Saturday, September 13, 2014

Mergasm

I had a boner dream the other night.  It wasn't a full on wet dream because I'm too old for those.  I would wager those rear their messy heads somewhere between once every four or five years these days.  A boner dream falls short of those.  It's one where you're on the verge of eruption when you wake up.  Hell, those only seem to cum (come) around once a year or so now that I think about it.

My morning was 10% as sexy as this.
Now, I don't really have a problem with a stiff wake up call on a Thursday morning, but what I do take issue with is that what was happening in the dream was simply me having a wank in my apartment.  Is that the best my brain's run down dream factory could come up with?  Dreams can do anything they want - they can fly me to Jupiter - but what am I doing?  Pulling myself off with my pants around my ankles in my dusty Chicago apartment.  The foreman at my dream factory needs to be fired.

A dream factory within a perfect mind could have had me at a fashion show where the supermodels would walk down the catwalk, backstage to me on a bearskin rug where I'm naked and smoking a pipe, she does the nasty with Doctor Ken, puts on a new outfit and parades back to the catwalk, just in time for a new one come to come backstage, and so forth.  And that's just off the top of my head!

"Take a quick bow and hurry back to the bearskin rug."

As a matter of fact, my boner dream could have taken me to a mythical land of insatiable creatures.  Dr. Ken could have been lying happily in a forest with ferries fluttering around his face, landing gently on his face, when a mermaid comes by.  Or a unicorn.  Hell, make it a winged mermaid princes with a big glowing horn jutting out of her head like a unicorn.  Somehow she rocks that horn; She owns it and makes it sexy.  She saunters over to me horny as hell, tells all the little ferries to piss off, mounts me, grinds away, and her wings are flapping in ecstasy.  Soon she is getting worked up enough to make her horn glow bright red and offers to do crazy horn penetration with me, but I politely tell her I'm not quite ready to take that plunge with her.  But maybe when I get to know her better.


This was the afternoon the woman of my dreams was conceived.
After hours and hours she finally has a powerful mergasm (which everyone knows is a mermaid orgasm) which blasts fairy dust in a 100 yard radius, knocking back the trees within the first few feet of her and making anything in its vicinity hornier than hell.  Which happens to be a centaur named Bill who trots over and pulls "the cable guy" in a porno movie on me, asking if he can join the party.  Mer-Pegasus-Unicorn lady is totally into it, but I'm not a three way dude.  Even if I were, two guys and a girl is not for me, so me and a centaur is totally out of the question - and to be honest a little intimidating.  So I excuse myself and step away to sulk under a tree, pouting about my slutty mythical beast woman who has left me for a giant horse-man.

How can I be expected to compete with this guy?
When they finish up, I thought I had gotten far enough away to get out of the range of her mergasm blast, but Bill made her fire out fairy dust twice as far.  That damn dust works its magic on me, and even though I hate myself by this point, I can't help masturbating.  And there I am tugging away with the stupid little fairies buzzing around laughing at me, and I'm whipping rocks at them, crying, and yelling at them to go away.  And that's where my boner dream would pick up, skipping all that awesome stuff you read about a minute ago . . .

Friday, September 05, 2014

Betting On Cow Poop. Because Why Not? That's Why.

I was out with a buddy the other night who says that at the small college he attended in California they apparently bet on cow poop.  My understanding is they send a cow out onto a field, and people bet money on which square foot of land the cow will choose to shit on.  So, it's kind of like craps.  No, it's more like roulette in format, but it does involve crap.

But hold on.  I got lots of questions.

     1. Could you bet on two to four squares that the cow could crap on at once, seeing as cow pies can be quite big.

     2. Do you think all the people hollering at the cow could make her clam up and tighten up her sphincter, thus messing up the game?

     3. Would if the cow releases all of its payload before it is sent out into the betting field?

     4. What is this game called?

     5. Do you think they put a little visor on the cow like a roulette dealer?  Because that would be adorable.

Unfortunately I haven't had any of these questions answered due to my buddy's only vague recollections of this practice and there seemingly being nothing about it on the internet.  Please let me know in the comments section if you know anything about this.

Also, below is the second installment of the best naked scenes in movie history podcast list that myself and Crom compiled.  We really upped the video production for this one, since we learned more what the hell we're doing.

So, poop and boobs today.  In that order.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Best Nude Scenes Ever #10 through 7

In this first installment, Crom and myself discuss our personal top ten lists, numbers 10 through 7.  Stay tuned to when we finish out lists and come up with a master nudie list.  This is important stuff, people . . .

A couple quick things . . .

1. There was a time where I really did think I would be a published writer of some kind.  As I get older, the creative juices don't flow like they used to.  I wish I could bottle up whatever manic crazy energy I had back then and use it for a couple hours a day.  Just a couple.  Not all day long because I might have been out of my mind back then.  

