COACH DAMON

Well, my posts have been a little sparce this week, but dammit hey, I been busy. Between the kids insisting that I feed them every day, and the general lack of common sense at work, I am more frustrated than a cross-eyed hippo tryin to ride a three wheeled skateboard.
And to top it all off, now I'm coaching my sons t-ball team.
Not because I have extra time on my hands.
Not because I have some skills to pass on to future baseballers.
It's because I answered the phone.
And I know better.

If you've never experienced 5 year old baseball, oh, it's a must see. I'm sure if the concession stand sold Pabst Blue Ribbon, we could easily get this thing on ESPN. Couple of drunk guys screamin at little Timmy because the grounder went through his legs. Or maybe some dude comes stormin out of the stands when Alex Jr. gets a hit and runs straight to third.

I'm sure Vegas could find a way to lay odds on this stuff.
4-1 odds that the right fielder sits down and starts singing "Puff the Magic Dragon."
Even money that at least once during the game, some kid drops his glove, grabs his crotch, and sprints to the bathroom yellin, "I gotta go potty!"
5-1 odds for a parent fight ending with 'police assistance'.
No bets on the final score though.
After all, it's not about winnin or losin , it's about the children having fun.
We'll see.

I'll update you on our teams progress. Meanwhile I'm off to practice my pitching . I've got two days to learn how to throw a fast ball - 1 foot off the ground.

GOTTA GO

I can honestly say that I have never seen a squirrel taking a dump.

Nope, not once, never.

I also don't know anyone who has witnessed this little mystery of nature.

Never in my life have I heard, "Hey! watch it! don't step in the squirrel crap!"

In 38 years, you'd think that at least once I'd have seen something that sets my mind at ease on this matter. But, no. Nothing.

As far as I'm concerned, women and squirrels just don't do it.

I also have never seen a dead squirrel that wasn't roadkill.

Nope, never seen a really old lookin squirrel, sprawled out in the 'last gasp' pose.

You know, diggin in the dirt, maybe got a little ringworm.

Maybe, got hold of some tainted cheese.

Could've choked, trying to impress her boyfriend with how many acorns she can hold in her cheeks.

Possibly even stepped on a bare spot while runnin across a power line.

But no, the only surefire way for squirrels to die is squirrelicide.

Poor little varment, no access to prozac, loses his desire for nut hunting, darts into traffic like a ninja. Jumping back and forth as if unable to decide to actually go through with it, until.......SPLAT.

I have my own theory theory though.

I think squirrels just eat and eat and eat, until they get so full that they just explode, POOOF!

Death......by constipation.

That's What Friends Are For

I should be a millionaire by now!

If only I would have put more thought into this site of stupidity, I could be planning my early retirement. But nnooooo, I used it for for my own amusement and selfish therapeutic needs....dammit.

I have been listed at blogcatalog.com for about 2 months now. On any given day, I receive anywhere from 15 to 25 e-mail alerts letting me know that some one out there has added me as a friend! Now, just to do a little math here; 20 new friends a day X 60 days = 1200 wonderful, kind, caring, fellow blog people, who would gladly be clickin ads and buyin blog spaces to secure the financial future for my kids. Hey, college ain't cheap!

Well since I screwed all that up, I have come up with some other ways for me and all my new friends to come together and form long lasting, meaningful relationships;

My yard is a mess. I figure 20 to 30 of my new buds would be happy to help me rake up all these damn leaves from my neighbors tree. If we get done early enough, maybe we could cut down the freakin thing.

My house could use a fresh coat of paint. If I could get about 30 to 40 friends to lend a hand, we could have my little shoebox lookin good in about an hour. A small sacrafice for such valuable comradery

I really need a vacation. Maybe like 2 weeks in the Bahamas. So, I'll need about 15 of the most patient, kindest, caring friends to watch my two little monsters while I'm away. Don't worry, I'll bring you back a souvenir ashtray, or one of those coconut monkeys.

I may, or may not, be moving soon. I don't know. But the true friendship test is who shows up on moving day. I figure if 50 of you can either bring your pick-up or borrow daddys', you could help drag all my crap cross town. Then I won't need to rent a u-haul.

Since I don't make any money posting, I'm a little short this week. So when we go to dinner, I'm gonna need a solid from my homies. A true-blue doesn't mind pickin up the tab once in a while. Don't panic, I'll get the tip. (But since it's on you, I'm gettin dessert.)

I'm really looking forward to spending quality time with all my new friends.

Thanks in advance, -d

If you need my help I'm at http://www.humor-blogs.com/

Gettin' TIREd

Turns out, I am a daredevil.

