To this Day, I Wonder How Many People Saw My Balls that Night

by Rico Swaff on October 11, 2011

I have no fashion sense. I won’t go into detail about this because I have an idea for a future blog entry where I will disclose all the no-brainer fashion “no-no’s” I have been guilty of committing in the past.

I went to Loras College in Dubuque, IA.  I partied a lot with one of my longtime friends from high school. His name is Nick Breuer and he went the University of Dubuque.  He is a unique character.  If I were to attempt to describe him, it would probably result in its own blog entry. Hell, if I were to write a story about the many adventures of Nick Breuer, it would probably end up being as long as Atlas Shrugged, which is what, 1000 pages or so?

Anyways, one thing about Breuer, is that he has pretty good fashion sense. For someone from Iowa, he is always right on, in terms of what is trending. Sometimes he will wear items of clothing that you never see other Iowans wearing and I’ll think to myself, “how the hell did he come up with that outfit?” A few months later, I will be out on the town and see an abundance of people wearing the same outfit Breuer was wearing 3 months prior to.  Iowa is considered to be behind the times in terms of trends and fashion, but Breuer sure as hell isn’t and he has gotten some positive female responses as a result.

Unlike Breuer, I don’t give a shit about what is trending.  My goal is to somehow wear what I like (regardless of whether it came from the MC Hammer era or not) and not look like an idiot in the process. Breuer has been very talented as being my fashion consultant.  Lord knows it’s probably a rough job.

In general, I am usually just a t-shirt or polo shirt, jeans and shoes or loafers type of dude. You rarely see anything flashy from me, unless I am dressed up like Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave and that’s only for blog entries and special occasions.

So one night, Breuer and I made plans to go to a bar in Dubuque, IA on the Main Street strip called Bartinis.  Out of the 6 or 7 bars that were on that strip, Bartinis was the classiest.  It was the cleanest, the drinks were more expensive compared to the other bars, they never had drinking specials, it was small, the normies were elitists and everyone there seemed like they were dressed for a freaking wedding. I always knew there were better alternatives in terms of fun shit to do, so I usually dreaded going to that place, but I did have a couple good times throughout my 5 years living in Dubuque. Bartinis was one of the bars we went to spontaneously, just to break the routine.

I think Breuer actually liked partying at Bartinis.

Poff and I met Breuer and his friend, Burken at Breuer’s house. We planned on pre-gaming there. After saying our, “wassup man’s,” Breuer said to me, “dude, I am not going to be seen in public with you wearing that.”  If my memory serves me correctly, I was wearing something along the lines of a dress shirt, khaki cargo shorts, brown loafers and a pair of white Hanes ankle socks.  “What are you going to do then?” I asked.  “I am going to grab a pair of nice jeans and you are going to wear them,” Breuer replied.  I’ve borrowed Breuer’s clothes since high school.  We have been close to the same size as each other our whole lives. Breuer ran into his room, grabbed a pair of jeans and threw them at me and told me to take care of them because they were his favorite pair of jeans. I quickly glanced at them before putting them on.  I noticed they were BKE brand. I had never worn a pair of BKE jeans until that point because I could never justify spending $70-100 on a pair of jeans. I admit though, I felt pretty cool wearing them.  Before departing for the bars, I looked at myself in the mirror and remember thinking to myself, “damn Swaff, you are rockin’ those jeans. They definitely look cooler than my usual Lee or Old Navy brand jeans.”

When we arrived at Bartinis, the place had a decent sized crowd, but was definitely picking up at a rapid pace. There were only a few tables left, which I was eager to grab one of them because I had no intentions of walking around and mingling with the suited up crowd that was accumulating there. We sat at a table near the entrance. My chair at the table was facing the entrance directly.  I was leaning back in my chair, legs spread wide open with a beer in hand. Poff, Breuer, Burken and I discussed a variety of topics ranging from beer, women and sports.  How’s that for fitting a male stereotype?

Ya see, that's just how I roll. Laid back in the chair, spread eagle with a Bud Light in hand.

After two hours of drinking over-priced beer at Bartinis, we decided to go to a different bar. The place was packed, but in no way fun. We were surrounded by many people who had probably spent all day playing croquet. Not my thing. The atmosphere in general was dull and snooty. It definitely wasn’t a college bar. Maybe I would like it more now that I have been out of college for almost 5 years.

Prior to stepping off the chair to leave, I reached down to readjust myself.  I do this routinely because I wear underwear usually and I hate walking around with my undies riding up into my groin area.  Not to mention, something didn’t quite feel right.

What I felt when I put my hand down to readjust my junk ended up catching me totally off guard.  It felt like a couple of Cadbury eggs in a furry, loose leather bag.  I wish that’s what it was.  It ended up being my balls hanging out of a hole in the crotch of the jeans that Breuer let me borrow. My underwear rode up my groin to the point of severe, yet unnoticed wedgie. It was so severe that my frank and beans had escaped. The weird thing was that my shaft wasn’t hanging out.  It was just my balls. My shaft was probably too large to fit through the relatively decent sized hole in the crotch of these jeans. My balls were hanging there as if they were a couple of carefully placed Christmas ornaments. I wish my shaft would have made its way out of the hole because then I may have noticed my wardrobe malfunction immediately. It surprises me to this day that as close as we were sitting to the entrance that I never felt a breeze hit my exposed testicles.

In a panic, I said to Breuer, “dude, your jeans have a hole in the crotch!”  Breuer smirked and replied with, “haha yeah, I forgot to tell you about that.”  I replied, “shit man! My undies rode up to the point where my package escaped! It’s possible that my balls have been hanging out of these jeans since we got here 2 hours ago because I haven’t moved from my seat!! Not to mention, my seat is facing the entrance, therefore every smug fuck that has walked into this bar since we sat down probably caught a glimpse of my balls! They were probably appalled!”  Breuer’s mouth made the transition from smirk to full-fledged smile before he said, “I know dude…I saw that!”  Then he started laughing hysterically.  I inquired, “how long were my balls hanging out of these jeans?”  “I noticed it shortly after we got here,” Breuer said between chuckles.  “You mean to tell me that my balls were hanging out of these jeans for the entire 2 hours we were here and you didn’t tell me?!? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.  “Because it was fucking hilarious,” Breuer said.

It’s fair to say that my friends enjoy messing with me if they get the chance.  I’m delighted that my balls being exposed to at least 100 strangers can bring so much joy to the lives of my friends.

Even the naturally laid back Poff noticed it. You may remember Poff from the story, “How Swaff Pissed Poff Off,” which you can read by clicking here. I pointed at the hole in the jeans and asked Poff, “hey, did you see my balls hanging out of this hole?”  Poff, whose expression and demeanor hadn’t changed since we arrived, shrugged his shoulders and said, “yeah… so what?” I asked, “well shit dude, why didn’t YOU say anything either?”  Poff responded with, “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I also thought the ladies might like it. So I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to salt your game, man. I was hoping that some ladies would come over and talk to us because they were turned on by your balls.”  “That’s just great, thanks for looking out for me, man,” I said sarcastically while shaking my head. In college, Poff’s method of picking up chicks was unorthodox yet simultaneously effective to say the least. This claim is evidenced by him literally thinking that the snooty chicks walking into Bartinis would be impressed by being greeted at the door by the seductive site of me sitting in a chair, spread eagle with my balls hanging out of a hole in my jeans.

To this day, I wonder how many people saw my balls that night.

This is how Rick rolls (haha, you've been Rick-rolled). Laid back, fishing boots, spread eagle with his balls hanging out while eating Skippy peanut butter and trying to figure out what a calculator is... You know, just chillin' in a neighborhood house he broke into. Unfortunately, anyone who encounters Rick, sees his balls. Even if the owners of the house came home, the sight of Rick's hairy balls would scare them away.

 

{ 15 comments }

No Offense, but You’re Good (I’ve Been Feeling Older)

by Rico Swaff on August 22, 2011

How old do I look? Be honest.

I am 28 years old and lately I have been feeling kind of old. Not necessarily “I am scared to lift my wrinkly buns off this rocking chair because I am fearful of crapping in my Depends because my colon doesn’t work properly” old. I feel “all these dudes wearing these straight-billed hats propped to the side of their heads look like total morons” old.  I feel less hip, ya know?

Derp-derp-derp-derp-dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb.

Along with feeling older, I think I appear older as well.  In the past 5 years or so, my weight has been relatively stabilized, but my hair has been thinning a bit.  And the hairs that are not falling out of my head are changing colors, from dark brown to grey.  Grey hairs are sneaky.  I have like 2 or 3 of them on each side of my head.  A new one seems to pop up every time I get a haircut, which is roughly once a month.  Unlike zits, these grey hairs are here to stay.  I have always heard people say that common, over-played joke. You know, that having kids will make your hair turn grey.  Well shit, that cliché couldn’t be any more true for me.  My daughter is 9 months old and I found my first grey hair when she reached the whopping age of 2 months. And they slowly, but surely continue to pop out and say, “hello” to me when I look in the mirror.

 

I don’t think I am the only person who has noticed my recent aging spurts.  For the past year or so, bouncers and bartenders haven’t been as much of sticklers in terms of checking my ID to make sure I am at least 21 years old.  Lately, bouncers have been giving me that “you don’t have to show me your ID because I can tell by looking at you that you are over age 21” hand motion when I am standing in line.  Sometimes, when I offer to show bartenders my ID, they simply shake their head at me, indicating that they don’t want to see it and jump straight into asking me what I want to drink.  It is kind of disheartening, considering most places have rules, like if the person doesn’t appear 35-40 years old, you are required to ask to see their ID.  I don’t look 35-40 years old already do I?!?! Usually I make myself feel better by lying to myself.  I’ll tell myself, “oh that bartender is probably just swarmed with customers (although there are only 2 or 3 other customers there).”  Or, “that bouncer probably just waved me in without checking my ID because they know me somehow because I am a pretty big deal (although in most cases, I am not a big deal).”

 

Recently, these insecurities of mine were brought to a new level.

 

A couple weeks ago, I traveled with my fiance Krystal, mom and dad to watch a band my brother plays guitar for called Ben Garrett and the American Youth open for an up and coming singer from the Quad Cities named Lissie. They were scheduled to open for her at a bar called the Blue Moose in Iowa City. Krystal and I saw part of Lissie’s show the day before at Lollapalooza.

 

When we arrived at the Blue Moose, there was a small line of people waiting for the bouncer to check their ID so they could enter the bar.  The bouncer checked the IDs of everyone who was standing in front of me.  When it was my turn, I reached into my pocket to grab my ID and the bouncer looked at me with a stone cold, straight face and said, “you’re good, no offense” and proceeded to place an “of age” band on my wrist.   I replied by laughing while saying, “none taken, man.”  There was no disputing the fact that this guy thought I appeared to be well over the age of 21.  By saying, “no offense,” he pretty much clarified that.  I (who had a severe case of red-face from being sunburned at Lollapalooza) lied to myself and thought, “oh I probably just look older because I am sunburned.”  Pretty absurd self-talk, but whatever works I guess.

I felt worse when Krystal attempted to enter the bar.  After the bouncer dude indirectly informed me of how old I look, I sheepishly stood to the side and waited for Krystal and my parents to enter the building.  Krystal was standing right behind me.  Without checking her ID, he wrote an “M” on her hand for “minor.” Krystal immediately became confrontational and said, “I am 28 years old, look at my ID!!!”  He looked confused and examined Krystal’s ID further.  He looked at her ID, then at her, then back at the ID and back at her.  He finally shook his head with a “wow, this woman doesn’t appear to be 21 years old, let alone 28” expression on his face and gave her a bracelet.

This sort of thing happens to Krystal all the time. She has aged well to say the least.

But what the hell?  Did this guy think Krystal and I were father and daughter? I don’t appear to be 35-40 years old, do I?  I know Krystal is generally known as being freaking beautiful, but I always thought we appeared to be around the same age. After all, I am only 25 days older than her.

Speaking of fathers, at least my own parents were not required to show their IDs.

This picture was taken a couple days before the unfortunate encounter with the Blue Moose bouncer. Krystal is gorgeous and does look great for being 28 years old, but do I look THAT much older than her?!?!

Nice sunburn, Rico.

I can’t help, but wonder how many people have seen us together and thought I was a 35-40 year old dude dating an 18 year old girl.  They probably wondered what in the hell she was chasing after they saw that we didn’t hop into a BMW, but a 2002 Taurus.  By the way, that Taurus has been running like a champ so far.

Given the hair style of Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave, one would guess that he is pushing 40 years old. However, there would be no way of knowing. Rick used his birth certificate as toilet paper one morning when he had the beer-shits and his birthday has since been forgotten. It wouldn't matter anyways because nobody in Rick's family can read. Therefore, his birthday will forever remain a mystery.


{ 13 comments }

Ridin’ Ghetto Part 3

by Rico Swaff on July 15, 2011

Some of you may know that I have been driving a yellow 2004 Dodge Neon for the past couple years. I have referenced this car in a few entries, most notably “Ridin’ Ghetto Part 2,” “These Jerkoffs Who Constantly Drive by Swimming Pools” and recently, “In the Past 2 Weeks, I Have Almost Hit 2 Cows.” Well, I don’t drive it anymore, which saddened for a short while for sentimental reasons, but I’m over it.

A couple weeks ago, I spent over $600 on framework on that car. A week later, the transmission started acting up. What kind of luck is that? So when the transmission started acting up, what did I do? I traded it in for an ultra-extravagant 2002 Ford Taurus SES with 123,000 miles on it. Ridin’ ghetto 4 life yo!

Mark my words, one of these days I will be driving a Cadillac Escalade. Chances are, the thing will have 250,000 miles on it and be decorated with rust and huge dents, but I will be driving one some day nevertheless.

Here I am, posing with my new Ford Taurus. I can't even hear the words, "Ford Taurus" without thinking of the father from "Meet the Parents" (Robert Deniro) disapproving of his daughter's fiance's (Ben Stiller) Ford Taurus. Oh well, screw that guy! I love how spacious this Taurus is. It's more baby-friendly. It also drives well so far. I hope it lasts me a couple years.

I wanted to take a professional picture of my awesome new car and send it to an automobile magazine with hopes of them posting the picture. Unfortunately, Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave was the only person I could afford to pay to be the model in the picture.

Rick wanted to be paid in Hamm's beer. Lucky for me, you can buy a 12 pack of Hamm's for $5.99.

{ 5 comments }

Meet The Hamburglar

by Rico Swaff on July 4, 2011

Meet the newest addition of our family... The Hamburglar. He is a pretty cute little kitty, isn't he? Well, don't let his physical appearance deceive you.

At the moment this picture was taken, The Hamburglar was probably brainstorming ways he could successfully bomb a hospital. If Satan exists, I am pretty certain he resides within the depths of The Hamburglar's cold, dark soul.

He was named after this turd-nugget. I wanted to give him a name that was original, yet somehow fitting to his black and white fur. Some of you may remember this guy, some of you may not. It's The Hamburglar from the old Ronald Mcdonald commercials. The Hamburglar is Ronald Mcdonald's most notorious and pesky enemy. He is a total douche-bucket. He is always stalking poor Ronald Mcdonald, trying to steal his hamburgers and cheeseburgers. He is a total buzzkill to Ronald, Grimace and the rest of the crew. However, Ronald's crew always wins in the end. The name is fitting for the cat, not only because of their matching colors, but because the cat is also a huge douche-bucket like The Hamburglar.

