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The Fisher of Stories

Fighting Off Frumpy


Okay, so maybe you know Rita from Fighting off Frumpy. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t know that we once exchanged sexy emails that included talk about grapefruits in socks or stretch marks. Maybe you don’t know that at her house, most of the time someone can be found naked. If you don’t know that, I highly suggest you go over to her blog and start reading. The following story is one of the million reasons why. Take it away, Rita!

Fighting Off Frumpy
This is her button. Click it, her husband is cool with that.

I come from a small, rural Midwestern town. And by “small” I mean no stoplights, two cops, less-than-40-people-in-my-graduating-class small. The cows far outnumber the residents. When you’re late getting somewhere, it’s because you were stuck behind a tractor. And if that doesn’t illustrate it vividly enough for you, consider this: I cackled all the way through Travis’s footage of the Okay parade because it reminded me so much of something I’d see back home.

So y’all can imagine what a culture shock it was when I moved to … wait for it … Las Vegas.I know. What’s a country bumpkin sweet small-town girl like me doing in big, crazy Las Vegas, right? Well, I blame the government. My husband Curtis was in the Air Force at the time, and the military stationed us there, at Nellis Air Force Base. So we called it home for three (very interesting) years.
When your beginnings are as backwoodsredneck humble as mine, and you somehow end up in the presence of cosmopolitan, city-fied peeps, you end up doing a lot of pretending. Like, you see things that would normally make your mouth hang open, but you just act all nonchalant like, “Oh really? I didn’t even notice that one-armed prostitute kicking the crap out of the homeless guy with the NEED MONEY FOR BOOZE sign.” You pretend certain situations are old hat – even when they’re anything but – just to avoid looking like the naïve and un-worldly dork that you actually are.
Anyway, the reason I tell you this is because while we lived in Vegas, I landed a sweet gig writing for a local magazine that catered to the upscale. It was direct-mailed to the wealthiest households in town. I had a monthly column called “Hotspot,” for which I got to review some of the fanciest, priciest clubs and restaurants in town.
The very first time I did a restaurant review, I had no friggin’ clue what to expect – but I put on a dress and hoped for the best. It was a little unnerving when the valet guy parked our (used) Jeep amid Ferraris and other pricey sports cars, but we went in with our heads held high like we always went to places like this.
When a restaurant knows you’re the person who’ll be reviewing them in a magazine, they pull out all the stops, y’all. It was all I could do not to jump up and down and squeal when I saw “VIP” penciled in beside my name in the reservation book. I mean, me? A VIP at a fancy restaurant? I laugh hysterically at fart jokes and can blow a snot rocket further than anyone I know (be jealous). If only they knew.
The meal was out-of-this-world. We ordered everything from appetizers to dessert – it was all free. I had scallops on a bed of illuminated rock salt and a frosty, multicolored martini that emanated wisps of “steam” from a chunk of dry ice. Fabulous. The executive chef even came to our table to chat, bringing with him a jaw-droppingly expensive platter of Kobe beef medallions. And through it all, I was silently congratulating myself on appearing like I was accustomed to dining in such a luxurious establishment.
At the end of the meal, our waitress brought a little squeegee over to the table and cleared off the crumbs. Then she put down a platter of mints. They reminded me of Altoids, just slightly bigger: white, round, compact little tablets.
I was just reaching for one of the mints when, to my horror, the waitress poured water over them. And then – it was amazing – those little “mints” magically transformed. Just a little water was all they needed to bloom into huge white napkins.
I had been thisclose to putting one in my mouth
I almost ate a napkin at a fancy restaurant, y’all.
To this day, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t reach for the “mint” more quickly. I could have really made a major fool out of myself. I can just picture the entire restaurant of rich people laughing at me as a napkin exploded forth from my mouth. “Riffraff,” they’d say, and then throw me out on my impostor-ous posterior. (That’s rich-people words for butt.)
Gourmet meal at a fine dining establishment: $230
Not eating your napkin by accident: priceless

If you want to follow Rita, please head up to that link at the top of the page. Additionally, she’s a Twat! No, I mean she’s on Twitter. Yeah. Right HERE.The final guest blogger in my run of TREMENDOUS guest bloggers is…

KATIE! Otherwise known as Statgirl from some of my older blogs.

