Jesus Drives a Honda

Well the numbers all aligned for me today. After months of not riding my bike to work the numbers all combined to force me to start rocking the gb again.

Yup. First gas got expensive again. Then I got fat again. Either that or I got fat then gas got expensive – I’m not sure which happened first. I’m not sure if there is a relationship. Right, so I won’t bore you with the details, you care as much about my gas expenses and fatitude as I care about the watts you put out on your last training ride (that is somewhere between very little and not at all).

What is freaking awesome though is that I am now again sharing my commute with miscellaneous freaks and deviants in the bike lanes and bike paths of Boise. That pretty much rocks.

Yeah, my wife told me I should take a gun. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it in the past, but guns are heavy and they just don’t go that well with spandex... “Is that a gun in your shorts or are you just happy to see me?”... Um, that would be a gun. Besides, ammunition is expensive so that would cancel out any financial benefit of not driving. I could take a knife or maybe throwing stars but my ninja skills are somewhat questionable.

So rocking to work today I noticed it had been a long freaking time since the last time I rode to work. So long in fact that there was a bridge today where there didn’t used to be one. It had a dirt path around it where I had to go all dirtbag dash. That was, um, dirty. Nice, a new bridge. I was just thinking I needed another way into Garden City.

Yeah, that was nice but not as nice as the new sections of smoothness near Ann Morrison and Julia Davis Parks. That significantly reduced the jigglosity of the ride. Which is good, because I am rolling with some serious bouncitude.

Not to mention my newly acquired male tenderness.


Um, I saw this car the other day. The license plate says IAMKING. The license plate holder says Jesus is the king of kings (you are gonna hafta trust me).



Well that answers that question. Jesus is back. And he drives a Honda. Well duh, what else would he drive, a Prius? I think not.

He goes to church on 36th. That’s where he turned off. Jesus. Not a Prius.

I have seen some vain vanity plates before, but wow, really? I am guessing that if Jesus came back he wouldn’t need vanity plates to tell you who he was – but then I am no religious expert.

Sorry. Had to change the subject from male tenderness. Not going there again.

Presidents Day Celebration

You know what I hate?

I hate it when I send someone an email which clearly requires a response – and I don’t get one. I mean if you want me to bugger off I am ok with that. Just say it. But not responding at all, well that’s just rude.

Maybe there should be a bugger off button in your email. Like right by the delete X. If you hit the bugger off button it would automatically send a response that says F U and then delete the original message. That would make the world a better place.

Speaking of making the world a better place I had a disturbing weekend. What with all the civil wars, demonstrations, flooding, earthquaking , magnetic pole swapping and sunspotting I almost went out and purchased ammunition. You know, for the end of the world. I was thinking that I would rather face the end of the world with ammunition than without. I decided that when I read ‘The Road’. Yup, don’t want to end up like that guy.

Right, so I did say almost. It was a strange, strange, Glenn Beck moment.

And then things got more disturbing.

So we have this gingerbread house that we built for the holidays. Well it is still sitting around our house because someone promised the 7 year old we would blow it up. It was either the chemistry teacher mother or the slightly imbalanced father.

Yeah, so I decided it had to go on Monday.

What better way to celebrate Presidents Day than to blow something up right?

Well I scoured the house for blowuppable materials and the best I could come up with was black powder. Yes, there is black powder at my house. I know, I know, that’s fucked up – but sometimes I like to play Daniel Boone.

Anyway, yeah, I took enough black powder to kill about 2.5 elk and put it under the gingerbread house and made a little black powder trail to where I was going to hide behind the barbeque.

I knew it was a moderately bad idea all along, but at the same time I was pretty sure I would escape mostly unharmed so I rolled with it. Besides, my son and the neighbor kid were there egging me on and there is no kind of peer pressure like the kind of pressure you get from your own kid. (Who ironically isn’t supposed to be your peer).

The neighbor kid recorded it on his iPhone. I may be on facebook or youtube as I write this.