I can't even pet The Hamburglar without him whipping his claws out and attacking me.

I am starting to believe that The Hamburglar's purpose in life is to scratch and bite everything he sees. Here he is, biting my finger as if it were a piece of beef jerky.

I can't even sit down and watch TV without The Hamburglar attacking my feet.

He does have his redeeming moments though where he seems to like me. Here he is curling up by my feet while I am on the computer. Since I do not currently have internet at my house, I was probably typing a blog entry as this picture was taken.

Amazingly, he is good with kids. He is very nice to my 8 month old daughter, Kaiya.

But he's still a jackass.

Buying him toys is a waste of money and effort. He demolishes them. A catnip toy will appear as if it had a violent encounter with a wolverine if it spends a few hours with The Hamburglar. Here is a picture of one of those "feathered balls attached to a rubber band that is attached to a stick" cat toys. We have gone through 3 of these. The Hamburglar bit through the rubber band with all three of them.

He's not very nice to Kaiya's toys either.

I didn't think there was anything that could put The Hamburglar in his place until he started messing with one of these things. I am not sure what this thing is used for, but I think it has something to do with my baby girl. I bet you are asking yourselves, "how on earth did something so simple put The Hamburglar in his place?" Well, I will explain. One evening, The Hamburglar was playing with this blue plastic ring. He kept putting his mouth and nose through the loop and would open his mouth as if he were preparing to bite something. This eventually resulted in the plastic, blue thing going all the way around his neck like a collar. When I noticed this, I checked to see if the thing was too tight around his neck. I didn't want him to accidentally choke himself. It wasn't too tight so I just let him wear it as a collar for the time being. I didn't feel like taking it off because I was 99% sure that if I did, he would bite me. So I left him alone.

About an hour later, I was sitting on the couch, watching Cash Cab when I noticed The Hamburglar on the floor, throwing a fit. He appeared to be having some sort of acrobatic seizure. He would sprint a couple steps before jumping a foot in the air, landing on his back. Then he would do a couple somersalts and then stand on his feet for a couple seconds. He repeated this process 2-3 times before I decided that there was obviously something wrong with him and he needed help. When I checked to see what was wrong with him, I discovered that the blue plastic ring had somehow gotten caught in his mouth and was prying his mouth open. It was pissing him off. It reminded me of those horse bits that horse riders put in horses' mouths before they ride them. I am guessing that the plastic ring was loose enough on his neck that when he opened his mouth or meowed, the bottom of his mouth slid underneath the ring, ultimately resulting in The Hamburglar's jaws being pried open.

I don't blame him for being pissed off. Having a blue, plastic ring stuck in your mouth, prying your jaws open would suck ass.

Words can not explain the frustration that The Hamburglar endured while trying to maneuver his jaw from the grips of this evil blue plastic ring, but this picture sure explains it.

So how did we find the time to take pictures of The Hamburglar's horrible situation while we should have been helping him? Because it took us 30 minutes to free him. He scratched and bit the shit out of our hands while we were trying to help him. Check out the skin flaking off the left side of my hand, the small cuts on the back of my hand and the scratch between two of my fingers. All of these were inflicted by The Hamburglar while I was trying to help him. The pictures of The Hamburglar struggling with the evil blue ring were taken between breaks. It wasn't just a struggle for The Hamburglar. It was a struggle for Krystal and I as well. The cat was absolutely frantic.

My palm also took a beating.

He wasn't any calmer with my fiance, Krystal, who was also helping me get the plastic ring out of his mouth.

It was one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen. And for those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you know that I have seen some bizarre shit.

In this picture, you can clearly see that it was his bottom teeth that were preventing him from escaping the blue plastic ring. We didn't notice this as we were trying to get the thing off of him. If we had, the process may have been much easier.

It is very likely that you will hear more Hamburglar stories in the future. He is a crazy boy.

Speaking of new additions to families, here is an updated picture of Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave's newest addition... his daughter Ruby will be 8 months old this Sunday.

Isn't she cute? I hope she keeps her teeth unlike her parents. Good work Rick!

Ok, ok, ok..... Here is a picture of Kaiya. :) On a personal note, she has been a little life-changer and I am very proud of her. I love her so much.

{ 15 comments }

In the Past 2 Weeks I Have Almost Hit 2 Cows With My Car

by Rico Swaff on June 6, 2011

So a couple weeks ago, I was driving on a paved side-road with my tunes on blast. I had just driven through the tiny town of Morning Sun, IA when I arrived at a sharp turn. Immediately after entering this sharp turn, I noticed a huge figure in the middle of the road and I instinctively slammed on my brakes and veered my car to the left, missing this large creature by an inch or two. If there would have been a car driving on the opposite side of the road, we would have had a head-on collision. I barely managed to keep my car on the road. The ditch was steep and had a dense population of large trees on the bottom that I potentially could have run into.

Initially, I wasn’t sure what exactly this creature was, but I knew it was out of the ordinary. In Iowa, the largest animals you usually have to watch for on the road are deer. From the quick glance I caught of this animal, I could tell it was shaped differently and was much larger than a deer.

As you can probably imagine, my curiosity was consuming me after this occurred, so I whipped my car around and slowly drove towards the spot where I almost mauled over this huge animal. When I arrived at the scene, the animal was still standing in the same spot, with an expression of sheer anger written on it’s face. It was a huge cow. I almost hit a freaking cow with my car…my exquisite yellow 2004 Dodge Neon. It is possible that the cow weighed more than my car.

My exquisite yellow 2004 Dodge Neon.

I sat there for a few seconds, gazing at the cow and thinking about how badly my car would have been damaged if I hadn’t managed to avoid the cow. Then the thing evidently became annoyed with my presence.It started bobbing it’s head up and down, grunting and stomping it’s hooves on the ground as if it were preparing to charge my car. I decided that this was a good time to back up, turn around and head towards my original destination. If this cow were to ram into my car, it probably would have resulted in some expensive body damage to my exquisite yellow 2004 Dodge Neon. Not to mention, if another car was traveling in the same direction that I originally was, they may have veered to the left in an attempt to avoid the cow and then had a head on collision with me because I was sitting there gazing at this cow like some sort of bewildered baboon. That would have totally been my fault. They also could have veered their car to the left to avoid the cow AND my car, which would have left them with no space on the road. If this happened, I am guessing that they would have drove into the ditch, their car probably would have rolled 4-5 times before ultimately crashing into a tree at the bottom of the ditch. No matter what, it would have been a shitty situation. An oncoming semi-trailer would have been the worse case scenario.

2 nights ago, I was on my way home from work and I almost encountered the same damn thing. It was 11 o’clock pm and I was driving on a 2 mile long, straight-away stretch of gravel road. I was traveling at a rate of 50 MPH when suddenly, I noticed a large, dark brown figure that was standing in the middle of the gravel road. I immediately slammed on my brakes. I didn’t make an attempt to avoid the animal by veering to the left or right because the gravel road was so narrow, I surely would have ended up in the ditch. When I slammed my brakes, my car fish-tailed in a counter clockwise direction and skid about 10 feet before coming to a complete stop, 1 foot away and parallel to a dark brown cow, who didn’t seem to flinch.

When I drove by this exact spot on the gravel road today (in daylight,) I noticed that there was a cow barn right next to it. I am assuming that the cow I almost hit a couple days ago was one of these 2.

My initial thought was, “SHIT! I hope this cow doesn’t plan on ramming into my car like that cow I almost hit 2 weeks ago.” Shaken, I backed my car up, straightened it out and attempted to drive around the enormous cow that I almost hit. Luckily, this cow was much more sheepish than the other cow I had encountered. When I drove slowly towards him on the road, he scurried off into the ditch. I thought to myself, “holy cow, I am fed up with almost hitting cows with my car.”

2 minutes later and a quarter mile from my house, I ran over a raccoon. It took out my car’s front bottom light attachment fender. One of the bottom lights went with it. Son of a bitch. There was no avoiding the raccoon. There were four of them crawling on the road, forming a straight line across the road. At least I managed to only hit one and not 2-3 like I thought I was going to. I guess it was just my time to hit something on the road that night.

If a raccoon damaged my car like that, I would hate to think of what a cow could do to it.

The more I have had time to sit down and think about how awful it could have been if I hit the cows, the more thankful I am that it didn’t happen. Cows weigh, what? About a ton? Due to their size, hitting a cow with your vehicle could be fatal. Dying by hitting a cow with your car would be a shitty way to go, for quite a few reasons, not only because of the potential pain you could endure. For one, the accident would probably receive coverage in the newspaper. It’s not very often where you hear of someone getting killed by hitting a cow on the road. Given the rarity of these occurrences, the newspapers may find interest in it. The headlines would be embarrassing as hell. Here are some of the potential headlines in the newspaper if I would have hit one of these cows and died:

“Man Hits Cow on Road, Dies.”

“Driver Hits Cow on Road and Dies.”

“Man Dies by Hitting Cow on Road.”

“Man and Cow Die in Collision on Road.”

“Man Hits Cow on Road. Man and Cow are Dead.”

It would sound equally ridiculous if I would have died by swerving around the cow and either colliding with an oncoming vehicle or a tree in the ditch:

“Man Avoids Cow on Road, Collides with Car. Both Drivers Dead.”

“Man Swerves to Miss Cow and Collides With Car. They All Died.”

“Driver Collides With Semi After Avoiding Cow. The Semi Won. Driver of Car is Dead.”

“5 People Dead Because Driver Avoids Cow on Road.”

Imagine the headlines if I successfully avoided the cow, but died by alternative means:

“Man Avoids Cow on Road, Drives in Ditch, Flies Through Window of Car and is Impaled by Tree. He is Dead.”

“Man Avoids Cow on Road, Drives into Ditch. Angry Cow Tramples Man. Man Dies.”

If I would have actually died from swerving to miss a cow, those PETA ass-goblins would freaking love me. I would have been a martyr for those dickheads. The last thing on earth I want to become, is a martyr for PETA. I personally witnessed the lengthy extent of their ignorance in the flood of 2008 in Oakville, IA. I grew up a mile away from the bluff that overlooks Oakville. The whole town was flooded resulting hundreds of people losing everything they owned and worked for throughout the entirety of their lives. There were many victims/volunteers laying sandbags down and doing whatever they could do to ease the catastrophe. These PETA jackasses show up and start raising a fuss because these farmers didn’t save their livestock before evacuating their houses. Ever since then, PETA has been the epitome of all that is uncool in my book. You love animals? Fine… I like them as well.  However, don’t let your love for animals interfere with whatever sense of reality you may have.  ANYWAYS…

I would feel like a total dumbass if there would have been a driver who died by avoiding a collision with the cow and me after I drove back to look at it:

“Driver Dies Avoiding Collision With Cow and Dumbass Looking at Cow.”

If I died by hitting a cow with my car, it would be very hard on some of my close friends and family. To start, if I died in general, I would expect certain friends/family to not take it well, but if I died by hitting a cow on the road, they would be faced with the burden of forever having to maintain a straight face while attempting to explain to people about how I died by hitting a cow with my car. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think death is funny. I am a sentimental, tear-flowing mooshball when it comes to death. However, I think absurdity is funny and if hitting a cow with your car doesn’t fit the “absurdity” category, I don’t know what does. Can you imagine having to explain to people that someone you loved, died by hitting a cow? I don’t think I would have a difficult time keeping a straight face because I would be very sad if something like this happened to someone I love, but I assume that EVERY time I would explain it to someone, I would catch myself shaking my head while thinking, “I still can’t believe they died by hitting a stupid fucking cow with their car.” I would probably try to steer the conversation away from the details of the death in order to avoid feelings of awkwardness.

Take my parents for example. Lets say I did hit one of those cows and died from it. What if my mom ran into a friend she hadn’t seen in a while and they asked about me.

Friend: Oh hi Jacinta (my mom’s name,) how are you doing?!?
Mom: Oh hey, I’m doing pretty good. How about yourself?
Friend: I’m doing alright! How are your sons? How is Josh doing?
Mom: Oh, well….Josh passed away about 3 years ago.
Friend: That is HORRIBLE! I am SO sorry! If you don’t mind me asking, how did he die?
Mom: Well….he….uhhh…. hit a cow with his car.
Friend: Oh….. I am so sorry to hear that…..

Can you imagine how awkward a conversation like that would be? What if the person silently chuckled to themselves after hearing this? Would you be pissed off at them or would you somewhat understand due to the bizarre and absurd nature of your loved one’s death?

Enough of this dark shit. I didn’t hit the cows. I am still alive and I am happy about it. I just think that it is crazy that I spent 28 years of my life, never driving or riding in a vehicle that had come remotely close to hitting a cow on the road, then all the sudden I have come dangerously close to hitting 2 of them in the past 2 weeks. CRAZY!!!

When I told Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave about my close calls with the cows, he immediately grabbed a baseball bat and ran out the door. On the way out he screamed, "Imma gonna get me some T-bone steaks!!!"

{ 20 comments }

Grandma and Grandpa Earthquake Buns and Their Grandson, Big Fat Rico

by Rico Swaff on May 30, 2011

I wrote this post approximately 2 years ago. Only a few people read it because it was before I actually knew that in order to gain readers, you have to actually take steps to promote your site. I didn’t realize that once you create a website, that it doesn’t just promote itself.

This post was about my grandma and grandpa Mclaughlin. Two years ago, 3 out of my 4 biological grandparents were still alive. Now, I only have 1 grandparent left. My Grandma Mclaughlin died a couple days ago and my Grandpa Swafford died last September. I am very upset about both of these deaths. My Grandpa Swafford was nothing short of a second father to me and it hurts me to simply write about him dying as I am now. I wish I was able to fixate on the good, cherished memories I have of my deceased grandparents without interference from the thought that I don’t think I will ever hear their voices or see their faces again. Nevertheless though, here is the revised, reposted version of “Grandma and Grandpa Earthquake Buns and Their Grandson, Big Fat Rico.”

Grandma and Grandpa Earthquake Buns and Their Grandson, Big Fat Rico
Written on 4/29/2009

Out of my four biological grandparents, three of them are still alive. I feel lucky for this. Some people are born either with grandparents who were not involved with their lives, or deceased before they were born. I didn’t lose a grandparent until I was 22 years old. Not too shabby. Yes it was very sad when my grandpa McLaughlin died, but on the bright side, that is 22 years more than many people get to spend with their grandparents. The fact that I am 26 years old now and still have three remaining grandparents is something that is easily taken for granted. I feel lucky that this is the case for me.

One thing I can say about all four of my grandparents is that they are all very unique characters. All four of them have/had their own unique and funny personalities. Some of my fondest memories were spawned from them.

This post will be about my grandparents on my mother’s side; my grandma and grandpa McLaughlin.

When I was 4-10 years old, I would stay at my Grandma and Grandpa McLaughlin’s house roughly every other weekend. I think my mom was working night shifts on weekends, and my dad was working double shifts, from 8:00 AM to 3:00 PM for my Grandpa McLaughlin’s landscaping business, and from 4:00 PM to midnight at the Gypsum Plant. He was working his ass off around that time. Sometimes we were dropped off there on Sunday mornings when my parents went to church. This was because Justin and I were your stereotypical children who acted like brats during church. The fact that we went to a Catholic church back then made things even more awkward for my parents during church, especially because Justin and I would be screaming and carrying on about something absurd like wanting to eat more than just one communion chip. I used to love eating those damn things.

When I was about 7 -8 years old, I started watching WWF wrestling. Every Sunday morning they aired WWF wrestling on one of those local FOX stations. I used to love it when my mom dropped us off at my grandparents’ house instead of taking us with her to church. Watching WWF wrestling was a much more pleasant experience for me.

Back then (1990-1991,) it seemed like you were either a fan of the Ultimate Warrior or Hulk Hogan. There were some Big Boss Man and Undertaker fans sprinkled in there, but the main two were Ultimate Warrior and Hulk Hogan. I was a Hulk Hogan fan. At the time, Hulk Hogan’s main enemy was a balding, fat, blobby looking dude in a black and blue swimsuit named Earthquake. I hated Earthquake with a passion. I remember like it was yesterday, when Earthquake unexpectedly cheap-shotted Hulk Hogan and sent him to the hospital. I was so upset about this that I sobbed like a baby. I didn’t want Hulk Hogan to die and that weasel Vince McMahon was definitely making it seem as if it could happen.

John Tenta aka "Earthquake" passed away on June 7, 2006 after a lengthy battle with bladder cancer. RIP homeslice!

One particular Sunday, I was mortified watching the Hulk Hogan vs. Earthquake drama take place on television when my grandmother walked by. This was at a time when my grandmother was at her heaviest in terms of weight and figure. She joked around about it, but being overweight still seemed to bother her. This over-weight stage for her lasted about 2-3 years. Grandma walked through the living room, and I was throwing a fit. I was like, “AHHHH I hate Earthquake SO MUCH!!!” Grandma started laughing hysterically. Grandma was able to blurt through her own laughter, “oh my God, you mean to tell me that the fat guy with the beard’s name is Earthquake?!?!” I replied angrily, “yeah and I hate him so much, he keeps cheap-shotting Hulk Hogan!” Grandma kept laughing uncontrollably for a few minutes. Then she said to me, “hey that gives me a good idea.” I said, “oh yeah, what’s that?” She was like, “well as you know Josh-Posh, I am kind of chunky right now and I would like to lose about 5,000,000 pounds.” I replied, “yeah….and?” She said, “from now on, I want you to call me ‘Earthquake Buns,’ because my buns are so big that I am pretty sure an earthquake occurs every time I take a step. Maybe if you call me ‘Earthquake Buns’ enough times, it will be a good reminder and would motivate me to lose weight.”

I was a pretty naïve 8 year old, and I actually half-way believed her when she told me that there was an earthquake every time she took a step. Therefore, I agreed to call her “Earthquake Buns” instead of Grandma, because if an earthquake occurred every time she took a step as she was claiming, then I didn’t want the house to cave in on me.

Calling your grandmother “Earthquake Buns” was a pretty difficult thing to get used to as a kid and she was a stickler in terms of enforcing the rule. The first time I called her, “Grandma,” she gave me a little lecture. She was like, “now Josh-Posh, what did I tell you about what you are to call me? I want you to call me Earthquake Buns until I lose weight…ok?” I immediately started thinking about how horrible it would be living through an earthquake due to my grandma simply walking, so I responded with, “Ok Earthquake Buns.”

One time I was like, “hey Grandma Earthquake Buns, can you fix me a chicken patty?” Grandma responded with, “Josh-Posh, I am not your Grandma Earthquake Buns. I only want you to call me Earthquake Buns, so please drop the Grandma on my name until I lose weight. Seriously Josh-Posh, if I don’t lose weight quickly, there is going to be an earthquake so big that the house may cave in.” This scared the crap out of me. Of course my grandmother was just kidding with all of these “Earthquake Buns” tangents that she went on, but as I mentioned earlier, I was a naïve little boy, and took this situation very seriously.

I referred to my Grandma McLaughlin as “Earthquake Buns” for two years…until she got her weight down..

About 6 months ago, I decided to use the same method of weight loss that my grandma Earthquake Buns used. I was heavier than I had ever been in my life. I was tipping the scales at 232 pounds. When I get up to about 220 pounds, my face starts getting puffy. I am at my most handsome when I am weighing around 200 pounds. I needed to find some way of motivating myself to lose the weight. I recalled my grandmother’s strategy for losing weight, by having her grandson (me) refer to her as “Earthquake Buns.” One night, I was complaining to my 12 and 9 year old brothers, Shea and Brennan about how fat I felt when the perfect idea stealing my grandmother’s idea hit me. I said, “hey kids, until I lose some weight, I don’t want you guys to call me Josh or Joshua. I want you to call me “Big Fat Rico.” I told them that they could stop calling me “Big Fat Rico” when I got my weight down to 215 pounds.

This was not as successful of a strategy as it was for my Grandma. I ended up getting my weight down to 215, but I kept forgetting that I made that deal with my younger brothers. Every time they would refer to me as “Big Fat Rico,” I would either become insecure or pissed off. Shea would come up and say, “hey Big Fat Rico, do you want to play some catch with the football?” I would respond with, “Big Fat Rico??!!? Are you trying to say that I am fat Shea?!?! Am I fat?!?!?!” Shea would then be like, “dude Josh, you told me to call you ‘Big Fat Rico’ until you got your weight down and I figured playing some football would help you lose weight.” I remembered this and was like, “ohhhh yeah that’s right, by the way Shea, you just called me Josh….please don’t call me Josh, call me Big Fat Rico.” Brennan came up to me once and said, “Hey Big Fat Rico, ya wanna play some Mario Kart?” I instantly became pissed off and snapped back, “dude Brennan, talk smack all you want you little smart aleck, but just know that when I was your age I was shaped an awful lot like you, and looked a lot like you as well. So keep laughing and we will see who’s laughing in 20 years when you are fatter than I am!!! Not to mention, playing video games isn’t exactly going to make you or me any skinnier!!” Brennan then responded with, “Dude Josh, chill out, you told me to call you ‘Big Fat Rico’ until you lost some weight.” “Ohhh yeah,” I said. “That’s right…and don’t call me Josh, call me Big Fat Rico.”

Big Fat Rico got his weight down to 215 around the beginning of January and kept it there until the end of March. It is now the end of April, and I have gotten my weight down to about 200 pounds. I feel like I am right where I need to be in terms of weight….I am finally starting to feel somewhat handsome again, instead of feeling like “Big Fat Rico.”

If any of my relatives deserved to be called “Earthquake Buns,” it was definitely my Grandpa McLaughlin. This was Grandma Earthquake Bun’s husband; my mom’s dad.

How do I explain this guy? Well, when he was in high school and in his 20’s and 30’s, he had an athletic build and was just strong as an ox. It was natural strength, he didn’t have to work extra hard to be strong. He just had it and was a hard worker by nature as well, which increased his strength even more.

When my grandpa became older, he developed an enormous gut and a humongous pair of buns. Out of my relatives, it is hard to determine who I am shaped the most like. However, it is obvious that I inherited some of my build from my grandpa McLaughlin. I think I inherited his buns. I wouldn’t say that I have a fat ass or a “bubble-butt,” but I definitely have a butt. Put it this way, if I were a woman, I would be one of those girls that rappers refer to as “big booty hoes.” I have an extremely large chest for a guy as well. If I have a daughter some day and she is shaped anything like her father, she will have a somewhat big ass and huge hooters. I will probably have to keep an eye on her so she doesn’t end up in a Snoop Dogg video.

When my grandpa was in his 60’s and retired from the United States Gypsum, I helped him landscape for the landscaping company he owned, McLaughlin Landscaping. I did this during the summers from when I was 13 years old until I was 16 years old. We would usually start at 8 in the morning, take a break from 11:00 am to noon, and then work until 4:00 pm.

When 10:00 am came, the temperature outside would increase to the point where Grandpa felt the need to take his shirt off. He had one of the largest, most beautifully crafted guts this world has ever known. However, his arms, chest and shoulders were extremely powerful looking for an older man. Even his gut appeared powerful. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his gut. It was solid as a rock. Not to mention, his whole front side (chest, gut, arms) was covered with hair. He resembled a polar bear with a farmer’s tan. One of the regular comments he used to make after he took his shirt off was, “hehe Josh, look at these big arms I have. Your Grandma always tells me how thankful she is that I am not a wife-beatin son of a bitch, because these arms could knock her out if I punched her.” I remember just nodding my head and thinking, “yeah Grandpa, that is very true, you could probably knock anyone out with those arms, let alone Grandma Earthquake Buns.”

Grandpa McLaughlin was a character. Whenever we were working and he had to take a leak, he would just do it right there on the spot. It didn’t matter where we were in the yard or how busy the neighborhood we were working in. If he had to take a leak, he would say, “I’m gonna grab a piss,” take a couple steps and start taking a piss right there on the spot. Cars would be driving by while my shirtless, powerful, 60-something year old grandpa who resembled a bear was taking a piss in plain sight. I remember one time, my Grandpa had to “grab a piss” and did so on this shrub he just finished trimming. The old lady who owned the place came outside while he was pissing to ask if we wanted anything to drink. Grandpa didn’t even make an attempt to hide the fact that he was pissing. He just kept pissing on her finished shrub and said, “no, I don’t want anything, I’ve got Diet 7up in my truck.” I remember thinking to myself, “holy cow, not only did that old lady just see my grandpa’s dong, but she saw it pissing….and he didn’t care.”

I remember one time we were landscaping for this elderly woman in New London, and Grandpa decided to just stop what we were doing to take a drive somewhere. When I asked him where we were going, he said, “there’s a cemetery in this area that I haven’t checked in a long time.” I remember thinking to myself, “ahh that’s sad, he’s at the age where he has dead friends and relatives at every cemetery.” When we pulled into the cemetery, he goes to the back of his truck, and picks up a shovel and hands it to me and says, “this will be your job.” My initial thought was, “uhhh, I hope Grandpa isn’t expecting me to dig up corpses from their graves.” Then he grabbed something from underneath his seat. It was a metal detector.Grandpa said, “follow me Josh, we are gonna find some treasure.” I asked, “what do you mean by treasure?” For all I knew at that age, people could have been buried with everything they owned like the ancient Egyptian pharoahs. And he said, “every time you go to a cemetery with a metal detector, you are sure to find old coins. Sometimes you even get lucky and find jewelry.” I remember thinking to myself, “well I bet the jewelry was put here for a reason other than to be retrieved by a grandpa and grandson with a metal detector.” Then grandpa said something like, “I hope you don’t believe in ghosts Josh, because I don’t believe in them. And if any ghosts had a problem with me taking their jewelry, I will just knock them out with my big arms. You think I could knock out a ghost with these arms don’t you Josh?” I looked at him and was like, “yeah I think so.”

I felt weird walking around a cemetery with a shovel in my hand in broad daylight with cars driving by. People probably thought my grandpa and I were either grave-robbers or necrophiliacs. He wouldn’t swipe the metal detector close to any of the graves, but he hit pretty much every spot in between. Ironically, he wasn’t joking when he told me this strategy worked. We found a 1938 dime. He gave it to me and I still have it.

Here is a funny story about my Grandpa’s earthquake buns. I remember one time I was sitting at the dinner table at my Grandparents’ house, eating a Schwann’s brand chicken patty. I was sitting at the head of the table, and grandma was sitting on the left side of the table. Grandpa was crouching near the table, bent over on his hands and knees, appearing to be fiddling with something when his buns rubbed up against my grandma’s arm. I noticed what was going on, but my grandma didn’t even look to her side. She just got a happy look on her face and was like, “Oh James, are you showing me affection? Are you seriously rubbing my arm?”

I felt uncomfortable, because I could see that it wasn’t grandpa’s hands that were rubbing grandma’s arm, it was his butt-cheeks. Grandpa responded with, “huh?! No! I’m fixing this Goddamn mousetrap! Someday I’m gonna catch this damn mouse that keeps on stealing the cheese I put on this Goddamn mousetrap!!! That little bastard!!! I‘m gonna get that son of a bitch!!! It keeps stealing all our cheese!!!” My grandma’s expression instantly changed from delighted to dissapointed. As sad as it was witnessing my grandmother’s disappointment, it was pretty difficult keeping a straight face at that moment.

Love my grandparents!

Grandpa and Grandma Mclaughlin

 

Although Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave is a fart-nugget, he does have a caring side to him. "Earthquake" was one of his heroes and he was pretty torn up about his death. This is Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave before leaving for "Earthquake's" funeral.

{ 11 comments }

Strangely, I Wrote About the Thought of Macho Man Randy Savage Dying Before it Actually Happened

by Rico Swaff on May 23, 2011

So unless you reside in a cave, you have probably heard that The Macho Man Randy Savage died a couple days ago. Well, maybe that is a bit extreme. I am sure there are some desert and jungle-dwellers that haven’t heard the news yet, but oh they will hear it eventually.

You know what is kind of strange? 2 years ago, I posted an entry where I actually referenced the thought of Macho Man Randy Savage dying. It was in an entry titled, “A Day in the Life of the Phantom of the Awkward.” You can read the entire entry (which is one of my better ones I think) by clicking here, or you can simply read the following exercpt taken directly from that entry:

Work was full of many awkward situations, but I can’t write about them for that would be unethical due to confidentiality reasons. However, I will write about something awkward that happened to me while I was in my car on my way to lunch break.

I was driving a Buick that belongs to my parents that day, which is a car that I am not used to driving. My car was being worked on that week, therefore I was driving the Buick until my car was fixed. I hop into my car, eager to munch out on some “Happy Joes” pizza. I start up the car, crank up the radio and make an attempt to pull out of the parking lot. My attempt was cut short when a hearse drove by. This hearse was followed by a string of other cars filled with people who had agonizingly sad expressions on their faces. In other words, there was a funeral line driving by, and I had to wait for it in the parking lot until they passed by. I decided to rest my arms on the steering wheel while I was patiently waiting.

As the second car in line drove by, the passenger gave me a death stare (no pun intended.) I thought to myself, “hmm that’s odd.” The passenger in the third vehicle in line gave me the middle finger. Then I was kind of weirded out. I remember thinking, “wow, this group of people handles the loss of their loved ones in an angry and misdirected way.” I just kind of gave them a sympathetic look and nodded, and mouthed, “I know man, losing someone is hard.”

The next car drove by, and both the driver and the passenger gave me the death stare (no pun intended) as they both shook their heads at me. This REALLY made me start wondering about these people. “I thought, what kind of people are these and who the fuck was it that died that is pissing these people off so much?!?!?! Was it the Macho Man Randy Freakin Savage that died?!?! If so, are these people pissed because they’ll never be able to slap into a Slim Jim again?!?!?!” I felt like telling them to calm down, even though Randy Savage is gone, the Slim Jim company will more than likely continue to make Slim Jims.

Then I realized that it probably wasn’t the Macho Man Randy Savage who’s funeral they had attended, otherwise I would have heard something on TV, but it was probably someone a LOT like him due to the way his loved ones were behaving.

The next car drove by and the driver gave me the finger, and the passenger mouthed the words, “shame on you.” By this time, I had it, I desperately needed to find out why these people hated me so much. With my right hand I turned down the radio, and right before exiting the car I discovered why these people were so appalled by me… As I was resting my arms on the steering wheel, I was actually honking the horn. I did not notice this because I had the radio up so loud, therefore I couldn’t hear the horn going off.

I covered my face with my hands in embarrassment and waited for the next few cars to pass before I showed my face again. At least the people passing by at this point, probably couldn’t hear the horn. Imagine what these people who heard me honking my horn were thinking. They are mourning a loved one, and some asshole who wants to leave the parking lot, is honking his horn at them because he wants them to hurry their asses up. I can honestly say that I understand their logic of being upset with me.

You know what is even stranger? I wrote about Randy Savage dying again in an entry that I posted less than 3 weeks ago. This was in the entry where I posted the top 10 strangest Google searches of April 2011. Someone googled “randy savage horse farm” and ironically, I rated this as the #1 strangest Google search which led people to my website. Here is the bit about Randy Savage from that post:

1.) Randy Savage Horse Farm 

So, does Randy Savage have a horse farm? If so, why didn’t I get the memo? Please tell me that Slim Jims are not made from the horses that graze in the pastures of the Macho Man’s horse farm. Can you imagine how he treats those horses? GET INTO THE STALL!!! EAT YOUR GRAINS!!! OOHHH YEEEAAHH!!! I am assuming that the person who googled this, clicked on the story titled, ”A Day in the Life of the Phantom of the Awkward.” In this story, I chronicled an embarrassing situation where I accidentally honked the horn in my car at a funeral line, but couldn’t hear my horn because the music in my car was turned up so loud. The people driving by were basically cussing me out and I had no idea why. I thought to myself, “who the hell died? The Macho Man Randy Savage?” In that same entry, I also mentioned how I grew up on a horse farm.

I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t at least a tad bit creeped out. I realize that I didn’t do anything spooky like predict the exact date that he died or predict how he was going to die, but I never heard anyone other than myself merely reference the thought of The Macho Man Randy Savage dying before he actually did. Hopefully I didn’t jinx the dude. The last thing I need on my plate right now is to be haunted by the ghost of Macho Man Randy Savage. I can just imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing the ghost of the Macho Man Randy Savage standing bedside and screaming, “get back to sleep Swaff!!! Now!! Noww!!!! Ooohhh yeeahhh!!!” Or when I am in the middle of making love to my fiance Krystal, looking to the side of the bed and seeing the ghost of Macho Man Randy Savage standing there screaming, “thrust a little harder, Swaff!!! Pump it, pump it!!! Keep bangin’ Swaff!!! Ohhh yeahh!!!”

I would hate it if I had a “Christmas Carol” experience and The Macho Man Randy Savage was the ghost of Christmas future. I can imagine him saying, “I am the ghost of Christmas future and what I see in your future is that you are going down wienie boy!!! Ohhh yeahhh!!!” Then he proceeds to punch me in the face a couple times, drop kicks me and finishes me off with one of his signature elbow drops.

No disrespect intended to the Macho Man. I always thought he was a pretty entertaining, funny dude. I just thought it was odd that I had semi-recently referenced the thought of him dying before he did.

Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave has been taking the death of Macho Man Randy Savage pretty hard. Not only did one of his heroes die, but he also loves Slim Jims. Rick believes that just because Randy Savage died, they will no longer be making Slim Jims.

 

{ 14 comments }

The Justin Bieber “Beliebers” Want to Impale Me

by Rico Swaff on May 19, 2011

So yesterday I checked my email and discovered that I had approximately 50 messages from YouTube. All of them were described in the subject as being replies to comments that I had left on various videos, which I found odd because I haven’t commented on a YouTube video in a year or so.

When I began opening the messages, I quickly found out that the majority of the people were mad at me because I had been going to various Justin Bieber videos and commenting about how much of a tool box I think he is. This confused the hell out of me because; 1.) I couldn’t remember leaving comments on any Justin Bieber videos and 2.) I don’t recall ever viewing a Justin Bieber video. I have better things to do with my time than watch Justin Bieber videos. In fact, there are millions of other YouTube videos I would rather watch than a Justin Bieber video. I don’t have anything against the kid, he seems like a nice boy, his music just isn’t my thing. From what little I’ve seen and heard from the kid, I don’t understand why there is all this hype associated with him, but whatever. I don’t really care.

Seriously, what is the big deal about this kid? Swarms of girls never creamed in their pants over Billy Corgan or that Powder dude from the movie, "Powder." I don't get it.

I am too old to be farting around watching Justin Bieber videos. If anything, the kid just makes me feel old. That’s it.

Some of these Justin Bieber fanatics aka “Beliebers” are freaking relentless. They become straight up ferocious when you insult their little Bieb. Read some of the shit people were saying to me:

“U JUS JEALOUS CUZ U OLD!!”

“You are just a HATA!!! Y don’t u do something else other than hatin?”

“Don’t listen to this guy. He is just an idiot troll.”

“U just mad cus your career didn’t do shit compared to JB. Get the fuck out of here moron!”

“You only wish you could BE JB! Someones a lil jealous!!”

“Dude, you are old. What are you even doing here?”

“yeah u cool, hatin on someone half your age”

“Nice. your a hater old balls!”

“U SUCK! BELIEBER 4EVA!!! <3″

“Stop hatin you washed up wannabe has been!”

Then I had an older person (presumably) who informed me of how immature I am:

“I am in shock. I can not believe a 28 year old man would stoop to the level of insulting a nice, classy KID like Justin Bieber. You sir, should be ashamed of yourself.”

It seems as if these people did their homework on me. I am assuming that they clicked on my username and saw how old I am, which prompted their insults regarding my age.

That list is only a fraction of the comments I received. I received many more hateful replies. There were just as many people (kids) who agreed with the comments that were posted from my YouTube account. Evidently, Justin Bieber does have a lot of haters. Some of these kids were like; “I agree dude, Justin Bieber is a FAG,” “right on dude,” “I know! I hate Fagton Bieber,” etc. It amazes me, some of the shit-talking that takes place via YouTube comments.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what happened. A couple days ago, I logged in to my YouTube account on my parents’ computer and checked to see if anyone had subscribed to my channel since I had recently received a comment on the only video I have ever posted titled, “Papa Suave’s Reaction to 2 Girls 1 Cup.” In that video I set up the notoriously disgusting video, “2 Girls 1 Cup” on the computer and told my dad to watch it. He had no idea what awful shit (literally) he was about to see. I recorded his reaction to the video, which resulted in absolute hilarity. You can watch it by clicking here. I had forgotten to logout of YouTube after I finished checking things out.

So here is what happened. My younger brothers, Shea (14 years old) and Brennan (11 years old) visit YouTube daily. My account was still logged in to YouTube on the computer they use to watch YouTube videos. Shea and Brennan both HATE Justin Bieber with a passion. There have been countless times where I have heard them express their hatred towards Justin Bieber and complaining about how ticked off they are that the girls in their class think he is so cute. I have heard Shea and Brennan refer to Justin Bieber as almost every derogatory name imaginable. They really can’t stand that Bieber kid and sadly, I understand their frustration. I hated Jonathan Taylor Thomas when I was their age. I didn’t know JTT personally, but in junior high, every time I saw some girl in my class reading one of those teenie girl magazines with JTT on the cover, I wanted to jump “into” the cover of that magazine and beat the smirk off of his face, showing the girls who the “real man” was. I admit…I was jealous of that little peckerhead and I can totally relate to Shea and Brennan’s frustration.

Looking at this picture brings back horrible memories. I traumatized myself by excessively hating on this smirky-faced punk. After seeing this pic I realized that I still kind of want to beat his ass. (_l_)

It was obvious that one of them had visited some Justin Bieber videos on YouTube and insulted him many times…under my username, which made a swarm of “Beliebers” get their panties in a bunch. I couldn’t even find the comments they had left under my name because by the time I looked for them they had already been buried deeply by other comments. This Bieber kid’s videos reel in a comment every 5 seconds or so. That is INSANE.

So last night I visited my parents and brought along the digital camera. When I saw my brothers, I told them to make the expression they get when they hear a Justin Bieber song on the radio. They were understandably confused about what I was up to.

When I told Shea to make the expression he gets when he hears a Justin Bieber song on the radio, he actually tried making a mean face, but seemed distracted by the watermelon he was munching on along with being confused about what I was up to.

 

When I told Brennan to make the expression he gets when he hears a Justin Bieber song on the radio, he was like, "what? Why? What are you doing now?"

After I took the pictures of them, I informed them about the hate mail I received and Brennan immediately confessed. He was like, “ahh dude, I thought I was on my account!” Until then, I didn’t realize Brennan had a YouTube account. Evidently, Brennan and Shea make YouTube videos of them dressing like gorillas and acting like dingleberries.

I admit, the old self esteem tank took a blow after reading some of the hateful comments from these Justin Bieber fanatics. Fans of Justin Bieber think I am one really old, lame dude. 28 years old isn’t THAT old is it? Someone called me “old balls.” It’s one thing to call me old, but this person had to take it a step further and insult my balls. For their information, my balls and I are the same age.

I also found it interesting that I was referred to as “washed up,” a “has been,” a “wannabe” along with being reminded that “my career didn’t do shit compared to Justin Bieber.” First off, I am not a “wannabe” and I wish I could punch a hole through that person’s face because I have had that Spice Girls song stuck in my head ever since I read it. I do not want to be Justin Bieber. I am cool with being Swaff. Secondly, “washed up,” “has been,” “my career didn’t do shit compared to Justin Bieber?” Who the hell do these people think I am? As far as I know, I have never pursued a pre-teen heart throb career. And I am a “has been” what? A “has been” pizza delivery guy? A “has been” truck tarper? Come on, I had good reasons to quit those jobs. I had to finish college. I am “washed up?” I am only 28 years old and have spent 4 years in the human services field and have done pretty well at it given my lack of experience when I began, yet I am “washed up” already? Since my username is “RicoSwaff,” is it possible that these people think I am Gerardo aka Rico Suave? If so, then I can kind of see their point, but I personally would rather listen to Rico Suave over Justin Bieber. No doubt about it. Sorry Biebs and Bieliebers, but there is simply no competing with Rico Suave.

Would you rather Rico Suave lie, take a piece of your pie and say, "bye" or be honest and rub your thighs? Rico Suave eats Justin Bieber like sushi.

I wonder who would win in a fight between the “Belieber” Army and Lady Gaga’s “monsters?” Both groups seem pretty freaking crazy.

Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave once pursued a singing career. He wanted to be a heart throb like Justin Bieber. Unfortunately, his fanbase consisted mostly of cats. And sadly, they weren't into him...they were more interested in eating the hot dog he used as a microphone.

{ 23 comments }

America’s Top Nude Sluts

by Rico Swaff on May 11, 2011

I want to start this one off by apologizing to anyone who clicked on this entry with hopes that I had posted pornographic material on my site because this entry contains none of it. To be honest, I don’t really like porn.

After a long day of watching my 11 and 14 year old brothers, Shea and Brennan participate in the Iowa State Freestyle Wrestling Tournament in Iowa City, I hung out at my 26 year old brother, Justin and his wife, Margaret’s house which happens to be located in Iowa City. Krystal (my fiance,) Justin, Margaret and I were all pretty worn out from the day and were chillaxing in their basement watching TV.

We were having a difficult time finding something decent to watch. Justin hit the guide button on the remote controller and started browsing through channels. He browsed through every station listed in the guide including the porn channels that they do not (and probably won’t ever) have a subscription to.

While attempting to get from the porn channels to the regular channels, a title of one of the porn movies caught my eye. It was, “America’s Top Nude Sluts.” The title intrigued me so much that I immediately blurted out, “haha whoa! America’s Top Nude Sluts!?!?! What kind of competition is that?! What woman, in the right mind would want to be named America’s top nude slut?” Margaret said, “I don’t know! I was thinking the same thing!”

Justin chose to watch the Prince movie, “Purple Rain” when I said, “hey dude, before we get too far into this Prince movie, click the guide button and go back to the ‘America’s Top Nude Sluts thing and click the info button. I want to see what it says.” Justin said, “ok, this will be interesting.”

Justin arrived at “America’s Top Nude Sluts” and clicked the info button. We all laughed at the description. The event was described as, “America’s hottest young stars get naked and compete to become the country’s top nude model.” “MODEL?! I thought they were competing to be America’s top SLUT,” I said. As far as I am concerned, there is a huge difference between models and sluts. Models are generally people with beautiful facial/body features who pose for photographers, artists, etc. with intentions of displaying their beauty for everyone to see. Sluts are different than models. In the 1986 Webster’s Dictionary, the word, “slut” is defined as “a sexually immoral woman.” Everyone knows that if a woman is labeled a slut, it is a huge putdown. Usually women are labeled sluts if they have slept with a bunch of men or if someone (another girl or an ex boyfriend) is wanting to ruin their reputation out of spite, jealousy or revenge. Growing up, you will hear many girls say that they want to become a model. You never hear girls say that they want to become a slut some day, let alone America’s #1 slut.

I wonder why the description for “America’s Top Nude Sluts” was, “America’s hottest young stars get naked and compete to become the country’s top nude model?” Is that how they found participants for the competition? Instead of advertising a competition to determine America’s top nude slut, they advertised a competition to determine America’s top nude model? Was the description of “America’s Top Nude Sluts” written on the flyer with the word, “slut” being omitted to make the competition seem more appealing to potential contestants? Being America’s top nude model sounds much more appealing than being America’s top nude slut unless you have no shame or dignity. Maybe these girls competed in the event believing that if they won, they would be named America’s top nude model, but were not informed that they were competing in an event that would be televised as “America’s Top Nude Sluts.” Maybe the description of the event was written with intentions of making the participants feel better about themselves. Lord knows that if I were a woman, I wouldn’t be thrilled if my life led me to being a contestant in “America’s Top Nude Sluts.” However, I don’t think the event being described as something completely different than what it actually is would ease my emotional pain. I would still feel like a slut.

America’s Top Nude Sluts. America’s TOP Nude Sluts. AMERICA’S TOP Nude Sluts. America’s Top…..Nude Sluts. America’s Top Nude….Sluts. AMERICA’S….Top Nude Sluts. America’s Top NUDE Sluts. America’s Top Nude SLUTS. America’s Top Nude-Sluts. AMERICA’S Top NUDE Sluts. America’s TOP Nude SLUTS. America’s TOP NUDE SLUTS. America’s Top NUDE SLUTS. AMERICA’S TOP NUDE SLUTS. America’s Top Nuuuuuuuuuude Sluuuutttttttsssss. America’s TOP Nuuuuuuuuuuudde SLUTS.

No matter how you say it, it sounds like a degrading competition.

There are very few scenarios that I can think of where being named America’s top nude slut would look good on a resume. Hell, even Playboy wouldn’t be interested in shooting a pictorial of America’s top nude slut. Stooping to that level would be too slutty for them. Even Hugh Hefner has too much class for that. Playboy would be interested in pursuing a pictorial of America’s top nude model, but not America’s top nude slut. However, Penthouse and Hustler may consider America’s top nude slut. Applying to be featured in magazines such as Penthouse and Hustler along with strip clubs and pornos are the only scenarios I can think of where listing your accomplishment of being named America’s top nude slut would be beneficial.

I wonder what award the winner of the “America’s Top Nude Sluts” competition received. I also wonder how it was presented. Were they given a gold medal or a trophy with the words, “America’s Top Nude Slut” engraved in it? Was the award handed to them by the previous year’s winner? Did they receive a certificate that read, “America’s Top Nude Slut” before posing for a photograph with the world’s most notorious sluts? Were they given a gift card to a porn shop? Were they given a bouquet of dildos? Were they awarded a crown made of dildos? If so, they better be careful while they are wearing the crown. It would suck being smacked in the eye by one of the dildos on your dildo crown while you are jumping up and down (with your boobs flopping all over the place,) celebrating being named America’s top nude slut. Maybe an award was given to the winner and someone came out and sang a song like they do in the Miss America pageant. Instead of some jackass singing the lyrics, “here she comes, Miss America,” Sir Mix a Lot comes out and starts rapping, “I like big sluts and I can not lie! You other perverts can’t deny…..”

The winner probably just won a bunch of money. Money will persuade some people to do anything.

On a sidenote, the Prince movie we ended up watching, “Purple Rain,” was one of the strangest movies I have ever seen. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Prince would have thought about the America’s Top Nude Slut competition. With some of the lines he spit in the movie, I bet he would have made a pretty funny judge.

Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave was able to watch "America's Top Nude Sluts" by window peeking into a neighbor's window.

{ 16 comments }

The Top 10 Strangest Google Searches that Led People to The Chronicles of Rico in April 2011

by Rico Swaff on May 3, 2011

A few weeks ago, in a post titled, “Did Cavemen Beat Their Wives?,” I mentioned that people find my site by googling some of the strangest words and phrases. In that entry, I also mentioned that I was considering making a monthly top 10 list of the strangest Google searches that led people to The Chronicles of Rico. I decided to follow through with this idea.

Here is “The Top 10 Strangest Google Searches that Led People to The Chronicles of Rico in April 2011.”

1.) randy savage horse farm

So, does Randy Savage have a horse farm? If so, why didn’t I get the memo? Please tell me that Slim Jims are not made from the horses that graze in the pastures of the Macho Man’s horse farm. Can you imagine how he treats those horses? GET INTO THE STALL!!! EAT YOUR GRAINS!!! OOHHH YEEEAAHH!!! I am assuming that the person who googled this, clicked on the story titled, “A Day in the Life of the Phantom of the Awkward.” In this story, I chronicled an embarrassing situation where I accidentally honked the horn in my car at a funeral line, but couldn’t hear my horn because the music in my car was turned up so loud. The people driving by were basically cussing me out and I had no idea why. I thought to myself, “who the hell died? The Macho Man Randy Savage?” In that same entry, I also mentioned how I grew up on a horse farm.

2.) a booger came out of my ear

So a booger came out of your ear, eh? Well, how did it get in there? It seems as if you may be asking yourself the same question and as a result, I think you are kind of an idiot. Are you sure your ear wax didn’t have a greenish tint to it? Do you by chance, regularly pick your nose? I think there may be more to this story. This person probably read my entry titled “The Man With a Booger in His Ear.”

3.) can you lose the fat on your butt

I don’t know if you can lose the fat on your butt, it kind of depends on how motivated you are to lose it. I will give you a tip though. The faster you get your fat butt off the computer chair, the faster the fat will come off your butt.

4.) did big penises mean anything to cavemen

Well, I am unsure if penis size was as much of an issue with cavemen as it is with modern day humans, but I guarantee every caveman’s penis meant at least SOMETHING to them. Regardless of how big or small their penises were, they had to use them to piss and fornicate, which are a couple of very important tasks. When I noticed that someone googled this, I got a picture in my head of a couple of cavemen comparing penises, the one with the larger penis pointing and laughing with a toothless smile at the other caveman’s penis. Who in the hell googled this? Was it someone who has a small penis and has been teased mercilessly because of it? Were they thinking to themselves, “I wish I grew up in the caveman days because then I wouldn’t be teased about my small penis because it wouldn’t matter.” Maybe this person just needed reassurance, that having a small penis is perfectly normal and that humans make a bigger deal about penis size than they should. Who knows. Whoever it was, I am guessing they read either, “Did Cavemen Beat Their Wives?” or “How Did Cavemen Work Their Swerve?”

5.) how to drive and jack off

Why would someone need to be taught how to drive and jack off? Shouldn’t this come natural? I never throught jerkin your gerkin while driving was something that required instructions. I am by no means an expert on how to successfully drive and jack off, but my guess is that it is relatively easy to accomplish. First, you drive. Then you whip out your ding dong and you tug and pull at it while simultaneously trying not to crash your car into a telephone pole. It’s that easy. It is likely that this person clicked on the entry titled, “These Jerkoffs Who Constantly Drive by Swimming Pools.”

6.) penis bitten off by a turtle in australia while skinnydipping

 In the entry titled, “My Biggest Fear,” I explained that my biggest fear is getting my cock and balls bitten by a snapping turtle. The fact that someone googled this, makes me feel less crazy for fearing this. Evidently, someone in Australia had their penis bitten off by a snapping turtle while skinnydipping. I can’t imagine finding myself in a more terrifying situation. Well…I take that back. What if you were this Australian dude who got his penis bitten off by a turtle while skinny dipping, and when you swam back to shore you were greeted by a dozen open-jawed crocodiles? What would you do? Would you compose yourself and run away from the crocodiles or would you be too distracted by the fact that a turtle just bit your penis off? Honestly, this may be a situation overwhelming to the point where I would just think, “I give up” and would fall to the ground and hope that; 1.) the crocodiles don’t attack me and 2.) someone finds my penis.

7.) she loves to smell my

She loves to smell your what? Come on, don’t leave me hanging like that. The suspense is killing me. I have no idea which entry this person ran into by googling that. For some reason though, I really want to know what this woman loves to smell.

8.) the dog put its asshole in my face

Ok, dogs do have a tendency to move along as they please, regardless of where their asshole is. If the dog put it’s asshole in your face, I am pretty certain that it didn’t do so for pleasure, unless it was trying to scratch an ass-itch with your mustache. What were you trying to accomplish by googling that? Were you so traumatized by your dog’s ass being in your face that you tried surfing for online support groups with members who have also been traumatized by having a dog’s asshole in their face? Get over it, homeslice and for the world’s sake, I hope you didn’t google that phrase because the dog put it’s ass in your face and you liked it. I am assuming this person ran into the entry titled, “My Dog Loves the Smell of Her Own Ass (_l_).”

9.) my hot buns

Was someone trying to find pictures or a video of their own hot buns by googling, “my hot buns?” If so, why wouldn’t they substitute their name in place of the word, “my?” Sounds kind of conceited to me. Is this person so stuck on how hot their buns are that they just figured that if they googled, “my hot buns” that pictures and/or videos of their ass would come up? Well, if that is the case then I feel the need to apologize that instead of finding pictures of your hot buns, you stumbled into an article I wrote titled, “Throwing Hot Buns in Old Ladies Faces.”

10.) bald drag queen

 I thought the point of men dressing in drag was men trying to look like women? If so, then I would say a bald drag queen would be a complete failure unless the man is trying to look like a butch lesbian. However, if that was the case, all they would have to do is simply shave their head for I’ve never noticed butch lesbians wearing an abundance of makeup. It saddens me that there are bald drag queens out there that are unable to afford a wig in this wretched economy. It confuses me why someone would google this. Does someone out there have a fetish for bald drag queens? This person probably ran into my entry titled, “I Would be the Most Hideous Drag Queen.”

And then Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave was like, "I didn't know The Macho Man Randy Savage had a horse farm!" I think Rick googled, "my hot buns."

{ 13 comments }

The Parrot Mom

by Rico Swaff on April 22, 2011

When I was a junior and senior at Loras College in Dubuque, IA, I worked as a pizza delivery dude for Falbos Pizza. That is one of my favorite jobs I have ever had. I absolutely loved delivering pizzas. My boss was awesome and so were my co-workers.

I had fun actually delivering the pizzas. I liked learning the streets of Dubuque and loved cruising around while blaring tunes in my car. I have always been obsessed with listening to music. The way I looked at it, I was getting paid to cruise around and listen to music.

I made good money delivering pizzas. I don’t know if it was because I so heavily worked the charm when I arrived at peoples’ doorsteps, if I am just a hot looking piece of ass (_l_) or if it was pure luck. My tips were solid though. Sometimes I would average making $20-25 an hour delivering pizzas.

Most importantly, Falbos made the best pizza I have ever tasted. I took advantage of the employee discount on a daily basis.

You could make a mockumentary style television show of a pizza place. Some of the situations you encounter while delivering pizzas can be hilarious, shocking, crazy, awkward, etc. The story I am about to tell is one of the most awkward experiences I had during the 2 years I spent delivering pizzas.

One evening, I had to make a delivery to a pretty nice part of town. The houses in the neighborhood were nice and the people who lived there seemed nice as well. In this neighborhood, I usually expected to be handed a tip between $3-10, which was very good. I parked my car on the street next to the house. As I walked towards the door, I reminded myself to make an attempt at building a rapport with whoever answered the door. I always did this with intentions of earning as large of a tip as possible. For example, if I delivered a pizza to a house that had nice landscaping in the front yard, I would comment on how I used to landscape in high school and that I loved their landscaping. If I delivered a pizza to an apartment where I noticed that the person had a Chingy CD on their coffee table, I would crack some sort of “right thurr” joke. Like, “Why don’t I set the pizza right thurr. By the Chingy CD, ya hurr?” If someone wearing an Indiana Pacers jersey answered the door, I would claim to be a Pacers fan myself and mention how awesome Reggie Miller was at hitting 3 pointers (although I fucking hated Reggie Miller and the Pacers.) My goal was to make the customers like me because it seemed the better rapport you built in the 30 seconds you were interacting with them, the better they tipped you.

When I arrived at the doorstep, I noticed that the only door that was shut was the screen door. I rang the door bell and immediately afterwards I heard someone blurt, “hello?” in a weird, scratchy, somewhat high-pitched tone. I responded with, “Falbos!” The person repeated themself in the same odd tone. “Hello?” I thought, “That’s odd, maybe I need to elaborate a little bit.” “Pizza guy here! Falbos pizza! I’m the pizza guy! I have your pizza!” Again, the response I received was, “hello?”

At this moment, it hit me. I was talking to a parrot. The voice was odd and strongly resembled a parrot. While I sat there and thought about how funny it was that I had just inadvertently carried on a conversation with a parrot, the parrot continued babbling. “Hello?………Hello?………..Hello?……..Hello?”

I rang the doorbell again and again, all I heard was, “hello?” I continued standing outside with these peoples’ pizza and the “hellos” carried on for another minute or two before I decided to ring the doorbell for the 3rd time. This time, someone who sounded human responded. It sounded like a man in his 30′s or 40′s and in a gruff voice he shouted, “Christopher, get the door!!! The pizza guy is here!!”

A few seconds later, a skinny, brown haired kid who appeared to be about 11 years old opened the screen door. He was smiling and seemed to be full of excitement that the pizza had arrived. He was decked out in a purple little league uniform. He was even wearing his cleats and battings gloves. The boy had either just finished playing baseball or was very prepared to play baseball after eating pizza.

As we made the money/pizza exchange, the parrot continued to say, “hello” repeatedly. I decided that inquiring about the parrot would be a perfect ice breaker that I could utilize as a rapport builder in an attempt to maniupulate the boy into giving me a bigger tip. I asked the boy, “so what’s up dude? I hear some kind of bird in there. Do you have a pet parrot or something?” The expression on the boy’s face changed from excited about the pizza to extreme sadness. He solemnly said, “no, I don’t have a pet parrot. My mom is home.” At this point, I should have taken a hint and promptly redirected the conversation, but I was oblivious to what was going on and instead I asked, “so your mom doesn’t allow you to have pets or what?” The boy shook is head and said, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

The boy hand-motioned me to take a couple steps inside the house and to look inside the living room. He then pointed to the corner of the room. When I shifted my eyes to what he was pointing at, I noticed that there was a woman sitting in a wheel chair, hooked up to breathing tubes, an oxygen tank and other various medical equipment. When I looked at her, our eyes met and she said, “hello? hello?” in her parrot-like voice.

The boy said, “that’s my mom.”

I was mortified. I felt like a total douche-nugget. Obviously, the boy’s mother had either been in an accident or inflicted with an illness that left her limited in terms of her mental and physical cababilities. I instantly felt the need to apologize and try to patch things up. I failed miserably. The words that spilled out of my mouth made things even more awkward. I said, “oh, I am so sorry buddy. I thought your mom was a parrot.” Immediately after saying this, I felt even more awful. I mean, the knife was already stuck in the boy’s chest when I asked if he had a pet parrot when it was actually his paralyzed mom that was making the noise. Then I accidentally twisted the knife by clarifying to him that I mistook his handicapped mother for a parrot.

The expression of sadness on the boy’s face was still there when he responded with, “no sir, she isn’t a parrot. Here is your money for the pizza.” I counted the money. They gave me a $4 tip. A very good tip. I looked at the kid and said, “thanks buddy, enjoy the pizza. Hope you have a good night.” The boy unenthusiastically said, “thank you” and shut the door.

I was kicking myself in the ass as I was walking back to my car. “Damn it, why on earth can’t I catch on to these things? I could have thought of a different rapport-building, icebreaker,” I thought to myself. Why didn’t I simply play it safe and ask him about how his little league game went? With my luck, he would have told me that he wasn’t able to go to his game because his dad forgot to take him.

Oh well, at least I got a good tip out of the deal.

I wonder if Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave had anything to do with this woman being in a wheelchair. Sometimes I think he takes WWE wrestling way too seriously.

 

{ 13 comments }

Did Cavemen Beat Their Wives?

by Rico Swaff on April 13, 2011

So I registered for a Google Analytics account. On a daily basis, I login to my account to check out the action that my website has received. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Google Analytics, it shows you how people found your site, which entries they read, how much time they spent on your site, how many hits your site has received, what words people googled to find your site, etc. For example, if I post a new entry to facebook, I will know exactly how many people clicked on my link, how long they surfed my site and how many pages they viewed on my site. I can do the same for the other social networking sites where my link has been dropped or my site can be accessed.

The most fun I have on Google Analytics is browsing through the random shit people googled that led them to my website. I don’t think this should be surprising to anyone who reads my site, but people tend to find my site by googling some of the most bizarre shit. I have considered completing monthly entries that will list 5-10 of my favorite google searches that led random weirdos to my site each month. Maybe I will start doing that in May. You will be astounded by the silly shit people google.

This past month, one of my favorite google searches that led someone to The Chronicles of Rico was, “did cavemen beat their wives?” I am assuming that the story that came up on this person’s google search was one that I wrote a long time ago, titled “How Did Cavemen Work Their Swerve?” In that story I basically chronicled my thoughts of what kind of tactics I believe a caveman had to use while attempting to get into a cavewoman’s pants…or grass skirt. You can read that story by clicking here. The homeslice who searched, “did cavemen beat their wives?” stayed on my site for 55 minutes and it appears as if he read 8 entries. Thanks for reading, homeslice! I hope I didn’t let you down. I hope you exited my site feeling more knowledgable about how you could have gotten laid if you were a caveman.

The first thought that entered my mind when I noticed that someone googled, “did cavemen beat their wives?” was, “what on earth would motivate someone to google that?” Were they just curious? Were they simply doinking around on their laptop one day when one of those overplayed, “so easy a caveman can do it” commercials came on the television, prompting them to think, “hmm, I wonder if cavemen beat their wives?” Maybe some guy was watching the Flintstones and he thought Wilma was acting like a bitch towards Fred. Then he thought to himself, “if I were Fred, I would beat the piss out of Wilma for acting like that. Hmm…I wonder if cavemen beat their wives? I should google that.” Then he became lost in the depths of The Chronicles of Rico for 55 minutes.

On a darker note, what if some guy had just gotten done beating his own wife and he was trying to make sense of his behavior. Heck, maybe he was even trying to justify his behavior or at least come to peace with it. Maybe he thought, “heck, if cavemen beat their wives, then that would explain why I beat mine. Because it’s in my nature.” Then he Googled, “did cavemen beat their wives?” and ended up getting lost in the depths of The Chronicles of Rico where he read about what his chances of getting laid would be if he were a caveman.

Maybe a woman completed the search. Maybe some woman who was beaten by her husband was trying to make sense of why her husband is such an asshole, so she googled “did cavemen beat their wives” in an attempt to find out if men are naturally inclined to beating women because our primitive ancestors did so. Then she got lost in the depths of The Chronicles of Rico where she stayed for 55 minutes and fell in love with Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave.

Who knows…

After heavy contemplation as to “WHY” this person google searched what they did, I started thinking about the actual question. Did cavemen beat their wives? I could see it happening, but there is one problem. If cavemen existed, I don’t think they had wives. They probably had mates, but not wives. I don’t know the exact history of marriage, but I am pretty certain that it didn’t exist during the time cavemen are believed (by some) to have been in existence.

The thought of marriage between cavemen and cavewomen provokes an abundance of zany scenarios. Such as, I wonder if a caveman ever forced his future wife to commit to some sort of primitive prenuptial agreement to ensure that he kept his cave, tools, animal skins, bag of berries and edible tree grubs in his name if things didn’t work out between him and his partner.

I wonder how the wedding ceremony would go. I presume it would go something like this:

Caveman Preacher: Mr. Dickbarf, do you take Ms. Boobarf, to be your lawfully wedded schlargdarf?

Dickbarf: Arf! (I do.)

Caveman Preacher: Ms. Boobarf, do you take Mr. Dickbarf, to be your lawfully wedded fartgarf?

Boobarf: Arf!

Caveman Preacher: I now pronounce you fartgarf and schlargdarf. You may beat the schlargdarf.

Dickbarf then gives Boobarf an open-handed smack to the face.

Caveman Preacher: Men and women of the caves, for the first time ever, I introduce to you, “Mr. and Mrs. Dickbarf!!!”

Crowd: Arf! Arf! Ooga Booga! Arf! Arf! Ooga Booga! Arf! Arf! Ooga Booga! Arf! Arf! (while profusely gnashing their teeth, beating eachother with tree branches, scratching eachothers’ armpits, smacking eachothers’ asses, jumping and wailing their arms all over the place.)

Whoa! Photographic evidence that cavemen did beat their wives! Wife beatin' must be so easy a caveman can do it. Oh wait, that isn't a caveman. That's just Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave beating the shit out of his wife, Roxy because she said she thinks Jeff Gordon is cuter than Dale Earnhardt Jr. Rick has a man-crush on Dale Earnhardt Jr.

{ 20 comments }

Human Illusions Part 2

by Rico Swaff on March 21, 2011

I wrote an entry a long time ago where I expressed the frustration I experienced one day when I saw someone walking down the street and couldn’t determine whether they were a 10 year old boy or a 60 year old woman. I went on to elaborate other scenarios where I have a difficult time determining what someone is in terms of age and gender. It was titled, “Human Illusions” and you can read it by clicking here.

Due to a situation I observed recently, it became quite clear that I am not the only one who experiences this problem.

So one day last week I went to Casey’s General Store to pick up a bottle of Lipton Unsweetened Ice Tea. For those of you who are not from the midwest, Casey’s is a string of convenience stores (primarily a gas station) which run rampant in the midwest. When I entered the store, I saw an acquaintance of mine in the front of the line staring at the selection of cigarettes. We will make believe that his name is Squanto because he looked like Squanto standing on a prairie gazing at a herd of buffalo grazing a couple miles away. Evidently he was having a very difficult time deciding which cigarettes to purchase and by the expression of annoyance in the cashier’s eyes, he had been taking his sweet ass time trying to decide before I even entered the building. When I entered the building, Squanto greeted me with, “hey Swaffy!” and went right back to gazing at the grazing herd of buffalo.

One thing to note about Squanto is his lack of social awareness. This is noticeable after talking to the guy for 5 minutes. He has a tendency to say innappropriate things at innappropriate times and is always blissfully unaware of how much of an idiot he makes of himself. He could say something offensive to me that would piss me off if anybody else said it, but since it is him and I am aware of how socially inept he can be, I let it slide because I know he doesn’t mean to come off that way. It’s just the way he is. He is the type of guy that if he saw you drinking beer with your wife, mom and dad at bar, he wouldn’t hesitate to ask you about the details of your sex life. He would follow this by asking your parents some of the details of their sex life and and possibly asking your dad innappropriate questions such as, “so do you think the hair you’ve lost on your head grew back on your ass cheeks? (_l_)” After inquiring about everyone at the table’s sex life, he will begin complaining about his own sex life by expressing how pissed he is because he hasn’t been laid in months and that some day he wants to try anal sex with a woman. He will then ask everyone at the table if they have tried anal sex.

I actually witnessed this exact scenario/exchange take place one time when Squanto approached an engaged couple and the female’s parents. The only difference is that it did not occur in a bar. They were all outside their house sitting in lawn chairs, drinking beer.

After I picked up my ice tea and headed for the line, I noticed that Squanto was still gazing at the herd of buffalo and the cashier was still maintaining her expression of annoyance. An older woman who appeared to be in her late 50′s or early 60′s was now standing behind him in line and was right in front of me. When I initially noticed this woman, I did kind of a double-take. For a milli-second, I couldn’t determine whether she was a man or woman because the white hair on top of her head was thinning severely. Her pink blouse combined with her lack of an Adam’s apple had me convinced that she was a female. “Poor woman,” I thought to myself.

Another minute passed and Squanto still couldn’t decide what brand of cigarettes to purchase. He then noticed the woman behind him and said to the cashier, “this guy behind me can go ahead of me.” I thought to myself, “oh SHIT! Squanto thought this woman behind him was a guy and actually called her one!” Things became very awkward. I didn’t want to smile, but I couldn’t help it. I cupped my hand and put it over my mouth in an attempt to disguise this smile that I couldn’t wipe off my face.

Then things became even more awkward when Squanto said, “oops, I didn’t mean to be rude. I meant this GENTLEMAN can go ahead of me, not this GUY.” When Squanto said, “oops, I didn’t mean to rude,” I thought he was going to point out the fact that he knew he confused this woman with a man and felt the need to apologize. I felt like yelling at him, “dude, don’t apologize! Just let it slide! She may have not even noticed that you made the mistake, so don’t make it totally obvious!” But no, he was apologetic because he felt it was rude to refer to this woman as a “guy” and not a “gentleman.”

The woman had an expression of disgust on her face, but didn’t say anything. She just stood there with her disgusted facial expression and kept making weird, quick, jerky movements with her head that reminded me of a bird.

I was already standing behind everyone trying to cover up my smile, but after this happened I was now trying to prevent myself from laughing. I was still cupping my mouth with my hand and those stupid nasally chuckles that occur when you are trying not to laugh started in with me. I couldn’t help it. Squanto heard these nasally chuckles coming from me and immediately looked at me with a huge grin on his face. He was like, “what’s so funny, Swaffy?” I said, “dude, nothing…I will tell you outside.” He responded with, “you farted, didn’t ya?” It was then where my nasally chuckles transformed into high pitched giggling. I totally lost it. Squanto started laughing as well. His teeth appeared as if they had peanut butter stuck on them. He was like, “you did! You farted, Swaffy! I can’t believe you farted in here!” I was still giggling and when I was able to compose myself for a few seconds I blurted, “dude, I didn’t fart! I will tell you what was so funny when we get outside!” Squanto said, “hahaha, alright Swaffy.”

The lady paid for her stuff and abruptly left. Squanto decided to purchase some Cheyenne cigarettes, the cheapest selection. Evidently Squanto was hurting for cash at the time. When it was my turn to pay for the tea, I was somewhat expecting the cashier to make a comment about the awkward exchange that had just taken place. She didn’t say anything though. She had an expression of disinterest on her face, as if she witnesses these situations taking place on an every-hour basis. After reading many of the entries posted in one of my personal favorite blogs, “Confessions of a Cashier,” I think it is fair to say that people who work at gas stations witness/experience their share of absurdity. If you want to read that blog, you can do so by clicking here. You won’t be let down. Every entry consists of cynical, hilarious observations written by someone who works as a cashier at a gas station.

Before I had the chance to inform Squanto of what I was laughing at, he had already jumped in his Chevy Silverado and driven off.

Speaking of people who say innappropriate things at innappropriate times, Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave once approached a guy he knew who was walking down the street, holding hands with his new girlfriend and said, "hey buddy, did you ever get rid of that chlamydia you were telling me about a couple weeks ago?!"

{ 14 comments }

My Name Raymin

by Rico Swaff on March 11, 2011

I know this little feller who refers to himself as “Raymin.”

Raymin wasn’t his real name. His real name was “Raymond.” However, when he told me his name (which ended up being a billion times,) he pronounced his name as “Raymin.” He’d say, “my name Raymin.”

You are probably wondering why this little feller told me that his name was Raymin a billion times. Well, I can explain.

I have always gotten a kick out of peoples’ reactions to absurdity. Even if I am the one who has to play the role of the “absurdity” that people are faced with. On many occasions throughout my life, I have purposely set up my surroundings in a manner that would provoke funny reactions from people. One of my many methods of accomplishing this was by purposely referring to someone as the wrong name multiple times and acting as if I didn’t have a clue that I was constantly referring to them as the wrong name. Usually I would act like I was confusing their name with one of their brothers. I wouldn’t be finished after referring to them by the wrong name once. Sometimes I would purposely refer to them as an incorrect name almost 100 times. No joke. Sometimes I would refer to them as the incorrect name just a few seconds after they clarified that their actual name was something different than what I had just called them. For example, I approached Kent and said, “hey Jerome, how ya doin, buddy?” Kent replied with, “you got it wrong again for the 10th day in a row. My name is Kent, my brother’s name is Jerome.” I would apologize by saying, “ah shoot, I’m sorry about that, Jerome. I won’t make that mistake again.” Kent would roll his eyes and I could see him thinking to himself, “wow that Swafford guy is stupid.” Although I wanted to burst out with laughter, I would maintain a very serious expression on my face while performing this routine. Most of the people who I would do this to would look at me as if I am the epitome of world’s dumbest person. I loved it. It tickled the hell out of my funny bone. It sounds weird, but my intentions were not making fun of these people. I was basically trying to provoke an amusing reaction from them. If someone caught on to the fact that I wasn’t being serious, I would stop. In their heads, they thought I was stupid as hell, so the joke was at least partially on me.

Raymin had one of the funniest reactions.

When I was a junior in high school, I would lift weights during my open campus hour. At my high school, the weight room and wrestling room were connected to each other. In order for someone to get to the wrestling room, they had to walk through the weight room first. When I would lift weights, a class full of kids who were roughly 4-5 years younger than me would walk through the weight room to do exercises in the wrestling room for P.E. class. In this class, there was a kid who stuck out to me. It was Raymin. I knew who he was because he had a brother in my grade. Let’s just pretend his brother’s name was “Adam.” His bro’s name wasn’t Adam, I just don’t want to publicly and completely give this poor guy’s identity away in case he had an issue with me writing about him in my blog. Raymin stuck out in the crowd to me because he often wore a Rude Dog t-shirt. Seeing Rude Dog when I was 17 years old made me smile inside because 10 years earlier, I was a 7 year old boy who sported Rude Dog shirts on an almost daily basis. I always felt like a total badass when I wore those shirts. Wearing Rude Dog shirts as a 7 year old subconsciously made me feel like I was 5 inches taller, 50 pounds heavier and able to beat up anyone between the ages of 0 and 13. By the time I was a junior in high school, it was an extremely rare occasion to spot someone wearing a Rude Dog shirt, but when these sightings occurred, it was inevitable to be the highlight of my day.

That Rude Dog is such a bad ass!

One day when Raymin and his classmates were walking through the weight room on their way to the wrestling room, I decided to confuse Raymin with his brother. I was like, “hey Adam! How ya doin, homeslice?” He looked at me and was like, “huh?” I repeated myself, “hey Adam! How ya doin, homeslice?” As he stared at me with a confused expression on his face, he responded, “my name not Adam, my name Raymin!” The confusion in his eyes as he was staring at me appeared as if he were watching a bunch of tiny grasshoppers do rope climbs on my eye lashes. I acted shocked and was like, “your name Raymin?” He responded, “yeah! My name Raymin!” I asked one more time just to clarify, “so…your name, Raymin?” He insisted, “yeah! My name Raymin!”

For the next half-hour, I lifted weights and Raymin’s class did whatever it was they did in the wrestling room. When Raymin’s class finished and walked back through the weight room, I decided to push things a step further. When I saw Raymin walk by sportin his bodacious Rude Dog shirt, I shouted, “hey Raymin! Come here real quick!” Raymin would walk over to me and be like, “yeah?” I asked again, “your name Raymin?” He replied calmly, “yeah, my name Raymin.” Then I was like, “your name Raymin?! Whoa! MY NAME Raymin! MY NAME…Raymin!!!” (Just to clarify, my name isn’t actually Raymin. I was just being a jackass.) The expression on his face showed even more confusion, as if the tiny grasshoppers that were doing rope climbs on my eye lashes were being simultaneously humped in the ass by even tinier grizzly bears. It made me wonder if he had ever met another Raymin in his life. He replied innocently, “your name Raymin?! My name Raymin……..OUR name Raymin!!!” It was as if I could literally see him calculating the possessive pronoun equation in his head; “your name + my name = our name.” The conversation concluded by me saying, “yeah that’s right Raymin! Our name Raymin… our name Raymin, Raymin.”

For the remainder of the semester, at least 2 times per week, this exact conversation would occur almost word for word. Each “your name Raymin?” conversation seemed like a carbon copy of the original. I always got such a kick out of it because he never seemed to remember that we had the conversations to begin with. Again, it seriously wasn’t my intention to make fun of the kid or make him look or feel stupid. If anything, I was just trying to get a reaction from him. A reaction to my own purposely performed stupidity.

The following year I saw Raymin walking through the hallway at school. I was excited to see him even though he wasn’t sporting the Rude Dog shirt anymore. This year, he was all about wearing FUBU clothes. When I saw him, I enthusiastically shouted at him, “hey Adam! How’d your summer go, homeslice?” He responded angrily with, “MY NAME RAYMIN, MOTHERFUCKER!” I was momentarily shocked by his hostility, but took it all in stride. I just said, “oh I’m sorry about that Raymin, my bad.” He was like, “that’s aight, dawg.” I remember thinking to myself, “wow, Raymin became an angry kid over the summer. What is it about that FUBU brand that gives kids such an attitude? Raymin – Rude Dog shirt + FUBU shirt = angry Raymin.”

I ran into Raymin a few years later. It was the day after I was beaten to a bloody pulp by 3 guys, one who was wearing brass knuckles and a pair of steel toed boots.

The day after I was beaten by three guys, one who had brass knuckles and steel-toed boots.

I was walking down the street by the park in my hometown and Raymin walked up to me and was like, “whoa, what the fuck happened to your face, Raymin?!” It was eye-opening to me, although my eyes wouldn’t open due to being swollen shut. Not only did Raymin recognize me with my face beat to shit, but he also remembered me from our conversations in the weight room a few years earlier and truly believed that my name was Raymin. And I thought he had forgotten me every time we had the “your name Raymin?” conversation. I was dead wrong.

I explained to him what happened to my face and he asked what I was going to do in retaliation against the people who had done it to me. I told him I didn’t know yet, but was thinking about it, which basically meant that I hadn’t planned on doing anything. He informed me that he would have my back if he ever ran into these people. I was like, “oh thanks Raymin.” He also said that if it had happened to him, he would find each one of them on a blisteringly hot, sunny day, tie them to a tree, whip them with horse whips, throw salt on their backs and let them fry in the sun for a few hours. I nodded my head while he told me this and simultaneously thought to myself, “note to self: Stay on Raymin’s good side. Don’t piss him off or your back will resemble a giant piece of fried chicken. His method of retaliation sounds pretty painful.”

That was 8 years ago and I haven’t seen or heard from Raymin since. I hope Rude Dog has led him in the right path in life.

One time when Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave was younger, some guy yelled "hey turd balls!" at him. Rick responded with, "my name RICK!!!"

{ 3 comments }

How Do You Lose this Upside Down Ass (_l_) Looking Fat Pouch Located on the Bottom of Your Stomach???

by Rico Swaff on February 23, 2011

So I woke up Saturday morning and walked into the living room when this picture was taken of me.

As you can see, it’s a picture of me shirtless. I have been lifting weights for the past couple months and I admit, I think I am pretty buffed right now. I have a bulky look going on right now; wide shoulders, thick arms, big pecs, etc. And by the way, those ARE pecs. They ARE NOT man-boobs. If you don’t believe me, then feel free to grope my breasts and find out for yourself how hard they are. Actually I take that back. Please don’t grope me. I always feel somewhat degraded when someone does that to me. Feel free to poke my pecs though and see for yourself that they are hard as a rock right now.

Now, before you start hating on me for being full of myself, let me clarify for you that I am not 100% satisfied with how I look in this picture. For one I don’t like my hair. I have a bad case of bed head from just waking up seconds before the pic was taken. Mostly though, I hate that stupid fat pouch located on the bottom of my stomach. Don’t act like you don’t notice it. It looks like an upside down pair of plump butt cheeks with my belly button being the bunghole. If this got any more out of control, the crease between the two pouches may become more defined and I will have an ass-crack to complete the lower-belly to 2nd ass transformation.

What is that?!?! Is that what I think it is?!?! That's not a couple of butt cheeks with a bunghole at the bottom is it?!?! No. It is an upside down close up picture of the bottom of my stomach. If that crease gets any deeper, it will look exactly like an ass crack. (_l_).

I am not proud of this upside down ass on the bottom of my stomach and I want to lose it. I have tried to lose it. I have been hitting the sit-up machine vigorously these past couple months. I have even tried modifying what I eat and cutting down on portion sizes. It just refuses to go away. Do any of you readers have any suggestions on how I can lose it? Please don’t tell me to eat less or I will eat you. I already mentioned that I have tried this and it hasn’t worked for me. I continue to watch my diet to an extent and my weight and fat pouch seem to stay the same no matter how much or how little I modify my diet.

I think I may have to resort to running along with watching what I eat. This realization SUCKS because I hate running. It’s either run consistently, or walk around with this upside down ass on the bottom of my stomach for the rest of my life. I am not sure which is worse.

Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave is always at his leanest when he can't find any food in dumpsters and his wife Roxy isn't breast feeding at the time. This makes him resort to eating dead leaves which isn't very fattening.

{ 14 comments }

How Often Do You Clean Your Ears???

by Rico Swaff on February 16, 2011

Semi-recently I wrote an entry titled, “The Man With a Booger in His Ear.” Writing that story made me reflect on anything and everything ear-related. That was the inspiration for this post.

So I purchased some JVC marshmallow earphones. JVC marshmallow earphones were designed to fit perfectly in your ears. They act like earplugs. First you pinch them then you slide them into your ears. While inside your ear, the earphones expand to the shape of your ear, where they stay. They have a hole on the end of them where the sound waves go through.

My pride and joy.....my pair of JVC marshmallow earphones.

　

This is the only type of earphones that I can successfully wear due to having cauliflower ear in my left ear. For those of you who don’t know, I wrestled from the age of 6 until I was a junior in college. I got cauliflower ear in wrestling practice my freshman year of college. It is a condition that causes a swelling and deformation of the ears that resembles a cauliflower hence the name, “cauliflower ear.” It is common for athletes to get cauliflower ear, but it is most prevalent in wrestlers, boxers and MMA fighters.

Cauliflower ear can form on any part of your ear, but is most commonly found either on the outer ridge of the ear or outside of the ear canal. They both have their own unique ways of being a pain in the ass. If you have cauliflower ear on the outer ridge of your ear, it is more noticeable. Not to mention, whenever someone notices this glitch on your ear, their “dumbass detector” is more likely to go off. If you have cauliflower ear outside of your ear canal, it is less noticeable, but you don’t have the luxury of wearing earphones when you want to listen to music in silence. Before the wonderful JVC marshmallow earphones came out, your options were basically narrowed down to the headphones with the black foam pads that make you appear as if you are straight outta the 80′s/90′s or the big ass, padded headphones that give you the “I spend a lot of time in the studio” look.

I have cauliflower outside of my ear canal. Which has inevitably limited my earphone selection and led to me coming off as an out of style dork in the past. This was especially notable in the weight room in college.

This is a picture of my left ear. My cauliflower ear is very noticeable in this pic. Notice the bump outside the ear canal?

Ya see, I went to an expensive private college called Loras College in Dubuque, IA. Why did I choose to go there? I really don’t know. The population at Loras seemingly consisted of 75% rich, spoiled Chicaburbians (from the suburbs of Chicago.) These types of people liked portray an image of themselves as being “harder” than they actually were because they were from Chicago. Not to mention, anything significant you mentioned about your life, hometown, personal experiences, etc., Chicaburbians always had you beat in some way or another. You couldn’t even make a comment about how good the corn was in in Iowa (Iowa is known for it’s good corn) without them mentioning some little shop in Chicago that sold corn that was way better than the corn in Iowa (as if we Iowans eat all our corn…jackasses.) They literally wouldn’t give a non-Chicaburbian’s opinion the time of day. The remaining 25% of students at Loras were from various parts of Wisconsin, Illinois or Iowa like myself.

Note: My description of Chicaburbians is the epitome of a generalization. I did meet and become friends with a few Chicaburbians while attending Loras College.

Chicaburbians always had the coolest stuff. This was especially noticeable in the weight room. In the weight room, Chicaburbian’s would prance around with their Ipods (this is when they first came out) and a stupid little strap on their arm that they placed their little Ipods into, topped off with some snazzy looking earphones. Also, heaven forbid they be caught dead wearing any athletic apparel that wasn’t Under Armour brand. I, on the other hand would usually be sporting some cheap grey sweatpants from Wal-Mart and a cut-off wrestling tee-shirt. To top the outfit off, I would be carrying around a Discman with a pair of headphones. I used the bulky, studio-friendly headphones. Although I looked like a geek, the sound quality was great. I didn’t have a stupid little strap on my arm to place my Discman in, so I put it in my sweatpants pocket. That Discman used to bulge out of my pocket. I appeared as if I was stealing a 5 pound weight plate from the room. Compared to these Chicaburbians, I looked like such a loser and felt like one too because the girls who frequented the weight room were generally pretty hot. However, I didn’t feel so bad after adding 4 plates to anything these pansies would be working out with. These Chicaburbians may have looked cool, but it definitely didn’t make them stronger. There would be many occasions where I would approach someone who was sitting down on a benchpress bench and ask, “hey, you done with that?” (Thinking to myself, “you done doing bench press reps with that whopping 135 pounds….wussy? That fancy Ipod on your arm must be pretty fucking heavy for you to be publicly showing everyone in the weight room how weak you are.”) They would say, “yeah” and I would add 4 plates to the bar and bust out 3 sets of 6 reps of 275 pounds. After busting out weight reps with heavy weights, I would storm through the weight room with a mean expression on my face, thinking to myself, “you can look at me and my Discman with smug expressions on your faces, but you little pecker heads better not say a damn thing.”

Maybe I was just jealous.

The most embarrassing part of my weight room get-up was definitely the bulky headphones I had to wear. Although the sound quality was great, I didn’t like sporting the “guy in Wal-Mart sweatpants and cut-off tee-shirt who was listening to a Discman in the weight room after he got out of the studio” look. I could afford a nice pair of earphones, but the stupid things wouldn’t stay in my ear because my cauliflower ear would block it from doing so. The regular black-padded head phones were also a pain in the ass because I have a large head…so those didn’t stay on my head well either. The studio headphones fit me the best and were more adjustable for comfort. And like I mentioned twice already, the sound quality was excellent. This was an ongoing thing until I invested in these perfect JVC marshmallow earphones.

It sounds ridiculous, but I am pretty protective of my marshmallow earphones. It’s like a luxury I never dreamed of having has become a reality. Finally, some earphones that will stay in my ear. I also have an Ipod Touch (that has the words, “Joshua Swafford Love Mom and Dad” engraved on it) to go along with them. With that said, it should be pretty easy to figure out why I was a little hesitant when one of my close relatives who chose to remain nameless (lets just pretend his name is Raybob) asked me if he could use my marshmallow earphones to listen to some youtube videos on the computer. At first I turned him down. I abrasively said, “why don’t you find some other earphones around here.” He said he couldn’t find any and with a sincere expression on his face he asked if he could use them again. I gave in and told him that he could use them, but he had to be careful because these earphones are God’s greatest gift to my ears.

Approximately 2 hours later, I decided to check in on my earphones. I had to make sure my precious JVC marshmallow earphones were still in tact. I put the earphones in my ears and played a song from my Ipod and I couldn’t hear anything. I cranked the volume up and still nothing. Complete silence. I was instantly infuriated. I yelled, “RAYBOB, GET OVER HERE NOW!!!” He tip-toed into the room with an intimidated expression on his face. I screamed at him, “I LET YOU BORROW MY GOD DAMN JVC EARPHONES JUST ONCE AND YOU MANAGE TO ALREADY BREAK THEM?! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO THEM?!?! DAMMIT, THESE ARE THE BEST EARPHONES IN THE WORLD!!!!” He stuttered, “d-dude. I-I-I don’t know wh-wh-what is wrong with them. I-I o-only h-h-had them in for a m-m-minute and I c-couldn’t get them to work.” I screamed again, “DUDE, YOU HAD TO HAVE DONE SOMETHING!!! THEY WERE WORKING PERFECTLY SECONDS BEFORE I LET YOU USE THEM!!!” He insisted that he wasn’t lying to me and that he had no idea what was wrong with them.

I decided to look a little closer at the earphones. What I discovered astounded me. The earphones were CAKED with ear wax. The hole where the sound waves go through was completely clogged. It appeared as if someone had taken a greasy shit and then alternated both earphones as ass-plugs. I was pissed off to the point where I felt like I had a boiling tea kettle in my head. I had to leave the room.

Eventually I calmed myself down enough to come back to the living room to talk to Raybob about the seriousness of the situation. “Raybobbbb,” I said quietly. He replied with, “y-yeah?” I asked, “when was the last time you cleaned your ears?” He said, “umm I d-don’t know. Why?” I couldn’t control my hostility anymore when I shouted, “BECAUSE MY FREAKING EARPHONES ARE CLOGGED WITH YOUR EAR WAX!!!! Let me ask you again, WHEN was the LAST time you cleaned YOUR EARS?!?!?” “Uhhh….ummm….uhhhhh a couple months ago I think.” Dumbfounded, I asked, “you mean to tell me that you don’t clean your ears every day? In fact, you haven’t cleaned your ears in MONTHS?!” “Y-yeah,” he said. I concluded with, “well Raybob, I want to make it clear that from now on, whatever I use for my ears, does not go in your ears. Also, I would like to encourage you to start cleaning your ears with a Q-tip every morning when you wake up. The wax in my earphones is a poopy brown color. It looks like ass-cheese and it came from YOUR ears. This means that anyone who looks at your ears, probably notices a brown frosting-looking substance that resembles ass-cheese. You don’t want your peers nicknaming you Mr. Ass-Cheese Ears do you?” “No,” he said. “Ok, so clean your ears every day and that won’t happen. Please don’t ever let your ears get out of hand like that again.” “I promise I won’t,” he said. “Alright buddy, now clean my earphones. They better be spic and span the next time I see them.” I said.

He actually did a great job cleaning them. I don’t know what he did, but it worked. I thought it would take the tiniest drill bit in the world to get through the wax that clogged my precious JVC marshmallow earphones.

The thought of Raybob not cleaning his ears for months put me in a state of utter confusion. Cleaning my ears is something I like to do. It has always been the highlight of my morning routine. It feels good….as if you are scratching an itch that has needed to be scratched for so long that you no longer notice it being there. I remember asking my mom when I was 8 years old, “hey mom, why does it feel good to clean your ears.” She replied with , “I don’t know, but I agree, it does feel awesome. I call those sensations ‘eargasms.’” From that point on, I referred to the pleasure I experienced while cleaning my ears as, “eargasms.” I wonder how many double-takes adults did over the years when they witnessed me moaning in pleasure while I cleaned my ears, simultaneously explaining to them that I was having an “eargasm.”

Along with the pleasurable sensation of cleaning my ears, I also used to think it was fun. It felt like digging for treasure. The fact that I cleaned my ears frequently, meant that I have always had clean ears which added a sense of reality to the “digging for treasure” comparison. It was a rare occasion for me to actually dig up something in my ears that wasn’t white in color.

So my question for anyone still reading is this; “how often do you clean your ears?” I clean mine any time I think of doing so, which is at least daily. How about you?

This is me listening to Lil Wayne on my Ipod with my pimp ass JVC marshmallow earphones.

Haha please... you really think I listen to fucking Lil Wayne? Get real. I am probably listening to Nine Inch Nails, Alice In Chains, Nilsson, Sublime, The Doors, Stone Temple Pilots, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Screaming Trees, Queens of the Stone Age, etc. The earphones are still pimp ass though... even if I'm not wearing a grill or listening to Lil Wayne.

When Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave found a pair of these earphones, it was like the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey. In other words, he spent the entire time trying to figure out what they could be used for. He ended up coming to the conclusion that they were designed for stimulating nipples.

{ 5 comments }

Follow Up to My Daughter Hasn’t Arrived Yet, but I am Already World’s Dumbest Dad

by Rico Swaff on February 10, 2011

As some of you may recall, a few months ago I wrote an entry titled, “My Daughter Hasn’t Arrived Yet, but I Already Proclaim Myself as the World’s Dumbest Dad.” In this entry, I told the story about how I accidentally bought my unborn daughter a dog’s outfit. To me, it appeared to be a Kansas City Chiefs onesie, but in reality it was an outfit designed for a wiener dog or chihuahua. If you haven’t read that story, but want to you can do so by clicking here.

Since my daughter Kaiya was born, I have had many people jokingly ask me if the little doggy outfit fits her and as you can see below… it doesn’t.

This is a picture of me holding Kaiya and her uncle Cowboy Sheabob Squarepants holding the doggy outfit next to her. Even when she was an 8 lb 4 oz. newborn, she wouldn't have come close to fitting into that thing. She is 3 months old and 14 lbs now and the outfit dwarfs in size in comparison to her. It looks like it could pass for a burp rag, but I'll be damned if I will ever be using anything with a Kansas City Chiefs logo on it to clean spit-up or puke with.

Even if she were small enough to fit into the outfit, the holes for the arms are located where her breasts would be. A baby human could not properly fit into that thing unless they were deformed and had arms sticking out of their chest where their nipples should be. A few animals I could see fitting into this thing would be small dogs, cats, baby veloceraptors,etc.

When that fart nugget Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave heard that I had no use for the doggy outfit, he asked if he could have it. He claimed he needed it for "protection." I think he got the wrong idea when I told him it was an outfit designed for a "wiener dog."

{ 7 comments }

I Am Allergic to Cold…No Seriously, I Really Am and Here is Proof

by Rico Swaff on February 4, 2011

So here in Iowa, we recently experienced a blizzard of seemingly epic proportions. Do you have any friends from Iowa on your facebook friends list? If so, check their status updates.  I guarantee 90% of them have written a status update that will somehow be associated with the shitty weather we have had lately.  This recent blizzard is what prompted me to write this entry.

I am allergic to cold temperatures.  No seriously, I really am.  Roughly 5 years ago, I was diagnosed with a condition called cold urticaria.  The word “urticaria” is basically fancy schmancy for “hives.”

Every time I tell someone that I am allergic to cold, their initial response is to laugh at me because they are unaware that the condition even exists.  After I inform someone that I am allergic to cold, they usually just stand their with a confused expression on their face and half-assedly laugh at me as if I am telling them some sort of lame joke.  I always have to clarify to them that I am not joking, that I seriously am allergic to cold. They usually continue standing, maintaining a facial expression of disbelief.  This could be because of the timing of when I inform them of my cold allergy. For example, if it is cold outside and someone wants me to help them work on something outside, I immediately pull my “I’m allergic to cold so I can’t help you with that” line.  Which is true.  It is extremely dangerous for me to be exposed to cold temperatures, especially if I am doing something physically strenuous and taking deep breaths of cold air. 

It all started when I was 20 years old.  I went to Loras College in Dubuque, IA where the winters were insanely cold.  When I lived in the dorms my first two years of college, I walked to my classes. This walk included a 150 yard stretch over a bluff which overlooked the soccer field.  The wind would scream past the soccer field and blast anyone who was walking along the bluff to get to class.  I would enter my classrooms or my dorm room and notice that my face had more of a reddish tint than everyone else.  Not to mention, I would get itchy, bug bite looking things on any other part of my body where my skin was exposed such as my forearms. 

Over time my symptoms became worse.  If I am outside in cold temperatures for 5-10 minutes, my face looks like a 75 year old version of Frankenstein’s monster.  If any any other part of my body is exposed to cold, I break out in hives. Each individual hive appears to be on steroids compared to the mosquito bite looking bumps I used to get.  My face ends up looking like someone vigorously assaulted it with nunchuks and my arms look like I was attacked by a few dozen pissed off bumble bees. Along with the facial swelling and hives, red creases have also begun to form on my arms and lower abdomen.

I can no longer swim in water that has a colder than average temperature.  If I do this, it becomes a potentially fatal situation.  When I was 23 years old, I went to a swimming pool party that one of my friends was hosting.  I jumped in the pool shortly after arriving.  I waded in the pool for 5 minutes when I started noticing the familiar red bumps beginning to formulate all over my body.  I thought to myself, “oh great, these stupid ass cold bumps are going to distract all the ladies’ attention from my big muscles (I was single and regularly lifting weights at the time.)” Shortly after this thought cross my mind, I started feeling dizzy and light-headed.  It wasn’t nausea.  It felt like a combination of being physically worn out to the point of being dizzy combined with the intitial waves of a panic attack.  I jumped out of the pool, sat down in a chair and began silently panting to myself. I was trying to ease my symptoms in obscure fashion. I didn’t want anyone to notice me breathing hard after simply wading in a pool for 5 minutes.  However, the symptoms continued to accelerate.  I decided to stand up and walk around because I felt as if I wasn’t getting enough circulation in my body. I took a couple steps and was feeling dizzy to the point where the world appeared to spinning around me.  I uttered the words, “there is something wrong with me, I don’t feel right.”  I remember a couple people chuckling at first because they assumed I was joking because I was always acting like a jackass.  Their tone changed when my legs became wobbly and I passed out and fell on the ground which was made of concrete.  I woke up flat on my back with my friend frantically asking me, “Swaff?!? Are you ok?!?! Can you hear me Swaff?!?!”  I began slowly regaining my consciousness and composure. My knees and elbows were skinned from landing on the concrete and I had a small bump on my head from hitting a plastic lawn chair during the fall.  I was humiliated and asked one of my friends to give me a ride home.  The tone of the social gathering made a transition from having fun and drinking beer at the swimming pool to worrying about my safety and health.

Following this incident, I decided to set up an appointment with the doctor in an attempt to find out what the hell was wrong with me. For all I knew, I was suffering from some undiscovered terminal disease.I described my symptoms to the doctor and he asked for a nurse to fetch him an ice cube.  When the nurse retrieved the ice cube for him, he placed it on my arm and held it there for 5 minutes.  After he removed the ice cube, the skin on my arm swelled up in the shape of the cube.  The doctor then said, “well, you passed the ice cube test.”  “Passed?  So is that good?” I asked.  He replied with, “not necessarily. You have cold urticaria, which essentially means you are allergic to cold. Your skin does not produce the antihistamines needed for your body to be resilient to cold temperatures. This is very rare, but does occur to some people usually beginning when the individual is around 20 years old.  Some people grow out of the condition in their 30′s and others continue to suffer the symptoms for the rest of their lives. Swimming in cool water can force the hives to develop all over your body and is the leading cause of death with people who have the condition.” “So this condition can be fatal?!,” I asked. “If you are not careful,” the doctor said.  I then asked him, “so what now? How do I prevent these symptoms from occurring in the future?”  His advice was, “well, don’t swim in water with cool temperatures and stay out of the cold if possible.”  I thought to myself, “oh thanks for the wonderful advice Dr. Fucking Obvious. Staying out of the cold should be no problem at all since, ya know, I live in Iowa where the weather is blisteringly cold for half of the year…douche-nugget.”  

In order to prove to everyone that I am not a blow-hard and AM allergic to cold, I figured I would need photographic evidence for proof.  Below is a regular picture of me followed by a picture of me taken after standing outside in the freezing cold for a minute. You will be amazed at the difference. This actually pretty risky for me to do.  It shows how dedicated I am at exploiting myself as a dumbass for your amusement.

This is a picture of me. Sportin' sexy chops, wearing "Duck Tales" t-shirts and flashing west side signs is how we all roll in Iowa. According to the poster I am standing in front of, I am one hot piece of ass. Oh wait, the ass appears to be taking a dump so maybe I'm actually a steamy pile of shit. Hmmm....

This is a picture of me after standing in my front yard for a minute or two when the weather was 10 degrees Fahrenheit. Check out the swelling around my eyes, my chin and at the bottom of my forehead. If I would have stayed out there longer, I would look much worse than this.

Here is a picture of my arms after standing outside in the cold. Notice the red creases I mentioned above. If you look closely (especially near the shirt line,) you can see some hives beginning to form.

 

Well if it isn't Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave standing in front of the poster with a stolen duck decoy. I think this solves the mystery of the poster. If someone like my sexy sideburned self stands in front of the poster, I'm a hot piece of ass, but if Rick "The Mullet Man" Suave stands in front of it, he is a steamy pile of shit. Makes sense to me!

{ 16 comments }

The Man With a Booger in His Ear

by Rico Swaff on January 14, 2011

So one day I was at a youth wrestling tournament watching my 11 and 13 year old brothers wrestle.  First round had come to a conclusion and I was hungry so I decided to make a trip to the concession stand. 

While waiting in line, I noticed a man in front of me who was roughly 5 foot 8 inches tall, weighed 240 pounds had overgrown curly dark brown hair and a thick mustache. He was wearing a worn down pair of Wrangler jeans, some old work boots, a grey Macomb wrestling tee-shirt topped off with a NASCAR cap of some sort.  Many fathers/spectators you encounter at youth wrestling tournaments seem to fit this description, but there was something a little different about this guy.  He had a freaking booger in his ear. 

When I initially noticed the booger, I was standing a few feet behind him and couldn’t determine whether it was a booger or not.  I thought it could have been some greasy textured, lighter colored ball of ear wax and that this guy wasn’t a stickler about consistently cleaning his ears. However, the color of the blob in his ear was not consistent with ear wax, therefore my curiosity was officially sparked.  I decided to slyly move closer to him so I could get a better view of his ear. 

I gradually inched my way closer to the guy. Literally.  My face was probably 5 inches from his head with my eyes glued on his ear when my suspicions were confirmed. He had a round, plump booger in his ear with dark fabric fibers spread throughout the body of the booger. I couldn’t believe it.  I couldn’t stop staring at it. While staring in disbelief, he turned his head towards me and for a brief moment we were staring into each other’s eyes, our faces 5 inches apart.  I was close enough to him that he probably felt my breath on his ear and that’s what made him turn around.  That’s how determined I was to figure out whether or not it was a booger in his ear. 

After he looked at me, I quickly turned my head towards the concession stand and said the first thing that came to my mind which was, “those look like some pretty good wieners.”  The reason I said this was because the first thing I saw when I turned my head to the concession stand was a pile of hot dogs that the concession stand workers were putting into hot dog buns and handing to customers.  A confused, somewhat creeped out expression came over his face when he replied with, “umm yeah they do.” When he turned his face back around, he half-assedly shook his head. 

With a line like, “those look like some pretty good wieners” combined with the fact that my face was only 5 inches from his face when he turned around to look at me, Mr. Booger Ears probably thought I was trying to hit on him or something.  I was embarrassed for a brief moment until I gave the situation a little more thought.  I wasn’t the one who had a booger in my ear so why on earth would I feel embarrassed?

As I waited in line, I pondered the possibilities of how that booger ended up in this guy’s ear.  It is likely that the guy had picked his nose and unsuccessfully tried wiping the booger on the wall or under his seat and didn’t realize that the booger was still on his finger.  That booger probably hung out on this guy’s finger until he decided to drill his ear for wax.  While doing this, the booger probably found a home…in his ear canal. 

There may be a couple other, more far fetched possibilities.

This guy may love eating his own boogers and utilized his ear canal as a storage unit, kind of like a refridgerator or a kitchen cabinet.  Whenever he felt the craving for a booger snack, all he had to do was grab one out of his ear.

He may have been drilling wrestling moves with his son who had a booger hanging out of his nose.  His head may have scraped past his son’s nose resulting in a big juicy booger becoming lodged into his ear canal.

Maybe a little kid picked a booger out of their nose and flicked it and it landed directly in this guy’s ear canal.  Weirder things have happened.  We did happen to be at a youth wrestling tournament, so there were little boys running around everywhere….acting like jackasses. When I was a little kid, I admit…..I picked my nose. I specifically remember flicking my boogers after digging them out of my nose.  I thought it was fun. While flicking my boogers, I would imagine myself kicking field goals for the Kansas City Chiefs. Sometimes flicking boogers was like target practice. I was usually relatively decent at shooting targets with my boogers, but definitely had my share of failures. 

One time when I a little boy, my brother Justin and my mom went to a 4H meeting.  My youngest 2 brothers hadn’t been born yet so it was just my dad and I at the house.  My dad was watching some old movie on the Turner Classic Movies station.  I was not interested in the movie at all. I don’t know if I’ve ever been interested in any movie that has ever aired on TCM. Dad got up to make some popcorn. I considered this the perfect opportunity to flick a booger at something.  I had the perfect target.  I purchased a pack of Fleer baseball cards that day and inside that pack was a Mark Grace card. He was the 1st baseman for the Chicago Cubs back then.  Being a born and raised St. Louis Cardinals fan, it goes without saying that I have always had strong feelings of hatred towards the Chicago Cubs.  This included Mark Grace. I propped the Mark Grace card up against a glass that was sitting on the living room table.  Without considering the potential consequences, I flicked a gigantic, stringy, slimy booger at the card and missed…but not by much.  The booger hit the rim of the glass that the card was propped on and stuck there.  As soon as that happened, I jumped off the couch to see if there was anything left in that glass.  As you can guess, the glass was 75% full (or should I say 25% empty) with what appeared to be orange soda. It must have been my dad’s glass of orange soda.  As soon as I realized this, I heard my dad’s heavy footsteps thumping on the floor as he walked from the kitchen back into the living room with his bowl of popcorn.  In a panic, I jumped back on the couch and hoped to God that he wouldn’t notice the large blob of green slime that was stuck to the rim of his glass of orange soda. 

The first thing he did when he sat down was reached for his glass to take a drink.  He noticed the booger immediately.  He looked at me and said, “you have got to be shitting me Joshua.  You are wiping boogers on things now?! Not only things, but MY glass of orange pop!” My natural reaction was to look to my side in an attempt to blame it on my brother, but he wasn’t home.  I reached into my ever-growing bag of “under pressure” lies and said, “no I didn’t! I swear!! That must have been on the glass BEFORE you grabbed it out of the cabinet!!”  Dad further examined the glass and noticed the moist texture of the booger and yelled, “bullshit! It’s still slimy! That booger has been picked recently, Joshua!” I argued with him by saying, “Justin must have wiped it on there right before he left for the 4H meeting!”  As he began wiping the off the glass with a tissue, Dad surprisingly concluded the ass-chewing by saying, “whatever Joshua. Justin left for that meeting over an hour ago and this booger was freshly picked. That is just….(shakes his head) That’s disgusting.” I didn’t flick as many boogers from that day on.

With that said, I think it is possible that a kid may have flicked a booger that landed directly in this guy’s ear.

But probably not. My guess is that he picked a booger out of his nose before picking the wax out of his ear. What a dipshit.

Since his ear canal was partially blocked by a hideous booger, I wonder if he noticed a temporary partial loss of hearing.

It made me think of all the potential concoctions of human waste. For example, what if someone picked a booger before they dug the lint out of their belly button followed by reaching into the back of their pants and scratching their assholes and finished the combination by picking the wax out of their ear? That would be a wax-booger, belly button lint cocktail with a dash of ass-cheese (_l_). Gross.

And then Rick “The Mullet Man” Suave was like, “are you tired of me yet?”  The man with a booger in his ear must be related to Rick.

{ 10 comments }

Rick, Roxy and Baby Ruby Suave Sending You Holiday Hugs, Kisses and Charlie Horses

by Rico Swaff on December 25, 2010

{ 15 comments }

← Previous Entries