Katie doesn’t have a blog, but she wanted to try her hand at it with this story. So without further ado, here she is!

Ok, so…I dunno how this whole blogging thing goes, so im just gonna try and do my best…
Anytree, last year, around this time, I was getting ready to graduate high school..(1st in a class of 32, might I add!) well, as you know, there is this tradition called a Senior Prank, and the last couple of years, there hadn’t been one, soooo it was our job to restart the tradition…
The bad thing about this is that our classes idea of a  “harmless” prank was to remove the valve stems (if you don’t know what a valve stem is, it’s the thing that makes the air stay in a tire) off of 5 of the 6 buses that our school ran ever morning.  Lots of students didn’t quite make it to school on time.   As you can tell, my class holds the gray crayons of the box.
The group of kids that I ran with had nothing to do with this prank, as we were the good kids.  Well….kinda…we did stupid, yet harmless stuff…
Me and my friends (we’ll just leave their names out of this) decided that we were going to do something productive to make everyone forget about the bus incident.  We were going to plant a tree.  So, that night, we sneak up to the school, pick out the tree that we are going to, ahem, move to another location, and start digging.
There was one major flaw in this plan…we forgot flashlights.  So while using the camera flash to see, we dug up this tree.  It took us 30 minutes to get through the roots.  It was nuts.  Then…we pick out target destination.  Right dead center of the baseball field.  That’s right, the pitchers mound.
Ok…the dirt on a pitchers mound is packed tighter than Travis shoved in a Prius, so it took us a good hour to dig a hole deep enough to put this tree in there…it was crazy!  We dug the hole, put the tree in, and packed the dirt in around it.  It was a masterpiece.
The next day, as the baseball coach was walking onto the baseball field while talking on the phone, and I quote “(insert meaningless conversation here) oh my god, there is a tree on my mound.” (that’s what she said)Ok…so,  the whole bus thing was forgotten, and no one ever suspected the valedictorian, salutatorian, and the “most enterprising” student to ever  break the rules by planting a tree…

One of the bloggers that I earned my stripes with is

Daffy over at Batcrap Crazy. 

See how big those words are? That means click them, go check her out, and follow her, because I said so and because she’s awesome. She talks about conversations she has in her hood, likes to give things random numbers, and is generally the kind of funny that is missing from a lot of blogs, as demonstrated in this guest post.

If you’ve been around my blog (Batcrap Crazy) for any length of time or seen my contributing posts to Lose It Bitches blog, you’ll know that I have an affinity for Zumba. In all honesty I am thoroughly addicted to it.What is Zumba you ask? Latin music based dance workout….think Shakira and a shitton of shakin what the good Lord gave ya….my hips don’t lie.
Because of all of the butt bobbling, quite often you’ll notice 98% of the class participants sneaking search and rescue missions for wayward underroos.  It only takes a few sessions for people to realize everyone who wears underwear to class is doing the jitter-dig. Shyness falls to the wayside and it’s a dig-for-all modesty be damned mentality.
In a recent class I errantly donned a pair of underoos and tossed in a panty liner (sorry Travis…most of your followers are female and have children…they’ll understand). Evidently said pantyliner was not properly installed, for part way into the class ass shaking it shifted.  Now partly stuck to my crack and partly stuck to the fabric of my underroos, my fear that it was permanently glued to my cheek was confirmed. No amount of shaking, garment tugging or plucking was going to dislodge it. Short of leaving the classes altogether for the safety of a bathroom stall I was destined to endure the stuckage.
The upside? I was wedgie free seeing as how the fabric was permanently stuck in place. The downside? It was 15 minutes into an hour long class, I was standing right in front of a huge clock that took great pleasure in mocking me with each tick and every once in awhile there was hair pullage.
Was that TMI?
What’s cool about working in an office?

Well, the secretary always falls madly in love with a salesman, there is a funny nerdy guy that likes beets, and your boss is a hapless but well meaning idiot that never should have been promoted.


Lets see if

The Office Scribe over at Asleep Under My Desk

can confirm that for us. You see the big letters? Click on those, and that will take you to her wonderful land of hilarity and something called “Manic Mondays” which really gets in the way of my Memoirs!

Go check her out, and see if you can get her under the desk with you like I did.

