Original post date - Thursday, June 30, 2005
More Random Thoughts

Yes, folks, it's that time again. It's time once more to delve into the scariest of places...the uncharted territory that is the mind of Woody. I am here in hell, or as it's more commonly known, outside of The Breakers in Palm Beach. As per the good people at weather.com, it's currently 87 degrees outside, but it feels like 95. I don't know guys, it feels to me like's it's 10 degrees hotter than Satan's ass crack, but, hey, I'm no meterologist. Once again, my balls are so deep in sweat they need water wings. I'm going to attach a bouy to my wang to make sure I don't lose it in that Mediterranian Sea of ball sweat I got going on down there. But I digress...enough about my nether regions.
HEALTHY DIET
Today started as any other...my friend PJ called me at 7:00am and woke me up. I tried to be mad at her except she is an ex-girlfriend who knows all my secret buttons to push to get her out of any trouble. I swear, she could close a bear trap on my nut bag and make me listen to Hansen for 3 hours and I'd forgive her. I hate this magic power she holds over me. I went back to sleep and woke up around noon. I was hungry but out of pork products. What's worse, the eggs were dwindling. Damn, I need to shop soon. I decide to make plain fried egg sandwiches, cholesterol be damned, and use up all the eggs. I put a unhealthy dallop of margerine in the pan, then toss 3 eggs in and cooked them sunny-side up. Then I took 4 pieces of toast and slathered margerine all over tham, then upon my toast I placed the eggs dripping in faux butter. To top it all off, I added a little ketchup for color and tons of salt and proceeded to destroy my two fried egg sandwiches in about 5 minutes. What's the world record for "youngest death by heart attack?" I'm gonna break it. You hear me Guiness?
AUTO-EROTIC VOYEURISM
Ok, I know I said previously "enough about my nether regions" but... My shower curtain fell down while I was showering today and it scarred the hell out of me. There I am, having a nice relaxing shower, listening to the Stones greatest hits (I have a cd player in my bathroom), when, WHOOM! down it fell. Fucking startled the shit out of me. There I was soaping up the shampoo in my hair to a nice lather and I'm treated to sudden shock. I slipped and almost fell on my ass and I got soap in my eyes that burned like lemon juice and acid. You know, it's actually kind of like a little flasher or streaker running through your bathroom. I mean, there you are, doing something as mundane as showering, and all of a sudden, the curtain drops and it's showtime! You're staring at a naked ass in the semi-fogged mirror. It's a good thing I have a sense of humor or I might have been offended by the nudity. Actually, I'm kinda sexy.
WOODY CURSES SELECTIVELY
I had this brought to my attention today by my good friend Lumpy, who lives in Maine. I left him a message the other day because I had been trying to get in touch with him for a few days and was not getting a call back. The message that did prompt a response went like this:BEEP. Lumpy, what the fuck? Who's fucking dick to I have to suck to get a fucking call back around here? What, am I not fucking good enough for you to deserve a fucking call back? What the fuck!?! Crap!!!Then I hung up. The point that was brought to my attention when I got a call back today (see, cursing works), is that I lay down that vicious, F-bomb laced message, and I top it all off with "crap." Not "shit" or another "fuck," but a more mild, and kinder, gentler "crap." Why take the high road after just dropping 6 F-bombs in the span of just 20 seconds? The answer, folks, is just another of natures great mysteries. I guess I like "crap" better than "shit." Everyone says "shit" but only a select few people use the word "crap." The only time I use the word "shit" anymore is in conjunction with "horse," as in "Horseshit!!" Yeah, now that has panache!
WOODY CAN'T SPELL
Here's something I just learned that knocked me down a few notches on the intelligence food chain. Apparently, I've been spelling the word "surprise" incorrectly for years. Go ahead and check my previous blogs. Surprise. Not a difficult word to spell, and I'm admittidly not a grammatical genius. But crap! How could I spell that word wrong for so long? I was spelling it "suprise." The way I figured it out was, last night I sat down to try and do some writing after a few beers, and I just kept saying it to myself. Soup-rize. Sur-prize. Soup-rize. Sur-prize. Fuck. Which one is correct?! Finally, I use spell-check (yeah, I know. Hey, I already said I wasn't a genius! Lay off!) and there it is. Well, fuck me gently. I've been spelling it wrong all this time, huh? Oh well. It was a suprise to me.
WOODY IS ON HIS SOAPBOX
Well, it's Thursday, and I don't have to work tomorrow. What's more, it's the beginning of a holiday weekend...the 4th of July. That historically significant date signifies our declaration of independence from the opressive English monarch that ruled with an iron fist of injustice. Yes, why should we send taxes to rich Brittish white men who won't allow women and people of color any basic human rights, when we have American rich white men who can do that for us! And although we are inundated with gobs of patriotic mishmash from all angles and sources of media, isn't the 4th of July just a good excuse for a day off work, to throw a barbecue, get drunk and watch stuff blow up? Then again, aren't those the things that America was founded on? After all, that's what they wanted four score and seven years ago, wasn't it? Our fore-fathers faught for their right to party and they got it. Who am I to question that?
Happy Jorth of Fuly! Have a beeron mee! And God dress Aberica!!!
(Holy crap I'm drunk!)