Have you ever seen on tv when they make a long line of gun powder and they light it and it fizzes along until it hits the powder keg? Yeah, well, it doesn’t really work like that. Pretty much the all of the powder ignites at once.

Anyhow, there was this big flash, a foooooosh sound, and a crap load of smoke.

I learned two things. One, 2.5 dead elk worth of black powder isn’t enough to blow up a gingerbread house if you don’t seal everything up real well. Two, the combination of burning black powder and burning gingerbread smells a lot like ass. And continues to smell like ass two days later.

Oh, and burning black powder stains concrete.

Next time I think I will use fireworks. Or maybe just throw it away.

Stepping In

So I went to spin class today. There I was minding my own business, you know, hoping that no large smelly people chose a bike near mine – when this dude comes in and starts setting up on the bike in front of me.

It’s ok though, he wasn’t large or smelly. I had even seen him there before and talked to him – he seemed somewhat normal.

I say seemed, because I am pretty sure now that he isn’t normal. You see, after he got the bike set up he proceeded to put on his heart rate monitor...

Now, I am no expert, but I have seen a few heart rate chest straps put on in my day. You see that kind of stuff when you go to bike races. I have even strapped one on myself a few times. It normally consists of licking the little terminals, hiking up your shirt, wrapping the strap around yourself, then connecting the ends.

Yes, that’s right, I am a licker. I don’t have much time for heart rate monitor hygiene. The world is going to end in 2012 you know. I don’t want to waste any time wetting the terminals of my chest strap that I could use doing something else.

Honestly, I am not sure if dude licked the ends or not, but what I am sure of is that he ‘stepped in’ to his chest strap. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed but there was an awkward moment when it got caught up on his shorts.

Maybe it’s just me, but that’s a little like putting on your underwear over your head. Who the hell does that? I mean really.

Hell, I don’t know. Maybe everyone does it like that. But they do make the ends so they disconnect. There is that.

Anyway, thank you presidents for having birthdays and allowing for me to take a paid day off work to celebrate that. I hope you all can do the same.

Truly Educated?

My phone with the semi-crappy camera died and now I have a hand me down used phone with a fully crappy camera.

I'm not telling you this seeking crappy phone sympathy, rather, it is just an explanation of the photo provided of the craptacular bumper sticker I saw on my way home. Oh yeah, with hitler.



Right, so I realize you can't read it - that would be akin to finding a donut at a fat kid convention - so I will read it for you...

"The Truly Educated Never Graduate"

Now, I would like to think that means that the truly educated never stop learning - which I agree with. BUT,...

I live in a state where the state schools superintendent thinks that replacing teachers with laptops and paying for it by increasing class sizes will improve the quality of education.

A state where the house of representatives just voted to nullify the federal health care bill. You know, so that Idahoans still have the right to not buy insurance and continue pushing off their medical expenses on people that do buy insurance and pay taxes.

Not to mention dude driving looks like Uncle Jessie and I think the truck might belong to Cooter. You know me, not one to judge based on appearances. But there was some piece of metal dragging under the truck. Like from the last time he jumped a police car. And the other bumper sticker was for an on-line surplus store.

Anyhow, so yeah, I'm sure it means to never stop learning...

Rule #23

So I was driving home last night (with Hitler), and I saw this vanity plate. It said SEXYDEB.

Right. Um vanity plate rule number 23 – if your vanity plate implies that you are sexy, you probably are not. Further, if you are sexy you probably don’t need a vanity plate to advertise it.

There’s $25 you’ll never see again.

I just needed to say that.

It's Easy to Quit

So this weekend I rode my bike outside for the first time since, well, you know.

I started out and pretty much instantly realized that I was moderately uncomfortable. Since I was moderately uncomfortable I decided that I may as well ride with a group so I planned to intersect some folks I knew were out for a group ride.

I was successful at intersecting and rode moderately uncomfortably with them for a while until the ride notched up to fully uncomfortable at which point I turned around and went home. It’s easy to quit after you get kicked in the nuts.

