the brothers johnson
get the funk outta ma face
soul, funk, damn it's good
So today's post has a few updates and some nastiness, so make sure you're not eating right now.
Done? You got a little...right there... nevermind, that's a zit.
Alrighty then, let's move on, aiight?
So I had at least 20 pairs of underwear about a week ago. I know this because I sniff test them as they come out of the dryer, much as I assume everyone does. It also helps to make sure I am wiping my ass correctly as I check for skiddage and other ailments. I am deathly afraid I will get into a car accident and the paramedics will let me die as they laugh at all the holes and skidmarks in my underoos, so I take this check seriously.
"No one wants to hear about your underwear or your quasi-OCD tendencies, ass-spelunker" you might be saying to yourself softly while wondering if your underwear is skid free. Anyway enough about your underwear, sassy though they may be, this is about mine!
So anyway, Monday rolls around and I am digging through the clean clothes trying to find the requisite 2 pairs of boxer-briefs for the next day. I wear one pair in the morning, workout, shower and of course wear the second pair in the afternoon, and try to throw the sweaty ones on my wife when I get home, I'm such a silly trickster.
Hmmm... seems tougher than usual to find a pair. I eventually find 2 pairs and a third for the dresser, and that's it. WTF? I go look in the washer and dryer, both of which are empty, and our dirty clothes hamper (also called "the floor") is devoid of stinky clothes as well. Hmmmm.... whatever. I go to work and continue as usual.
Tuesday goes by without incident, and Wednesday rolls around and I cannot even find the 3 pairs any longer. What the fuck! I ask my wife, the boys, no one has seen them. I of course as usual go ballistic and tell her if they are not found I will spend 50 dollars buying 30-40 pairs of damn underwear. which she finds funny. damn hippy.
Fast forward to last night. I get home, change into some sweatpants, throw my last 2 pairs of underwear into the washer and mosey around the house, reveling in my wiener freedom and standing outside trying to impress the neighbors. No one is. Fuck them.
I go to get my clothes out of the dryer and notice that something is missing. I only have 1 damn pair of underwear left. Seriously. 1 goddamn worthless slightly tight wet & wild sassy pair of ballhuggers left.
Guess I've got some sassy shopping to do.
On another front, our Yorkie is pretty well ingrained into our house now, and has revealed his personality as: gay.
He has attempted and in a few instances succeeded in mounting:
1)My lunchbag (success)
2)our 75 pound 3 times as big as him (literally, no exaggeration) dog (he has not pounded her vag yet, but has successfully humped her back and face a few times, so you can be the judge of the success of that)
3) Our very Male, very fat cat (no success, but he likes to hop on his back feet after the cat, chasing him around the house, so it's only a matter of time)
-the funny thing is the cat now will see the dog coming and sit down to keep his asshole unplungified.
3) my foot (quasi success, I think I sprained my ankle and was resting it and he tried to make sexy time with it and I kicked him in the cock)
4) my son's teddy bear (VERY SUCCESS)
5) the couch (success)
6) the very male yorkie across the street he grew up with (success)
I mean come on, this little horndog is humping us into oblivion or acquiescence!
On the last note, my youngest son, who just turned 2, is trying to potty train (his idea, not ours). He is so far like a homeless man, in that he takes his diaper off and pisses wherever he happens to be, be that in the middle of the living room, outside, or at the local gas station. Our steam cleaner is working overtime.
So yesterday, he had to take a leak, and my threat to beat him into oblivion if he pissed on my games had apparently gotten through his skull, as he went and pissed in his potty. My wife came in and congratulated him and put him in the tub, the whole while him saying "Ma I poop! Ma I poop!" Which she took to mean he was proud of going pee in the potty. Nope.
She goes to get a towel, my older boys watching him, and comes back to them giggling hysterically and the Danster smiling proudly. She looks in the tub to find "Ma I poop" was not just pride at going potty, but a very serious warning. He shit in the fucking tub. Now that would be fucking disgusting, but a) I use the shower stall, never the tub (not manly enough) and b) I shit in my bed and I was 24, so I have no room to talk.
In other news, Smeagol rolled over to his other side, farted tiredly, and readjusted his thong.