Good day fine followers of Travis!
I think this is the first time I have ever been asked to guest blog, which is an honor unto itself, but to be asked by Travis, well, that is beyond words(insert kissass cough here).
Things you should know about me:-      I write about working in an office because one of my writing teachers always said to write about what you know-      Before I worked in an office I was a butcher.  Yes, a butcher.  As in someone who cuts up animals.  Best. Job. Ever.-      I love lists, as is evident by me creating this list-      I live outside Chicago which is the best city in the world, hands down.  And don’t even mention the Cubs to me.  I don’t watch minor league baseball.-      I have a degree in Creative Writing which I prefer to call a B.A. in BS.-      I play trivia at an Irish pub on Tuesdays and my team won tonight, which means I am in an awesome mood.
And since I write about working in an office, I thought I would share with you some tips for surviving in an office:
1)  Never mess with the coffee.  If it’s empty, make a fresh pot. That way you can ensure your co-workers won’t shiv you with a letter opener when they are low on caffeine.2)  Forget everything you have seen on TV and in the movies about working in an office.  About 90% of that stuff would not only get you hauled down to the HR office but would most likely get you fired.3)  Bake.  It doesn’t matter if it is from scratch or a box, but baked items make co-workers happy.4)  Always make a to-do list and cross things off it.  It will be a visual reminder to those who see it how awesome you are.5)  Get a stressball.  You’ll need it.  Because nothing relieves stress like throwing things around the office.6)  FYI – You can never have too many calendars.7)  Keep your computer passwords where co-workers can find them so when you are out of the office they can access your files and leave you alone.8)  Take every single sick day possible.  I sometimes come down with a disease on balmy spring days that can only be cured by a trip to the zoo.9)  Hang out with the people you work with outside of the office. You don’t really know the people you work with until you have tossed back a few or gone on the run Thelma & Louise style.10) Blog about it.  But remember, while the 1st amendment protects freedom of speech, it doesn’t protect you from pissed off co-workers who don’t find your comments about their smelly lunches or poor wardrobe choices flattering.
So that’s it people.  A little looksee into my world.  I’d love for you to stop by Asleep Under My Desk and read more about the exciting lives of office workers.  If you promise to keep reading I’ll promise to keep writing.
~ The Office ScribeSo.

What’s cool about


Well, isn’t it obvious?

1. She spells theater the wrong (right) way.
2. She’s a friend of mine.
3. She’s guest posting on my blog!

So here it is, with no further ado, and oh, by the way, click on her name up there and go check her out. You’ll be glad you did, I think she’s about to give some shit away on her blog!

I’m going to talk to you today about two of my nemeses.  One, is the bikini.  The other, is The Hill.
The first I’m sure you’re all familiar with.  Two small items of clothing that look remarkably similar to women’s underwear (though sometimes they have even LESS fabric…which I’m not sure how that is humanly possible) that ladies wear during the summer to go swimming.  Most ladies.  Not this kid. As far back as I can remember that little item of clothing has evaded me.  Taunting me with cute patterns and bright colors, while I continue to shop in the “big girl” section of modest one pieces and tankinis with boy shorts in dark, drab prints.  Now, just to be clear, I am not a huge individual, but I am also not a small one.  I am, what I like to call, fluffy.  And all that fluff is what is keeping me from my summertime ambitions of frolicking around in next to nothing like the rest of my average-sized friends.  I mean, sure, I *could* wear one.  But I would like people to keep down their lunch when I was at the lake, you know?  Nothing says summertime like the fat roll of a chubby girl poking out of a swimsuit strap!The second point of contention is this one particular hill near the summer theatre I work for.  The compound where we live isn’t far at all from the theatre where we meet every morning.  Most of the company walks.  I drive.  Why?  Because between me and my destination, lies, The Hill.  I’m not talking about a normal hill.  I’m talking about a “stairs built in because it’s too steep otherwise and causes mild cardiac arrest” kind of hill.  I’ve faced it before.  Many times.  It’s always defeated me.  Walking down is a piece of cake (because hey, gravity!), but the going back up part, well, that’s just torture for me (because again, hey, gravity!).  I start out all optimistic and think, “Yeah, this isn’t so bad!  Look at me!” and by the time I get to the top I’m a sweaty,  gasping for air and thinking, “OMG!  No one look at me!  I’m gross!  On second thought, could you carry me the rest of the way?”  I have yet to find a taker.
This year will be my fourth summer facing The Hill, and I plan to defeat it!  I’m also 25 and would like to make the summer of my 25th year one in which I can wear a bikini.  Maybe even while running up said hill.  Hey, dream big right!  So in preparation of these milestones I’ve been power walking/jogging 2 miles a day, and I also bought a Wii fit.  I just sort of pick all the pre-set routines and go for an hour, and let me tell you, I am sweating like a fat girl on prom night when I’m done.  The WII wears me out folks.  That’s just plain sad.  I’m also trying to do Jillian’s 30 Day Shred, but ya know, some days I just don’t want to feel like my lungs are going to collapse.At any rate, I have two months.  We’ll see what happens.  I’m absolutely determined to get up that hill with my bikini if it kills me!  Which it very well might.  But at least I’ll have on cute swimwear.I could introduce this young man for days.

