Thursday, October 21, 2004

Honeymoon is OVER!

I'm back from the Islands, with my new bride. I just got home, and don't feel like writing much now. Once I'm back in the swing of things, I'll tell you all about the trip. But, until then, I did promise to share my wedding night toast with all of you, so here it is:

Ladies and Gentlemen, fill your glasses. This is going to be a long toast.

Tonight, I am the luckiest person here. Many of you would argue that the Bride is just as lucky. But many of you don’t know me very well. I married well. She could have done better. Be that as it may, I’ll have a few remarks for her in a moment.

First, allow me to address the Bridesmaids. Each and every one of them is the fourth most beautiful woman here, immediately behind the Bride, my Mother-in-law, and my mother, and way ahead of my ex-girlfriend, whom I saw in the shadows at the back, slipping hors d’oevres into her purse. I want to thank you for being here for Jenny. We couldn’t have done it without you. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bridesmaids!

I want to come back to Jenny for a second folks. Here’s to the bride!

Many of you may have noticed the gentlemen standing next to me throughout the service. Over the past few days, these guys have put an awful lot of effort, understanding, and time into helping make today as special as it was. More importantly than that, however, they’ve spent years putting up with me. I chose the groomsmen I did, because they’ve all been an important part of my life, and each of them has played a part in making me who I am today. And each of them will answer for that at the final judgement. I also chose them because they will be important parts of my life, no, Our life, in the years to come. Today could not have been as special as it was if it weren’t for them. My groomsmen!

Speaking of my groomsmen, I’d like to mention a couple of guys in particular. You can see the family resemblance in the ego, because they both think they’re the best man. I suppose, to avoid confusion, we could make Todd Best Man and Tanner Best Boy, but that would make Eric and John Key Grip and Gaffer. No, I think we’d best stick with Best Man 1 and Best Man 2, or Best Men, if you will. All the same, I think I have the best Best Men this side of the Mason Dixon. Todd has always been there for me whenever I needed him, where-ever I needed him, no questions asked. There’s an old joke: “A good friend will bail you out of jail, but a great friend will be sitting next to you saying ‘Damn that was fun’.” Todd would always say, “No officer, I acted alone, he kept telling me to stop.” Tanner, on the other hand, has never once been arrested. He doesn’t smoke cigars or drink whisky. And I’ve never once had to lie for him, or help him bury a body. Don’t worry buddy, you’ve got time. Here’s to my best men.

And while were drinking, let’s have another toast to my wife.

Now’s the part of the speech that I’ve had the most trouble with, except of course finding words that are even close to what I feel for Jenny. What to say about my family that hasn’t been said already at least a half-dozen times in the pages of the police report. I guess what I need to say is that, for better or worse, they’ve made me who I am. And they’ve been tremendous in their support of Jenny and I. Thank you for being here, thank you for everything you’ve done leading up to tonight, and thank you in advance for baby-sitting anytime we ask, for free. My parents!

And, The Love of My Life!

I’d like to address just a couple of words towards a group of people that have made today so special for Jenny and I in so many different ways. All of you. Whether you’ve traveled a thousand feet or a thousand miles, we really appreciate you coming to show us your love and support. I’m trying to see everybody tonight, at least long enough to say “thanks,” so if I don’t make it around to you, please make it around to me and let me shake your hand. You’ve all been an important part of our lives to date, and you will be important parts of our lives for years to come. May you be half-an-hour in Heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.

We’re on the home stretch here folks. Anybody need a refill? If you don’t, then join me in a toast to Jenny. Now how needs a refill? I know I do. I’ll wait…

Of course no groom’s toast would be complete without calling some attention to the folks who have made this evening possible, my new family. Bob, Jerri, Sam, and Rachel have been wonderful, not only through these past, harrowing days, but throughout the last two and a half years. They were probably wonderful before that, but I wouldn’t know. In any event, not a moment has gone by in which I did not feel welcome, appreciated, and even loved. Today I gained a new family, but I haven’t earned a new family. I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing that in the only way I know how: Loving and caring for Jenny. Of all the things you have given me, she is the most wonderful, the most precious, and the most appreciated. And unlike the other things you’ve given me, you won’t find her for sale at Rink’s next weekend. Folks, if there is anybody here tonight that deserves a “Thank You” and a hearty “Here’s to your health” from each and every one of us, it’s the Dahler’s, and specifically Bob and Jerri. Ready guys? “Thank You” on the count of 3. One….Two….Three! THANK YOU!

Finally, I suppose I should say a few words about Jenny. I’ve put it off as long as I can, and I still don’t know what to say. I’ve tried for two and a half years, and still I can’t find the words. Either they don’t begin to say what I want them to, or they are repeated on the radio every fifteen minutes. I guess all I can say is that, every day, from now to eternity, I’m going to try to tell you how I feel, and how much you mean to me. And one day, maybe fifty, or even a hundred years from now, I’ll finally get it right. And you’ll finally know. Until then, I need you to be patient, and understand that for all my faults, I’m trying to be the best husband I can be. Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask that each of you drain your glasses in honor of my bride, because if God made anything better, he kept it for himself!

