose. Nobody warned you about that when you were a kid.

Rock on.

My Hero

It's true. I'm a grown man that plays with dolls. This is a 12" representation of R. Lee Ermey, the drill sergeant from "Full Metal Jacket." I spent over $40 for him. There was a cheaper version, but I bought the "extra salty" version. Press the button on his back and he says things like "You'd better show me motivation or I will rip off your head and take a giant shit down your throat!"

He gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.

The Joy Of Flying Part Deux

My sister reminded me of the first time I used a FedEx jump seat. I hopped a plane after work one night (approximately 3 a.m.) for a quick trip to Boca Raton, FL. for my nephew's christening. I was tired and sleepy having just finished the sort and quickly dozed off. I woke up about two hours later and quickly proceeded to panic. The cockpit was dark except for the blinking lights on the control panels, some kind of shade had been drawn across the windows, and to my horror, both pilots were asleep! Not just "head drooped forward" asleep. These guys were serious about their nap time. They had taken their shoes off, their ties were loose and the co-pilot was snoring! I gripped my seat in terror and bit my tongue. You can't piss off the pilots because it only takes one to ban you from ever using the jump seats again. The plane seemed to be flying straight and level so I just kept my vigil, ready to jump over the pilot and grab the yoke of the aircraft in case of emergency.

This went on for the majority of the flight. I watch drool slowly drip it's clingy stream from the co-pilots gaping, snoring maw. Eventually, the plane began to turn and suddenly the pilots snapped awake. They quickly adjusted their clothing, began flipping switches and removed the drape from the windows. Sweet, sweet daylight. We landed without incident and I spent the next couple of days at my sister's house lounging beside her screened in pool (I know, I know, who puts a screen around a pool? Apparently the bug problem is that bad.). It was several months before I flew again and you know how that trip turned out. I will say that I believe the old adage "ignorance is bliss" holds true for flying. You don't want to know what the pilots are doing in the cockpit.

I guess I should have posted this trip first, but the truth of the matter is that the horror of crapping my pants during an emergency landing blocked out the terror of waking up to find the pilots asleep.

Rock on.

The Joy Of Flying

I use to be a fearless flyer. Ever since I was little, I liked to fly. My mom says that I was incorrigible. She claims that I pinched the ass of every stewardess that I ever met. Wish I could get away with that now.

Things are a little different now of course, but my problem with airplanes began around 1995. I had gone back to school and managed to get a night job at FedEx working in the hub sorting packages. It was a shit job with crazy hours and low pay, but the big perk at the time was the fact that you could jump seat on any of their planes.

If you aren't aware, in the cockpit of most jets, there is a little seat that folds down called the jump seat. Apparently it was put there for FAA officials to observe pilots or some official crap like that, but FedEx allowed their employees to use those seats to travel. You could jump down to Florida for the day and jump back that night. Sounds pretty cool, huh?

The second time I used this little perk was during fall break one year. A buddy of mine also worked at FedEx and we decided to jump from Memphis to San Francisco. He chickened out at the last minute, so I went by myself. The flight out was as uneventful as flying in a jump seat can be. Nothing special happened, but when you fly in the jump seat you are literally looking over the pilots shoulder, and let me say, the ground rushes up at you quite quickly on landings.

I spent three or four days in 'Frisco and enjoyed all of the sights. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge, saw the Blue Angels perform over Alcatraz, ate a lot of food and just took in the city. I love San Francisco and plan to move there after I win the lottery.

The trip back was a little more dramatic.

The first jet I boarded was a smaller plane, I don't remember the type, and I sat right behind the pilot. As the plane taxied to the runway, you could feel a regular "thump" through out the jet. Kind of a "bah bump......bah bump.....bah bump....." The pilot remarked to the co-pilot "they must have put the square wheels on this one." I didn't like the sound of that, but they stress to you that you cannot talk to the pilots, so I kept my mouth shut. The plane begins to pick up speed and the thumping gets quicker and quicker, the fillings are starting to rattle in my teeth and you can hear crap rolling around in the containers in the cargo hold. I feel that familiar lift in my gut as the plane starts to leave the tarmac and suddenly the co-pilot yells at the top of his lungs "I've lost the altimeter, abort the take off!" The pilot slams on the brakes, tires are squealing, the end of the runway is coming up and I'm pissing my pants.