Original post date - Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Woody Gets A Massage

A few years ago, I worked for a bank that had fucking awesome health insurance. It was so good, that it paid for you to visit a local chiropractor who would treat you and then prescribe weekly massages by one of his 3 young, hot, blonde masseuses (did I spell that right? And doesn't "masseuses" sound like a word that should be in Cat in the Hat or Horton Hears a Hoo? "Flim-flam-o-grams and gooses, ring-ding-a-lings and masseuses!"). Anyway, this sounded good to me, so I went and low and behold, it seams I have back problems and need a massage three times a week from a 22 year old hot enough to induce spontaineous bouts of masturbation. Unfortunately, masturbation was the only thing you were gonna enjoy after the massage as this was NOT a happy ending type of place. But, alas, I went and enjoyed the free rubdowns and got to know my rubbing companion. It seams, coincedently, she had babysat for my ex's brother and his wife. I went there probably 15 times, until one fateful afternoon, when I would have the most awkward 30 minutes ever. It started like any other rub, she did my back for the first 30 minutes, then asked me to flip over and she would do the front. Now, I don't like to wear anything during my massages because it helps me feel more relaxed, so at this moment I am completely bare ass naked. She starts with a long rub on my quad-or thigh muscle for those of you who were educated in Florida-except she gets a little close with this long, slow, lotioned up rub, and I think to myself "ooohh, that was nice." Then I realize where I am and that that's not a cool thought to have. Uh-oh! Mighty Kong is awake! Too late! I can feel a tingle in the south of France and it's only a matter of time until the Eiffel Tower is standing straight up for everyone to see! Immediately, I try to get a hold of the situation (not literally, she would have freaked out) and I try to think of the most horrible things to quell the swelling; fat chicks in bikinis, last nights hockey game, Barbara Bush...nothing is working. And what's worse, my nervousness is only making it stronger. Every second I thought about it only seemed to make it worse, second by agonizing second creeping by ever so slowly, until there it was. Plain as day. I'm lying on a table in the middle of the room, naked as a jay bird, covered only by a very thin sheet- and I've got the most rediculous boner I've ever had. It was porn worthy, I tell you. I almost feel bad for wasting it on such an awkward moment, but what can you do? Even worse, at that moment, we went silent. All conversation had stopped. It was like there was a freaking blue elephant sitting in the corner of the room, she knew it, I knew it, but neither one of us wanted to talk about it. And I still had 25 minutes left to go. Well, dammit all, if that boner didn't stay there the entire time she gave me the massage. She finally said "Ok, you're all done." and left the room. Meanwhile, I'm sitting there, full stock, not wanting to walk out because you know she just told the whole staff about MY staff and they're gonna snicker and laugh as I leave. Well, I get dressed, quickly walk out to the front desk, tell them to cancel my next appointment because I'm busy and I never went back.
Let me tell you, there is nothing more awkward than being alone in a room with a woman who has no intention of touching you sexually in any way, shape or form, you are completely naked and you have a huge and obvious erection. Yep. Very awkward indeed.

Original post date - Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Weekend Wrap Up 6/23-6/26