Saturday, October 09, 2004

Big Day!

Today I marry the woman of my dreams. Today, Red and I tie the knot, get hitched, walk the plank into shark infested waters with a cannonball attached to our feet. Pick your metaphor.

Anyway, I thought I'd treat you to the text from my toast at the rehearsal dinner last night. When I get back from the honeymoon, I'll tell you all about it, and show you groom's toast from the wedding.

Bon Voyage!

Rehearsal Dinner Toast:

Good evening, and thank you all for coming. Of course, my big toast isn’t until tomorrow night, so I guess that makes this my little toast, or Melba Toast, if you will (stolen directly and shamelessly from Friends).

Out of my last 25 years on this planet, this day, this moment, is the best so far. The people who have been most important to me, my closest friends, are all here. I’m taking the next step toward a complete and happy life. You could even argue that I’m growing up, but you’d be wrong. And tomorrow I marry the woman of my dreams, the most beautiful girl in the world, and the love of my life.

Mom, Dad, Mike, Amy: Thank you for tonight. This has all the accoutrements necessary for a perfect party: the food has been wonderful, the atmosphere is phenomenal, and there is still more wine. I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I appreciate this gesture of support of our marriage. Thank you. Folks, here’s to my parents.

This toast won’t be complete without mentioning Bob and Jerri. Without them, there would be no bride. So, I guess, without them, my life wouldn’t be complete. Tomorrow is the day that Bob and Jerri have really put their effort into, but I want to say thanks today, too. I want to say thanks, because one of your finest achievements, is now the most valuable thing I have. Thank you.

Speaking of which, Jenny, what can I say? Tomorrow, you become my bride, my wife, my life. Tomorrow, we embark on the grandest of adventures. Jen, tomorrow I’m going to toast you, my wife, so tonight I’d like to toast the journey, the experience, the adventure. I’d like to toast those moments I’m looking forward to: Our son’s first steps, our daughter’s junior prom, our week in Paris, our fiftieth anniversary, our first million dollars, and thousands upon thousands of other things that I’m not even expecting, and don’t know to expect. To life, Jenny. To our life.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Flood Watch

We made the national news.

Ivan the Terrible sent us 20 inches of rain in 20 hours, and gave us the worst flood in 50 years.

I woke up Saturday morning and sat in the front room drinking coffee. After a while, I started to wonder why there was so much goddamn traffic on my road.

That was when it hit me that my road had become a detour because of flooding.

It wasn’t until about an hour later, when traffic suddenly stopped, that I realized just how bad the flooding really was. There was water at the end of my street, and there were boats rowing around in the Movie Gallery parking lot. This was amazing!

Red and I went out on the town, to inspect the damage. I found one store open, and loaded up on used books to see me through the next few days of being flooded in. Then we began looking for a bar.

The only place open was across the river, and about a block from the banks. I parked out front, where it was dry. As I finished my beer, I noticed that all four tires of my car were in water. This shit was rising fast!

That’s when it hit me. Work! We’ve never been flooded before, but we’ve come close a time or two. If this was the worst flood in 50 years, then we were in for it. I paid my tab, and Red and I went for a little spin around the properties.

I was too fucking late. Six warehouses full of material were already filled with muddy river water, and there was no way to get a truck to them in time to get anything out. All I could do was wait until the water went down, and assess the damage.

Which is what I’ve been doing today. Walking around facilities with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, adding up the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of carnage, and slopping through bacteria laden river sludge that the flood and God’s wrath left behind.

Next time God decides to wash away my sins, I wish he’d use Dial.

Thursday, September 16, 2004


It’s like this. You wake up one morning, and realize that you’re not happy with your life. It’s the same thing, day in and day out. Wake up, take aspirin, swear off booze, brush teeth, brush hair, go to work, beat head against wall for 8 hours, blog, go home, eat dinner, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, lie in bed, get the spins, vomit, lie in bed again, sleep, wake up, take aspirin, swear off booze, brush teeth…….

Fuck that shit.

Have you ever had an epiphany, and suddenly the whole world is turned on its ear? I have. One day, I’m sitting at my desk, not accomplishing anything, and I suddenly realized that if I was ever going to get anything done, I had to take matters into my own hands. I had to quit taking excuses as to why something couldn't be done, and as to why we couldn’t change something, and as to why everything always stays the same. So I lit a fire under my own ass, and started making things happen. Not much has changed yet, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I know that I can drag this company there, kicking and screaming if need be.

So, I have spent the last three months working my ass off, getting things going in the right direction, and today I have finally got top management on my side and we are having a meeting about designing and implementing a company wide change in culture. This place is going to start being a fun place to work again!

It’s been a busy three months, but I finally feel like I have enough breathing room to start writing again.

A lot has happened in the last three months, so stay tuned: I’ve got an awful lot to tell you about.

And if any employees are reading this: THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES!

Friday, July 16, 2004

Bugs, Man! BUGS!

I think I have some issues.

Last night, I dreamed that I was in my bedroom. But it wasn’t my bedroom. But it was, you know? And I was moving a big dresser around, the kind with a mirror at the back, when I disturbed a nest. Out from behind this dresser come a shitload of insects. There were wasps, and there were hornets, and they were all walking along the ground. Not a single one was flying.

