Functionally ReTodded

In honor of my friend CMGD, I’m blatantly stealing this blog entry category type.  Thanks 5Heather!

Here’s a conversation GBD had with Thing Two today that she informed me of via google chat:

Thing Two walks in while carrying her purse and says "Mommy, wanna see my magic puss?"

GBD:  um..excuse me? Thing Two:  My puss…it’s magic.

GBD to herself:  (well, I’m going to tentatively say yes while squinting my eyes).

GBD out loud:  Really? (now terrified)

Thing Two:  It can do ANYTHING!!  And if you’re really quiet, I’ll show you inside where  it does even more. GBD:  To herself and the Lord (Now blind, deaf and banging head on wall - begging God to take back the last 30 seconds of my life)

GBD to me:  In Thing Two’s defense, she did have a handful of change in there.  Sorry you missed it. But maybe if you’re lucky (and apparently quiet) she’ll show you too.

GBD to me:  I’m going to sneak away now before she starts showing me more "tricks."

Recently I’ve been thinking back about funny events in my life that might translate well into a blog post. GBD suggested I write about my bachelor party. Since not much was bubbling to the surface, I decided that was a good idea.

Enjoy.

The year was 1992.

W.’s daddy was still the president and vomiting on foreign heads of state, Mike Tyson was going to the big house and Amy Fischer was shooting Joey Buttafuoco’s wife. And I, FRT, was getting married in May.

During our one year and two day engagement, the soon to be Mrs. FRT and I had discussed our relative pre-wedding activities. It was decided that there would be three rules:

1. No leaving the state.
2. No sexual contact with anyone EXCEPT your fiancee’.
3. The event was to be completed at least 30 days prior to the scheduled date of our nuptuals.

Now you have to know that this was seventeen years ago and I was twenty three years old. I think I made exactly eighteen thousand dollars that year and we had gone dutch on the engagement ring. This wasn’t gonna be one of those four day guys trips to Vegas types of bachelor parties.

A date was selected, and my groomsmen / only friends either came over to our apartment or came into town and did the same. The plan was to play some poker, drink some beers, hit the titty bar, drink some beers, hit a bar where I could get discounted beers and drink some beers, and then crash at my place.

GBD was staying at her sister’s or her mom’s for the night. I can’t remember which, not that it mattered.

In order to protect the guilty, I’m not using full names. It was Neil, Hoss, Chris, and me, and to a lesser extent my dad. Grant, my fifth groomsman, was busy being a private pilot and flying a Learjet for my former employer and couldn’t join us. He’s probably the only one of us that can run for public office now, so that was a solid decision by him.

The four of us played cards and drank beer for a while until my dad showed up to be our sober driver and hopefully the guy who’d pick up at least a part of the titty tab.

We all piled into the car (five of us total in a 1981 BMW 320i) nd headed for Buckhead, the land of tits and ass.

We were going to the place that pro athletes nationwide had known about and frequented for years:

The Gold Club. (If you’d like to read a little about its history, check out Bill Simmons’ article about the trial ).

The Gold Club was the closest we could get to a dude’s trip to Vegas. It was, at the time, the end all and be all of strip clubs in the southeast, and maybe the entire country. So as we’re headed down to the club, I make a casual "Hey, shouldn’t we turn here?" to dad, who replies "Nah. This way’s faster." I should have known.

We get there, get the car valeted, head inside and get in the line to hand someone our cover charge. Neil pays, Hoss pays, Chris pays, I pay and then the girl at the register says "Floyd, your money’s no good here."

I looked at my boys and did the "wait…what?" Seriously. What the hell was that?

Dad does the smirk and snicker he’s famous for and we all just shook our heads.

We headed to the stand up bar area while we waited for a table, and one of the cocktail waitresses came over, took our order, and then looked at my dad and said "The usual?"

Okay. Wait one God damned minute.

Dad smirks and snickers again and we just stared in wonder.

(A note to clear this up a little. I don’t want to give you the impression that my dad’s a strip club junkie. He worked for almost 30 years for a now defunct brokerage house whose Atlanta branch was in Buckhead. Anytime clients or fellow employees came in from out of town, they’d already read about The Gold Club in the in-flight magazine or heard about it from friends, and they all wanted to go. So of course my dad, the company man always eager to please, would facilitate their trip to and from the Gold Club and back to their hotel).

