Sugar Mama vs Bear
In the battle of the Bullshit blog nicknames, I was confident I had picked a winner. Surprise, I fucked that up.
Your little…
Recently I noticed a small thing about the Bear that has been driving me a bit crazy.
Whenever she refers to any thing about me or the things I like, she always adds this one adjective.
All My Grass is Plastic
It only took 6 years to beat the Nazis. The Odyessey was done in 10. Wimps. It took me 50 years to finally win “the grass wars.”
My final attempt at Christmas shopping
I’ve been in “husband” boot camp for 32 years. There’s no graduation in sight.
Whine Killer
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.
Fat Biker: Clueless Riders
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.
Susan B. Anthony got Spade
The fucking Savages started this trend of mini-dogs. The Boy followed and several months ago picked up a 13-pound rat that exhibits dog-like behavior.
Pathetic Hopeless Alcoholic
Hi, my name is Kieran, and I am a pathetic, hopeless alcoholic — at least according to the Bear I am.
Ginger Hikers
I was a little kid during the Civil Rights Movement, and somehow I always assumed everyone was getting less racist — not more.
Fat Biker: Old Fart Cycling
One of the worst parts of being a fat cyclist is the clothes.
Father’s Day Party
Last year, the Bear set up a big family dinner for Father’s Day. This year she hosted a giant fucking party for 60-100 people.
My Bear is Your T-rex
I created The Bear moniker last year just for this Bullshit blog, but for years my wife has had a much crueler nickname: T-Rex.
No Fault Margaritas
Goddamnit, Indian Wells changed the margarita glasses at the fucking tennis tournament this year.
The State Says I Stink
The Bear has always hated my Lying Nazi Bullshit Diesel. Not because it’s a liar. Not because it’s killing the planet
Happy Fucking Father’s Day
Sunday it was somewhere between a hundred and a billion degrees, so I got up at dawn and went cycling before the sun melted the blacktop. About 3 hours later, I get home breathing hard, coated in sweaty salt and smelling like a dead muskox.