It's Tuesday and it's hot as a bastard outside. I'm currently at work and my balls are so immersed in sweat right now they need scuba geer. I live a rough life, I know, but don't cry for me, Argentina, as I am about to review the weekend.
This past weekend, it started early. Thursday night, I am at my job at The Breakers, the swanky hotel for people with too much money, when these two hot blondes walk up to my desk to ask what's fun to do around here. After fighting off the urge to say "Me!", I tell them about Clematis Street and City Place, but I also mention I work at a club about 25 minutes south and I was going to go there, as well as a few other bars in that area. They ask to tag along. Jackpot. I of course welcome them but I inform them my shift ends at 10pm and it's only 6:45pm. "That's ok, we have a gallon bottle of Captain Morgan Silver in our room, we'll just keep drinking while we wait for you." It was like angels singing a sweet, sweet drunken love song that was written especially for me. So they go inside, refill and come back down to my desk where we shoot the shit for a while. Turns out, they're from Orlando are 21 and 19...hmmm, that may be trouble. 10pm comes and we are driving to Delray and my club. I decide to be nice and let my buddy share in my hijinx-hey, even Maverick had Goose as a wingman, know what I mean. I know, I know, I could have been greedy and gone for the gusto -the sister extra value combo- but who wants that, you know? Who needs that whole "sex with two girls" pressure hanging over your head? Ok, I did, but I called my buddy anyway 'cause I'm a generous guy. He meets us in Delray and we go up the street to a bar. I know the bouncer, bartenders, and waitress so we're in with no problem. Over the next hour me and my buddy get quite shebangled, tipsy if you will (the girls do not need any more alcohol at this time and I don't want to get the bar in trouble) and we decide which guy gets which girl. We decide because I am younger (by a year) that I will take the 19 year old and he can have the 21 year old (they're both hot as hell so it doesn't matter). We leave and head back to the hotel, where the girls want to swim. Yeah, um, the beach at most fancy hotels is closed at sundown, as are the pools, but that doesn't seem to matter to them much. We all have more Captain Morgan (God bless that man, someone promote him to Major Morgan, or even Colonel Morgan) and then we start to get changed. Neither me or my buddy have suits, but the girls say they have some basketball shorts that they sleep in that might fit us. I don't really care at this point because I'm thinking we're ending up au natural anyway, but I play along. I take my boots off to get changed, and we hear a knock on the joining room door. Uh-oh. It's mom. Me and my buddy run into the bathroom, close the door, and try to listen to what's going on:
Mom: What are you two doing in here?!?!
Girls: Nothing, we're a little tipsy, sorry we were being so loud.
Mom: Ok, just don't wake your father up or---who's boots are those?
Girls: What boots?
It was all we could do to not shit ourselves laughing! What boots? WHAT BOOTS?!?! The ones sitting right next to the bed, plain as day, dipshit!!! You have got to be shitting me!! Wow, those girls either had balls of steel playing dumb when they knew (and Mom knew) damn well what was going on, or they really were drunk as fuck.
Mom (after a pause): Just be quiet and don't wake your father.
Girls: Sorry Mom.
Door closes. Sweet. Operation Skinny Dip is back on. We squeeze into their shorts (I must admit it was pretty funny seeing us in those shorts. I almost had a male-camel toe going, but hey...tight pants make it look like you're hung like a bear. I see why the Europeans do it). We go down to the beach out of sight of the main pool area and into the water where we commence with a little tonsil hockey, when all of a sudden a damn security gaurd comes out of the darkness to tell us we gotta go. You can see he knows the score and doesn't want to cock block, but he's gotta do his job. He was almost apologetic in telling us to go. So we go back up and find a pool that is deserted (in our drunken state, we didn't realize that there are cameras EVERYWHERE recording our every movement). We tried three different pools and made about 15 minutes progress at each pool before a new gaurd would come out and tell us we had to go. It was like traveling the Oregon Trail; progress was slow and there were many distractions and obsticles along the way, but nothing kept us from our common goal of reaching that sweet, supple valley and settling down inside her. Finally, they decide it's time to go back to the room...Operation Skinny Dip has been changed to Operation Grab Ass. Just as we are making our way back from the pool, some cock-blocking bitch in a hotel uniform comes out with a walkie-talkie, yelling something about police. "Police?" I ask, obviously a little nervous at the mention of five-oh, "but we're guests here."(I'm totally bluffing)
Cock-Blocking Bitch: Well you've been all over the beach and pool area while it's been closed, so unless I can confirm your reservations, you're tresspassing!(she calls my bluff...damn her to heck!)
Girls: We have a room here, they are our guests.
Cock-Blocking Bitch: Well, no one is going anywhere until the cops get here and we straighten things out.
Just then we see blue flashing lights as a cop comes up the main drive. Me and my boy take one look at each other and we know it's time to abandon the dream. I tell Cock-Blocker that I just want to go get a towell then I whisper to my girl that we gotta go, but I'll call her from the car, and we take off. We get to the car and I realize that I am carrying my girl's skirt and sandals-a souvenir I guess. My cell phone rings a half hour later and they tell us that the cop came and escorted them back to their room, and management would notify their parents in the morning of what had happened. Dammit! So close, yet so far. I spoke to 19 year old in the morning and she did say that they will be back in Orlando next week and want to hang out, and that they didn't get in trouble because her mom knew what was going on anyway. You gotta love those parents who were hippies when they were younger. So understanding. So trusting. Hopefully, there will be a part two to this.
Friday night, I met a girl who is a massage therapist. I asked her if she does happy endings. She said after a few more drinks maybe. I got her a few more drinks. She gave me her number. Not the happy ending I was looking for, but it's a start. We're hainging out tonight, so maybe this will have a part two also.
Saturday night was quiet. I hooked up with this girl I have been talking to. She still lives with her ex-boyfriend until July 9th, so she said no sex until then. Not cool. Looks like we're still seeing other people...at least until July 9th.
Sunday was fun. A few people from work came over and we drank a lot of beer. Also, I got a 2.5 lb London Broil and cooked it on the grill...it was like a blow job for your taste buds...without all the spluge.
Anyways, I'm gonna go back to sweating at my desk. There is now so much sweat, there's a flash flood warning in my pants. I hope my balls don't drown.
Please send donations to:
Save Woody's Balls
P.O. Box 80081E5
Intercourse, PA 10069