And as I slowly backed up into the corner, they formed ranks on the bedroom floor. All the wasps were on one side of the bedroom, shiny and black. And all the hornets were on the other side of the bedroom, flashing stripes of gold at me.

I remember distinctly seeing sunlight reflected off of a stinger here, and a wing there as they began to march, in unison, across the floor.

Brother, you have not lived until you’ve heard the sound of a thousand wasp and hornet feet hitting the ground simultaneously. It’ll make your blood run cold I’m here to tell you.

Then, suddenly, I had a beekeeper’s smoker in my hand, and I began to advance on the marching horde. As I swung the smoke back and forth across the battlefield/bedroom, they began to retreat. I finally drove every last one of them back behind the dresser, and I heard them angrily buzzing, doing their bee-dance of defiance, plotting their revenge.

That’s when I left the room, closing the door after me. I decided that I would never go into that bedroom again, nor would I ever feel bad for the “giant brain bug” when I watched Star Ship Troopers.

And that’s when I woke up.

Analysis: Like all my dreams, this dream shows that I need to get laid.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004


With the Honeymoon fast approaching, I'm beginning to feel a hankering for the open sea. Almost every night now, I dream about sitting on the balcony, looking out over the Gulf, drinking a Margarita, or, if I drink out of my left hand, a gin and tonic.

Then I wake up in Ohio. And it is raining, because, well, that's what it does here.

And I have to go to work, where I am filling in for 3 people who are all gone at the same time. And I don't have any time to do anything but run from desk to desk, putting out fires and screaming at computers with incoherent threats that sound like a strange mix of the Eskimo word for a "crisp fresh snow that fell overnight but will be a nasty black slush after the Iditarod today" and the Gaelic word for "ouch I just caught my dick in my zipper."

With that in mind, please excuse me for copping out on today's post and leaving you with the lyrics to a song that sums up what I wish I were doing.

Jimmy Buffett

Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are dancin' in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off towards New Orleans

Sun shines on Biloxi
Air is filled with vapors from the sea
Boy will dig a pool beside the ocean
He sees creatures from his dream underwater
And the sun will set from off towards New Orleans

Stars can see Biloxi
Stars can find their faces in the sea
We are walking down beside the ocean
We are splashing naked in the water
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans

Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are swimming in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off toward New Orleans

Thursday, July 08, 2004


Just my luck! I had plans to take Red to a wonderful restaurant where she would be treated to champagne, tableside Caesar, lobster, and tableside bananas foster for dessert.

And the entire Goddamn Restaurant has taken a week’s vacation.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Date Night

Red and I have an interesting relationship. “Interesting,” I say because of the unavoidable fact that I am nothing but an egregious asshole, parading as corpulent man-flesh. To overcome my lesser qualities, which include such nefarious items as “never being there,” “drinking everything in the house including all the aftershave,” and “being a cold, cold robot of a man with a stone for a heart and a featureless, emotionless mask for a face,” Red has taken to devising new and interesting, relationship building, activities.

Some of these activities are:

1. Getting Married. Like that ever works.
2. Spending More Time at Home. Which just means I don’t have to worry about driving.
3. Having Sex in Positions that don’t necessarily allow us both to watch the latest episode of Law & Order.
4. Talking about Stuff.
5. Date Night.

Most of those are self explanatory. But “what,” you ask, “is date night?”

I’ll tell you.

Date night is one night a week when I quit working, put down my fifth cocktail (and I don’t mean after I’ve had four. I mean the cocktails I drink straight out of the bottle), and spend some QT with my cutie. (God I’m funny).

We’ve been having “date night” for a couple of months now, and I think that it is going incredibly well. I have carefully planned and executed each and every date to create the maximum amount of quality time, all the while being a romantic devil, and a good husband-to-be. I am, after all, the drinking man’s Don Juan. For your enjoyment, and maybe to help you put a little spice in your own love life, here is the rundown of date nights so far.

Week 1: Had to get off to a good start. I cancelled.

Week 2: Called at the last minute to change the day because I had important customers in town. Cancelled the next day.

Week 3: Couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Faked my own death.

Week 4: First actual date night. I misunderstood the concept, and spent the evening boning her best friend.

Week 5: Finally got it. Candlelight, champagne, a chick-flick, and a home-made, tableside Caesar salad. Nothing says love like fire, booze, lesbo-porn, and ground up anchovies and raw egg over lettuce.

Week 6: Last night, I got home about 5:30, and I took Red out to a local microbrew. We split a pitcher of dark beer, and ate some rather good meals. The evening was going well, and we were having fun. We were really enjoying each other’s company, and I was convinced that maybe we’d get to play a quick game of “hide the sausage” before Letterman came on.

Then the Ukrainians showed up.

How am I going to top this next week?

Friday, June 25, 2004


Does anyone else find it odd that both my happiest memory and my deepest, darkest secret start with “Once, when I was out of underwear...”?

Wednesday, June 16, 2004


I just read this post over at Jez’s blog, and it got me thinking about Red and I. Red and I have lived together for a year and a half, and I would have trouble calling a place home if she weren't in it.