We come to a stop with plenty of room to spare and the pilot turns to me and says "you had better find another way back to Memphis, this bitch ain't going anywhere."

So they take me back to the hub and I work the phones. Now I'm taking a flight to San Jose and then changing planes to fly back to Memphis. The plane to Memphis was a DC-10 and the set up was just like you saw in the movie "Castaway". There is the flight cabin and behind that are two regular airplane seats mounted against the bulkhead, a bathroom, and then the cargo area. This time I had a companion, a young black girl that I had never met before.

Take off happened without a hitch and we are about an hour into the flight, when the engineer comes out of the cabin to get the crew's food. FedEx puts some box lunches in a cooler for the crew, but the jumpers just have to suck it up and starve. The engineer walks through the door, gets the lunches from the cooler and on the way back he stops, looks at the young black girl and I, furrows his brow and sort of wrinkles up his nose like one of us has shit their pants. I wasn't overly offended since I probably did shart in my boxers after the aborted take off.

He disappears into the cabin for a minute or so and then pokes his head out and says "you two come in here, NOW!" I thought, oh crap, I've done it now. The young black girl and I unbuckle and make our way into the cabin. The engineer points to two little jumpseats side by side and says "Sit." After we get buckled into the seats, he starts breaking out the oxygen masks.

A slight note about the oxygen masks. They had to train us to wear them correctly before they would let us fly. These weren't the little yellow cup things you see on a commercial flight. They were full blown masks that cover the entire face like a fighter pilot might wear. I look over at the young black girl and her eyes are as big as saucers and I'm sure mine were the same. We both knew this was highly irregular.

I'm listening to the pilot chatter and start to piece things together. They are on the radio with air traffic control in Las Vegas requesting an emergency landing. Vegas wants to know what the nature of the emergency is and the pilot replies "We have aviation fuel fumes in the cockpit." I had never smelled a thing.

So the plane starts banking sharply and then practically dives toward the ground. If you have ever landed in Vegas, you know that the airport is near the strip and since this was all happening at night, I thought I saw the lights from all of the casinos. As we get closer, I realize that the lights I am seeing are the ones on top of the emergency vehicles lining the runway, fire trucks, those foam sprayers and a couple of ambulances. Ok, now I've really dropped a load in my shorts and by this time the young black girl that I don't know is locked onto me in a death hug and I'm hugging her back and we are both muttering prayers and just completely freaking out.

The plane lands without a problem, they unload us quickly and then run us into the terminal. Somebody official comes in and tells us that it will be several hours before they can let us know what's going to happen and if we have to make any phone calls we can use the one on his desk. I call my boss back in Memphis to let him know that I don't think I'm going to make it to work. He calls me everything from a heathen to a liar and I finally hang up on him.

At about four in the morning, one of the ground crew comes in to tell us that they had to unload the entire plane. They finally found some part from a jet fuel system that maintenance had loaded onto the plane, but didn't think to empty all of the fuel out of it. He said we were never in any danger, but that didn't help clean my drawers.

I quit FedEx shortly after that and went to work for UPS. The hours were better and I never once shit my pants.

An End To An Epic

Well, I finally had a chat with T.B. Seems that most of my fears were unfounded. It wasn't a game (at least on her part) and after a few exchanges of "I'm sorry" between the two of us, things seem to be on better footing. She has apparently moved on from "Mr. Obsessive" and I must say that I am glad. She is a great friend and along with the angst that I was feeling, I was also concerned for her. From what little I've been told, I had a reason to be. So, I have a friend back. I told her about this blog because I'm horrible at keeping secrets and I knew she would find out sooner or later. She seemed amused. At least amused enough to ask if she could give her mother the URL. Great, now my friend's mother gets to ogle my sock picture. I have nobody to blame but myself. Anyway, welcome back to team Chad T.B.

