How to Milk a Laden Coconut – The Holy Quest

chimp

Coconuts do not migrate

Since my post on Monty Python yesterday received at least one comment, I think I’m on to something and I want to keep that trend going.  I think coconuts was the key meta tag that lead my reader to me, your humble master of absurdity. For ages I’ve seen pictures of men pretending to be women wearing coconut bras.  I never a knew that there were trans coconuts, but I am tolerant and accepting for those that choose such a path.  I also had no idea on how to milk a coconut so I set out on a quest of discovery.

First, I tried the DIY way – the hands on approach.  I held a laden coconut firmly in my hand and suckled at the pointed end.  Much to my surprise it yielded no milk and I truly do suck… hard.  I thought for certain this was the origin of the term – Blue Hawaiian.  I tried suckling on various sizes of the nuts and still no milk.

Second, I have very dry skin and eczema so I have to use lotion to sooth said skin, including my scalp.  My lovely wife buys two new products, both clearly labeled as having coconut milk, one a shampoo and the other a conditioner. They are also packaged in nice little bottles easy for nursing and milk consumption. Let me say that the shampoo smelled lovely!  At first you don’t notice the burning lice killing chemicals, but then you start frothing at the mouth and your cursing loses all its impact.  After ten minutes of running cool cleansing water through my mouth, I decide the conditioner must be smoother and enjoyable, like one of my wife’s smoothies.  All I can say is that the hairs on my tongue are now under control.  My bowels however… well, let’s not go there, yet.

Finally, I decided to ask a few true native Hawaiians and they seemed so cooperative that they began to smile and even laugh.  Now that’s what I call collaboration!  They hand me two medium sized nuts and told me that the milk won’t be ready until you place them under your shirt and stand on the roadside for 30 minutes in the Hawaiian heat and humidity. Look up into the sky, sway your hips, and sing to the Gods over and over, “Haole, Haole, Hulu, please bring me some coconut mulu.” Well, I was mistaken, from a long distance, of being a rather well endowed member of Castle Anthrax, and was cat-called, whistled and harassed by tourist and visiting sailors.  Still, no milk, but a lot of propositions.  If you visit Hawaii, be wary of eager Hawaiian’s advice, they are pranksters.

Now my loving wife takes me to a juice bar, where a coconut barista whacks off the pointed end, inserts a straw and voila!  Coconut milk.  I then realize – I hate coconut milk!  It’s vile.  Please someone pass me the pineapple shampoo.  Who in their right mind would eat or drink a coconut?  You have to drown it out with heavy doses of Rum and stick a little umbrella in it. They call this a Pina Colada, a French word that loosely translates to “fart in a glass.”  According to the Internet, which never lies, coconut milk has the following medicinal values:

  • Aids in digestion.  Well yeah!  If you can’t swallow it or keep it down, it never digests.
  • Reduces Sweet Craving.  True!  Just makes you down 151 Rum or Kerosene.
  • Improves Heart Health. Well that’s true too.  The heaving and hurling does raise the heart rate.
  • Gluten Free.  Wait, what?  Gluten is from wheat, barley and rye.  Are you suggesting that these crops migrated to Hawaii to a have a fling with a unladen coconut but the coconut rejected the seeding of their gluten?  I’m starting not to believe the Internet and all the Gluten Gurus.

Well, that ends another episode into the sex lives of migratory coconuts and this writers’ quest to understand the mammary glands of tropical fruit.  I am told they are rebuilding the famous Coco Palms resort.  Huh!  I thought coconuts vacationed in Colorado. We have been invited over to many pupu parties and the thought of that prank alone clears my bowels.

Stay tuned, for my next quest is to learn how to milk a Lychee.  Absurd?  You betcha.

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Female Code – March 2015 (Maleopause)

Football Season - Again???

Sexopause – really?!  Milleniumopause – you get my drift now buddy?

 

To give equal time to the opposite sex, I’ve placed my mind into the role of a menopausal woman (God help me!) to counter debate my Man Club post titled “Naggopause.”  So without further interruption, the following 10 words have now been genetically engineered into the mutant genes of women everywhere, through menopause supplements such as chocolate and wussy flavored coffees, as a way to communicate with their husbands.