But it wasn't always that way.

At first, we lived in a smaller place and neither of us ever had our own space. In fact, the place we lived in was so small, that when you closed the front door, the doorknob got in bed with you. And I liked it. It was in those first six months that I realized that living together is TOTALLY different from sleeping over. Even sleeping over every night.

It took quite a while, and two new places, for us to finally get into a good rhythm. A rhythm where we didn’t keep the neighbors awake all night with our yelling. A rhythm where I realized that she’s not just my girlfriend, she’s a person. A rhythm where she realized that I’m a total asshole, and that’s one of the reasons she loves me. A rhythm nation.

We’ve had our ups and downs, our trials and tribulations, our victories and defeats, our hits and misses, our smiles and frowns, our Dean Martins and our Jerry Lewises. Hell, I’ve broken my share of plates, and she’s, well, she’s watched me break my share of plates. And we came through it in the end.

And now she’s wearing a ring that I bought on sale. And we’re getting married in less than four months. And my life is going to be as wonderful as Wonder-Boy wondering if he can carve a statue of Wonder-Woman out of Wonder-Bread.

I guess what I'm saying is that living together has, at different times, been the best and the worst thing to happen to our relationship. I can't blame anyone for not being sure about taking that step, no matter how committed you are to each other.

It’s a big fucking step.

But don't read too much into it if your significant other isn’t sure about sharing an address: Sometimes talking about marriage is easier than sharing a TV remote.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

In Lieu of an Actual Post

Taking crazy to a whole new level!

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Make Me Stop!

She said she wanted a mink, so I bought her a mink. She said she wanted a silver fox, so I bought her a silver fox. She said she wanted a beaver, so I bought her a beaver. It was ridiculous: the house was full of animals.

She wanted a silver fox, I wanted a new car. We compromised. We bought the fur, but we keep it in the garage.

Red and I are going to have a great marriage. We laid some ground rules, and we’re sticking to them. For example: “Three nights out with the boys every week.” She wants to go out with the boys more, but I won’t let her.

A friend of mine asked, “KOTWF, should I talk to my wife during sex?” I said, “If there’s a phone handy.”

She didn’t like doing the dishes, so I bought her an electric dishwasher. She didn’t like doing laundry, so I bought her an electric washing machine. She complained that now the house is so full of gadgets there’s no place to I bought her an electric chair.

She has the most beautiful red hair growing halfway down her back. I just wish there were some on her head.

“KOTWF,” she asked, “were there many women before me?” After a pause she said, “Well! I’m still waiting!” I replied, “And I’m still counting.”

As a traveling salesman, I find myself in a lot of strange situations. Once, I broke down on a back country road, and I went to the closest farmhouse to seek accommodations. “Well,” said the farmer, “you’ll have to share a bed with my son.” “Shit,” I replied, “I’m in the wrong joke.”

Take my wife, please!

Friday, June 04, 2004

Changing Tastes

When I was 3 I wanted to Marry a girl just like my mom.

When I was 12 I wanted a girl that liked snakes and mud.

When I was 18 I wanted a virgin princess.

Now, I want an alcoholic with no gag reflex.

Monday, May 31, 2004


I was the last one on the plane. They were already closing the fuselage door and had announced boarding for the next flight as I ran up. I embarked and found my seat as the plane taxied toward the runway.

After stowing my briefcase, I looked around the craft. It was a typical commuter flight: half-full, people spread around to even out the weight. I was sitting across the aisle from an older woman and her pet dog.

At first, I didn’t realize it was a dog. She had it under the seat in front of her, confined to one of those little pet carriers that looks like a suitcase or an oversized purse. I realized it was a dog when it started yipping.

And it yipped a lot.

And every time it yipped, the lady would kick the case. Or hit the top of it. Or shake it.

And every time she did this, it made the little bundle of hair, teeth, and bows yip all the louder.

So she would kick the case.

So it would yip.

So she would kick the case.

So it would yip.

My amazement at discovering the location of Yorkshire Terriers’ volume control soon gave way to mild irritation, then distress, then an urgent plea that the stewardess bring me “just one more triple gin and tonic.”

She did.

About halfway through the flight, the dog got tired of being kicked. It quit yipping, and she quit kicking. In fact, it got so tired of being kicked, that it lay down on its back, with its tongue sticking out. It didn’t move the whole rest of the flight. It didn’t move when the plane landed. It didn’t move when she picked up the case and set it on her lap preparatory to disembarking. When it crossed her mind that maybe she had kicked her dog to death, the look on her face was priceless. I wake up laughing, remembering her face.

And how much she jumped when the dog woke up, that too was classic.

I just hope she learned her lesson.

Thursday, May 27, 2004

Spring Cleaning

The time has come to get my ass in gear. I'll never be a world famous internet personality if I don't do several things:

1. Post more regularly.
2. Restart my campaign of oral sex in exchange for links on other sites.
3. Fill my text with buzz words like HOT LESBIAN SEX, BRITNEY SPEARS, FREE PICS, PORN, and AUTOEROTICASPHYXIATION that are sure to get me hits on Google.
4. Get people who can actually write to start doing my posts.
5. Marry into the Gates family.
6. Comment on other blogs more.