In other news, I'm planning a little trip to Florida. The airfare from Nashville to Tampa was $39 one way and after putting $40 worth of gas in my car yesterday, I decided that I had better take advantage of the cheap flight. So, I'm gonna fly down, do a little fishing and take in a couple of Devil Ray games. Hopefully, I will find some time for the beach in there somewhere too. "Sugah" is gonna go with me. I'm not sure that she is interested in fishing or baseball, but she seems content to spend time with me.

My 20 year class reunion is next weekend. I won't be able to go because I am on call. I'm not really all that broken up about it. I went to the 10 year just to see who had hair, who got fat, and who had more kids than fingers. It was pretty sad. The high point of the night was talking to "Charlie" who was kind of a mousy braniac in high school. He was the Salutatorian I think. After exchanging pleasantries we got down to the "so, what have you been up to" business. Charlie paused for a second and said "I'm an agent with the U.S. Customs service." Instant boner for me. I was shrieking like a little girl "Let me see your badge! Let me see your badge!" Pathetic on my part, but that was the most interesting thing that anybody I graduated with has done as far as I'm concerned.

I got a notice in the mail today from the local blood bank. Seems they want me to make a deposit. I feel so used for my O+ blood type, but it did remind me of being poor in college. "How is that?" you might ask. Well, I have this HUGE hole in the inside of my left elbow from giving plasma for drinking money. In those days, they would give you $12.50 each time you gave and you could go twice a week. So my buddy Jorge and I would always go the second time at the end of the week and then head straight to either Bash Riprocks for quad night (four drinks for one, not that they gave you four drinks, they just put four times the liquor in a big twenty ounce cup) or we would wander over to the Annex for buck night, dollar pitchers and ten cent hot wings. On top of the cheap liquor, we were a tad hypovolemic and a very cheap drunk. When I think of the small amount of scratch that I used to live on and be happy, it boggles my mind that I make what I do and still want more. I guess that proves the old adage, "the more you make, the more you spend."

Seacrest out.

HNT Part Tres

Ok, three weeks in and I'm already running out of ideas. Who knew I had one nostril bigger than the other? Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday.

It's Mrs. Roper's Fault

This is a toy I was given to play with for my birthday about 3 years ago. My Dad got a phone call from a friend at the bank. Apparently, some poor soul had borrowed money to buy a beat to hell 1984 Corvette and now was unable to make his notes. My Dad's friend let him have it for what was owed, which was a pittance. Dad knew that I had been looking for a project car so he gave it to me for my birthday. I was thrilled. I was 16 in 1984 and this was the car all of the guys dreamed about. It was in pretty bad shape. The targa top was shattered, the electronic dashboard didn't work, the seats were torn all to hell and the whole damn thing shaked when you went faster than 50 mph.

I spent many, many weekends working on it. I was King of the Garage, Master of the Shop, Overlord of the Auto.

Less than a year after I started to play with it, my wife and I decided to separate. I moved into the mother-in-law quarters of a dowager here in town. I took my clothes and my truck and that was it. The place was furnished in early '70's grad student and I quickly settled into my little piece of hell.

The old lady that owned the house was the spitting image of Mrs. Roper. I never saw her when she wasn't in her house coat and fuzzy slippers. She smoked like a freight train and constantly kept her nose in what little business I had. I paid her two months rent up front and was always early with each month's check, but she acted like I was gonna stiff her at any minute. One day, there wasn't much going on at work, so I stayed home to practice my bum skills. I'm splayed on the couch in my boxers, drinking a cold one and watching Jerry Springer. There was a knock on the door, which was very surprising since nobody even knew where I lived, I was too embarrassed, and there is Mrs. Roper in her Sunday go to meetin' house coat.