  1. Gameopause – that period of time where you are standing in a baby doll and you throw the Xbox out the window.  Here you scream at the top of your lungs –“You want an end to the sexopause or not?!”
  2. Maleopause – that period you don’t want him anywhere near you.  Just hold up a hand to his face and gently whisper “Maleopause.”  He will get this as a sign that if he does not run, serious bodily damage is about to take place.
  3. Milleniumopause – the word used to tell him to stop nagging about the lack of sex, or he won’t get any for 12 centuries. Touche!
  4. Shadeopause – That period when a woman hits the age of age 80 and is ready for sex and all that 50 Shades has to offer.  This is also the period of time she feeds you well, exercises with you, and then ties you up to kill you, using your vast wealth from saveopause to hire Fernando DeGuicheeCoochee, her 40 year old slave and gardener.  (again, I’m just thinking like an menopausal woman).
  5. Brazierreopause – that period where she flings her bra at you.  Do not be deceived, she is not telling you she wants sex, she’s hinting that your man-breasts are sagging and your identity as a man is in serious jeopardy.  She may pull out a whip from her spendopause period and enter shadeopause at the same time, demanding you firm your bad boy twins up. Egads!
  6. NASCARopause – for the love of god man!  You’ll spend all day watching a car go around in circles, but can’t wash your own?  You want the naggopause to start?  Then shape up.
  7. Duckopause – no you can’t just change channels to avoid the naggopause.  Get off your arse!  If he hears this she might go all 50 Shades with your duck caller and permanently affix to your anatomy, which leads to the next male period of life .
  8. Fartopause – when the dynasty ducko call sounds, it’s her signal that you are entering your gassy period and for her to enter spendopause.
  9. Meatloafopause – if you’re nagging about sexopause continues, this is the period of time where meatloaf becomes a daily staple – increasing fartopause, spendopause, and maleopause.
  10. Divorceopause – that period of time when a woman can bring a man to his knees, without whips.

And there you have it, ten new words that women everywhere will be talking about tomorrow.  They will comment here about how uncanny I am in reading their menopausal minds.

Now I’ll just take a pause from all this writing genius.  You are welcome.

Man Club – March 2015 (Naggopause)

 

Wedding Leap of Death

Yes, its menopause!

Sometimes I lie awake in the early morning hours and just think.  Sometimes the thoughts are deep and many times, well, like this one, not so profound.  Why do they call it “Menopause?”  Do men get a pause from women or women get a pause from men? As I said, this is not one of my more profound thoughts, but stick with me on this, because I’m about to set a new trend in the use of words or the homicide rate in married households, it depends on your perspective and hormone levels.

The following ten words have been added to the Man Club 2015 edition of manly, man rules:

  1. Naggopause – that very brief period of time when a wife actually allows you some peace.  It is also synonymous with the next word.
  2. Nanopause – the length of time  lapsed in an naggopause, indiscernible to anyone even armed with a nanosecond stop watch.
  3. Choreopause – that period where your honey-dos are given a rest, usually comprising of two nanopauses.
  4. Sexopause – for men married more than seven years, this is the length of seven years to the third power, times 2  (for those not good with math, that’s 12 centuries).
  5. Viagraopause – That period after sexopause ends and jumper cables no longer work to revive certain physiological functions.
  6. Greyopause – hopefully that period when you never hear anyone talk about the story, ever again, unless it ends the sexopause, only backed by a contract signed, witnessed and fully enforceable in a court of law.
  7. Spendopause – a word, even though completely contrived from thin air resonates with the opposite sex, like “fetch” does for a black lab.
  8. Saveopause – a word, even though completely contrived from thin air will not register with the opposite sex.
  9. Coldfeetopause – that period where your wife is in menopause that you get relief from cold winter feet placed near a certain obvious heat retaining male organ.
  10. Beardopause – that moment when the love of your life has a better beard than you and wants to borrow your grooming gear. Egads!

And there have it, ten words you can now add to your daily conversations with your wife, such as:

“Honey would you empty the trash?” says the lovely lady.