Right, so I went home and rocked the low grade ‘I got kicked in the nuts’ feeling for the rest of the day. Of course, you know, I didn’t know if it was just a random ‘I got kicked in the nuts’ feeling or if it was a ‘I shouldn’t have ridden my bike; I got kicked in the nuts feeling’. Its hard to tell the difference between the two, except for one normally involves a bike ride.

Anyway, yeah, I wasn’t sure so I did it again on Sunday. This time without the group. I was just mildly uncomfortable all by myself. That was awesome. Except for that ‘I got kicked in the nuts’ feeling.

Did You Just Post That Out Loud?

Let me get this out of the way right up front. Pretty much everything you read after this point is going to be offensive. Maybe even nausea inducing. There will be potty words, inappropriate anatomical references, grotesque metaphors, and generally tmi.

Well, I mean, more of that stuff than there normally is. So if you are a person that is bothered by this type of thing you might stop here. Or you might get over yourself and keep reading. It’s up to you.

Right, so I had a vasectomy. I really hate that word. Pretty much anything that ends in ‘ectomy’ or ‘scopy’ is bad, and I try not to even say them. That said, ‘getting clipped’ doesn’t do it justice. ‘Getting fixed’ implies you were broken before, which I wasn’t – not there anyway. Sterilized might work, but sounds too soap and waterish. ‘Vas’ sounds euro. ‘The procedure’ sounds pretentious. Victimized might be accurate but isn’t specific enough. So yeah, I was vasectomized. Good times.

I had thought to tell you all about it, you know, do a service to all the other fools – but a little research indicated that many, many people have already done that. Turns out I am not the first smart ass to have ‘it’ done, – so I refer you here. Or reprinted below with my comments.

Gord's Guide to Vasectomy

First off, there are the drugs. You get two valium. You are supposed to pop them down your gullet about a half hour before the procedure. Apparently there was problem with guys clutching their privates and rocking back and forth in crazy-eyed terror in the waiting room.

So I only got one valium. Shit. From what my wife tells me most of the other guys in the waiting room looked stoned. I didn’t notice, I was too busy trying not to clutch my junk and rock back and forth.

The doctors don’t like that. It’s bad for business. So they give you a couple downers and hope that you don’t drool too much on their five-year-old copy of Field and Stream.

My doctors copy of Field and Stream was only 6 months old. But it’s not like I could read it.

Well, I’m a smallish person, so I only took one. I figured that one valium would be plenty to get me mellow (and I would have a little party-pill locked away afterward, should I ever want it.)

It would be good to have an emergency valium. Or eight.

Important Vasectomy Tip #1. Take both pills one hour prior to your appointment. I was sweating like a whore in church while I waited for them to call my name. The drugs didn’t kick in until after I had a hole in my sack.

Right. That would be a good tip if you had multiple valium. I rolled in with a little buzz on, but hardly what I needed to prevent teeth grinding, shaking and profuse sweating. I tried to act like I wasn’t worried, you know, because I am a guy – but I don’t think it was working. I am not really an advocate of medical marijuana, but if there was ever an application I think this might be the time.

The nurse led me to the operating room, and handed me a blanket. She said I could use it for “privacy” after I took off my clothes. Privacy? Wha? You’re going to shave my balls? What exactly am I going to keep private? I threw the blanket on a chair with my clothes and reclined in naked glory. When the nurse returned, she looked at me and smirked. She hefted my unit up onto my belly and covered the top..oh, 18 inches or so with the blanket “to keep everything out of the way.”

Yup, living large. They taped it out of the way and framed the boys with miscellaneous sheets. So there you are all covered up except for the one part of you that wants to be covered up – that’s exposed.

Then the doctor walked in, grabbed the razor, and got down to the business of shaving my trembling, wrinkled scrotum.

I clearly got ripped off. Only one valium, and I had to shave my own balls. Yeah, that was, um, weird. So whats the first thing you do when you have to do something you have never done before? That’s right, google it. Right, so yeah, if you google shaving your bits don’t dig too deep into the results, you might find yourself somewhere you didn’t mean to go. Turns out there are other reasons to remove the hair from your man parts than vasectomies. Go figure.