As you can see, I have my work cut out for me. The first matter of business is to start cutting some of the dead weight off of the links bar. Blogs that haven't updated for several months are being cut. Over the next few days, I will be auditioning some other sites to fill those sad and atrophied shoes. If you'd like to place your site on my casting couch, send me a link.

See you 'round. I'll be here.

Thursday, May 20, 2004

Go KOTWF! It's Your Birthday!

No, really. It is my birthday.

I'm not posting today because I feel dilapidated and geriatric. I'll tell you all about my trip to Paducah tomorrow.

If my old bones live until morning.

Sunday, May 16, 2004

I Just Heard A New One

Why does Michael Jackson like Twenty-Eight Year Olds?

Because there are twenty of them.

Friday, May 14, 2004


So I’ve decided something: Harry Potter is a pussy.

The reason I say this is that his big arch-nemesis, Voldemort, is a total pussy. But Voldemort almost wins every time.

I’d like to see Harry Potter versus Saruman. The little bastard would be a blood spot in seconds.

Friday, May 07, 2004


The light glistens, amicably, off of the water. I look at it through the pink hues of my fourth rumrunner, then get bored with light and start looking at bikinis again. The faint, salty smell of sea air mixes with the aromas coming from my Romeo Y Julieta cigar and takes me back to easier days when I didn’t bare the weight of the world on my narrow shoulders. A seagull calls in the distance, and everything is so perfect that I don’t even want to shoot it.

Red flops down next to me, dripping sand and surf. She smells more like fish than usual, but I assume it’s just the ocean, and, for once, I allow her to get closer than the restraining order dictates. Her kisses mix with the seawater on her lips, and I realize that a little salt would go well with my drink. While we kiss, I discretely rub her sopping hair around my glass-rim.

Tonight, we’ll eat lobster and drink glass after glass of absinthe. Then we’ll stumble out to a moonlit beach where we will dance, barefoot, on a stretch of sand that is fairly free of jelly-fish. We’ll make love as the tide comes in, and fall asleep under the stars. Tomorrow, we’ll awaken to the stares of families on vacation and gain a new knowledge of public indecency laws. Holding manacled hand in manacled hand, we’ll endure our arrest and subsequent incarceration with a wormwood induced headache, and sand up our asses.

At least that’s the way it should be.

Fucking Ohio rain.

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

What the Hell Happened to Me?

When I moved back here from Chicago, I lived alone, in a one-room cabin, in the woods, next to a fish pond that was home to bass, bluegills, geese, and ducks, without air conditioning, TV, internet, or telephone. I would lie awake at night, listening to the cicadas in the trees, the packs of wolves being slaughtered by nomadic tribes of Neanderthal, and the banjo tunes of the hill people. Often I would sit on my porch, martini in hand, and do nothing but…well…and do nothing.

Now that has all changed.

Now I live with my beautiful fiancee, two cats, an aquarium full of fishes ( most of which I can’t identify, and only one of which is named. He’s a bottom feeder, named after a former business associate ), a phone line with caller ID, call waiting and automatic redial, a cable internet which randomly throws scat-porn onto my screen, and a babble-box that sits in the corner loudly broadcasting 500 channels to distract me while it eats my everlasting soul, much like the parrot that says cute things while pecking at Prometheus’ liver.

Here’s the problem. I like TEE-VEE as much as the next guy, but why on Earth do I need five hundred channels if all that is going to do is give me 450 extra channels with nothing on? I was perfectly happy being irritated that I had 50 channels of absolute crap.

For your reading pleasure, here is a listing of the type of fecal detritus my tele spews out daily:

Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle
My God! The only thing that made this movie worth watching was the thought that, with how bad this film is, maybe they won’t make another.

Law & Order
Don’t get me wrong. I like Law & Order. I think it is well-written, well-directed, well-edited, and well-acted. It is also on at least 97 channels at any given time.

Law & Order: Criminal intent
Another 23 channels.

Law & Order: SVU
Yes! All the excitement and macabre humor of the other two PLUS violent rape! This takes up another 30 channels to bring the Law & Order franchise up to an even 150 channels, 24/7.

Oh yeah, speaking of 24/7, Twenty-Four
Just how much shit can happen to the leader of the Lost Boys in one day?

Lost Boys
This movie did a great job of reminding me why the eighties are over (I mean, besides the relentless onslaught of time). Great closing line though, where you think that Grandpa is flipping out because he comes home to find a vampire in his house, and he says “One thing I never could stomach about living in Santa Carla: All the God-Damn vampires.” Oh, eighties flicks, you are sooooo clever!

Friends: 2 Hour Season Finale
Wow! It’s actually ending. I mean, I’m sad because this will mean that there is now even less stuff on Tee-Vee, but, well, two fucking hours? How can they make this last two hours? Ross, you’d better follow Rachel to Paris! Chandler, you and Monica better move to the ‘burbs where you will hang with a young Tom Hanks and raise that Hill-Jack Ohio baby! Joey, you’d better say “how you doin’?” and fuck someone! Phoebe, you’d better be dumb! There, shows over! Leave your keys in the ashtray on the way to your two hour special with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. Matt The White, go freshen up. You have to be ready to eat sandwiches and use women in new and exciting ways next season in your new show.

I guess that’s a bit overly mean. I suppose that I’m really just upset about the whole situation. Now that Friends is ending, I’ll never get to see that monstrous, 2 hour, Friends: SVU crossover I’ve been dreaming of.

Later, guys, I’m gonna go see what’s on TV.

Friday, April 30, 2004

You Must Remember This…

Father time, that bastard, has got me by the balls. I blink, and another year has passed. With every breath I move that much closer to a shallow grave filled with scary clowns and the ghosts of all the Chinese whores I’ve killed.

In fact, time goes by so quickly, that I didn’t notice when I passed the 1 year of blogging mark. I started KOTWF April 10, 2003.

The next year will be filled with even more Bloggy Goodness.

Thursday, April 29, 2004


There are few constants in life. The world flows around us, beating us down in a maelstrom of change. Every time you think you understand life, it jumps up and hits you on the head like a wooden mallet or a cartoon piano. In my quarter century, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve seen plenty. Hell! I’ve been to two county fairs and a hog-fuck, and nothing prepared me for this.

Red is no longer my girlfriend.

You see, a couple weeks ago, we were all lined up to go out. We were heading to a dirty, nasty, standing-room-only college bar that serves up almost as many horny drunk chicks as it does pitchers of beer, and Red decided to change her clothes no less than 5 times before we left while I lay on the floor, fucking around with my new piano.

She was finally ready, and I got up on my knees when she walked into the room.

KOTWF: Is that what you’re wearing out?
Red: What?
KOTWF: You heard me.
Red: Why?
KOTWF: You don’t look right.
Red: What is that supposed to mean?
KOTWF: Your outfit doesn’t look right. It’s missing something.
Red: (Angrily) Like what?
KOTWF: (Holding up diamond ring) Like this….
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Nevermind.
Red: Yes! Yes! I thought you would never ask.
KOTWF: And I thought you would never answer.

Being the sweet, loving Fiance that I am, I still took her out. And I bought her as many pitchers of Killian’s as she could drink.

Friday, April 23, 2004

Welcome Back to the Wild World of Sports!

A lot has happened during the break so we’ll fill you in.

Firstly, as you may or may not realize, one of the primary reasons for the break was technical difficulties. You see, I’m what you call a computer wizard. And no, I don’t mean that I am an expert by any stretch. What I mean is that if there is something wrong with a computer, I resort to unplugging and replugging the fucking thing while performing ancient resurrection rites and praying that either magic will fire out of my fingertips and heal it, or lightning will shoot out of my ass and fry the fucking thing beyond all recognition.

Neither has occurred. Instead, I stand before you a broken, beaten man, with a very expensive, portable DVD player that used to act like a laptop. I even had Oarah, gentleman blogger and computer guru (kind of like a wizard, but more knowledgeable, less reliant on magic, and calmer), come look at the thing. He drank all my rum and announced that there was nothing wrong with it. It just doesn’t work.


No problem, I’ll just do my posts from work, right? Guess again, our blessed lady of maternity leave. The girl downstairs, for whom I am the backup, decided that she should shit out her beautiful new baby about a month ahead of schedule. Luckily, we had just hired her replacement.

About an hour before she went into labor.

So, needless to say, I have been slaving away in front of a computer which operates on some strange amalgam of SAP and one of those superheated pokers used by the Spanish Inquisitors. The premise of the system is this. I sit in a special “SAP Chair” where I am forced to do intricate algorithms in my head, while listening to Replacement Girl ask questions about why I don’t just write a new, more user friendly, system to replace this one, while randomly punching keys and hoping that one of them is the “fix everything I’ve just fucked up” button, and while a red hot poker comes up through the chair and skewers my catflap.

At least some of the time.

You see, I also got a promotion. The current director of marketing is retiring in May. I share an office with him, but I am the quality manager. I found it rather interesting, then, when I happened to see some ad copy that said “KOTWF, Director of Marketing” and had my email address on it.

I must have missed the memo talking about my NEW AND IMPROVED job description, as well as my exorbitant payraise.

I’m sure I would’ve been told if it was important.

Check in soon, I’ll be writing more regularly from now on.

There is more news, but I’m afraid I just don’t have time to tell you right now. I hear the SAP Forge heating up.

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

And This Here’s What We Call A Necktie

I had to go to Charleston, West-By-God-Virginia the other day for work. I had a couple of good meetings, and a nice dinner at Laury’s, an old train station that is now a five star restaurant. On the way home, my boss decided to stop at a little bar he likes in the hills of Ripley, West Virginia.

This place was great. It is an old barn/garage that has been converted into a bar, complete with pool-tables, a dance-floor, and flat screen television. Getting there was a bit of a trick, though. You have to drive down a back road until you come across a hole in a fence. You turn through the hole in the fence and into a field. After you go around the barn, you come over a ridge and find yourself looking at a parking lot with at least two-dozen cars in it. There is no road, no sign, no evidence at all that this place is a bar. You use the single halogen light to find your way from your car to the windowless door.

Once we were inside, everyone in the place turned to look at the two suits that just walked in. Every single eye was on us as we approached the bar and ordered a couple of scotches.

“We’re out of scotch.” Said the bartender.

“No Problem,” we said.

“Hey guys” spoke up a drunk at the bar, “I’ll buy your first round, and before you finish it I’ll be back with a bottle of Dewars, okay?”

“That’s really not necessary, we’ll drink something else.”

“No, I want to go get you a bottle of Dewars.”

“We’ll drink gin, or rum, or anything else you have.”

“Okay, let me at least buy your first drink for you.”

This is decidedly odd. Taking our cocktails that had been purchased by the man next to us, we surveyed the room.

“Hey!” said the mouth-breather to my left, “you guys lawyers or something?”

“No” I said, “We run a trucking company.”

“Yeah, right! You some kind of fucking narc or cop or something?”

“No, we run a trucking company.”

“Sure. What do you haul? Fucking cocaine or heroin?”

“No, just gravel, coal, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah right. Are you reporters doing a story on the bar? Are they in trouble?”

“No, we just wanted a drink.”

“Whatever, man” he said as he walked away.

I was beginning to feel that maybe we were not welcome in this place, being sharp-dressed city slickers from a bustling metropolis of 15,000. I guess I can understand their awe-filled terror. But, to make matters worse, we had brought our big-city gadgets. The boss pulled out his cell-phone, and the bartender suddenly said, “Hey, put that away.”


“That’s one of them camera phones! We don’t want no pictures in here. I mean, just supposin’ a feller was in here with an old lady that ain’t exactly his old lady. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ no pictures tooked of him. I’m sure you can understand. I gotta look out for my customers and I’m sure some of them don’t want what they do in a picture.”

“Right. Just another drink then.”

It became time to go. We finished our drinks and settled our tab. Before we left, the bartender spoke again. “I just want to let you know that you guy’s are alright. I mean, you’re welcome here. You don’t have to worry about nothing, you’re welcome here. Okay?”

“Sure. Thanks. We like this bar.”

“Good. I just didn’t want you thinking there was any hard feelings or nothing. Y’all are welcome here any time. We’d love it if you came back, okay? Don’t worry about anything anybody says.”

“Okay. We’ll come back. Bye.” We said through our masks of confusion. On our way to the door, every eye watched us go.

We climbed into the truck and headed back through the field towards home.

Tuesday, March 09, 2004

Some People Get All The Breaks

I came home yesterday, and there was a strange truck parked in my driveway. This wouldn't be a big deal, except that there is only room for one vehicle in my driveway, and this truck was taking it. I decided that, instead of parking on the street, I would block in the offending four-wheeler. That way, when s/he wanted to get out, s/he would have to come and ask me to move my car.

Not 15 minutes went by.

Very shortly, my neighbor Frank came over. Frank was slightly bloody, and wearing a cast and sling on his right arm.

"What the fuck happened to you?" I asked.

"I ran myself over" Frank replied.

"Of course." I said.

I turns out that Frank had been working on his transmission. It had not been quite right, so he parked it half in my driveway and half in his so that he could get under it and work on it easier. Of course, when he started fooling with the linkage, it knocked the transmission out of gear and the truck rolled down the hill, over his neck, collar bone, and arm, then came to rest on top of him. Luckily, he had his cell phone with him and was able to call the hospital to come and remove the offending vehicle. They parked said truck in my spot while they carted his sorry ass off to the ER.

I'm going to have him fix the transmission on my steam-roller.

Friday, February 13, 2004


I never really got into these rambling weblog entries that are so popular with the kids these days. You know, the ones where they write about the cute thing their fucking dog did last night, then follow that up with a pseudo-witty comment about the size of their floppy or something, and end with an acronym like LOL or ROFLMAO or maybe GBFFOAFITCOD.

So I thought I’d try it. Here’s my life for the last month:

Phoenix Cat
I have two cats. The elder of the two is The Right Honourable Sir Charles L. Rampant, Esquire (Charlie). The Kitten is Bunbury Wilde (Bunny). Charlie recently started spraying and had to be neutered, but that is not funny to anyone but Bunny, so we’ll not talk about it anymore. Bunny, however, is hilarious, mostly because I’ve never owned a retarded cat. Some of the things that attest to his retardation are that he breaths through his mouth, not his nose, he has serious inner ear problems so that he is constantly falling off of things or over stuff, and I have personally seen him run full-boor into objects like doors, walls, and other cats. Additionally, he likes to climb into the bathtub with Red and play with the bubbles (he has also fallen into the toilet and had to be pulled out and washed several times). But the thing that really cinches the deal is his uncanny ability to light himself on fire.

On numerous occasions, I’ve watched as a streak of orange flame barreled around the apartment. Each time, he has managed to put himself out without sustaining or causing any serious damage, but each time it happens I think that perhaps he has learned to not rub up against lit candles, and each time I am proved wrong.

Bankruptcy, Inc.
It seems like in order to be a customer of the company I work for, you have to file for bankruptcy protection at some point and cost us a shitload of money. Of course, we carefully screen all of our customers before we begin work for them, so I am not sure how this happens. I suspect that the screening process goes something like this:

US: I just need to ask you a few questions about your company, sir.
THEM: Okay, just let me finish burying my ex-wife and her lover.
US: Take your time….So, you like killing people, huh?
THEM: Almost as much as I like not paying people for work they’ve done.
US: Good, good.
THEM: Ready.
US: Okay. Tell me about your financial situation.
THEM: Well, once I sell this watch I took off the dead guy, I’ll have $100.
US: Good. So, we’ll put you down for $1,000,000 of credit, okay? Now, could I have the names of some other businesses you’ve worked with?
THEM: I did a deal with a guy named Beelzebub last week. Or was it Lucifer?
US: Doesn’t matter, we never actually call them anyway. Now then, would you be willing to accept 30 day payment terms?
US: Sixty then?
THEM: I was thinking more like “Ragnorak” or “Just after the last trump.”
US: I’ll write down “A Cold Day In Hell” for payment terms, okay?
THEM: Fine by me.
US: Well, I have to admit that I’m not sure if this will work out.
THEM: If you take me as a customer, then I’ll send a hooters calendar every Christmas.
US: Deal.

Needless to say, we’ve written off several million in bad debt over the last few years.

The House
Moving Day is upon us. The Rats are crawling out from beneath the rosebush with their winches and pulleys, and Dom Deloise is flapping about, tangled in yarn, shouting something about a “shiny.” Soon I will be leaving my squalid apartment forever and entering my nice new house. Here are my reasons for leaving:

Current apartment has no insulation, heating bills are atrocious.
Downstairs neighbors like doing construction projects at 1:00am.
Landlord lets himself in whenever he wants to fix things I don’t want fixed.
Landlord never got around to installing little things like fire escapes.
Landlord scares me.
Absolutely no storage-space in the entire apartment.
No washer and dryer.
Rent is so expensive that I am moving out of an apartment into a three bedroom house and saving money.
Red wants to.

Well, that about sums up my major life changes for now. I’ll try to keep you posted on my goings-on from here on out, but it might be kind of sparse. After I get laid off today I have to go to my new house and put out my cat. GBFFOAFITCOD.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

These Things Have To Start Somewhere

The other day I was in a conversation with some people. The conversation turned to matters of recreational pharmaceuticals, and before I knew what I was saying, I had referred to marijuana as "Mexican Catnip."

I personally had never hear this phrase before, and neither had anyone else that I was talking to, but I think that it is pretty good. So here's the deal: if you have heard it before, let me know. If you haven't, then start using it as much as you can in conversation.

Just remember that you heard it here first.

Monday, January 12, 2004


My landlord, God bless his kooky little soul, has decided to start a newsletter which he will send to all of his tenants whenever an issue comes up that he feels the need to mention. This would be fine, if it weren't for the fact that he's...well...just read this excerpt, complete with all the grammatical errors and typos:

If you don't have a dog this isn't for you. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not doing a DNA test on the "poo", but the piles of poo surrounding the building is becoming astronomical. There is more poo than grass, and for the 2nd time I stepped in poo that was on the parking lot. Now if it's not you great, if it's a neighbor please tell them to call me, or beat the person to a pulp yourself for stress relief. If it is you, I don't care, I don't live there. I don't mow the grass, but if the city, a cop, sees you then they will fine you. I'm sure you have seen those ugly signs, "pet defecation is prohibited by city ordinance #3876846378423.234289723987234.234. My personal request/suggestion is to go across the street in the park the hospital created with the mountain of dirt if you don't want to pick it up. This will keep my shoes clean.

I don't know. Maybe I'm being too critical, but if I were to write this, I would probably proof-read it. And I'd try to sound a little bit more professional. And I wouldn't publicly distribute something where I instruct people on how to break the law.

Unless you count that article I wrote on how to dispose of dead hookers.

Friday, January 02, 2004

Why Doesn't Anyone Ever Play With Me?

At my mother's annual Christmas Eve party, everyone always ends up wanting to play Christmas Charades. This usually involves my friend Steve sitting down and coming up with some Christmas Categories, then writing down a bunch of Holiday answers. These get put in a hat and pulled out by the players as they take their turns.

This year, I got to write the clues instead of Steve. Here are some of the categories and clues I came up with:

Category One: Things You Don't Want To Find Christmas Morning.
Grandma: Post-Reindeer
The Head of your Prize Racehose Next to You in Bed
A Foot In Your Stocking
A Dead Hooker
Satan and a host of ghoulish imps awaiting you in the flames at the bottom of a gaping pit, holding many fiendish devices of torture and laughing, laughing...
Matrix: Revolutions

Category Two: Christmas Movies That Will Never Be Made.
Frosty the Drag Queen
It's a Horrible Life
I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus
Rudolph, The Red Nosed Venison
Perry Como's Christmas in Baghdad
It Was An Accident, Charlie Brown!
A Lovecraft Christmas
Santa's Dirty Little Secret

Now no one wants to play charades with me anymore...