Posts Tagged ‘fun’


Have you ever been tortured? I have. I have lived, hell I live, with the constant and agonizing terror of not knowing when my torturer will come back through the door–when the purveyor of pain will return to peddle their product to the innocent man that is me. For years, I have faced the fanatical fiend that found her way under the false pretenses of a fortuitous future into my life. The problem, my friends is that the perpetrator who propagates my plight, is so sweet in the day and evil in the night.

So this alliterative attempt, albeit now with added assonance, is the introduction in another episode of my anguished sleep life.

I have written to you all before of my wife’s nightly antics. I want to record them so badly, but I worry that if I was to show “Awake Whitney,” “Asleep Whitney,” that some tragedy would occur like in Back to the Future with the polaroid and the whole “Marty McFly disappearing while playing Earth Angel” thing.

Lately, its taken a turn for the even more insane. It has become a harrowing experience complete with me waking up to Whitney standing on the bed, looking nine feet tall from my vantage point, head on pillow. In her eyes, resided a look that said, “I am going to stomp your head now.” When I asked her what she was doing up there, Sleeping Whitney scrambled for an excuse, as not to give her true intention of stomping my noggin into flatness. Her answer was simple and logical.

“I was trying to catch the floating baby.”

I am not even sure how to have responded to her statement. Why? Well it’s simple. I am not sure that the floating baby scenario isn’t just about the creepiest thing she could have said at that moment. It’s like interviewing a psychopath using the Rorschach Ink Blot Test. You know how it goes. I hold up a card that looks remarkably like an innocent butterfly and say, “What do you see, Whitney?” To which Sleeping Whitney would respond calmly and like it is obvious, “I see a butterfly…………..with wings made of human skin and the ability to talk, but when the butterfly talks it can only say perverse and vulgar phrases.”

Adding to the drama, once Sleeping Whitney explained her heroic intentions of catching the floating baby, she panicked and dropped in place like she was shot, or worse still, like the demon in her body promptly exited, stage left, and in doing so, her hind end hit the marble top of the bedside table, cracking it, and leaving a triangular shaped purple mass. For two weeks now, when Awake Heath pats Awake Whitney’s butt as an affectionate gesture, Whitney glares at him in pain. For just a moment, a fleeting and brief moment, we remember what lies beneath the seemingly sweet facade that is my wife’s awake body.

And this, my faithful following, was only one event, and it was the most innocent of them all. The following night, I was scared awake by Sleeping Whitney yelling in her sleep. Sadly, this is not too out of the norm in my house, but what ensued was unexpected. After about ten seconds of unintelligible ramblings, Sleeping Whitney somehow propelled herself, without having left the laying down position, three feet out of the bed slamming into the wall. The abrupt meeting with the wall was enough to wake Whitney.

Dazed and confused, she looked at me and said, “See what happens when you steal all of the covers?”

This was horrifying.

“After the “Floating Baby Incident,” and the world record setting “Three Foot Flop,” I quickly realized that crazy had come to town and that it had taken up residence in my bed. Alas, these two were just the labor pains of something much more terrifying.

In the middle of sweet dreams of unicorns, puppies frolicking upon clouds made of marshmallow goodness, and beams of rainbows and Oompa Loompa’s singing rhythmic riddles, I was jerked out of slumber. Sleeping Whitney must have saw my Ooompa induced smiling and felt the necessity to end all happiness. I can only guess as to what led up to it, but I picture a wide eyed beauty, now overcome with evil, panting as she reached across the bed and dug her fingers into my eyes. Grabbing with such violent tenacity, one of her fingers was actually able to get beneath my left eyelid, so that when I jerked away and grabbed her hand, my eyelid actually popped from Sleeping Whitney’s gripping fingers and slapped with elastic fervor back onto my eyeball. It was stretched so far and tight that when it connected with my eye, it created an audible popping sound and sent my head backwards; back and to the left; back and to the left like JFK.

Quickly, I blinked and felt for my eyes, certain I would find a gaping hole where once a deep Sinatra blue orb, capable of wooing myriads of women existed. To my surprise, I still had both eyeballs and my vision seemed only momentarily blurred by the tears resultant from a good quality eye gouging and eyelid popping.

I pushed Sleeping Whitney back onto her side of the bed. Sitting still, breathing heavily, I watched Sleeping Whitney. She appeared to be back to normal sleep. Curiously, I leaned in closely and tried to see through blurry tears. Too dark to get a really good look, I leaned in even closer. Silently breathing, eyes closed and resting, she looked as if nothing had happened. I kept close.

The following is not an exaggeration. I would not joke of such things. As I stared, Whitney’s eyes popped open glaring into my face, a small grin appeared on her face as I jumped back and recoiled under the covers. For the next three hours, I felt that lifeless, wide-eyed grin watching me as I feigned sleep. It was the longest night of my life.

So, let me retract my earlier contestation that crazy was now residing in my house, or in the least, let me revise the statement. Crazy just doesn’t do it, for Sleeping Whitney is far more sinister.

I just wanted you know, because I have been holding it in for years.

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The left, rear tire on my truck has developed a tumor. It’s been there for days, and it is a constant reminder, along with a couple other things, that I am missing some key elements of manhood that make other men useful. I have written about this before, but I like to really drive things home through example and honest portrayals thereof. Additionally, one of the greatest things about writing a blog is that you are the king of said blog.