“Geez babe, can I have a few nanaopauses here? Your naggopauses and my choreopauses are getting shorter and shorter!”

Later that evening as you cuddle (their word, not ours) up to that same lovely woman…

“Hey babe, is the sexopause over?”

As she turns to you with the look of murder in her eyes, she so lovingly replies,

“I’ve decided to extend the sexopause for a milleniumopause.”

Oh crap!!! Appears the female code was also updated.  Now you are ready for menopause. That period you wish you weren’t a man, just a mere boy with his bucket of plastic army men playing in your parents backyard and girls were something to throw dirt clods at.  Sigh…

I am dead, died, kaput!

Three Bloggers on the Wall, Three Bloggers All, One Falls Down, the other gatyher around, To write about the Blogger who fell on the Ground

Three Bloggers on the Wall,
Three Bloggers All,
One Falls Down, the others gather around, To write about the Blogger who fell on the Ground

 

I saw this article on Facebook today about bloggers.

Bloggers Fake Death

So, to gain as much attention as possible I am writing this while dying.  Why should I not get equal attention?  This is Murica!  But what am I dying of or died from?  Hm….

  1. Cold Weather
  2. 3,000 Cable TV channel nothingness
  3. Hollywood comic book / reboot madness.  Terminator T-10 and counting / Awesomely Amazing Amy and Spiderman Gone Girl.
  4. Tax season blues
  5. I helped my wife clean the house
  6. I lowered the toilet seat
  7. Took out the trash

That’s just a few that have the most realistic probability of occurring.  But that doesn’t attract readers and followers, I must… be… creative.

  1. I’ve had 28,000 lovers (had to outscore Wilt Chamberlain) and died from exhaustion, even though that calculates to sex every 20 minutes.  What a lovely way to go.
  2. I won the Publishers Cleared Home $7 a week prize for life contest!!!  I died of a heart attack, but have a Sport Illustrated Swimsuit edition to line the coffin.
  3. Brian Williams and I scaled the north face of Everest.  He survived to tell the tale, but gave me no credit. What a pal!

Well, it turns out I am not as creative as I thought.  I suppose it is because I love life and love to hear people laugh.  It’s not about me all the time.  I don’t need 100,000 blog followers (at least yet) to obtain daily affirmation.  I have a mirror for that and an image of Stuart Smalley running around my brain.  You’re special and dog gone it, people like me.

I feel sorry for those in this world that suffer from loneliness and depression.  Writing and conversing with others brings me up and I learn from it was well.  I have many simple philosophies in life:

  1. Commit one single act of kindness per day.
  2. Give attention to someone speaking.
  3. Smile.
  4. Find ways to live and learn filling every day with as much as possible.

We live in a very harsh period of human history where technology can lift you up or tear you down quickly, depending if you are honest and sincere, or just plain narcissistic.

I write because I love to and most of my humor writing is inspired by Dave Barry, who is self deprecating and simply takes real world news and blows it out of proportion, with a little scent of satire splashed in to make you think.  If you ever read me in woeful mood here, just digitally slap the crap out of me, I’m not the only one in this world with problems.  I promise I’ll pull my big boy pants up and get a grip or seek professional help.  Then I’ll be right back to tell you all about it.

Weather Chaos

For the last three weeks we have had crappy weather, which in turn lasts until Monday, so that the crappiest day of all the week is crappified by the power of ten.  If you have 3 crappy weather systems spun by polar vortices you get crap to the power of ten, tripled.  Whatever.  I haven’t used high level math since college.  The point is, enough crap already!  If I were the weather chipmunk, squirrel, or any variety of rather large rodent, even I’d take a bite out of the mayor’s ear for pulling me out of my comfy earthen bunker, interrupting the “Dancing with Rodents” season finale.

I get it, I get it – we are in a cycle of weather chaos created by global weather changing chaos.  People in Alaska are actually at the beach surfing with the Kodiaks, a bear weighing half a ton, not a couple you just met from Arkansas, while I’m here in Oklahoma writing a crappy blog that 3 people subscribe to – all family members.  I want to be outside, running around in my shorts, planting a garden and mowing my lawn like a man.  But the forecasters keep giving me more crap with winter storms Quantum, Rectal and Squantum – all just days apart.  My skin is so dry and my Eczema is so intense, I have dried skin flakes all around my face.  See!