However, no introduction would be as complete as you just going to his blog. He puts up with more idiots in a single day than most of us will ever deal with in a LIFETIME. And he does it all while helping me figure out HTML.

He’s a hero.

He is…


I’m 28.  That means pretty much everyone I know is married or engaged.  The folks at Bed, Bath, and Beyond know me by name from the number of times I’ve bought things off registries there.  I’ve seen “Wedding Crashers” and it didn’t seem that much fun to me because I’ve gone to about that many weddings in the last year.

Awhile ago, one of my friends got engaged and has since gotten married.  Before he asked his fiance to marry him, he asked me, “Jeff, is it true?  Does sex really change after you’re married?”

I said, “No, not at all,” because that’s what married guys tell single guys.  And before the ladies get all upset with that, I didn’t say it “suffers”, I just said that it “changes.”

See, sex is like going to an video game arcade.

When you’re single, you go to the arcade with a pocket full of quarters and you want to try every game in the place. Well, maybe not every game, because some look like they have herpes.  All the machines are flashy and bright, and you keep almost getting whiplash from the really good looking game behind you.   You walk around, put your quarter into the machine and give it a try.

If you did really bad and failed miserably, well you just don’t play that game ever again.  If you did get lucky and actually win, well you don’t need to play it again because you already beat it.

When you’re married, you still go to the arcade with a pocket full of quarters, but you only play one game. You play it over and over, and eventually you get the high score.  Then it’s not enough to just have THE high score; you need ALL the high scores.  You want the entire screen to have YOUR initials on it, because you’ll be damed if someone else has the high score on YOUR machine. You don’t want to be looking through that high score screen going, “Alright, JAH, JAH, JAH, JAH…who the hell is DJS?!”

I really am lucky to be married.  My wife is amazing, and every day I’m thankful that she married me.  We were one of those couples that met online.  At first I wasn’t sure if it would work out, since I lived in a different city and she was an emoticon.  But there was just something about her semicolon-closed parenthesis that I just found irresistible.

I haven’t been married very long, so I’m not full of sage advice for those trying to make their way through the harrowing journey that is daily coexistence.  However, I do feel that I’m learning all the time; the trick is simply to pay attention.  For instance, after letting my wife proofread this article, I have learned that it is a bad idea to compare sex with video games.

Who knew?

Hey folks! Today’s post is actually on the day it was supposed to be, so that’s a win, right?

Also a win? Corrie @ My Pickle Talks is in the studio with us today, sharing a rather intense post!

See how her name is all big and stuff? Yeah. Click on it. Go see her. Follow her. Stand outside her blog and look in the windows. You’ll see stuff. It’s hawt…

Dang. Where was I?

Oh. That’s, right. Copy and pasting.