Anyhow, there I am with the clippers… Oh God. And then the razor… ugh. One slip and you don’t need the procedure right? Like woops! There are my bits on the floor. I gotta say all those years of leg shaving paid off nicely here. Finally I know the real reason cyclists do that. I only cut myself once, but when I came to the bleeding had stopped. I recommend you start practicing now.

Every time the nut-doctor went to shift anything, he’d give me a warning first. “I’m going to work on the other side now.” It cracked me up. Like I’m going to suddenly say, “Hold it, doc. You shave the left side, and that’s cool. But you shave over Mr. Right, and I might turn gay.” Once he was done shaving, he uttered the words every man dreads when a he’s spread eagle, naked, in front of a stranger – “Nurse, fetch the zucchini.” Just kidding. He said, “This is going to sting.” Sting is what a bee does when you step on it. Sting is how it feels to get shot with a BB gun. Sting is not the sensation of a needle boring into your scrotum. There should be another word for that sensation. A bigger, scarier word. A word like “strazoogalachalachowie.”


Shit yeah it hurts. The needle prick isn’t so bad, but then they inject magma from the river of death in the bowels of hell. I don’t know how they get magma from the river of death in the bowels of hell, but I know that’s what they use. So it was right about the time the magma hit that I realized that a man’s balls are connect to every other part of his body. Not by the nervous system mind you, something far less elegant – more like a series of fish hooks connected by string. That’s why my eyeballs almost sucked in and my toes curled in and locked up. Fortunately it only hurts for a few seconds before your left nut turns into one of those Styrofoam balls. Why is it always the left one?



But no. I got “stung.” Then the Doc cut a hole in my sack and started fishing around. My nuts wanted nothing to do with this. They retreated to the back of the room and tried hide. Vasectomy Tip #2 – It hurts. Don’t believe the guys who tell you otherwise. When the most sensitive area of your body is opened up and prodded, it hurts. Why there is even debate on this, is beyond me.

Yeah, did I mention it hurts. I am giving it a solid 7. Maybe some peaks of 8 or so, but averaging out to 7. You know what hurts the worst though? Yeah, remember when I told you they taped the member out of the way? Well right, they rip the tape off at the end. My man filter failed and colorful combination of f-bombs, s-words and even a JC came out at considerable volume. Tearing tape off the Johnson – that’s a 9.

At this time, I think I need to send a special shout out to the women who are reading this. Before you send me the “That’s nothing compared to what a woman goes through during birth / hysterectomy / gang-bang” email, let me just tell you to please shut your pie-holes. I know. Women are tougher than men and we all know it. I’m sure if you ladies had scrotums, you’d pound them with bricks and wouldn’t even flinch. I don’t want to hear about it.

Yeah, what he said.

Vasectomy Tip #3- Valium is your friend. Finally, mercifully, the valium kicked in. It was like being drunk – good drunk, riding the crest of the perfect ethyl wave. I was high. I was, in my opinion, a brilliant conversationalist. I was funny…no, I was hysterical. Shucking and jiving with the professionals attending to my crotch, I didn’t have a care in the world. A scotch and soda would be nice though. And maybe pants. Ya, pants… I was a riot. I was so busy laying down my drug-induced comedy routine that I barely noticed when the doctor picked up what must have been H.R. Giger’s crochet hook and stuck it into my sack-hole. It was funny, in a Jackass sort of way. I almost made a joke about him crocheting an afgan out of my vas deferens. But when he hooked Mr. Left’s delicate tether, and tugged it out the hole, nothing was funny. It was a baaaaaaaaaad feeling – sort of a cross between getting kicked in the ‘nads and pulling your intestines out your ass. The doctor cut the cord. He tied the ends into elaborate knots (either Botswain’s whistle knots or jug-sling hitches, its hard to recall), and he cauterized the whole mess with an industrial-grade soldering iron. Then he repeated the process with Mr. Right’s plumbing. When the whole thing was over, the doc crammed my wounded spaghetti back into the sack and stitched it up.