2. Want to know what I'm doing these days?  Still podcasts that hardly anyone listens to.  And the topic of the latest one?  The best nude scenes in film history.  Yeah, still stuff like that.  But who cares.  As long as I stay busy.  Tonight my good friend, Crom, is coming by to edit the podcast and fix up some snags we have hit along the way.  Look for an installment to come out really soon.  

3. Oh, here's a funny story.  I'm lying down on my stomach the other day (editing the boobie podcast), and Mrs. Noisewater says, "Ooh, I think that's a spider vein on your leg.  Does anyone in your family get those?"  I sullenly reported that my dad gets them, along with varicose veins, and hemorrhoids.  To cheer myself up I said, "But can we call them spidey veins?  It's cuter."  That got a laugh.  That's all I need are laughs from friends, loved ones, and you fine folks . . .

Thursday, August 21, 2014

On Ice Buckets

Like most of us, I'm really tired of people dumping ice on themselves to raise money for ALS research. Curing diseases is a good thing.  Yes.  But when your Facebok feed is full of people dumping ice water on themselves, it just gets a little old after a while.  Also, I had been in saying that this trend praying on people's addiction to filming selfies and obsessing over social media.  It is kind of genius, actually.  But I had made up my mind that if I got "challenged," I would just give the money and not make it all about myself with me on my porch being an idiot with some cold water.  Also, I'm really cynical, and I can't help but think that with all the insane amounts of money being raised, someone is going to get greedy and pocket some of it.  I have seen too many famous charity events that turned out to be later the victims of someone having sticky fingers.  So, I decided I'm out if anyone asks me to do this crap.

Then I got asked by a good friend who I play volleyball with all the time.  He is a terrific dude.  I remember when ladies would ask if I had any single friends, he was just about the only guy I could say was a friend who is single and a decent human being.  That being said, he does have a fatal flaw: he is always late.  Having 24 hours to complete the challenge, he waited until the last hour possible.  He didn't bother to check the framing of the shot, so his head is cut out of it.  Also, It was dark outside, and I guess he didn't have the means to light up his back porch enough, so he dumps the water on himself just outside his screen door, getting water all over the carpet.  It cracked me up, and it made me love the guy even more.

I think it would have been easy to say no to a lot of friends, but with him I was put in a bind.  However, Mrs. Noisewater's parents were coming in town, and I had to hang out with them through out the whole next day while Mrs. Noisewater was at work.  They're great people, and I really couldn't see myself saying, okay, you guys hang tight for a moment while I buy some ice to dump some cold water all over myself because someone dared me to do it.  Or even worse, "Why don't you guys help me film myself dumping water on myself while you visit your daughter and her idiot boyfriend in Chicago."  Believe it or not, I worked out all the details and found a way to get it all done on my own, under the deadline, but ultimately I just decided to give the money away and skip the ice bucket challenge.

How about you, readers?  Answer one or a few of these questions:
Have you been challenged, and have you completed it?  Or have you even heard of this thing?  Do you think social media fundraising challenges will be a trend, given the success of this movement, and what do you think about that?  

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Doctor Kenny-o Euro Gigalo

Mrs Noisewater and I are headed to Dublin, Oslo, Bergen, and Stockholm in that order. I'm typing this blog post on my phone and just learned that the auto correct for Noisewater is nauseated. That is merely a sidebar.

I likely won't be updating until I return on the 11th. Who knows, I may be ambitious and keep my travel log on the ol' blog, but if you have been following me at all, then you know that I will do more boozing than writing.

In case this is the last you hear from me until my return, go ahead and leave a comment on another recent post and I will comment on them all when I get back.

Okay, blog buddies. Talk to you soon!

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Top Secret Coaches For the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights

The fantasy football league that I'm in is 10% so that I can get excited about meaningless plays by random players in insignificant games and 90% to stay in touch with high school friends who all have kids and live in the suburbs.  I rarely hear from some of them, if at all, outside of the emails and message board from the league.  So that's why I do it.

Sometimes people get mad when I won't join their leagues, and I have to explain to them that I hate running the one team, so why on earth would I want to run another?  If this were a bunch of guys from the office and not my good buddies from high school, I would have bowed out a long time ago.

But today I had a stroke of genius: I will make my nephews run my team this season!  This makes perfect sense because . . .

A) During football season it's all I hear these two guys talk about, so they obviously enjoy it more than me.

B) It's a good way to text my nephews and stay in touch with them because sometimes two months or more will go by without me hearing from them.  If we win the whole thing, I'll split the money with them.  And win or lose I'll take them out to some cool arcade place out by where they live that they have been asking me to take them to.  

C) I'm 100% sure they will do a better job at it than me.