So now that I / we had been out-cooled by my dad by about a bajillion, the bloom was off the proverbial rose. After throwing away a pile of singles and more (which dad paid for most of), we headed out and back to the bar where I had worked the year before.

Mein papa dropped us off in decent shape (us I mean, he was fine) and we headed in for some non five dollar beers and a good old fashioned drunk.

So we proceed to throw shots of anything down our gullets (mudslides, kamikazes, Jaegermeister, some red thing, etc) and getting completely shit hammered.

(A little creative license as a result of some detective work must be taken here because no one is 100% what happened or how or why from that point on).

Apparently, at some point, Neil and I decided we had had enough and should leave. Thankfully, Neil also decided that I should be the one that drove us home. Since I was ten feet tall and bulletproof and 23, I did just that.

(Kids, this is where I tell you that drinking and driving is the worst thing you can do. Period. I have no recollection of this, but Neil and I both know someone could have been hurt or killed that night, and that still upsets me to this day).

So we arrived safely (somehow) at my apartment and promptly went to bed. Me in the master bedroom and Neil in the second bedroom.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, Hoss and Chris were trying desperately to find us. But since they were blind drunk they weren’t having much luck. Chris went outside and laid down under someone’s car (he was tired) and that’s when Hoss decided it was time for them to cab it back to my house.

Only one problem:

He didn’t really have any idea where I lived, especially from his current location.

He and Chris got in a cab and proceeded to spend over a hundred bucks going six miles while Hoss slurred "Hey HEY! Thish looksh fumilsdfhaer" over and over again.

At this point, the story was over for me. Fast forward to morning where I awoke in my bed, fully dressed (including shoes) and feeling like I should be dead. As I walked out of my bedroom I was concerned with two things:

The enormous amount of light coming from the den and the fact that our front door was on it’s side and leaned neatly against the loveseat in my den.

I look around and see Hoss on my couch, Chris on the loveseat (to be fair, this arrangement was correct in relation to their heights), and my doorframe EXPLODED everywhere. And I am pissed.

I wake everyone up with screaming and cuss words (don’t worry about the neighbors since it was noon at this point) and said "HEY!!! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?"

And it was then that Chris and Hoss awoke, equally pissed.

Hoss: What the fuck happened to you guys?

Chris: Yeah! Where’d you go? You fucking left us?

Me: What? Neil said we were leaving.

Neil: Fuck you. We both wanted to leave?

Me: But I was hammered! Why’d you make ME drive?

Hoss: None of that matters. You fuckers locked the door.

And that’s what happened. Apparently, they finally got to my apartment around 4am or so, and after ten or fifty or two minutes of knocking and yelling (and screaming at my across the street neighbor to go back in their apartment and shut the fuck up) they decided to kick in the door.

Great apartments, right? Two strangers show up drunk and yelling and screaming at my door, and no one calls the cops? In fact, everyone just obeys these fiends and goes back inside? Jesus Christ.

So as the four of us begin recounting the events as well as trying to formulate some sort of plan / solution to my problem, I notice that my Timberland slip ons, which I removed while sitting on the sofa where Hoss ended up sleeping, were full to the brim of some odd red liquid.

Hoss saw me notice this and said "Guess I had too many of those red ones, huh?"

Fucker.

Neil then pipes up and says, like only Neil can or would, "Let’s call the cops and say someone broke in here."

We literally died laughing.

I think Hoss’ response was the one that stuck. "Really Neil? And what do we tell them? Two people showed up, were seen my neighbors yelling and kicking the door and using FRT’s fucking name, then kicked in the door, threw up in his shoes and immediately spent the night there? Really? Are you completely retarded?"

Thankfully, that exchange knocked the tension out of the place, and that’s when I called GBD and told her what happened.

She was very calm and cool. She said simply "I don’t care what, who, why or how. I’ll be home at 6pm and I want it fixed by then."

Luckily, Chris was handy AND currently had a lot of his work tools in his truck. He and I went to Home Depot and got some stuff and he proceeded to rebuild my doorframe from scratch.

And that’s the story of FRT’s bachelor party. I’m sure Hoss will comment and add some things I’ve forgotten.