EddieNut3

People in Boston are literally building ten story snow condo’s and charging rent. Recent photographs show the Nantucket looking like a giant Slurpee machine. All this explains the odd accent of Bostonians, their lips are frozen! Pipes are bursting in DC, while our politicians are on lobbyist junkets to Costa Rica, creating a government budget chaos.  But never fear, politicians are cold-blooded creatures and they will survive, they don’t know the difference, nor the meaning of the word “budget”.

This winter has interrupted my tax season more than ever, with several Monday’s being missed, forcing me to work Sundays.  Crap to the power of ten, tripled.  They say that all this cold may find us with a baby boom.  How?  Why is anyone going to get naked in this cold?  My wife has ten layers of quilts on the bed, thermal underwear and an artic burka on.  Even if I could move under the crushing weight of the quilts to make a move, de-clothing my wife would result in cardiac arrest.

The ice age is upon us and yet according to Scientific American, we can expect a rapid warming.  And that’s bad?!  If so, then warming, cooling, nor change is the appropriate word for our weather, just chaos.  We have only a few more letters left to name winter storms, then we start all over.  I keep hoping a scene out of the blockbuster movie inspired by Algorisms, “Global Crappy Chaos“, has DC frozen over in a matter of hours so that all the activities of the IRS, including email destruction, comes to halt finally fulfilling the preamble to the constitution – “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”  Hey, if you are going to have crappy weather, let’s have something positive come from it.

My point is this, life will give you plenty of crap, and weather will simply pile more of it on.  So all we can do is pull our big person thermal underwear up and deal with it the best way we can.  All I can do is provide cold crappy humor, and that should be a warming thought.

You are welcome.

Now chime in, what crappy weather story do you have to share?

 

 

2014 – A Review

Happy2015

 

Honestly, I don’t remember much about this past year.  It was a blur.  I think we had a polar corset, pineapple espressos, or something like that. I increased my fiber intake. My college football team (OU) initially ranked #4 and ended #400 (out of a possible 130 teams) – who knew the odds of that?!  I gained weight making the dough boy proud and very rich.  I converted from beer to wine because I was convinced the redness had health benefits, even though  my teeth are so stained, I am now confused with Nosferatu.  I wrote very little and generally was not in a laughing mood (I blame the fiber).

CalvinAndEddie

I watched “Moving to Hawaii” and tried to move to Kauai, Hawaii. This is of course if I can find a home or cardboard box that I can afford and isn’t snatched up before I can get there, or  leased by wild free roaming roosters.  If any of my loyal readers are from Hawaii, has a place to lease, and is willing to take my gas passing Golden Retriever (yes, I lay blame on the poor dog and the fiber), please respond by commenting here.

I grew older – dagnabit!  Even AARP stopped sending new member applications.  Instead, I received the OFP (Old Fart People) membership application, which was really less confusing with only three simple questions:

  1. Are you over 55?
  2. Do you require massive doses of fiber?
  3. Can you pay us $5?

It was so simple, I completed the application in 15 seconds and saved 15000% over AARP.  I have been approached to be the official OFP spokesperson.  I’m thinking it over.  I am highly qualified and they have offered me a free set of Yoga pants, because I began practicing in 2014 so I could be bend forward to cut my toe nails.

That’s it.  Exciting huh?  With this in mind, I’ve made my 2015 resolutions:

  1. Cut down on the fiber, at my wife’s pleading and my Golden’s howling.
  2. Cut down on wine and women.  Oh wait… that was a dream… never mind.
  3. Write more excellent humor like that displayed here.
  4. Perfect my sneers and do it more often, then blame it on the fiber and the Golden.
  5. Get to Kauai even if I have to dress like a wild free roaming rooster and blend in with the indigenous population.
  6. Bundle up for more polar corsets and pineapple espressos.
  7. Lose 35 pounds in 100 months or less.
  8. Fit into my Yoga pants (visualize that NOW!)
  9. Stay awake past 9:00 pm.
  10. Learn new words to include in the 4 books I WILL COMPLETE THIS YEAR!!!!
  11. Take writing anxiety drugs, supplemented by the other 30 counter effect drugs.
  12. File suit against the pharmaceutical companies for my 31 new 2015 drug addictions.
  13. Bend far enough forward to see past my belly and notice the official OFP brand logo on the Yoga pants.
  14. Stay positive – despite all the 15,000 people who will want to be president in 2016.