(It's finally the year for the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights!)
I told the two of them that they have to switch off weeks managing the team, so when Monday comes around the new manager steps in, and the previous manager can't say anything about any moves being made while he is out - he just has to wait to the following week to see what kind of team he has left after trades and add/drops have been made.  I decided this would be better than a simultaneous managing deal because that would undoubtably lead to the two of them calling each other idiots, getting each other in headlocks, and holding each other down and farting on one another.  And if I'm causing more headaches for my sister who is already working full time as a lawyer, raising three boys, and dealing with a shit-heal ex-husband, then the whole project will be a disaster in my eyes.

Another rule is they can't read the message boards with my friends in the league saying disgusting things.  Okay, so they will end up reading once I've told them not to because they will know some profane stuff will be on there, but they can't under any circumstances tell their mother about any of the jokes they've read.

Keeping it a secret is another trick all together.  There is only one person I can think of who might still check in on this blog on occasion who might come in contact with people in the league, so James Douglas Morrison (JDM), if you're reading this, please keep my Boy Genius plot top secret.

I contacted the two boys this afternoon via text, and the 16-year-old said yes right away.  The seventh grader sent a text back saying, "Sure.  Sounds fun."  Then another text moments later saying "Wait, who is this?"  It's all the more encouraging that he likes this fantasy crap so much that he agreed to do it without even knowing who it is!

This is going to be a fantastic season.  While I'm drinking a cold one on a Sunday game day, I'll be able to text the boys about our players that are kicking butt - and never sending negative stuff because as the prudent team owner, I know that would be bad for my coaches' morale.

Also, for no good tricking reason, here's a picture of Alien playing Predator in a friendly game of pool.
(Pretty sure Alien is drunk because he is drooling.  And the drool is probably acid.  Which will burn its way into the apartment below the bar.)

Saturday, July 26, 2014

B-4 and After the Lesbian Proposition

I went to a Cubs game the other night with my buddy, Dangerous, and he and I went to a great little cozy bar called the Burwood Tap for a few night caps.  It was Bingo night, which sounds stupid and an activity meant for folks 40 years our senior, but in reality it was great fun.  For some reason Dangerous knew all the corny jokes to yell out.  For instance, if B-4 is called, you just have to say "and after!" And when it's time for B-9, you gotta say "or malignant!"  So stupid, but funny as hell when you're as drunk as we were.
Me thinks their sign needs a comma, but I love them nonetheless. 
But here's where things get interesting.

After Bingo, an attractive woman I hadn't said one word to walks right up to me, hands me a piece of paper with her name and her number written on it and says "I can't talk to you right now because I'm kind of on a date, but call me."  Then she walks away back to her table, and her date comes out of the bathroom.  And her date is another woman.  I watched the two of them leave shortly after that, and through the window I saw them across the street both stretching their hamstrings.  What sort of insane lesbian sex acts did they have in store for the night that required stretching out their leg muscles?  And did one of them want me to be a part of said acts?
"That's it!  Breathe on my back!  And don't ever talk to a Bingo dork again!"
I'm in a committed relationship with the greatest gal I've ever known, so I discarded her number.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  I tried to get it out of my pocket as proof to some guys at the bar that it actually happened (or prove to myself that I hadn't imagined it), but I had already lost it.  I'm the least organized person I know.

When I woke up the next day with a clear head, I had decided that it couldn't be that she was totally taken with my rugged good looks and my command of the Bingo stamper.  What was going on was one of these three scenarios:

A) She was on a date with a woman who exposed all women to be what she was growing tired of, and she decided right then and there that she needed to mix things up with a fella.  And I was nothing special but the nearest halfway decent looking man with a functional wang.

B) Her date was her girlfriend and she wanted to start a fight with her by coming on to someone that would piss her off the most: a man.  Had I taken that bait, I would be in store for an epic cat fight with me in the middle and being crushed to death between their super-strong stretched out thighs.

C) She wanted me to be part of a an epic three-way sex romp that would go all night and I would have to ice my genitals all the next day.

I have actually ruled out choice C.

Then Dangerous is taking pictures of some people he happened to know in the bar, and he says "hold on, that great big tall girl was right in the way of that shot."  And the girl got all sad about it.  Then he spent the better part of an hour consoling tall girl and trying to convince her that she is pretty.  She went on-and-on about how she has a low self concept.  I had no idea what they were talking about, so I walked over there and said "Wow, you're tall!  Do you play volleyball?  Stand up for a second and put your arms up.  You would be terrific at the middle-block position!"  I think that set Dangerous back an extra twenty minutes on his quest to make her less self conscious about her height.

We're going to need a bigger lens to make this shot work.  That or shorter trees.
So that's it.  Anyone have any thoughts about the lesbian proposition or the poor tall gal with low self-esteem?