I looked at the clock. It was almost time. I started looking out the bedroom window looking for two tall and lanky teens to walk down the long gravel driveway. It was hard to see because the leaves on the tree where thick blocking my view.I go downstairs to check several different windows to see which one gave me the best and quickest sighting of the handsome heads. Finally, I see them. I run back up the stairs and take position. It seem like forever before I hear them come in the door. I hear them wonder where I am, but they don’t call out.One appears in my line of sight and then the other. Fortunately, neither one has looked up the staircase to spot me. At just the right moment, I get off two rounds.”What!” one or both of them yell in surprise.I get off two or three more rounds before the scramble down the stairs and duck for cover.”Oh, no. You are going down!” One calls up the stairs and they both go scrambling down into the basement looking for the other Nerf guns.While they are downstairs, I take my next position. I hear them coming up the stairs. I see them cautiously checking the rooms, behind doors and every nook and cranny. They ponder where I could have gone. Eventually they give up, lower their guns and walk into their shared bedroom. As soon as both are in the room, I pop up from the upper bunk of their beds and begin shooting again. They scramble out of the bedroom and back into the hallway for cover.The battle ranged for a half an hour. I’m not sure any one really won. I believe I definitely can claim the surprise ambush. What 17 and 16 year old teen expects their 43 year old mom to ambush them with a Nerf gun when they get home from school?

Always keep them guessing.

Folks, Blogger doesn’t make a template that will hold the day I had yesterday, but I’ll try to blog about it on Monday. That’s why this post is a day late, but with BigSis at Speaking of Witch, it’s never a dollar short.

See how I made her name big? That’s so you’ll click on it and go follow her. She’s a funny lady, as she proves here right…..NOW!

Travis is one of the funniest people I know.  At first, I was honored that he invited me to guest post.  Then, I started worrying about what to post.  I certainly don’t want to disappoint him, or his 213 followers.  Wow.  I think I was number 48 to join the band wagon.  Travis, you are my hero.  So, anyway, I decided that what makes me laugh the hardest is other people’s discomfort.  So, I’ll share with you a glimpse into growing up with my parents… On the secret of their long marriage: “Our pre-nup was that whoever left had to take the kids.”  41 years later they are still married, because apparently neither of them wants us. Still!
Whenever we’d been hustling along and my mother would fall behind my father would tell her to hurry up. She’d say, “I’m coming!” And he’d say, “Hell, you aren’t even breathing hard yet.”  I was much older before I learned what he meant and was retroactively disgusted that my father had such a dirty mind.
Around the same time there was a dirty joke that my father used to tell. The joke was always whispered so that I couldn’t hear it. All I heard was the punch line: “Hardly anyone eats parsley.”  Flash forward a few years and I heard the whole joke. It starts off: “What is the difference between parsley and pussy?” Yup – major retroactive EWWW!
And, on a less disturbing note, I remember how much fun my parents used to have drinking and partying with their friends at “the rivah.” After one festive night the adults were all hung over. Instead of admitting this to a bunch of middle schoolers, they told us that they must have eaten some bad shrimp. We still tease them about eating a bad shrimp. So, if you know me at all, that explains a bit of why I turned out the way I am.  And, if you don’t know me, please come by and visit anytime. Thanks Travis!
Hello everyone! Today is a guest post from Kiera over at Imperfect Daisies. Click on her name there to go visit and follow and stalk and torture and…yeah I’m going to stop there. Anyway, she’s a blast, and she’s married to a man that refuses to read her blog, so go over there and make him jealous! There will be many more guest bloggers through the coming weeks on Wednesday, so get ready! She also would like me to tell you that there will be pictures of the following trip on her site today!
Olympic Wisdom, Firsthand
I went skiing last week for the first time in 6 years.  What I remember from being 17 was loving the exhilaration of it.  I remember going fast, and I remember walking down one of the hills because I was too scared.  That’s about it.  Being 17 one doesn’t think or observe too much- unless it’s effects him or her directly.
I was so pumped to going skiing again for my hub’s birthday.  We brought along my parents and got a condo so that they could watch the kids enjoy this mini vaca with us.  As soon as the kids went to bed, we snuck out to hit the slopes.  My experience was entirely enjoyable but I observed so much more.  So just in case you’re a very, very novice skier, here are a couple of things I learned/observed about this wonderful winter sport.

