I had some beers tonight, so I don’t know what this post is.
I know in my heart that I shouldn’t drink and blog, but there’s nothing on TV and the laptop is working properly for a change.
When I was in college many moons ago, well before blogging was a thing, I used to write every so often.
It was a story. I started it one night while I was bored out of my mind after a night of drinking.
I would only add to it on nights when I’d had some alcohol in my system, which back in college was somewhat more frequently than I care to admit.
It was a great tale about an Indian man (the Geronimo kind, not the red dot on forehead kind) with a dog. The dog’s name was Beaver and the man, who was always by his dog’s side, was called He Who Loves Beaver.
I would come back to my dorm half lit and add to the story.
Somebody who went to school with me, if you read this and remember, please vouch for the fact that this bullshit is completely true! Then message me if you remember the story.
It was becoming epic!
I’d read what I had typed the next day and be pretty proud of myself. I’m a tough audience, so I figured, if I could amuse myself, then this story would surely amuse at least 4 other people in the world somewhere!
Believe it or not, my first year English professor told me that I should get serious about writing. I was a soccer playing semi-drunk (even by college kids standards), so it astounded people to see my name on the Dean’s List or associated with anything that required mental acuity at all. His suggestion was flattering in a way.
At the time, I assumed that my writing only seemed good compared to my other first year classmates in that class. They were mostly basketball and baseball players and 3/4 of them had to drop out after the first semester.
I didn’t give writing any thought.
The story of Beaver and He Who Loves Beaver was one of passion (not bestiality pervs!), adventure, bravery, integrity and a lot of weed smoking and squirrel killing for some reason (I didn’t smoke weed, swear to God, beer only guy here).
We had a squirrel epidemic of some kind on campus as I recall, so it was somehow entwined into my to be novel because it was relevant then.
Anyway, I’d let a couple of my friends read my epic tale and they insisted that they just HAD to be a part of this great adventure in the making, so, since I’m a nice guy, I let them write some paragraphs after they’d been drinking too.
This happened many, many times. Drunks would come into my dorm room, even when I hadn’t been out drinking and was asleep in bed, just to add to the tale.
When I’d read the story again, it became clear to me where the writing was that of somebody other than me.
I’m not saying it was worse, I mean how bad can one man’s drunken prose be compared to another’s? It was just a different style and I guess, since it was mine, I preferred my style.
I couldn’t erase what they’d contributed though because that was a part of the story. It was written by people while drunk, like the monkeys with the however many typewriters trying to write Shakespeare or something.
Plus, my pals were actually excited by their contributions. Who was I to break their hearts?
I lost that story, probably assuming, since email and thumb drives were not a part of the culture yet, that there was no way that I’d ever retype all the crap I’d written. In hindsight, I think I could have just saved it to a floppy disk, but what’s a man to do?
Had I known I’d someday try my hand at blogging, I’d have tried to keep that thing. It was like Brokeback Mountain meets Lord of the Rings meets Sandlot. It would have made me a fortune!!!
Oh well, the point is that I let others join in my work and I was displeased with the results.
In order to show that I’m a bigger man than to let a one time failure consume me, I’ve decided to allow guest blogging on my blog.
Who better to go first than my lovely wife who will no doubt b… “wawawa”…hold on.
“What? I’m typing something, can’t it wait?”
“G$ swallowed what?”
“Where the fuck did he get that many nickels?”
“I know you’ve told me not to leave my change there, but he has to learn somehow not to put whatever he can reach down his throat, doesn’t he!??”
“What do you mean Cdawg is sitting on the toilet crying again? Well, if he’d put a damn fruit or vegetable in this mouth, maybe it wouldn’t be like trying to pass a goddam brick!”
“I didn’t say it was your fault!! UGH!!!! Fine, I’ll help Cdawg, you tend to the baby nickel slot machine!”
“YES, I’ll help Ace with her school project too!”
Where was I? It’s always so damned busy around here!
