Jesus was sitting with him at bar in the Third World Club when the first signs of a metaphorical exoskeleton started to cover the douchebag millennial’s body.
I've been a journalist, teacher, instructional designer, project manager, product manager, business guy... Veteran of the married life for 30-something years. Sort of helped raise one boy to be decent adult. Here to spread my bullshit and read what others have to say.
I’ve been in “husband” boot camp for 32 years. There’s no graduation in sight.
I finally freed myself of the wicked Wix and moved my bullshit to Wordpress.
It was the one day of the year when the people of Tucson whispered “winter is coming” and dug in their closets to find their one dust-covered windbreaker.
If you are going to have a team, it’s going to need a nickname, a mascot and some fucked up cheers.
I traded in a liar and got a smart ass.
I am happier now — the Lying Nazi Bullshit Diesel is dead. My new Honda Civic is “nice,” but these god damn “smart car” features make me want to strip to my bathrobe and scream “get off my lawn”.
Just when I was going to release my perfect whine to earn some free points with the Bear (one of the secrets to a long marriage is the art of sublte manipulation) that got fucked up too.
Fresh on the heels of my Body Shaming by Kate, her two best “friends” found a way to pick on my face.
The bosses said it was a really important trip and they needed “key” people to go. I was really happy they picked me, until I learned “key people” means fucking idiots.
For most places, the holidays are time to reflect and improve. Not at the Third-World Racquet Club — these are the times when everything goes straight to the shitter.
Welcome to Arizona, son. Now pick: UA or ASU.
For me that’s a complicated and changing choice.
My clueless riders, didn’t ask and didn’t know those things. They just assumed that everyone thinks it’s OK to endanger and maybe kill other people who don’t look like or sound like you.
You retire to Phoenix from some frozen popsicle like Chicago or Minneapolis or the non-existent god forbid, Canada. So when the days get long, you get the hell out and go home.
Q: What the hell is that bent piece of metal that is sticking over the back left tire?
A: You tell me — that’s what comments are for.
My first tamale was “the Charles Barkley” of tamales, “terrible, just terrible.”