  • There’s no need to carbo load like you’re an Olympian:  Before skiing, we went to eat dinner at the locally brewery.  Typically when we go out to eat I still like to eat semi healthfully, but this time I figured we would be skiing and after all, skiing is one of the best workouts, right?  So I ordered a homemade pasta dish with beef, beef, beef, and the thickest, starchiest most delicious noodles you’ve ever had.  I didn’t stop at the halfway point either.  I’m pretty sure I downed a pound of pasta with a pound of beef and tomato sauce.  And beer.  After we were through skiing for an hour and a half, I happily asked Mr Incredible how many calories he thought I’d burned.  He said, “one hundred.”  ONE HUNDRED?  I consumed a month’s worth of carbs and more cow than I can stomach to think.  One hundred calories?  “Well, you have to think, Kiera, half of the time we were skiing we were on the ski lift.”  “But what about skiing being the most calorie burning exercise????”  “Yea, cross country skiing is.”  ;lkjhfds  weight gain.
  • Poles are not for dragging:  silly me!  My whole entire life, I thought poles were meant to hinder momentum.  I’d literally drag my poles down the hill with me every time I’d skied.  Fail.  After I had taken a spill or four is when Mr Incredible (my husband) told me to ski across the hill instead of straight down.  The poles are to help you pivot.  Who woulda thunk it.
  • Dressing the part does not mean that you will look better:  As we were riding the ski lift up to our second run, there was a girl going really, REALLY slow with her skis turned in and her poles high up in the air.  I asked Mr Incredible what she was doing (maybe on the verge of a gelande jump? (I totally thesaurus dot comed ‘ski jump’) maybe she was going to gain crazy speed and then go into the woods, just to appear in 13.4 seconds at the bottom (or top!?!?) of the hill?)  Mr Incredible laughed and replied, “that’s what you look like.”  Oh.  But she had on a white and grey matching coat, ski pants, hats and gloves.  And a helmet.  With goggles.  That’s when I, too, looked down and realized that I had a North Face ski jacket with Spyder ski pants.  And goggles (circa 1987 from my parents’ house).  I like to think that I’m always the exception.  But I’m a bargain shopper.  I bought that ski gear for the same amount that you paid for yours at Walmart.  So I am the exception. So anyway.  Don’t be fooled by the people who dress like Shaun White.
  • Keep you pants on:  This is the ski version of the Mile High Club.  Next time you’re on a ski lift check out the nearby trees.  If you play a little game of Eye Spy, you too may see the various undergarments and Mardi Gras beads scattered on the trees.  Or maybe it’s just us Western New Yorkers.  My imagination does not just stop at ‘chilly.’  I won’t go into too much imaginative detail other than 1) ew. 2) chilly. 3) HOW?  I literally could not get my oversized hat off while I was sitting in the ski lift with the bar down.  My poles were getting stuck on the safety bar while being tangled around my wrists.  Not to mention that I have to concentrate on keeping my skis straight so they don’t knock into something we’re passing.  So how, my dear teenaged friends, how do you manage to take anything off from underneath all of your gear and then toss it into the trees with still enough time to recover and ski off the lift?  How?  Do you regret it when it’s you versus the wind going down hill?  Edify me someone.  ANYONE.

I’m honored and overwhelmed (in a good way) for being able to guest blog over here at Travis’.  Hope I could provide as much enjoyment as you, Travis  :)Ladies and gents, I give you the man that needs no introduction, ED!

After you read, you better go to his blog and check out his hilarity. Click on this sentence. 

Here his is!

First!Ha!Usually that’s what people do in the comment section, but since I’m the first guest poster in this new series of guest posters on Travis’ blog, that means I WIN!Sadly, all the other posters will be TRYING to follow me……”The Original”, which is somewhat like “The Situation”, only less orange-y …….and disease-freer.(That last part was for you, Tamara! Stop blaming me for your drip! The rash maybe, but not the drip.)I’m Ed.I’ve been a follower of Travis’ since he had only about 16.Back then, (before he sold out to The Man) he was like a poor man’s version of Larry The Cableguy.You know, before Nutrisystem……………When Larry was still fat and funny.Yes, the good old days.That’s when our Bromance was still new.I would read his blog, he would read mine.We would trade comments.Occassionally, we would g-chat.Maybe even a phone call or two.And of course, we exchanged tons of nudie pics or ourselves.But not anymore! Oh no.Now, he’s all busy with his NEW “friends”………..You all.Kicked me to the curb faster than Samantha did Lindsey.There was a time, before the Man-ymoon ended, that we planned our World Domination together.We even had ideas for a secret commune compound of funny bloggers, from which we would rule the comedic world.Then he hit 200 followers, and I was left in the dust while he chased his dreams at the video store.So now, our Man-love is one-sided.While he’s off with his legion of fans and Blackberry bitches, I’m now the proverbial fat kid waiting to get picked for kickball.“Pick me, pick me! PLEASE! Pick me!”Hell, even my own wife and kids love Travis more than they do me. L
Seriously though, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this guest post.The last time I appeared on Travis’ blog, other than in the comment section, was for his 100th Post Roast.And since I spent the whole time saying mean things about him and the other roasters, I figured I should be nice this time.It’s just like momma always said, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!”And so……………Well folks, it’s going to be a busy week.