Mrs. Roper: "I just wanted to make sure you were ok, I saw your truck in the driveway and I know that it's a work day for you."

me: "I'm fine, I'm just taking the day off and brushing up on my Sanskrit." (as I swig from the beer)

Mrs. Roper: "Sanskrit? Is that some kind of plumbing?"

me: "Nevermind, it was a bad joke. I'm fine."

Mrs. Roper: "So you haven't lost your job? Because rent is due next week."

That was pretty typical of every conversation that we ever had. She raised my rent twice in the year I was staying there. The second time was the final straw. I banged on her door to give her my rent. She had one of those wrought iron storm doors and the inside door was open giving me a clear view into her living room. The place was rampant with cats and there was a single lounge chair in front of the television. Next to the chair was an ash tray the size of a hubcap sitting on the floor. It would have been impossible to place another butt into that ash tray. When I bang on the door, nothing happens for a few minutes so I bang again. Finally, the lounge chair rocks forward and Mrs. Roper rolls out of it and comes to the door. She cracks it open and leans out when she sees that I'm holding a check. I can't focus on what color house coat she is wearing today or on any of the dozens of cats swarming around her legs because in her mouth is a cigarette with an ash almost an inch long. I know she said something to me because I saw the cigarette move up and down. Finally, the ash shakes off and falls to the ground and I snap out of my reverie.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Roper, what did you say?"

"I said your rent will be $50 more next month."

"Another $50? Are you just gonna keep raising my rent."

"As long as the cost of my utilities keep going up," and then her bony hand reached out and snatched my check.

So that was the end of my stay at hotel Roper. I was there in the first place because it was cheap and I still had a mortgage I was responsible for paying. At that point, a regular apartment was no more expensive, so I moved. I found out later that she had the nerve to tell the mail man that my new apartment complex "stoled" her tenant.

The point in telling this depressing story is what happened to my toy while I was living there. I had done some work on it and had brought it back to Mrs. Roper's house so that I could drive it that week and make sure the new exhaust that I put on it was ok. The drive where I was allowed to park had some kind of huge bushy shrub next to it and I had gotten a little close to it a couple of times. It was no big deal, I was planning on painting the 'Vette anyway. Then, one day, I was in a hurry and barely glanced at my rear view mirror as I flew out of the drive. I heard a horrendous ripping noise as I brushed against the shrub. I hadn't realized that Mrs. Roper had severely trimmed the shrub and now instead of soft leaves against the side of the car, I had tagged a couple of inch thick branch stubs. This is the result.
Cute huh? Anyway, after my divorce was final, I moved back into the house and treated myself to a brand new car. Now I had three vehicles and it didn't take me long to realize that I could only drive one. I sold the truck and since I haven't played with the Corvette in over a year, the time has come to sell it too. I took pictures of it this morning and now I'm just waiting for somebody to take it off of my hands. I have mixed emotions about seeing it go.

Miscellaneous Bullshit

It seems that it has been a while since I have written anything worth reading on my blog. I doubt that will change with this entry, but I figure my one reader is tired of looking at a retarded picture of a sock dangling on my equipment. So, I will just make this a little update of what's been going on in my life.

T.B. contacted me a short time ago. She came online and asked if we could be friends. I replied "that depends." When she wanted to know what "depends" meant, I said, "on who this is." I did not want to get into it with her freaky, Chunk obsessed boyfriend. She convinced me that it was her and I told her that it would be great to be able to talk to her again, but what about her relationship with psycho boy. She told me "There is no relationship." Like I didn't see that coming. I haven't heard from her since, so I'm not sure what is going on there. I'm glad she isn't dealing with Mr. Over Possessive though.

The little sweetheart that I'm calling my girlfriend (whether she likes it or not) did the nicest thing for me yesterday. She called and asked what my address was. I thought "this is odd, she has been to my house a dozen times." I tried to be a half-assed jerk-wad about it, don't ask me why, but eventually gave her my address. Turns out that "Sugah" bought me tickets to the Cardinals-Cubs game on the 23rd. Unfortunately, I am on call that night and can't get out of it, but it's still the sweetest thing ever. We will figure something out.

