Mind Your Own God Damn Business

Three Things.

First of all, I went and saw Iron Man with my girlfriend, Brian and my little brother. There are only two words to describe it. The first is “Fucking”, and the second is “Excellent”. They opened the movie with “Back in Black” by ACDC and ended it with “Iron Man” by Black Sabbath. The real problem was in between, where they went back and forth between “Stirring orchestral theme for when something inspiring is happening” and “The same two measures of generic ‘hard’ rock guitar because Iron Man is kicking ass”. Other than that, I was pretty impressed.

Either way, Iron Man didn’t fuck around. He just flew around and killed terrorists.

Oh, and if you stay until after the credits, it turns out that Samuel L. Jackson is Nick fucking Fury. You know that when you have so much cool shit in a movie that you have to ram Samuel L. Jackson as a character named “Nick Fury” into the part of the movie that comes AFTER the credits, you have two hours of solid gold on your hands.

Second of all, for your consideration:

As I’m sure you remember, I recently had a post that referred a dream I had about David Lee Roth and the special way that he keeps his dong hidden from the prying eyes of the camera.

In order to help everyone understand not only how funny this would be but how incredibly plausible it is, I posted several photos and a video of Mr. Roth showing him wearing outfits ranging from a thong to some buttless chaps and a thong. Somehow, I forgot to put up the picture above. It has nothing to do with this post, but I feel that I would be doing everyone that reads this blog disservice if I were to leave the picture unposted. So there you are. Soak it in.

And be mine, XO.

Which reminds me. Didn’t Elliot Smith have an album called “XO”? I think he did. And an ex-girlfriend of mine (Mrs. “I love you – BLARG!”) got XO tattooed on to her…leg (at least I think it was her leg) because she liked that album so much.

It’s kind of like the time that I wanted to tattoo a barcode onto the side of my neck or my forearm because I liked Slipknot’s first album so much. I didn’t do a lot of very smart things when I was 19, but fortunately, in one of the incredibly rare moments of clarity, I managed to realize that if I did get that tattoo, I would have to still think that it was cool when I was older, explain it to my future employers, girlfriends, children, etc.

It was hard to imagine that Slipknot’s first album wouldn’t be my very favorite CD for the rest of my life, but I decided that I wasn’t willing to risk that 1% chance that in 5 years I wouldn’t still be in love with it. And you know what? It was a good idea to wait on the tattoo. I still really like that CD, but not enough to have it tattooed on my body, and more importantly, if I had a goddamn bar code tattooed to my neck, I would feel like a moron. People would constantly be asking me “Is that tattoo there because you really like ‘Hitman’?” or “Did you get that tattoo because you loved ‘Dark Angel’?”, to which I would have to reply “No, I got it because when I was a teenager I really liked Slipknot, a reason which is only slightly less embarrassing to me than the reason you suggested,” to which they would reply “Slipknot? is that the band that wore the funny masks and obese middle schoolers really like?”, at which point I would glare at them silently while a single tear ran down my cheek before screaming “You don’t understand. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS! I’M GOING IN MY ROOM AND I’M NEVER COMING OUT!”. Then I would sprint off.

What I’m saying is that when I build a time machine and go back to beat teenage me’s ass for being such a moron, I’ll take a quick break in between “This is for taking eight years to finish college!” and “This is for working at the restaurant that will not be named but recently filed for bankruptcy much to my amusement!” to pat him on the back for not getting that stupid fucking tattoo.

On that note, I was thinking about if I actually did travel back in time and have a conversation with younger me the other day, and I started thinking about something:

Time travel Sci-Fi movies always address the long-term impact that fucking with the past has. Someone goes back in time, they kick someone in the nuts, and then when they come back to the present, everybody has four eyes or lobster claws. I was thinking about the sort of instant impact that it would have on the person traveling back in time, though. Especially if they were talking to themselves.

Here’s an example: I hit my head on the toilet and invent a flux capacitor. I decide that I’m going to install it into a Delorean and travel to 1994 to tell myself to study a little harder and whine a little less. I set my clock on the dash, crank the Huey Lewis and the News and punch gas until I hit 88 miles per hour.

At this point, I have no memory of an older, unshaven, slightly chubbier me coming to visit me and smack me around when I was 14, because it never happened.

But then, as 14 year old me is walking home from school and is suddenly confronted by older me in a Delorean, since it has now happened, older me would remember back to when he was 14 and it happened to him. If I were to say something to younger me, I would have no recollection of it happening until I said it, at which point present me would remember it happening 14 years ago.

I’m just saying, anything I did to interact with myself from the past would create a 14 year old memory of it in my head as it was happening. That’s hard for me to wrap my mind around.

And you know how you remember things differently after a few years? I wonder if that would happen. Would I say something, then think to myself “I don’t remember it going this way,” even though I only said it a few seconds ago and before that it had never happened at all?

Oh well. I’ll probably never know what happens if you do that, because I can’t travel through time. If I’m ever extremely wealthy because of a real hot streak of sports betting, you know why, though.

Enough about that. Let’s talk about my nuts.

I have been stepping up my running again recently, which has been fun and good for my self esteem, but unfortunately it hasn’t all been fun and games. My scrotum, or as I like to call it, “Nature’s brillo pad”, or “That piece of shit between my legs that gets in the way and makes it hurt like crazy if I get hit in the crotch and makes it so I have to wear condoms and is really likely to develop cancer” has been chaffing the hell out of my inner thigh. After a few days of trying to just man it up and deal with what felt like a pool ball covered in broken glass sitting neatly between my legs, I decided that I had had enough.

Unfortunately, I was at a loss as to how to stop the damage that my precious little sac was doing every time that I took a step.

I considered taping it somewhere out of the way, but I’ve tried that before, and it’s fairly painful and incredibly ineffective (Something that I’ll bet you knew WITHOUT ever actually trying to tape your balls to your thigh – I’m a slow learner, fuck you).

Then I considered some Vaseline, but I couldn’t find any.

I thought about using deodorant like the dude in Juno, but I didn’t really want to rub my balls all over my deodorant and then have my armpits smelling like Irish Spring and balls. It’s also worth mentioning that middle school kids fucking ADORE that movie, and after hearing “Hasta la pasta!” and “What the french, toast?” 50 times a day for the past three months, the movie has been fully ruined for me, the same way that my peers in 9th grade speech and drama guaranteed with their near constant recital of The Holy Grail in their shitty British accents that I would never enjoy Monty Python ever again. I know that’s a dumb reason not to use an anti-chaffing technique, but when you’re considering my critical thinking skills, you have to remember that I’m the guy who tried taping his balls to his leg. I rest my case.

My final solution? It came to me while I was getting ready to leave. I was absentmindedly putting on some chapstick and trying to decide if I could handle the pain of another high friction three mile run. I took the chapstick away from my mouth and looked at it for a moment, and it hit me.

I think you know what happened next.

Long story short, there was no chaffing, and I made sure to throw away the chapstick, because I think we all know that it would be just like me to forget where it had been and then accidentally give myself a second degree teabagging.

I believe that’s enough random thought from me for one night.

Have a wonderful evening and enjoy this topical video: