She might be a single mom if…

Alright.  That last post was just a little touchy feely.  Especially the poem, but hey, if I’m going have an honest go at this shit, I have to be honest.  Thus, in my drunken escapades on the day before St. Patrick’s, after having my old pet jump my memory beacon for a minute, I decided to pour dranks down my throat for her.  I really don’t need any excuse to drink, ever, but I will use the most convenient one.

So I went out on the town Saturday.  I did so because I had to work early Monday (including gym before work) and there had already been comments that I was expected to be wrecked from a hangover that morning.  That’s what they expect of an Irishman.  Little do they know, I don’t get hangovers.  That’s a post for another day.

It was a real cavalcade of perversions as it seemed everyone in the city was out getting tossed.  Knowing firsthand my introverted tendencies and ability to not say a fucking word to anybody for an extended period of time, I decided to get higher than giraffe pussy prior to going to midtown for this pub crawl. (I have a post on how to achieve that cerebral state without smoking coming up in a few days.)  I’ve never been on a pub crawl and this was complete clown shoe madness.  It definitely did not entail anything to write home about.  In summation, I would liken it to a green Halloween.  There were bro’s bro’in it up, beezies being sleazy,  cougars getting pervy and fatties getting bold.  Basically an occupy drunk street whilst sloshed out of your shoes.  Yay.

One of our stops was a joint that isn’t one of my favorites.  However, I hadn’t seen the Jessica Biel look-alike bartender.  She wasn’t hard on the eyes, then I saw the signs.  Now, I use the term single mom, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s single.  Swallowing that red pill (which seems more like choking down some soured mind fuck, even if it makes sense) means I know better than to trust the virtues of any girl.  Shit, I know that for myself. So for the purposes of this list I mean a chick who has reared and/or is rearing a child or children out of wedlock.  I’m sure these could apply to married moms too, but let’s just have a go at it, shall we?

So Empowered.

She might be a single mom if she isn’t wearing a ring.

She might be a single mom if she has stretch marks on her titties.

She might be a single mom if she is consistently looking for a sitter for weekend nights.

She might be a single mom if her children are her life.

She might be a single mom if she NEVER has ANY time.

She might be a single mom if she has regular party nights and or weekends “free.”

She might be a single mom if she has a curfew to be at the “sitters.”

She might be a single mom if she posts about earning her scars on facebook

She might be a single mom is she has smug facebook posts about her daily inane shit that wouldn’t matter if she used a condom accomplishments.

She might be a single mom if she needs to find herself.

She might be a single mom if she goes to bars alone.

She might be a single mom if she’s suddenly into females. (Read, dicklover turned lesbo.  Maybe this is just a California thing.)

She might be a single mom if she’s fucking me.

How about you readers?  Any giveaways you can think of?


St. Patty

I remember the first time I saw my father cry. I was in the 5th grade.  It was such a shock to me, that to this day, I still remember it vividly.  It was grey outside and drizzling cold winter rains on the sleepy valley where we lived.  The weather matched our moods as we had piled in a mini van to take our golden retriever to the vet.  This dog had been with the family farther back than any of us kids.  Her hair was a golden red, much like the fur that grows from my face, though her muzzle had signs of age.  She lived a good life with a loving family, was loved, and loved alike.  It was in the sterile florescent lights, while most of the family was tearing up, that I witnessed the first vulnerable moment out of my father.  He cried as he said goodbye to Brandy.  It still leaves me a little raw to remember this occasion.

A week or so later, some kid was screwing with me on the playground and I ended up kicking his ass.  I didn’t get suspended, the Nuns blamed my aggression on my dog’s death.  If only that were true.  That dude needed to back off my shit.

Dog’s have always had a prominent place in my life.  I would estimate that I was “without dog” for only around a year.  That said, I’ve known only four dogs intimately.  As they go, Brandy the golden retriever, Sydney the Australian sheep dog, Sunshine Peppermint Patty the golden retriever, and of course, my current companion, Iggy the smooth fox terrier.

All of these dogs had their character.  Sydney was talkative, snored like a banshee, and always tried to get you to itch his rear end.  Brandy would eat cherry tomatoes in the garden with me as a child, she loved to swim and play fetch.  Then there was Patty.

Patty was the first dog I had ever met as a puppy.  We picked her out from her litter near the house I grew up in.  I slept on the porch for the first three nights she was home because she was scared.  I was in the sixth grade and when I would be awoken to go to school, my folks would find me lying on my back and Patty with her nose on my shoulder.  Mates for life.  She never forgot me, even when I left for college.  When I would come back to visit my folks, she’d wait up for me to come home before she went to bed.  She was the ultimate care taker.  She wasn’t territorial for the most part, though, in hindsight I would come to realize she growled or barked at every girl she disapproved of right out the gates. I just didn’t know to read that from her.

She lived a good happy life. She died two days before St. Patrick’s day and I didn’t really come to terms with her passing until a few days later.  It’s striking to me the kind of bond one can form with a canine.  Anyways, I wrote this poem after she died.  It was about 6 years ago, and I still get a knot in my stomach when I think about her.


Her full name was “Sunshine Peppermint Patty.”  Don’t ask, my Mom named her.

‘Patty’s Sunshine’
The last I remember of my dog is her eyes so far away and distant.
Brushing her grey gold hair with salty stains from my cheeks.
It was the end of her life, but my love for her will never die.
She was just a puppy, afraid and crying on the porch when we first met.
We both dreamed with her nose resting on my shoulder.
That was all it took. We were partners for life after that.
She was my best friend.
When I played guitar, or the piano, she would sit there
and watch with her eyes like rich dark coffee.
When I came home later she would be there in the hallway,
waiting for me to come home so she could sleep soundly.
I would bring green bones and other treats home for her.
She started becoming nosy anytime I came home with a paper
or plastic bag in hand.
When i spent a month in jail, I went home and barked at me,
“Where the fuck have you been?!?!?!?!”
If I brought a girl home she would growl if she didn’t approve.
She was friendly with the few she did approve of.
By the end of her stay on this Earth, a tumor had developed in the bone of her spine.
It had deteriorated a disc and she lost the use of her back legs.
Her condition quickly worsened.
I was once again on a sleeping bag next to her so she would feel
So she wouldn’t cry in fear.
I told her she was off to see her Sidney in the sky and that I
loved her.
I think about her often. I haven’t been myself these past days.
The cold metallic taste of fear has not left the roof of my mouth
or the inside of my teeth.
I’ve been left stricken with anxiety, stretched and weary.
I’m questioning all that has passed and I rage against the turning of the World.
I wonder, if I die, will she be there?
Will she be coming back as some blonde redhead to win me over with her charm and beauty?
I write while still shaking from shock, thought it happened over
two days ago.
What am I doing here?
So when my grey gold hair is brushed by salt water stains from someone’s cheeks,
With my eyes far away and distant,
I will know that I have done my best.
To love like my dog Patty loved me.
It’s Saint Patty’s day today and my eyes are filled
With sadness, fear and hope.

With that I encourage you to check out the Oatmeal comic – My dog: the paradox.

Originally posted on Rojobag.Wordpress March 19th, 2013.

The Fap and Nap

I have a problem.  Well, it seems like a problem and in the scheme of keeping my job, it’s  a problem, but otherwise it’s nothing. It’s fairly insignificant to the average person walking down the street.  It means nothing to the girls in short skirts and UGGs with high pitched voices.  I would even wager it means nothing to my dog, though he is the number one partner of mine.  If as a person, I am the the average of the five people I hang out with the most, then I am half dog.  In fact, I miss my dog whenever I leave the house.  I feel bad when I warm up on the treadmill because that is time I could be running him senseless.  Or taking him to the dog park so he can sniff around and growl at other dogs.

He’s not misbehaved.  He’s a good ol chap.  The spry little fucker comes with a knee jerk reaction to other canines where he growls at them if they try to sniff his ass.  Of course after they back off, he runs right up to them to sniff their ass.  I guess he’s playing hard to get.  Can you see how delusional I am?  I started this with I have a fucking problem, and now I am talking about my dog.  My dog is good people.   I get out of bed for the little fellow.     He’s actually not all that small, in fact, for his breed he is rather large.

My dog is not my problem. My problem is two fold.  As I mentioned before, I have obstructive sleep apnea.  Basically I’m choking the life out of myself one night at a time.  I thought that losing weight would make a difference, but the doctor says differently.  He says it will help, but might not eliminate the problem.  Apparently there are 4 types of mouth / throats depending on the amount of tissue involved.  I’m a 4.  They want me to wear a chinstrap and put things in my nose in order to take the choke hold off my sleep schedule.  Fuck that shit.  I sleep in a chair when I really need it.

Hey baby want to spoon?

This inability to breathe while I sleep has lead to some issues.  Fewer wet dreams, snores like the foghorn on the coast, day time zombie like drowsiness, no energy when I get home, nodding off at work without the help of some opoids, and sleeping through my alarm.  I hate sleeping through my alarm with an extreme passion.  I don’t even think I sleep through it.  In a half conscious stupor, I swipe it off, and cancel the snooze.  Lights out.  On a plus side, this condition has given me the super-hero-like ability to fall asleep ANYWHERE.

On top of that, I have been blessed with a god like ability to drink alcohol.  I can drink like a motherfucking fish.  It doesn’t matter what it is, I can grab the devil by the horn, align all the booze with my gullet, and let the good times roll without waking up with a disastrous hangover.  I actually remember the last time I had a hang over, and that was over 6 years ago after a particularly savage night in San Francisco:  waking up in the morning dry as the Sahara, brain pounding like some retarded dub-step concert, driving my red truck to the Wing Lee bakery on Clement, then driving another two hours back to my solitary station in the boonies.

This ability to drink and not suffer repercussions is peculiar and is not all good times and good drinks.  Basically, I can put them away for hours on end.  However, there is a threshold that is reached once a certain amount of libations have been imbibed.  After which, there are diminishing returns on what I’m putting into the system.  My friend Cindy says it happens around 4am. That’s where the belligerence starts coming into play.  Can you blame me?  By then I’ve probably consumed about a 5th of Bourbon and 2-6 beers, possibly more.

I’m fine with that, and even though I have shit for self control, I take after my father in that I am a jovial drunk.  Much like him, I also have a tendency towards in-coherency by the end of the night.  But I love that feel of cold liquid entering the stomach.  Instantaneous rewards in a rocks glass.  Fuck yes.  However, this gets in my way when compounded with the sleep apnea, and multiplied by the fact that I have to be at work in the morning.  Since I am able to imbibe such hazardous amounts and I am in a cage match with death each time I sleep, I tend to drink into the wee hours of the next morning before passing out.  Guess what happens then?

I don’t fucking wake up in time.

This isn’t an everyday thing, but it happens often enough.  I don’t drink after I work out because that would be detrimental to the agonizing efforts I am going through at the gym.  However, even on sober ass gym days, I am still sleeping past the time the leash gets put on and I head to the kennel.

TL:DR:  All star drinker, wheel chair sleeper.

Some fucking guy said “with great power comes great responsibility,”.

This post had nothing to do with fapping.

Work Related: The All Staff Infection

Last month when reliving my experience with false rape accusations, I mentioned I would be coming out with a work rant in the near future.  I, of course, did want to keep all of you waiting. So, without further ado, in the first in what will probably become a series, I present, a the day of the all staff and a few other insights.

At the beginning of each month everyone at my place of employment congregates together for a wasted three hours of sitting and trying to stay awake.   Of course I had to drink half a fifth of Wild Turkey 101 the night before so I am especially longing for some covers and a pillow, but the complimentary coffee has to suffice my fatigue.  It’s the epitome of inefficiency. A pathetic and ineffective way to give “trainings, “team building” and to drop some vague knowledge about the future of our programs.  I don’t work for a huge corporation.  We only have around 56 employees.  We can all fit in a room suitable for a rest-home eating area, which sometimes has a smell similar to a moth ball filled room, except for the smell is sage.  We burn it for it’s spiritual properties.

Spare anything green bro?

