Fine...I'll Confess...

True confessions…when I get nervous, my butt sweats.

There, I’ve said it and it’s out there for the world to know.

Headed in to a job interview…I can feel my ass sweat. The first date I had with the wife when we were 16…moist ass. Minutes away from giving a presentation to board members…you guessed it…wet butt.

It’s not a nasty swamp-ass kind of sweat. It’s like your armpits sweating, but just on the cheeks of my ass and without all the hair and stench. Actually…it’s nothing like armpit sweat.

The worst thing about it is if I’m sitting down whilst getting nervous, a lovely couple of wet spots appear on the back of my pants. So when I stand up, I get even more nervous and self-conscious about the fact I now look like my ass peed itself.

So I end up trying to walk in angles that won’t allow people to see my drippy butt marks.

When I was in college I’d wear basketball shorts under my regular shorts because it was normal after class to pass by friends on their way to play ultimate Frisbee, flag football, basketball, and I wanted to be ready to hop in the car and go.

It was during that time I realized they provided a Maxi-Pad-like protection against the ass moisture. I was invincible!!

I could plan to streak the next football game and kick-back, enjoying my nervousness without having to worry about my friends having to carry my damp underwear back to the police station with them to pick me up.

But I couldn’t go on living life wearing two pairs of pants forever.

So now I worry about passing this godforsaken trait on to my kid. Will he someday find himself sitting next to a really pretty girl and suddenly realize an uncomfortable dampness?

The poor guy already has my big ears, gapped front teeth, uncontrollable thick hair, Tourettes. I just hope to hell he was spared the ass-sweats.

And just to let you know how hard it was for me to reveal this little fact, I’m going to have to go change my shorts now. And no…not for the good reason.

So there…now I’ve revealed what my body does when I get nervous…now it’s your chance. Man-up and tell me what yours does!! Sweaty armpits, back sweat, habitually glance at pictures of Gary Busey? Whatever you do, let’s hear it!!

What's In The BOX?!!

A few weeks ago the talented and amazing animator JC Little (@LittleAnimation on Twitter), dropped a kick-ass animation based on this blog. You can see it here!

Yeah, I was blown away by not only her skill, but the fact she took the time to create such an amazing film.

But at the end, she did kind of leave us hanging. I mean, it was sweet. The kids and wifey gave me breakfast in bed and a gift, but damn it!!! I want to know what’s in the box??!!!

She must have been reading my mind because JC created a follow-up to the film. But she’s been dragging it out over the past week-and-a-half in her “Be Afraid” series, teasing this brother on her blog.

But today, she put us out of our misery and launched the answer to the burning question, “What’s in the Box?”

Yeah!! A snuggie!! Thanks JC….thanks for making me a star in my worst nightmare.

If you didn’t already know, I HATE the Snuggie. See!!

Well…now you know what’s in the box. As for me…I’m going to collapse in a quiet corner and cry myself to sleep now that I’ve seen my animated self sheathed in a pink nightmare of cock-blockness.

Now go check out JC’s blog and see what she’s saying about “What’s in the BOX?”!!

A Discussion About Shirtless Dudes & Chicks on Bikes

Yesterday marked a sad sad day for this brother. It was the last game of the World Cup. I’m a long-time soccer geek and live for the World Cup.

This past weekend the wife and I watched the Germany third-place game. I thought I’d be all manly and watch the game with her and impress the hell out of her with my soccer knowledge. By the end of the game I thought for sure she’d be ripping my clothes off and confessing that I’m quite possibly the sexiest gap-toothed bastard on the planet.

Instead…..

Wifey: “So when do they take their shirts off again?”

Me: “Seriously, that’s all you care about? That really hurts…that hurts down deep.”

Wifey: “So when do they take their shirts off again?”

Me: “Not all the players do that…some of them kiss their country’s emblem that’s on their shirt, some just run around like they’re trying to get away from the rest of their team that wants to tackle the hell out of them.”

Wifey: “So we have to wait for them to score before they do it? Well this sucks.”

Me: “Would it make you feel better if I took my shirt off.”

Wifey: “Oh God no…. I mean, if you’re warm yes, but don’t do it on account of me. Love you honey.”

Me: “Why is it that I want you to take your shirt off worse than Gary Busey wants a gum-reduction, but you say, ‘oh God no!?’”

Wifey: “Hey, what’s that? Why are they touching it with their hands?”

Me: “Because their wives won’t touch it anymore for them. So now they have to do it all on their own!”

Wifey: “Ooooh…OK…we’re even now jackass. At least I told you I loved you after I made you my bitch.”

Me: “They’re throwing the ball in, it went out of bounds.”

Wifey: “So why aren’t there any women in the Tour de France? It’s 2010. That’s pretty messed-up they won’t let any women in.”

Me: “You honestly think a whole bunch of guys got together and made the unanimous group decision to not allow a super fit women wearing extremely tight clothes with her ass perched high in the air for all to see while riding a bike for a solid month throughout all of France? I don’t think so.”

Wifey: “That’s true. She’d probably become the Yoko of the Tour de France anyway.”

Me: “And when she won a stage she could get off her bike, run towards the crowd and rip her shirt off like soccer players. That would be hot.”

Wifey: “You’re a pig.”

Me: “But…you…just a minute ago you were…oh forget it. I’m going upstairs to watch the game.”

Wifey: “Can you pour me some more wine before you go? Love you honey!!”