Have a great day,

FRT

P.S. In case you weren’t sure, a circular saw running IN YOUR APARTMENT the day after your bachelor party is really REALLY loud.

Next up, a re-telling of GBD’s bachelorette party, or at least the part that happened after she came home.

People often ask me what my wife is like (if they haven’t met her). I say, she’s sarcastic, far funnier than me, and you wouldn’t need me anymore if you met her.

In honor of that, I’m gonna tell you a story that everyone (especially GBD) loves to hear.

okay. One day, many years ago before we had kids, we were lounging away a Saturday after a Friday night in Buckhead, and we’re laying on the couches and watching TV.

Anyway, around noon or so I get up and head out to check the mail.

I then come back in, flop down, hit the couch again and resume watching television.

Several hours later, I got up, headed outside and checked the mail. When i came in she said "What were you doing?"

I replied "Checking the mail."

She returned with "You did that three hours ago, dumbass."

I was scorched. Hurt even. I said "Hey, that really wasn’t nice. You ought to apologize."

She took a pause, then replied "Okay. I’m sorry you’re such a dumbass."

That’s GBD ladies and gentlemen.

FRT

Gather ’round kiddies.  FRT’s gonna tell you a story.

A long time ago, way back in the last millenium, FRT was a young man in his early 20’s that was about four months away from walking down the aisle and marrying the love of his life.  And so you don’t get confused, it was GBD.

It was a Saturday afternoon.  GBD was somewhere other than home, and FRT was enjoying a nap on the couch.

That nap was interrupted however, when I fell off the couch and heard / felt a tearing sensation in my nether region.

Apparently I had what doctors refer to as a boner during my nap, and when I fell of the couch, I landed on it.  The boner.

That’s right.  The sensation I heard / felt was me slamming my erect penis into the floor under the entirety of my weight.

After I stopped shaking, I had a peek and everything looked normal.  I convinced myself that everything was fine.

Fast forward to Monday morning.  GBD and I are waking up and about to get ready for work.  She’s in the shower and I’m watching television in bed.  I decide to have another peek at the old twig and berries.

Oh.  My.  God.

There was my junk.  BLACK.  That’s right.  From stem to stern, top to bottom, over and under.  BLACK.  And swollen.  Disfigured even.

I fought the urges to both pass out and scream.

The shower stopped.  I covered up and tried to act calm and cool.  The wife got dressed, kissed me goodbye and went to work.

I had to make a plan.

At this point, I hadn’t told my wife.  I hadn’t told anyone.  But I had to consult someone. So I did what any boy would do if he got hurt or was scared, or both.

I called my mommy.

That’s right.  What a great memory.  It went like this.

Her:  Hello?

Me:  Hey.

Her:  What’s wrong.

Me:  I broke my penis.

Her:  Silence.

So after a brief chat and advice to go see a urologist, I showered, got dressed and went to work, prepared to get my insurance info out to make a doctor’s appointment.

Come to find out that I can’t just make an appointment with a urologist.  I have to be referred.  So now I have to show my mortally wounded goober to not just a urologist, but a general practitioner.  Yay.

I went to my GP, described what happened and he said "Okay…let’s have a look."

So I pulled my drawers down.  And before I even got them mid-thigh the GP gasped audibly and said "Okay, let’s get you that referral."

Great.  My grievous cock injury was so grotesque that it made a physician gasp.

As there was now noticeable swelling and discomfort, I went home to change into some less binding clothes before heading to my urologist appointment.  I chose a t-shirt and some of those tacky ass muscle workout pants (that were all the fashion rage back in the day).  You know the ones.  Gaudy print, two inch wide elastic waist, tapered sort of legs, ugh.

I walk into their office, get called back and the doctor has me describe again what happened, and he describes to me what’s about to happen and why.

Doctor:  We need to see if you’ve ruptured the (whatever that thing was called) chamber that fills with blood when you get an erection.

Me:  Um.  Okay.  How do we do that?

Doctor:  So what we’ll do is give you an injection that will give you an erection.

Me:  (deathly afraid of needles).  Where?

Doctor:  Where what?

Me:  Where are you going to give me a shot?

Doctor:  In your penis.

Me:  I beg your pardon?  Did you say you’re going to give me a shot in my penis?

Doctor:  That’s right.  And then we’re going to inject some dye into your penis, wait 30 minutes, take an x-ray and make sure that there’s no structural problem that might require surgery to repair.