Ah, yes, so I’ve decided to let my wife go ahead and write a post on my “wawawa” ….page.
“Oh for god’s sake, I only have like 24 followers, so it’s not like you’re writing for the entire Midwestern part of the country. These idiots don’t care what you write about. Write about living with me; I find that fascinating!”
“Here’s the laptop, I’m going to go put the baby to bed, you just type right here. Whatever your little heart desires.”
“I just type here?” She asked.
“Yes, good, there you go! Whatever you’re thinking, run with it.”
I went upstairs to put the G$ to bed while wife sat at the laptop downstairs.
Jackass, Jackass, Jackass, my husband is a Jackass!!!
“Can they see what I’m typing as I’m typing it?”
“No, Sweetie, they won’t see anything until we publish it!” I yelled from upstairs.
“Oh, good deal,” she said.
Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, I married a dickhead…
“What should I write about again?” Wife yelled to me.
“FUCK! I don’t know! Whatever you want! Write about how we met or the kids from your perspective!” I was getting flustered because bathing G$ is like trying to bathe a baby seal on PCP. He splashes a bit.
I finally heard the keys being pressed below.
Hi internet people, I’m Donofalltrade’s wife. He’s an idiot, but I guess I love him. He does make cute babies, but let’s face it, if I were less modest, I’d say that’s mostly me.
I’m rereading some of his previous posts for a little context and I have to admit, he can be funny sometimes.
He’s not lying about G$, that boy is a handful.
“I’m not very good at this, it’s just not really my thing. Why are you wanting me to do this again!?” She yelled to me once more.
“I thought it’d be fun!” I yelled back.
Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, I married a dickhead.
“There you go, I hear you typing. That’s good, just go with whatever you’re typing again. Whatever’s on your mind or in your heart.”
Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, dickhead…good God, Ok, let me get this over with then.
“I can write about anything?”
“Yup!!! Whatever you want, Baby. Introduce yourself!”
Ok, well, my name is Wife, and I’ve been with Jackass for 17 years. Married for almost 11 now. He made me wait almost 7 years before he proposed. What a tool!
He’s making me do this, and I don’t know why. I guess he’s not making me, since I wear the pants in the family.
I figured if I did this, then his drunk ass will pass out while I’m typing before he starts rubbing my ass all wantin’ me to do my wifely duties tonight. Gross.
Ha, if he were here he’d say “you said duties!” What a putz!
Still, he’s not all bad. He’s not terrible with the kids and he sometimes mows the yard. He drinks too much and he’s gotten a beer gut that I find repulsive, but I still love him.
“How long does it have to be?!”
“Shhhhhhhh! I’m rocking G$ to sleep!”
Ok, well fuck him then, he just yelled at me!
Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, dickhead.
He has a job, so that’s something. He once told one of the neighbor’s dads that the neighbor’s dad should have masturbated into a sock instead of conceiving his daughter, our neighbor. Can you believe that? Who says that? That woman is a saint and he’s lucky she even talks to him!
He’s always saying shit and not getting punched in the face. It’s nothing short of amazing, really. I don’t know why people like him, but they seem to do so in spite of his mouth.
“How’s it going?” I asked the love of my life. “I got G$ down without much of a fight tonight.”
Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, dickhead…
“Good job, Dear. How long do you want this again?” She asked.
“I threw some stuff in about that story I was writing in college about Beaver and his master, He Who Loves Beaver, so it’s plenty long.” I said. “Whenever you’re done, just hit publish. I’m going upstairs. I trust your judgment so there’s no need for me to edit your writing. Hit the spell check though, I always forget to do that! Oh my God, I just said ‘it’s plenty long!’ Ha, giggity!”
Idiot, but awe, he trusts my judgement. What a douche.
“Can I say dickhead on your blog?”
“Sure, I curse all the time, you know that.”
“Yes, I read this blog sometimes, so I do know that.” She said.
I didn’t want to do this and he knows it.
Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead, dickhead.