Some of you already know.

Some of you don’t, so here it is.

The Missus and I…


And for sure, it’s all thanks to Tamara over at Cheapskate Mom.

I won’t be around too much this week, because I’ll be packing and shit. Tomorrow is a guest post from Ed, and there will be guest posts for like the next 8 weeks on Wednesday.

I love you guys, and I love you even more TAMARA!!!

*This is not a joke. It is for realsies. Thanks to June over at 3! A Charm for sending me her Flip video camera  so that I can record my whole experience from packing to coming back, and everything in between!

I’m guest blogging again today, and this time it’s


Go check that shiz, yo.

Oh, and one other thing.

Jeff over at Badly Drawn Monsters is riding his bike in a Tour de Cure for the diabetes.

I was so thankful that I made him a couple of things.



And here is one for my Twilight fans:


Enjoy the guest blog.


And your lunch.

I love you, Jeff!

Over at Lily’s place telling a story about how you should always know who you’re talking to when you text someone.

Click here to read it!

Oh, and if you’re not following Lily, you better get on that shiz.

I love you guys, and I hope you’re having a great Sunday!

Get ready for Memoir Monday tomorrow!

I’m over hanging at The Office Scribe’s place, answering questions for her interview.

Go check that shiz, yo.

I’ll be back tomorrow with a TMI post.

I’ll also be guest blogging at a couple of other places soon.

Anyone wanna take a shot at my blog while I’m gone?

And yeah, the big words are the link.

I feel like I should leave you something here though. So I am gonna give you a picture.


Do it.
Hey everyone!

I just wanted to be the first to tell everyone Happy Thanksgiving!

I wasn’t.

So, I don’t know what number I am, but it looks like I’m currently in somewhere around last place.

So. I will be the first to say this!

Hey. Indians? We’re real sorry about everything. That’s our bad.

Maybe free cheese and Twilight making y’all look good will make up for it?



Yep, you heard right. I’ve known for a while now, but I’ve not been able to blog about it, because my sis in law respects the fact that my blogs are read by the entire WORLD and she didn’t want a lot of people finding out. She released the gag order yesterday, and also found out what the baby will be! You ready???

It’s going to be a GIRL!!!

I gotta be honest with you though, this changes my whole philosophy as an uncle. I feel so sorry for the poor bastard that comes to my brothers door 18 years from now with dating that girl on his mind. If he makes it out  the door with clean pants and no broken appendages, shit will be a miracle.


I’m guest posting today at Stir Fry Awesomeness! It’s a repeat post, but many of you may not have read it. Shoot, it’s already picked me up 3 new followers! Love you guys!

Go Here To Read!

Alright, I’ll let you go.

Have a very happy Thanksgiving, and once again, I would just like to say that I am very thankful for each and every one of y’all!

Even Ed

What I’m NOT thankful for?

The University of North Carolina, it’s mens basketball program, the coach, and all the evil that they stand for.


I am guest posting today at Batcrap Crazy, which is the blog of Mrs. Daffy! I won her “asshat” definition contest. If you want to read it, click here! I have also been featured in a a blog by Tamara over at Cheapskate Mom. If you want to check that out, click here!!

The Missus called me yesterday.

“Guess what?”

“What’s that?”

“Carmike has a midnight showing of New Moon!”

“I’ll go get the tickets.”

So yeah, I went 4 hours early to get tickets, and the place wasn’t even open yet. Kid Funk tried to introduce me to Fandango, but it didn’t like me too much.

I went back, stood in line, and got the tickets.