No fancy cape or nothin, just a normal guy risking his life by driving around with bad tires.

This according to the shmuckface non-mechanic who you first meet when you walk into the tire store.

Tony Shmuckatelli (the mechanic) is never happy with his customers. They are all at his shop because they have abused their cars to the point where just puttin in gas won't solve the problem. So you must sit in the car-abusers time-out room. The duration of your time-out is directly proportional to the amount of abuse you've inflicted on your poor Hyundai. Driving over a nail gets you one hour, while forgetting to have your radiator flushed gets you a whole day. So you will sit and watch the Static Network or read the maintenance brochures of what you should have done to avoid your punishment. Either way, you're screwed.

I got a screw in my tire. Not a huge to-do. The tire wasn't flat. It just made a clickin sound everytime it rolled around atop the screwhead. Like a high hat cymbal, only louder. I kinda liked it. Anyway, I figured they'd pull it out, plug it up, and send me on my patched up little way...

I was wrong.

First off, my wiper blades were beginning to show signs of wear. And as we all know, wiper blades are the first thing you check when you are patching a tire.

I also was getting close to needing an oil change. And if I was a good car owner, I would want to take care of this , NOW!

He was kind enough to drag me out to mechanicland and point out that I should not be driving around on these tires, and today was my lucky day! They were having a sale on my size tires!

And if I didn't have the 9 bills up front, they would finance me up to my poorly oiled door hinges.

The idiot then makes sure everyone else in the oil smellin holding tank, hears my problems and how I just don't love my car enough to pay his guilt-ridden ransome.

I walked out with my $13 tire patch receipt, head hangin a little low, and got into my truck feeling like the most neglectful car owner on the planet.

Thanks for the guilt trip, pinhead.

Somethin fun

I was playin around and found somethin cool to do.
These are some of my own creations:

There are tons more templates to screw with. Check it out at http://www.customsigngenerator.com/

Have fun.

....Can't Live Without 'em

I'm a modern man.

I'm all for that equality among the sexes stuff.

Especially when it comes to watching sports.

There is a certain element missing without the female perspective.

Sometimes, it's like having a first class seat on the "ignorant express".

...and you should just enjoy the ride.

I mean, most women know that David Jeter plays for the Yankees. Even though most don't know what position he plays. Personally, I like the Yankees. They have a shortstop named Derek who's pretty good.

They also are smart enough to know that if you gotta go during a hockey game, you should wait until halftime. Which is why more women should enjoy hockey. The men play through three periods and there are two halftimes for peein.

I've also learned from women that if you're betting on the big game, scientifically, the team with the cuter mascot always has the edge. This is very valuable info if you're a gambler, because all those records and statistics could cloud your judgement.

However sometimes they need some help.

And I'm always here to help...

Yes, it's called the outfield because if you hit the ball there, you're out.

There are only four innings in football.

Skeet shooting is only done in the summer, 'cause that's when skeet are in season.

Cagefighting is fake, wrestling is real.

And yes, Dale Earnhardt Jr. gets free Budweiser.

I even came to the rescue this weekend.

I had to explain to my girlfriend that the "Pats" are the New England Patriots, and that they weren't playing the Tigers in the Superbowl.

After I was finished laughing , she pointed out that she meant to say "Lions."

I'm so glad she realized the Tigers are Detroits' baseball team.

Imagine the embarrassment of showing up to the superbowl party, ready to cheer for the Tigers instead of the Lions.

If only I'd had a jersey to loan her.... GO LIONS!!!

HAPPY G-HOG DAY

February 2.

Only the most important weather predicting day of the year.

By far, the stupidest thing on my calendar.

As far as I'm concerned, if I don't get the day off or at least some crappy gift, it ain't a holiday.

Yet some podunk, backwoods city in Pennsylvania spends the whole year prepping for this little beaver thing to schlep out of its' hole.

Ceremonies are planned, guests are invited, there's probably a tent rented, and everybody dusts off the ol' tophat.... for an event that takes about 6 seconds. Unless the little badger doesn't emerge on his own and they have to drag his furry ass out. Thus only adding to the joyful bliss of this momentous occasion.

This is a lot of pressure for a groundhog.

If he's right, they feed him for another year.

If he's wrong, I think they eat him.

Isn't that what "ground chuck" is?

Turns out that the National Climatic Data Center rates the accuracy of the bucktooth little furball at 39%.

That kinda sucks.

But it's still better than the local weatherman.

And the woodchuck doesn't have a doppler radar. No Viper 2000. No stormseeker 800. No thermometer. No nothin.

He's workin with the sun, a hole, and a cloud.

So some slack is due.

'Cause suns, holes, and clouds ain't easy to work with.