The two of us have been having another issue that I'm not sure how to address because it involves s-e-x. My little porn star and I were having fun scaring the dogs one night and during the after glow, when our hearts are beating a mile a minute and the sweat is making everything a whole lot cooler than it has a right to be in West Tennessee in the summer, I reach down to dispose of my jimmy cover. Damn if the thing wasn't gone. We checked there, believe me. It wasn't in the bed, it wasn't in the sheets, it isn't hanging from the ceiling fan, the dogs don't look particularly guilty, I simply don't have a clue what happened to it. It has been two weeks and the damn thing still hasn't turned up. Her theory is that my jack hammer ass simply caused the jimmy hat to disintegrate. I have no other explanation. I'm thinking about calling the company and asking them about their failure rate. I can hear the conversation now.

me: "Ummmm, your product failed, and that is not a good thing."

them: "Well, did you use our product in an appropriate manner?"

me: "What the hell does that mean? If you want to know if I was trying to stretch it over my melon or if I was using it as a water barrier for my .50 cal machine gun, the answer is no.
If you are asking if I put it on my, umm, *cough*, penis correctly, then the answer is yes.
(It's true, I am a medical professional and still have trouble saying 'penis' to strangers.)

them: "Did it tear or was there a hole in it?"

me: "Uhhhh, nooooooooo. It kinda, sorta just disappeared."

them: "Disappeared?"

me: "Do I stutter, fucker? It disappeared, it's gone, the condom gnomes ran off with it. I want to know if your product ever spontaneously disintegrates."

them: "Uh, sir, maybe I should transfer you to product development. Possibly they can help you with your problem."

me: "Forget it. You turd munchers suck. I will have you know that if I have a son born with a clear rubber skull, I'm gonna sue your ass for support and that's after I name the little rug rat 'Trojan' so that I can tell everybody this story when they ask where his name came from.

them: "Listen you twit, just because you can't use a condom correctly, don't call me trying to chew me a new asshole. Read the directions on the product box or call the retard hotline next time."

me: "click"

I'm sure it will turn up. Either on the bottom of my shoe in the middle of a meeting with the hospital CEO or next time I mow the yard and hit a pile of dried dog shit. There will be a big puff of white turd dust and then a smack as the missing item hits the fence. Sugah, my little porn star, is completely unconcerned. I'm still gonna name the little leg puller "Trojan" just for kicks.

HNT

My Tribute To The Red Hot Chili Peppers

Rock on Chili Peppers. I apologize if somebody else thought of this first. I didn't see it on anybody else's post. Sheesh, you think I could have used a clean sock? I'm also sorry that I couldn't follow Obasso's suggestion for a patriotic pic. I didn't have any red, white, and blue socks.

Chicks Dig Scars, Right?

It's been brought to my attention recently that I'm a bit of a whiner. I hate whiners, I really do and being called one is ample motivation for me to adjust my behavior. It's not that I really think I have it so bad or anything. I just seem to always have something negative to say even if I don't mean it. It's just a reflex. I'm gonna start sucking it up more. I'm reminded of Anthony Michael Hall's character in "Johnny B. Good." He gets hurt in the football game and runs to the sideline crying, "Coach, coach, I broke my dick!" Coach takes one look at him and screams, "Well, rub some dirt on it and get back in there!"

So, I'm gonna try to rub some dirt on it instead of whining about it.

I am sick today. I have strep throat. The Doc gave me some antibiotics, told me to do something about my "strep breath" and sent me on my way. I was looking for a little sympathy from a friend and she told me that I should have gotten a shot instead and then followed that up with the quote of the century. Truly one for the ages. She told me:

"Your ass hurts for a few hours, but it beats swallowing."

I will take her word for it. I always did think she walked kind of funny.