Original post date - Thursday June 23, 2005
A bizarre Exchange Indeed

This is an example of why alcohol is bad for your brain. Exhibit A is an exchange that took place between myself and Chuck Deuce. We are two strange birds.
Chuck Deuce's Post:
hey everyone out there in myspace land!its yer ol' friend here, chuck deuce.chucky d, the d-meister, the deuce machine.the d-bomb, the quintesential deucemuffin,deucy, deucy, deuce-a-rino...so anyways,i jus got home from a long dayat my job in strong island...what do i do for work?why, i slay dragons of course.so today me and my boy, dominic,was out beatin' the frickin snot outta this dragon, and before you knows ithe shoots this fire out his ass, and it litthe stick of dynamite dom happened to have in his back pocket.and Kablammy! dom lights up like the torch onthe statue of liberty... ive been pickin out doms brainsout my n.y. islanders jersey all frickin day.. so, afterthe sad loss of my best friend, dom,i ate two-tree pies and a few coney island hot dogsto ease the pain, but it didnt work...so now im sipping margaritas, watching wrestlingin my underpants and feelin' fine.anyone else out there have a rough day?hit me up.
My retort:
You think you've had a bad day?!? First, I go to work, however, on the way, I become confused by all the construction and instead of heading east, I go west and end up in redwood country, out in the wilderness of Oregon, which is beautiful by the way. Now, it's a long trip and I have been dying to urinate, so I get out of the car and make my way off the road to relive myself, when who do I bump into but Big Foot. He's absolutely irate, not only because I'm defiling his home with pee-pee, but because I'm a bit bigger in the bulge department. So he slaps me accross the face with a leather glove and requests a duel. I accept as this slap is an insult to my honor and I zip up and we start to grapple. We lock up, not unlike Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant, except that there is less spandex, and Andre the Giant was harrier than Big Foot. Well, let me tell you that after I gave him a rap on the old Jack Johnson, Mr. Foot was quite agitated. He put me into a full nelson followed by a headlock and proceeded to give noogie followed by wet willie followed by noogie. Thank goodness for me Yettis don't have cable or watch any violent progamming, as he was quite unaware as to how to administer a pummeling. Somehow I wiggled out of the headlock and grabbed for his forearm. You see, anyone with that much arm hair would never be able to recover from an indian rug burn, and that's just what I did. While he was smarting and starting to cry, I made my way back to my car and drove back to Florida. It's not that bad of a drive if you don't stop too many times to dilly-dally. It seems I lost my job for not showing up to work on time, so I went to the local tavern to drown my sorrows in a frothy brew. Upon placing my order, the barkeep spit right in my face. Even worse when I asked him why, he maintained that I "just looked like the kind of guy who deserved it" and walked off. I still don't know what that means. Anyway, he delivered my beer nonetheless and I started to drink when, who do I notice sitting next to me but Michael Gross, character actor and the man who played the dad on Family Ties. I won't go into too much detail, but I can honestly say that he is somewhat of a jerk and quite possebly gay. I then returned home to find out that my house had been vandalized and my grandmother fisted by the neighborhood kids as a prank. Boy, oh boy...and I remember when a good toiletpapering was all the pranking I could handle. Times sure have changed.

Original post date - Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Another Sunday...another erased memory.

As many of you know, Sunday is a day of rest. A day of repentence. A day of alcoholism? In my world...yes. The past few Sundays have been, all in all, complete and total drunkfests. And what's worse, I don't remember the last few hours of the night, which is apparently when I do all the good and funny stuff. Well, this is a big problem. So from now on, I am going to try to bring my video recorder or a tape recorder with me everywhere I go, so as not to miss any hijinx. That being said, let's review the weekend.
Friday night, I didn't go out after work because I was golfing in the morning. Do you know how fucking hot it gets in south Florida? Why do people golf? You pay good money to spend hours out doors getting frustrated over a little white ball. Ok, it's fun for 30 minutes, then I just want a beer and some wings or something. I got sunburnt to hell because I'm Brittish/Irish and me in the sun is like putting a fork in the microwave. I swear, I should just wear a bee-keepers outfit when I'm going to be outside for prolonged periods of time. Saturday night, I have absolutely no memory of. Sad, huh? I don't know if I went out or not. I remember going to work, it was fun, I think I went out, but my nights all seem to run together. I may actually have flooded my gray matter with jagermeister knocking out my short term memory. It's just a theory now, a hypothesis if you will, but it's possible. Sunday was the kicker. Plan was to spend all day with Woody Junior (no, that's not a penis joke; I'm referring to my son) and then after his mom picked him up, meet the crew at Bru's room around 7:30. Well, BabyMama had to pick junior up by 6:15, so now I'm ready to go an hour and a half before everyone else. So I go to Bull Bar to tailgate. Have a shot and a few beers, then the crew starts to show, so I go back to Bru's Room. First Tammy arrives, then Obi-Wan Canoli and his sis. Then J&J and a few others. By 9:00, the game was on, my wings were gone, and I was in rare form. I had found a pair of Buddy Holly glasses with no lenses in them while cleaning my room earlier, so I decided to bring them along as a goof. What followed was my brief, alcohol-fuled foray into paranoid schizophrenia. When the glasses were off, I was just plain ol' drunk Woody. When they were on, I decided I was Robert Goulet. I have no idea where this recent fascination with Mr. Goulet has come from, but I can tell you that it apparently is quite humorous to witness. That is when the wheels started to fall off. We left Bru's room, went back to Bull bar, where I proceeded to purchase shots for my good friend SpecialK, who was singing at Bull Bar that night. Legend has it that I went to and from the bar with a round of jagers for me and SpecialK 3 times in a span of 5 minutes, but I have no memory of this incedent, further fueling my belief that it probably happened. From there, I had numerous girls on my lap, had more of my two favorite friends, Miller & Jager, had no idea what happened past the first quarter of the game, and was driven home by NewGirl where I promptly made out with her in her car for a half hour (now that I remember!), before going inside alone and passing out. My life is a malestrom of hops, barley and German liquor. Can't wait to do it all over again this weekend...Without the golf, of course(wink...smile).

Original post date - Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Woody's Weekend Gets Good...Then Really, Really Bad.