Me:  Excuse me.  Let me get this straight.  Did you just say you were going to give me a shot.  In my penis.  That shot will give me an erection.  Then you’re going to give me another shot in my now erect penis, have me wander back out to the waiting area.  WITH AN ERECTION.  For thirty minutes?

Doctor:  That’s right.

Me:  Awesome.

So we head into the exam room where a very attractive (female) nurse asks me to lie down and pull down my pants.

Awesome.

I comply, and she gives me a shot in the penis.

I think I passed out.  I’m not sure.  Either way I pulled up my pants and waited. And what I realized next was that this shot was possibly the coolest thing in the world.

Within minutes I had an erection.  And not just any erection.  I’m pretty sure I could have pounded a spike into a railroad tie.  Seriously.  This thing was bulletproof.  I went from embarrassed that a nurse saw my penis to wanting to run around the lobby showing it to everyone.

She then said "Okay.  Now we’ll inject the dye.  This might sting a bit."

She couldn’t have been more wrong.  Let me say that getting a needle stuck into the side of your rock hard penis is one of the five most painful things that has ever happened to me.  And then I looked down.

And saw blood.  Coming out of the side of my penis.

This time, I KNOW I fainted.

I awoke to the nurse helping me to a chair in the lobby where my boner and I would wait until it was time for the x-ray.  I was doing that thing you did in high school when you’d get a boner in sweat pants.  You pull down your shirt, slouch a little and try to wait for it to go away, only this one wasn’t going anywhere.

Fast forward thru 30 VERY uncomfortable minutes in the lobby, and I get called back for the x-ray.

Ten minutes after they took the x-rays I get called back again.  There’s bad news.

Doctor:  There’s a problem.

Me:  Oh Jesus no.  You’re going to have to operate on my penis.  Or cut it off!  Oh My God! I’m getting married in three months!

Doctor:  Oh no.  I don’t have any results yet.  But apparently the dye was absorbed back into your bladder so the scan of your penis didn’t work.  We need to do it again.

Me:  I’m sorry.  Did you say that somehow, after giving me not one but two injections into my god damned penis that you or someone here fucked up and waited too long to do the x-rays, and now you have to give me ANOTHER shot in the dick?

Doctor:  That’s correct.

Me:  (Silently does the walk of shame back to the room where nurse Heidi would punish my pee pee again).

Another excruciating injection into my now extra rock hard and quite frankly painful penis and it was back to the lobby, but this time, no attempt to conceal my boner was made.  I was tired of this now.  The novelty had worn off.  I was angry and in pain:  from the injections, the boner and the original injury.

Back into x-ray and the long wait to find out what permanent damage was done, if any, and what the treatment would be.

Doctor:  The good news is that there’s no permanent damage or anything that requires surgery to repair.  Everything is and will be fine.  The swelling and bruising will go away after a few days.

Me:  So I’ll be okay?  I get to keep my penis?

Doctor:  Yes.  Everything will be fine.  You’ll want to forgo any masturbating or sexual activity for a few weeks until everything is back to normal.  And for what it’s worth, this isn’t a terribly uncommon injury.  I see it fairly frequently as the result of vigorous intercourse.

Me:  No way.

Doctor:  Oh yes indeed.

Me:  So you’re telling me that you see guys that are jackhammering the old lady so hard that they break their dick?  Really?  And you glibly refer to that as "vigorous sex?" That doesn’t sound like the kind of sex I would enjoy having.  That sounds like a sex crime.  Or maybe that you should be charged with vagina abuse.

Doctor:  I didn’t say vaginal exclusively.  It happens during anal sex too.

Me:  (now in shocked silence.  On a regular day, this would have made my penis go limp and retract into my body like a turtle’s head returns to his shell).

Doctor.  Nevertheless, you’re free to go.  And one last thing.

Me:  Yes?

Doctor:  If  that erection lasts more than four hours, you need to go to the hospital.

Me:  What?  Did you say this could last four hours?  Or more?  And that if it does that I need to go to the emergency room?  And tell them what exactly?  "Excuse me ma’am / doctor / nurse / orderly, but I have had this boner for five hours and need to see a doctor?"

Doctor:  Just go to the hospital if it lasts longer than that.