I clearly did not have enough valium. I mean, I did have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. And I did have to fight not to hum the ‘I’ve Got Big Balls’ song that was running in my head. Not to mention I wasn’t really phased by the sound and smell of burning man flesh, which likely was my own. Mostly I sat there worrying about the inevitable second injection of magma. Why in the hell do you have two nuts anyway?. Sometimes redundancy sucks.

Vasectomy Tip #4 – It’s not over until you say it’s over For what its worth, getting stitches in my bag wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was already numb there. The bad part comes days later, when you get your stitches caught in your underwear just prior to taking a pee in a public restroom, and you nearly bite your tongue off trying not to squeal while the guy at the urinal next to you pretends like he doesn’t notice you gyrating and chewing on your tongue. They say that the recovery period is supposed to last two to three days. It took me about a week before I stopped trying to walk AROUND my ice-covered crotch. I spent the week trying to avoid (with marginal success) anything that might move, jar, strain, jiggle, or otherwise traumatize my junk. Some of the post ballbag-cutting activities one should steer clear of include: walking, running, driving a stick, sitting in any position that does not allow you to keep your legs spread like a Tijuana hooker during Fleet Week, and, of course, getting punched in the junk by a three-year-old child. Explaining to Junior that “we need to be gentle with Daddy” from a fetal position on the kitchen floor was not one of my better moments in parenting. There were a couple longer-term effects too. Effect #1 was the bruising. I won’t go into details here, but let’s just say “stuff turned black.” Effect #2 was that I carried around the low-grade got-whacked-in-the- cajones-half-an-hour-ago feeling for about a month. But it’s over now. And I thank the gods of modern medical science that the operation did not go south like the one on my foot. I don’t know if I could have dealt with packing an infected scrotum with sterile gauze. Am I glad I did it? Hell yes. They say that after the surgery, a married man can go from having sex once a month, to TWELVE TIMES a year!


I implied to my facebook friends that the boys swelled to basketballs – but that was a bald lie. Didn’t even make nectarines. Golf balls maybe. But smoother. There was a bit of smurfiness too, but I didn’t even notice till I built up the courage to lift up my bits and look at the incisions.

The first few days were below average, but not too bad. Never underestimate the effect of frozen vegetables on your junk. I may never eat another pea, but that is ok.

Here I am a week and a half out, the incisions are all but healed and the stitches all but dissolved and I am still concerned about blowing a stitch and having spaghetti in my pants. That would be bad. Spaghetti in the pants. Nothing good could come of that.

Against my better judgment I rode my bike this weekend. It was largely uneventful, but I have to say it is difficult to pedal around your nuts. I’m afraid I was rather duckish, and there is nothing I hate more than duckish bike riders.

I suppose this too shall pass. It will be a few more days before I am secure in the belief my insides will, you know, stay inside, but its rolling.

So now there is only one more hurdle. It seems you have to provide some samples over the next few months to confirm your hardly earned sterility. I gotta say I am a little nervous. Not about that part, I can do that part. Not sure about the cup, but I will work that out.

The part I am nervous about is the part where you do turn it in to the doctors office. I’m pretty sure It will go like this…

Me: “yeah, I have a sample to get analyzed”

Old lady receptionist: “A sample of what?”

Me: “um, sperm. Wel,l I mean hopefully not sperm. Hopefully the other stuff. I had a vasectomy.”

Old lady receptionist: “Semen, do you mean semen?”

Me: “um, yeah, ok”

Old lady receptionist: (through the PA system) “lab assistant to the front desk. Mr Angry is here with his semen sample”

At that point all the younger women will giggle and point, the old people in the waiting room will scowl, the new vasectomy patients will grab their junk and rock, and I will shrivel up just a little bit.

Yup. The gift that keeps on giving.