Well, what can I say? Even Sam Malone had a bad day when heworked at Cheers, right? Well, this weekend was awesome and ultimately shitty all rolled into one big Awesome-Shitty Combo Burrito.
Saturday night was a good one at the club. We made a lot of money and put on a great show. There were a lot of girls there, many of whom were quite attractive and of course I was going out after work. Now, being the responsible adult that I am, I rode with a co-worker to the bar after leaving work because I was planning on drinking...a lot...and I didn't want to have to worry about my car. I'd just come get it the next morning like I had done many times before. We show up at the Ugly Mug and it's good right off the bat. There's a bunch of people there from the club earlier as well as a few of my friends. I proceed to get drunk and towards the end of the night, I get a text from GoodGirl, you may know from an earlier story, and she wants hook up. She tells me "I won't make you leave your friends, let's just go do it in the parking lot in my car, then you can come back in and hang out with your friends." Now, I'm not a dirty whore and I am not into sex in cars and I tell her this.
So we're doing it in her car...and it's good. She's getting into it and wants to go back to my house. I'm not sure because I didn't even tell my friends I was going out side. She tries to convince me with the following: "I'll let you do anything you want." Oh, come on!! That is not fair! Girls, you should not be allowed to use sex against us!! If we had women mediators, there would be no war, they could just offer sex to world leaders and all those guys would go home peacefully. Well, again, I try to be a good boy and I tell her that I am not a whore and I'm not interested in her offer.
So we're back at my house engaging in a rousing round of "sit on the pickle" on my billiards table. In my drunkenness, I turned on both the TV and the stereo. While turning on the TV, I was aiming for probably MTV, VH1 or comedy central, because they are all in the 70's, but somehow I landed on the religion channel. It's bad enough that I'm doing the humpty dance with this girl, but I'm doing it while the church channel is on. And since I've been drinking, I'm going energizer bunny style. She has had her moment in the sun, and wants me to cum. At this point, I am so tired and drunk, I am contemplating faking it...until she says "what can I do to make you cum?" Oh, now that's beautiful. Well, I rack my brain for something that's gonna work and I decide to roll the dice. Long story short, I convince her to attempt the Holy Grail of sexual encounters for men. We get all kinds of lotion and lube and after two attempts, I am told that it will not fit. Apparently, guys, there is such as thing as too big. If you're still not following, let's just say don't try to move your super-sleeper couch into your house through the back door. Well, she is a creative girl and to keep this R, instead of NC-17, I will skip the rest and tell you that I didn't have to fake it.
Now on to the next morning. My roommate drives me to my car and as we pull up he asks me if my window was always like that. Oh shit. You know, there is a reason people drive drunk and her it is: When you leave your car somewhere, it's very likely that a bunch of fucking crack heads will break in, steal $700 in CD's, a back-pack, your favorite sunglasses, a CD walkman, rip out your entire dash center console...oh, and steal your radio. Yep. Oh, and they smashed out the window in the back door to get into the car in the first place so I also have a smashed window to worry about. Yeah, now that's a good weekend gone shitty in about 3.9 seconds. Oh, and don't think for a second that the irony was lost on me. At the very moment I was attempting to drive northbound on the Hershey highway, I, too was being violated...and how did the perpetrators enter...through my back door. Oh sweet irony. I guess that's what I get for trying to stick it in the holiest of holy's while the church channel is on, huh? Boy, Jesus, you got a funny way of teaching a guy a lesson.

Original post date - Thursday, June 09, 2005
More of Woody's Random Thoughts...

First, An Apology:
A friend of mine was not feeling very well yesterday, a little upset tummy. Also, her ex-boyfriend was being a dick, so she called me at 11:30 pm, while I was at a show for the Sloppy Highfives, for a little cheering up (non-sexual, you dirty minded pigs). Well, being the friend that I am, I left the show early and went to her house. Before you go thinking I am a nice guy underneath all this rough exterior, I will inform you that the only reason I went was because she had leftover pizza. I cheered her up and at the end of our talk I closed it up with this statement which I will now apologize for: "Hey, it could always be worse. You could have rectal cancer or even worse, you could be Vanilla Ice." Not to infer that people with rectal cancer are as bad as Vanilla Ice. Obviously, I would never want to offend people with cancer. Especially that of the rectum. They have it bad enough without being placed in the same company as Vanilla Ice. This being said, I apologize to you all. Word to your mother, baby, too cold, too cold.

Hot Best Friends:
So, it was a friend of mine's birthday yesterday. Great girl. Beautiful. I love her to death. Got me to thinking...there's a reason most guys can't be friends with a girl without wanting to have sex with her. And that reason is because it sucks. Guys are predisposed to wanting the sex - it's our nature, we hump. Like rabbits. It's especially difficult if she is hot, as is the case with my friend. Now, I have gotten over the "never gonna hook-up" phase with my friend and we are now just friends. But what about all those other guys who have chick friends who are hot that are never gonna get to hook-up? I equate it to going to a job interview every day knowing you will never get hired. You love the company, and they love you, would love to hire you, but they're not going to. Instead, they are going to keep interviewing other applicants, some of whom have already done the job once and been fired for being shitty at it. Then they are going to tell you about every person who is not as qualified as you are and how they wish they would meet an applicant like you. But, alas, you will never get hired. This is what it is like being friends with a hot chick. Ladies, do guys a favor. Give us a test drive. A courtesy bang, if you will. Something! You never know, that guy who is your sorta-dorky-best-friend might be hung like a moose and be really awesome in bed. Kinda like when you are not sure if you like a car...give it a test drive. What if you really like the way it handles? What if you never thought you'd drive a stick, until you tried it and really enjoyed the overall performance of the vehicle? Dammit, ladies, come on. If you love your friends, you will do them this favor. And if it's bad, blame it on being drunk and go back to being friends. If you are really that close, it won't ruin anything. Trust me, I know from experience.

Foreign People Are Funny:
(Warning - May Be Offensive to Everyone)
Ever been called a fag? Ever been asked by someone if they could bum a fag? If you are an American, "Bumming a Fag" is going to inspire a potentially unwanted visual immage and could possebly offend or, worse, confuse. However, if you are from Great Brittain, it means you want a borrow a smoke. Which leads me wonder...they have got to know by now that "fag" means "homosexual", or if you are a frat guy, "Butt Pirate." And yet they still use it. Puzzling. You would think they'd fall in line and update their terminology just to be polite. Most people don't use the word "niggardly" and that has no racial denotation what so ever...it means "grudging and petty, scanty or meager." But because it sounds kinda rude, most people stopped using it. So come on, England, do all the freakin' fags a favor and just ask for a cigarette.Also, and I don't mean this in a mean way, but why do a lot of nationalities smell? I realize showering may not be a daily occurance in your homeland, pal, but in America, we do it all the time, sometimes multiple times a day. Come on, when in Rome, do as the Romans! I'll make a deal with every smelly immigrant...if I go to your country and it's customary to only bathe once a week, then color me stinky! I'll bathe once a week. Shit, you can even call me Pigpen. But while your here and using crowded elevators with us daily bathers, please, do us all a favor...wash your ass and crotch every day. You'll make more friends, people will want to talk to you, and your significant other may even go down on you. So say "NO" to that B.O. and take a shower. It makes the world a better place.This is more something Americans do when they speak to foreigners than something they do that is funny. Why is it that when someone doesn't speak English, we assume that speaking louder will somehow make the translation easier? My mom is guilty of this offense. We had a lady who would come over to clean the house, and she spoke Portugese. My mom, who did not, would instead yell "El cleano el tabelo!" or "Moppo los flooro!" hoping the extra volume would beat it's way into her brain and she would make the connection. FYI people: Increased volume is not proportionate to increased understanding. If that were the case, people would yell at foreigners all day long...hey, wait a minute, I DO yell at foreigners all day long. But that's because I hate everybody. But I digress. How about, in my mom's case, learning a phrase or two in that language and then teaching her in English so she learns. She may only know "clean the tables and floors" as her only English words, but at least I don't have my mom yelling broken gibberish at the top of her lungs scarring the hell out of the poor cleaning lady.

Fake Boobs:
Ok, so I broke up with this girl a month or so ago and she had fake boobs. Yeah, they looked nice and all, but the feel...well, it was kinda like feeling up two unripened oranges with nipples. I mean, dammit, why with all the technology in the world do we not have better fake boobs?!?! We can send a man to the moon and back but we can't figure out how to give him real-feeling boobs when he gets back? Salene and silicone are our only options? How about rubber cement? That stuff hardens and is nice and squishy. What about Jell-O? There's always room for Jell-O, plus we could get Bill Cosby doing commercials for fake boobs! How awesome would that be? Hell, I got an idea: how about that stuff they use as gel mouse pads? You know, those gel-like squishy things? They don't leak because they aren't liquid and they feel exactly like real boobs! I mean exactly! Ever sit there and just squeeze one of them things? Jeeze, now that I think about it, it's no wonder men download so much porn...every time we sit at a computer we have a freakin' fake boob in our hand!Which leads me to this final thought: Porn on the NetI've said it before and I'll say it again. There is nothing wrong with porn on the internet. If they take all the porn off of the internet, there will be one site left and that will be "BringBackThePorn.Com"

Original post date - Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Woody's Random Thoughts

NWA:

You may not like the was they were communicated, but NWA had some really good thoughts. Allow me to enlighten those of you who spent the 80's and 90's listening to Michael Bolton and Richard Marx.-"Fuck The Police?" Who doesn't agree with that? You get a speeding ticket, what do you say? You don't say, "Oh, well, I broke the law and I deserve it. Please cram a $250 fine up my brown eye." No, you say "God Dammit!! Fuckin' police!" And let's say you're at a red light and you see a cop roll up and put his lights and run it....there ain't no emergency, he just didn't want to wait at the light so he flipped his lights on and said "Ha, ha! Bitches! I'm runnin it and you can't do anything about it so sit on your thumb and smile." But if we run it, nooooo, we get a freakin' ticket. Well, fuck the police. You go, Easy-E. Preach on, Ice Cube! -"She Swallowed It." Ok, so 93 percent of the lyrics may offend 87 percent of the population, but the general idea "don't matter just don't bite it..." rings true for all of us. I mean, come on ladies, fellas...I think you'll all agree that no biting below the waste is a good rule to have. -"Straight Outta Compton" Ok, I don't know what the message is with that one 'cause they just kinda curse a lot. But I know that if I lived in Compton, I sure as shit would be moving straight out. So I gotta agree with that one, too.

What Are Men Thinking?:

Ok, I need to talk about something here. Guys, what are we thinking with some of our dialogue with women? I was discussing a situation with Lumpy that happened with his wife before they got married. They had just moved in together and her old college basketball coach from Maine was down visiting and wanted to meet up with her for dinner. Now this was a guy who she looked up to almost like a father figure, and she would never cheat, so Lumpy wasn't worried. But when they got to dinner, Coach was acting a little funny. He started telling her that he had always been attracted to her, etc. Ok, acceptable, even though she was not interested. But, instead of accepting his defeat and leaving the idea alone, he decides a more agressive aproach. He stops mid-conversation and agonizingly tells her (in a super thick New England accent) "Oh Jeeze, I'm haaard!! It's wicked hard, baby, come on!!" Now this freaks her out and she leaves. Ok, bad situation averted on her part, he's left there looking like a freak. Now let's get to the point: What was he thinking?!?! "It's hard!?!?" What in his mind made him think that telling her abot his erection was gonna entice her? Guys, when talking to a girl, unless you are actually being intimate AND you know she likes dirty talk...most women don't want to think about your stiff peter. It amazes me some of the things I hear guys say. Thank goodness there isn't another option after men and lesbianism, or they'd stop talking to us all together. Dammit we say some stupid shit. I can't lie, I'm guilty, too. When I've had a few drinks (that should read: excessively drunk), I've been known to inquire if a girl likes pork products, if she likes her donuts glazed and if so can I glaze them, or, and this one is a doozey: if I can french kiss her dumpsite (yeah, almost been slapped a few times for that one). That actually brings up another thought:

Worst Pick Up Line Ever:

-I used to have a theory that if you said something so out of the ordanary, it would give you an idea of what kind of girl you are talking to. I.E. Can I french kiss your dumpsite? Not every day someone asks to get orally acquainted with your hiney. If a girl says "eww" and storms away, she probably doesn't have a sense of humor or is easily offended and doesn't want to talk to you...not the kind of girl I look for. If a girl laughs, she probably has a slightly skewed sense of humor and we may get along. If she really digs it, then she is a dirty girl...proceed at your own risk, she may call your bluff and expect you to make out with her patoot.. Either way, you have just characterized the girl you are hitting on with 1 line. ---FYI: Use caution with this line. As I said, I have ALMOST been slapped before. You have to watch out for the bitchy friend or the drunk, over-zealous girl looking to send a message to other guys, because that may get you that slap. But it's a new aproach and a little unorthodox. Don't be afraid to think outside the box while you are pursuing it.

Original post date - Monday, June 06, 2005
Woody Hates Mondays (But he sure as shit loves Sundays!)

Alright, I think I have a problem. I regularly act like an ass and drink way too much with no regard for normal responsibility. But when your night consists of 2 places named The Dirty Dwarf and The Ugly Mug, you know the night's gonna end drenched in liquor and being punctual to work is not an option. Here's how it goes this past weekend:
I work on Saturday night at the club until 2:30 am. Get Taco Bell before I go to bed because I know I have to be up at 5:30am to go to work the next morning and I won't have time for a healthy breakfast. (come on, what's healthier than grade D ground beef and sour cream festering in your tummy for a few hours? Nothing if you ask me.) I go to bed around 3:30am, wake up at 5:30am and go to work, suffer from 6:30am until 2pm, then I go home. Get home, eat a steak (grade A beef festering in my tummy this time...yum) and lay down to take a nap. No sooner do I start to fall asleep and what happens? My phone rings and it's CDiddy. He is at a place in Lake Worth called the Dirty Dwarf. Yeah, that's what I said..."The Dirty Dwarf? What the hell is that?" (It's actually a really cool place. It's an English Pub type place and Sundays they offer something really special: happy hour from 4pm to 7pm & Kareoke from 6pm til you're too drunk to sing.) And Diddy making the invite. Hmmm. Folks, this what we call a crossroads in life. Some would say to go the safe way and say "no thanks" and go to sleep...it's crazy to keep partying on only 2 hours sleep. Others may try to push the envelope a bit. Me being the alcoholically-fueled uber-machine that I am, I put pants on and RSVP with a solid yes because it's not just about pushing the envelope, people, it's about filling the envelope with jager, drinking it and eating the liquor soaked envelope afterwards. I walk into the place (remarkably clean for having the word "Dirty" in it's title) and I am greated by a jubilant CDiddy and a beer. There is an interesting tapestry on the wall that appears to be of 4 "wisemen" being fondled and just generally sexually harassed by 4 skeletons...at least that's how Diddy and me interpreted it. I don't have enough time to go into how fucking awesome this picture is. It rules so hard. I am informed that there will be a crew heading down there shortly and it's gonna get ugly. Uh-oh. We begin consuming beer at an alarming rate. There is about 8 of us at first and we are on a bit of a mission. Then the kareoke starts. Diddy kick-starts it off with a rousing rendition of "Hurts So Good" which is followed by one of his friends who could pass for Spike Jones in the "Praise You" video. Spike left rock and roll alone for starters and belted out what could only be described as half touching/half inappropriate touching version of "Beautiful" by Christina Aguilera. When my turn comes around, I want to pay homage to Will Ferrell doing Robert Goulet doing "These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things" (if you have the DVD, it's in the extras when he was on Conan, if you don't have the DVD, go get it...it'll change your life). However, when time came to sing it, the words weren't as I remembered. At first I thought maybe I didn't know the right words, but turns out it wasn't even the right song. I ended up doing "So Long, Farewell" from The Sound Of Music. Well, like a fat kid running down hill, I couldn't stop, so I just tried to rock it as hard as I could...and I did. I mean fierce -like bear cock, bitches. There were a few other notable performances, Spike doing Journey-"Don't Stop Believing", CDiddy doing Rick Springfield-"Jesse's Girl." It's now late and since I wanted to leave, Diddy and I get the check. The waitress tells us she is only gonna charge us for half the beers -a little extended happy hour special. She comes back to tell us we are being charged for 47 beers. For those of you who did poorly in math, that means we drank 94 beers. Interesting. Between 8 of us. Hmm. That doesn't include shots. Let's just say that although it's an English Pub, we drank German shots. I left around 10:30pm with every intention of going home and going to sleep. Then my phone rang. This girl I had met at the club on Friday night, wicked hot with an ass you could set a drink on...not a fat ass mind you, but the way she could pooch it out with that curve of her back...mmm....dammit that's hot! She calls around 11:00pm, she's hungry and wants me to meet her for a drink and a bite to eat at the Ugly Mug. Now I am giving myself a curfew of 12:30am because I have to be at work in the morning at 6:30am and I still have only gotten 2 hours sleep. Well, that shit went right out the window. I already had a nice buzz, and now I had access to more beer at wholesale prices, and access to the smokin hot chick that I described previously. 12:30 came and went without even an asshole's chance in prison of me going home. Pool, shots, more pool, more shots, beers, pool, shots, a philly cheesesteak, beer, beer, some making out and it's 4am. Crap. I have to go. Get home around 4:30-ish (I think...I tend to lose track of time when I'm drunk). Sleep right through my alarm and remarkably get up at 7:45 to get to work around 8:30. Not bad. However, right now I feel like a jar of smashed assholes. I have had 12 hours sleep since Friday morning, it's fucking Monday AND I still have 2 hours left of work. I hate Mondays.