So I do the boner-perp walk thru the lobby again, but now I’m kind of happy.  Like I’m on cloud five or something.  I’m going to be okay.  Everything will return to normal.  No permanent harm or disfigurement was done.  Everything’s gonna be fine.  And even though my wedding tackle was bruised, black and a bit swollen, I was now very anxious to show it to GBD.

That happiness was short-lived.

By the time I got home I was in agony.  By the time SHE got home I couldn’t stand up straight.  It was like some alien was trying to escape my body by way of my penis and that in doing so, was stretching every inch of my skin to the nth degree.

Thankfully, at about the three hour and fifty minute mark, my world class boner subsided and I was able to return to my normal masturbation routine after a couple of weeks.

Whew.

Oh, and with the exception of now being able to pee around corners at a 90 degree angle, everything is just the same as it was before that horrible day.

Happy napping everyone.

FRT

I had two ideas for a post today.

One was about thing three being up all night resulting in today’s near hallucenatory state for me and my lovely bride.  Further, that I had scientific and empiracle evidence as to why he stayed up all night.

The second was about random things I hate.  I think that came to mind because I’m sleep deprived and crabby.

I’ll give you a second to guess which one I chose.  (You can hum the theme from "Jeopardy" here if you’d like).

In a close race, not sleeping thing three lost by a narrow margin to things I hate.  So without further adieu…

Dreamcatchers, baby shoes, beads, cd’s, feathered roach clips and anything else people hang from their car mirrors.

Jesus people.  You all drive bad enough as it is.  I don’t wanna get in a wreck with you only to find out that you were blinded by the sun bouncing off your CD necklace or that you couldn’t see my car thru that faggoty dream catcher.

Another is those Rest In Peace decals with the person’s name, date of birth and date of death.  Seriously, I’m sorry for your loss, but I don’t want to get more depressed than I already am while sitting in traffic reading about Jesus or somebody else that died at age 16.  And let’s be honest, for every one of these memorials that are for someone that died of a disease, there are fifty more that died racing their cars, robbing a liquor store or dealing drugs.

I hate the SUV rear window stickers that are a stick figure representation of the driver’s family.  This is the modern day version of that stupid ass "Baby on Board" window thing from 20 years ago.

I always wondered if people with those signs thought i would be more or less careful in my driving around them when I realized that they in fact had a young human on board?  And now, when I see stick mommy and daddy, three kids a dog and a cat, I just want to veer sideways and put them into a bridge abutment.

Being the father of two young daughters, I completely hate, abhor and am disgusted that little girls, tweens and teens are allowed by their parents to traipse about with their shorts waistband rolled over four times to reveal most of their ass, as well as the printed text across the top of their asses.  Further, they’re wearing wife beaters with their bras hanging out.

Seriously, I love seeing trampy over 18 girls dressed this way (also known as Facebook profile pictures) and encourage it.  But seeing 12 year old girls strolling thru the food court dressed like that with their moms at their side makes me want to vomit.  What kind of mixed message are we sending our kids?  Treat women with respect even though they carry themselves like pieces of meat?  Blech.

I hate (like yesterday) when I walk into the liquor store and, after looking and not finding any of the Woodpecker Cider, I asked the guy at the counter "Hey, do you carry Woodpecker Cider?"

He put Woodpecker Cider into the system, it came up, and he looked at me and replied "Did you not see any back there?"

Yes, Moo Goo Gai Pan.  I saw it back there.  But instead of grabbing some and bringing it up here and saving some time, I thought I’d waste a few minutes watching your meth-addled brain process a simple yes / no question and reply incorrectly.  Awesome.

That’s all for now.  I got stuff ta do.

Hugs,

FRT

p.s.  Thanks to Coal Miner’s Granddaughter for reminding me of another thing I hate.  It’s those "A House Divided" front license plates that have UGA on one side and Florida on the other.  I hate the regular ones plenty.  You know, the ones that say Auburn - Alabama or UGA-Tech or some other actual rivalry.

But the ones I hate are the retarded ones that make no sense.  I mean, can Mississippi State - South Carolina be a house divided?  They don’t even play each other I don’t think.  I see them on every fifth car and 90% of them are stupid with stuff like Florida State - Virginia.

So thanks stupid house divided marketing people.  I hate you too.
FRT