This meeting is crap, if you haven’t already gotten that picture.  This week we learned about bed bugs and scabies.  The last time I remember even thinking about those critters was when I had just gotten out of jail after a short 40 day stint.  I was itchy for some reason and my brain on overdrive decided it was scabies so I covered myself in that soap that kills that shit, froze my clothes, and sauntered to my then girlfriends place.  She started working her sexy Greek mojo, but after licking my neck and tasting the toxic bug killing shit, she decided to just blow me.  That’s love, a kneeling blow job to your previously incarcerated boyfriend who is covered in scabies destroying lotion immediately after his release from county jail.  It didn’t last.

I got hired at this joint due to having around five years of experience in two fields that are the backbone and funding of this joint.  I was hired by my “friend.”  He’s not really my friend, he’s afraid of human resources and a pussy whooped monogamist* who would rather be an old man than grapple with some living.  In fact, we USED to play some music together. When I mentioned something about us playing he mentioned his busy schedule and his maintenance of his relationship.  It’s like when a chick wants to fuck you, she will make sure it happens.  If a dude wants to make some shit happen, like playing in a fucking band, he will make it happen, not make bullshit excuses.  Ugh, I digress again.

Instead of having me work in an area that I have a ton of experience in, my “friend” decided to have me focus on an area that I only scratched the surface of prior to my arrival in this here city.  It’s a position I have to push myself to learn about, but gives me no advances in my workplace and it’s fairly useless due to our outdated technology.  The times I questioned my lack of involvement in the areas of our business that I have tangible skills and experience, homeboy said, “it would take years to train you up, so I just gave the position to Corky because he knows some of it already.”  My boy (We’ll call him Quarto) was here a year prior to my arrival.  Years my fucking asshole.  Our CEO announces how much farther ahead of the other window licking retard clinics in our field we are, technologically speaking,  and the reason for such advances is Quarto and his diligence.  Congrats bro, glad I jumped on this shit-liner with you.**

The host of this round tabled snooze fest is an obese human resources chick.  Her mouse-like features, squinting eyes, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel carting acorns in it’s mouth back to a winter hibernation zone, jiggles in front of the half aware crowd un-enthusiastically recalling some bullshit she’s supposed to explain.  She rattles through our new hires, even the ones that don’t start until next month.  Lay offs have occurred, but we are still hiring.

Each month there is an award given to an employee, by popular vote, designating them as “Employee of the Month.”  This vote is done by printing out a nomination form and dropping it into a locked metal box.  The award is usually given to a person in one of our three main departments, but mostly our Medical or Dental department.  This is because they all confer and decide who should get the award next.  You cannot win the award twice in a year.  The benefits of said title are a dedicated parking spot, a frame-able certificate, and a paid day off.  That day off is the creamy white frosting on the inside of this here scam.

I have never won this shamble of a popularity contest.  The reasons behind my lack of success are unknown to me, but having been here quite a while, I decided to take action into my own hands the day the opportunity knocked.  Since I am reasonably liked around these parts, when a young female employee approached me to do something for her that wasn’t work related, I agreed, but only on my terms.  She was to get her department (the largest here) to vote for me in the EotM.  She did, dropped 17 votes in the box.  I confirmed her submissions as she had shown them to me.  Come time for the great reveal, the  prestigious title went to someone connected with Medical.  There aren’t enough employees in those parts to surpass my vote count, but I think I lost in the electoral college, meaning, that fucking mouse faced obese cunt who runs HR.

HR on Lunch Break.

Never trust a fat person, and never trust a fat person with a face like a chunky rat.

I rigged this goddamn election and lost. I will never be a dictator.

Anyhow, to top off this monstrosity of inefficiency, a retirement guru gets up in front of us to sell us his investment strategies and suggest we start saving for our future.  Save for your future people, I do not disagree with this.  However, dude gave shitty advice and was just selling his company, which is pretty much what every third party who gives presentations at these meetings does and I hate solicitors, especially those who knock on my door at home, or bug me at work.  Man I sound like a jaded motherfucker.

*I have nothing against monogamy.  However the dependency I witness in some people is baffling.  Grown ass men who cannot handle being alone for more than a week.  And by be alone, I mean, not be in a committed relationship.