Original post date - Thursday, June 02, 2005
Women

This will no doubt be one of many rants about women and how I have not ever, do not currently, and will not ever understand them. I went out with two of my female friends last night (Champ and Special K) and we had a few drinks. We got to talking about guys, girls and relationships in general. They were complaining that the cute bartender isn't honest with them and then they started saying that no guys are honest. Well, I had to object. For the most part, I am extreamly honest with girls. I am a nice guy, very sweet, usually funny, occaisonally crude; however, if I am not interested in anything serious, I inform that right up front. However, as every man knows, a woman is going to do what she wants to do when she wants to do it. Sometimes, guys, this works to our advantage. I recently told a girls -on the night I met her- that I was not interested in dating her and therefore we should get too serious. Now I don't know if girls take this as a dare or what, but this apparently is no deterrant. In this case, it made her try harder to sleep with me. Of course, I'm only human, and I'm a guy ta boot, so of course she "won" in the end and I slept with her "no strings attatched" (her words, not mine). But then she got bent out of shape a week later when I ran into her while I was out and was with a few other people (some of them being girls). Now, I told her right up front I wasn't going to be serious, advised her that she shouldn't sleep with me because I might not be the best at follow-up correspondence and she still got pissy with me. Now, back to last night, I was telling two girls who I just hang out with, nothing sexual, about this spacific instance and they were so upset with me. "Woody, how could you do that!!?!?", followed up with angry slaps on the shoulder and then"You're a dog!!" What? Did I miss something? I was completely honest with the girl, told her up front how it was gonna be, and when it went that way, and I'M the one who is wrong? Fucking crazy. AND! To top it all off, now Special K decided she wants to sleep with me to see what it's like. Oh, sure..I'm a dog but it's ok that she wants to sleep with me? See what I mean? Confusing! Whatever. Well, you know what, this is one time where I am not gonna do it. Let her go dial zero on the pink telephone. Dammit. Now I'm frustrated and I need a beer.

Original post date - Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Entertainment

Here I am sitting at work and my buddy Scuba calls me up for stuff to do on a Wednesday night. He an HosefAbromowitz are going out for the first time in so long that they forget how to party. I usually go to my club on Wednesday night but there is some local stuff going on...it's ladies' night at Gatzbys (too snobby for my taste) or in Lauderdale (a place I should not be allowed to go if I have to work anytime within the next 48 hours).
Well, this got me to thinking about nightlife in general. I have been to some pretty cool places and had a really shitty time, and then I have been to some hole in the wall dive bars and had a blast.
Example: I was in Maine for my buddy Lumpy's wedding. We were in this town about 3 inches from Canada where everybody knows everybody, there's no stop lights, and there's 1 bar. That's right...1 bar. First of all, you only need 1 bar per town in Maine because these people don't observe normal drinking protocol. They'll drink anywhere up there. I don't even think they have drinking and driving laws. All there is to do up there is drink. Then go screw a fat chick. Second of all, when you actually give them a place to do concentrated drinking, you get some wierd shit. Case in point: we went into the 1 bar in the town 3 inches from Canada and there were 2 customers. And one was a dog. I'm not kidding. There was a "lady" bartender serving a guy and his dog. And...that was the busiest night they had ever had. Then our 10 people showed up. Now, this establishment had beer, but not the normal shit. Budweiser was all I could remember. Then they had some wheat beers, a few berry lagers and other stuff. As for the liquor selection, well to say it was some of the craziest shit ever assembled would be an understatement. I'm surprised they didn't have absynth. Anyway, we decided to invent a shot from the stuff they had: Cinnamon Schnaps, Rasberry vodka, and Goldschlogger. Those were the most normal aside from Jack. It wasn't bad when you chased it with blueberry beer (I'm not kidding about that, either). And we all got wasted and had fun. That was one of those "have a blast in a shithole bar.
Then there are the nights where nothings going on while you are out. Those are the nights you gotta be careful of. You know what I'm talking about...you go home, 10 minutes after you leave, some rich guy buys the whole bar shots and then an orgy brakes out between Lou Ferigno, a Kentucky Derby jockey, and Yasmin Bleeth. Dammin, I hate when I miss those nights. Nothing like seeing some 4'3" 100 lb. jockey go balls deep in Yasmin Bleeth while the Incredible Hulk T-bags her, you know what I mean? Yep, now that's entertainment.