So you say it’s impossible to meet all these?!  Maybe so, but as the official spokesperson of OFP, I won’t remember any of it tomorrow.  That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it!  With age comes wisdom – use it or lose it.  I’ve chosen to lose it.

May you each have a happy, healthy, prosperous and fiber free 2015.

Legal Disclaimer – you may not sue me for the mental damage suffered visualizing an OFP member, or its spokesperson in Yoga pants.

The Man Club – January 2014 (Candy Comment Rebuttal)

I follow many authors on Facebook.  Sometimes they inspire me to write and sometimes inspire me to comment on meme’s, photo’s, etc.  The following is a meme, provided by author and all around good sport Amalie Jahn posted on Facebook.

Candy

Now I ask you fellow man club members, is this really all we are in the eyes of the enemy, I mean… the lovely opposite sex?  Many years ago I went through marriage counseling, because I couldn’t figure my wife out at all.  In those sessions I learned that financial security is one of the very highest items in their well being.  So in rebuttal and armed with my growing knowledge of Photoshop I present to you the following:

Candy2

You see, perspective is a two-way street.  In 2013, we learned that women go ballistic over 50 Shades of Grey, about an other worldly gorgeous, endowed man that just so happens to be a billionaire to boot.  How convenient? Or there is Edward, not this Edward (club president and chief dictator), but the sparkling Edward, who is also gorgeous, sparkles, stands watch over Bella (the awkward stare Queen) sniffing in her scent, and drives a nice Volvo.

Amalie wondered why my rebuttal focused predominantly on financial matters.Well I don’t know, maybe because almost every love story depicts some woman being swept off their feet for a fantastical journey around the world, with some guy that happens to look like Fabio with a well endowed wallet, unworldly FICO score, and a billion dollar line-of-credit, and is willing to watch some chick flick like Mamma Mia and cry and dance along with them.

You never read stories of a truly sincere loving 5’5″ balding guy, with a beer gut, who owns a 1976 rusted Toyota pickup  (complete with 8-track and ABBA’s greatest hits) that’s parked outside by his 1975 Tradewinds double wide at Morning Dawns Trailer Park.  Why not!  We bowling ball shaped men need forcing, I mean… loving no differently than anyone else.

So then I read how men are being chained and whipped into submission, bound and forced to watch Twilight and The Help.  Men are calling 911 for assistance and getting injunctions against their wives and girlfriends.  Then they try to seduce us with candy hearts with devious subliminal messages that we are being intolerably insensitive and have only SEX on our mind.  You don’t see a male author writing 50 Shades of Kardashian, about an average bowling ball male being swept off by the Kardashian women – now do you?  That’s right, we are logical, analytical and sensical (not a word, well it should be!)  I rest my case.

So members, as you can see your dues to the club are used to counter the arguments that you are bunch of wussies all on board the wuss wuss train.  I’ve got your back as long as the $50 monthly dues keep rolling in.  Also remember our rule book

Section 66.1, Paragraph A – Just Listen!

“If your woman would rather talk than listen to your ABBA Greatest Hits collection, be prepared to pretend to listen.  Pry your eyes open with toothpicks if you must, and do not, even though your genetics scream to fix the situation, try to fix anything.  And if you are to be forced to watch some sappy flinging chick flick love story afterwards, do it with style and imagination.  I suggest a ceiling fan.”

Here is one of our club members who failed to follow the Man Club Code, aka The Book of Male Survival.

I know winter is tough men, but hang in there.  Spring will come soon and the freedom of the open air awaits.

Footnote – Thank you Amalie Jahn for being a good sport.  Please support an author today.  We love to tell stories.  Look here on Amazon for more on Amalie.