**I know you’re thinking, well get a different job you whiny cunt.  I think the same thing, however the job market is tighter than a virgin asshole right now and there’s nothing available in my field around here that is better than my current gig.  Thus, I am looking into alternative forms of employment.  Also, I am damn grateful to have a job that affords me a comfortable living, where I can sleep in a warm bed, feed myself and my dog, and go fishing.  It’s fucking sturgeon season right now so I’m dinosaur hunting.

So tasty. So elusive.

A Strange Admission

For the past 5-6 months, I’ve been in a strong uphill battle, working on fitness, nutrition, and self improvement. As I covered in a previous post, I’ve been doing mostly sprints and body weight exercises.  This has worked well enough to help me shed some pounds and establish some muscle.  Two fellas moved in next door to me, and we took an instant kinship with each other.  They are a few years younger, and they both play instruments.  One of these cats is in very good shape and regularly goes to the gym, as well as doing other activities such as hiking, biking and fapping.  He talked me into going to his gym one night.  That was Thursday, February 21st.

I took a free day pass to my boys gym.  Using the beginner guide from Victor Pride’s Body of Spartan, I set out with my two amigos and started lifting the iron.  I had not lifted weights like that for about 10 years.  The previous evening, I came to a realization about weights and the gym that I hadn’t realized before.

I’m afraid of the iron and lifting weights.  It intimidates me.

Maybe that sounds like some lop dick, mangina kind of stuff,  but that was the truth of the matter.  It wasn’t an issue with “not liking gyms.”  It wasn’t an issue of people watching me struggle.  No one knows me in this city aside from a few cats.  Nope.  I was afraid of the iron.  That stark, cold, unyielding substance, unaffected and indifferent gave me pause enough to refrain from embracing it for around 10 years.

I’m going to do what?

I went out, I struggled, I pushed, grimaced, strained, and perspired like a stuck pig in a roasting pit.  I did the circuit and felt amazing afterwards.  Then the next day I could barely walk or bend over.  It was rad.  I love that feeling of accomplishment that accompanies being sore.  I took a day off then tried a free pass at another gym.  That Sunday was even worse as my body screamed, “Damn son, you used the shit out of me.”  On Monday, I purchased a membership and committed to spending 3-4 days a week in the gym.  I’ve been sticking with it so far, continuing to eat healthy, and walking on my off days.

I have a large body frame.  Thanks Grandpa.  I’m built to put on muscle, so I am looking forward to the strength gains and visual evidence of my lifting routine.  For documentation, I even took a selfie in the bathroom mirror about 3 workouts in.  I plan on doing this again in a month.  Taking a selfie is just wrong but for the purposes of science and evidence, I am enduring it’s shameful embrace.  I haven’t really looked at the picture, but I am pretty sure I didn’t make the awkward, contorted appendage with four fingers splayed across the front of my phone while I make ducklips at the mirror.  No, I’m almost positive I didn’t do that.

On a somewhat related, but different note, the place where I work has recently fallen into some financial hardship.  The details of that are not really pertinent to this here story, however, let it be said that layoffs have occurred and will be occurring.  At least that is what my boss said when he called me into his office the other day to find out, “what’s up with me.”  There’s a long story to “what’s up with me,” solely regarding work stuff, that would probably bring anyone to tears with boredom if they heard it.  That said, people around that place have their sweaty ass cheeks clenched tighter than the belt around David Carradine’s neck as he fapped himself to death while hanging.  Was that too grim?  It really is life or death to these people around here.  It’s to the point that I think everyone is wondering how many people they can throw under a moving bus at one time.

Case in point, as I was being threatened informed of the dire circumstances surrounding our place of business, one of my issues was quite surprising.  I was told “the other day someone asked me what’s going on with Rojo.  Apparently you were walking around the property at a very slow pace, no sense of urgency at all.”   I come to find out the reporter gave this observation to him earlier that week and it pertained to the two days after my first weight lifting session in 10 years.

“Wait wait, was that last week?”


“Oh you bet I was walking around gingerly, I could barely walk having just joined a gym.”

*Look of bewilderment.*

I’ll post the before / current selfie shots in a month or so, just to document that progress.