As I got the tickets and was leaving, I did the funniest thing that never got laughed at. There were about 100 people in line, and the theater guy came out waving his little arms and said, “Does anyone here want to see something that is starting NOW?” And I piped up above the crowd and said, “I want to see A Christmas Carol!”


Finally, from the very back, I hear a guy.


Yeah. I was pissed. But, it proved why I’m not a stand up comedian. Actually, I don’t think it was the right venue, what with little teeny boppin emo retards worrying about whether or not they’d get a ticket and whether or not they’d pop a boner at the sight of Edward without a shirt on.

By the way, I’m totally Team Edward. That’s real. Vampires are so much cooler.

I won’t post anything about the movie, other than it was great. I really think it was much better than the first one.

Be jealous, I saw it before you.

However, as we were waiting in line to get into the theater, shit got crazy. First of all, I met a fellow blogger whilst standing in line. I looked at The Missus and said, “I’m totally blogging about this.” And this lady behind us said, “Oh, I am too.” So of course I demanded asked her the name of her blog, and of course started braggin on you guys being the best followers in the world. And guess what? She only has 19. Why don’t y’all go show her some love! She lives in my town!!! Click here to go visit her. I haven’t really read through the blog, so I take no responsibility for what is on there!

I really am running on like 3 hours sleep here, so I’m not funny today. I may come back later for more, but I just don’t know. I need sleep. Go read the guest post! Then go check the post of Cheapskates, and then go give Ruby some lovin. Not literally though. Her husband looked like a pretty solid dude.

Oh. And I should mention, there is something big headed your way. And no, it’s not me on a bike. I’ve collaborated with a certain blogger named Lauren, and let me tell you, great things are afoot. It’s still in development, but we’ll let you know something soon.

Alright folks, I’ve gotten lazy.

“Isn’t he fat? Isn’t he pretty much always lazy? Isn’t that WHY he’s         fat?”

Hey. Shut up and read, okay?

Here’s the deal. I’ve decided I want to rent some space out here to some other bloggers. Rent’s cheap, too. All you’ve gotta do is answer some questions. There aren’t even any wrong answers. Even if there were, I wouldn’t tell you, because that’s cheating, and cheatin ain’t cool.

In all seriousness, I’ve decided to let some people guest post on my blog. And by people, I mean ANYONE. I won’t be picky. The questionnaire is simply for introduction purposes. I’m going to start doing it on Fridays. I’ll pick one person a week, probably on a first come, first serve basis. I’ll schedule it up, and let you know the week you’ll be posting.

I won’t have any predetermined topic at all. You may blog about whatever you want, for however long you want. As much as it pains me to say this, I won’t edit you in any way. Whatever you type gets posted.* If you want some attention, this is your chance! I’m only gonna post about it this one time, and we’ll see how it goes. Now, if no one wants to participate, I shall be very hurt emotionally, and I might never blog again.

I’m totally jerkin ya. Y’all can’t keep this fatty down. That’s real.

Here are the questions, and please, pretty please, can you just email me the got dang answers? I don’t really wanna hear any complaints about that, people. I mean, it’s for your intro. You don’t want other people seeing your intro, do you?

If you don’t feel like guest posting, hell, just put your answers down in the comment box. It might make for some interesting reading, because I damn sure didn’t put any in this post.

Sorry about that.

[Terms and Conditions: Travis does not take responsibility for your post. Anything you post can be used against you when I throw you under the bus for either not being funny, or bashing your neighbor because you don’t think he reads me. I do not want any guest posting privileges in return, however, I wouldn’t mind an offer, because seriously, no one has asked me yet, and that’s gay. Just sayin. If you have any questions, please email my sexy ass and let me know. I will do my best to get back to you within a completely reasonable 86 to 678 business days.] 

*Within reason. I won’t tolerate any Jesus or Duke bashin. Well, maybe Jesus Duke. Maybe. Woo. I’m totally gonna need to say my prayers this evening.

Now, without further blog ado; The Questions!

If you could punch one famous person in the face, dead or alive, who would you punch? Why?

You are stuck on a desert island with only a compass and your mother in law. Give me your most creative escape plan.

Go find the closest person to you, or call someone. Ask them to rank you on a scale of 1 to 10, how funny you are. Give us the relation, and their answer.

What is the worst deal you ever made for sex?

You can have one song stuck in your head the rest of your life. What is it?