The tire bulges forth from its normal tire self making the once circular object into an oblong shaped nightmare. Instead of a round tire, I am driving on a football–lengthwise. I know that the tire is holding on for dear life, trying not to fail on me, but I also know that I am pissing in the faces of the gods every time I drive. Another thing I am absolutely sure of is that, due to my tire’s elliptical shape, my truck drives like an excited puppy whose tail is wagging furiously as it makes its way down the highway. The pine-tree-shaped-fragrance-enhancing-tree-thing hanging from my rear view mirror swings violently from left to right, and every third second, up and down. The movement causes slacking in the twine that connects the mirror to the part of the tree that would hold the star at Christmas. Above the tree, the rear view mirror is having a seizure. The cars entering my rear view mirror’s vision seem to be jitterbugging down the road (I feel sorry for them…poor bastards).

Cars passing by notice. I know they do. I watch them in the driver’s side mirror as they make their way around my pulsating vehicle. These cars are also jumping in unison with my mirror’s motion. They examine my truck. They think they are the first to notice. I hate them for it. As they come directly along side, their windows flush with mine, I can feel them trying to gain my attention. They are jiggling in my peripheral like children trying to bother their siblings through annoying gestures alone. I refuse to look their way; instead, I sit there oscillating up and down, side to side, side to side, and up and down. For a moment the highway comes to a standstill. I meet the traffic and slowly wobble to a halt, and now I can actually feel the three cars surrounding my vehicle all aching to convey their concern over my tire’s health. They look to each other as if forming a spontaneous intervention. I pray a silent prayer for the traffic to regain its momentum so that I could ramble on down the road leaving the judgmental stares of men and women with normal shaped tires behind.

So you think to yourself. Use your spare. Let’s be honest, people. If I use the spare, Murphy will show up and screw me like it’s cool. There is only one thing that can be done here. There is one course of action that can take place that will effectively fix the problem. We are out of options and we must take evasive action. The truck needs to be blown in place like a disabled military vehicle you don’t want to fall into enemy hands…the truck is no good anymore. This truck is dead to me. The only problem with this course is that the man skills required come up with a device that would blow the car in place, but still look like an accident also reside beyond my man capabilities. Trust me I have thought of everything. And so I just jiggle everywhere I go. Calls I make from my car sound like I’m being burped throughout the duration of the conversation. But, I just jiggle.

I know my father will read this in disappointment, and he will question where he failed. He will look down at his old, weathered hands aged through experience and hard work. He will feel the ache of arthritic thumbs (which are not the result of years of over work, but rather from his discovery of first person shooter games at the age of 60), and he will begin weeping. He will cry crocodile tears; the floor will be wet with tears of sadness. I will be the reason for his first good cry.

I am not proud, but I have to tell you, the vibrations of the vehicle have done wonders for my back. As another bonus, I got to write a blog and portray my father as weeping, which is always fun. If my father is crying right now, it is more likely caused by a thirteen year old who beat him in a video game.

Look, I just wanted you to know, because I’ve been holding it in for years.


And now I offer to you a few techniques that you need to put in your little mental toolkit and carry with you everywhere you go. The title to this is a bit misleading, because it centers itself on the art of debate, but really, this is about winning people over through smoke and mirrors. Don’t get all weird on me, this is something that is being done to you on a daily basis; I have decided that you should be well equipped and wearing the full armor of intellectualism, which if used properly, culminates in a win in battle. If you can master the art, you will be a force to reckon with anywhere you go. You will likely get the best looking mates, gain riches beyond your wildest dreams, attain fame and fortune, and most importantly, look down on others not so well prepared.

**It is important that you understand that these techniques have a limited operating area i.e. don’t take on subject matter experts in a debate of subjects wherein they are experts–this is lunacy. I have done this and there is only one outcome with which you can save face. You actually have to speak in circles and then finally end by saying the following statement, “I think we are arguing the same point. I’m just not communicating it very well.”** I will show you other escapes momentarily.

When making a point in an argument where you are a) unprepared, b) want to win quickly and at all costs, or c) a combination of both a and b, you must utilize the following

1. “It has been proven”…

“It has been proven” is a difficult one to make work, but it is worth the try. A good opponent will naturally retort with the logical counter, “by who?” you must then immediately say, without hesitation or wavering of voice, “let’s not get into semantics here, anyways….” That word “anyways” is your ticket to victory, people. After the “anyways” you just say whatever half truth or fact that best defends your side and, voila, you have somewhat won. Somewhat winning is as good as winning in my book, somewhat. This little trinket is the “I’m just saying” of the intellectual discussion. There is no really effective counter, but I have seen grown men lose friends when the user of this method continually falls back on it for all arguments, so use accordingly.

2. The next little trick you can apply is displacing the burden of fallibility upon someone that your oponent will never be able to verify without a lot of leg work. I like to use basic knowledge I may already have that is out there on the subject being debated. Then I say one of these these golden phrases:

“I think this is what John Smith (insert author whom you believe says anything close to whatever garbage you are about to try and sell) discusses in his book….”

Even if your opponent has read the book, as long as you didn’t get overly specific with your point, you are fine. If you feel trapped, all you have to say now is, “I need to read that again, it was such a good book.” This is misdirection at its finest. It appeals to the opponents love of the book, and in the same breadth, you look like a lifelong scholar. It’s genius

Or,

“I heard a lecture on this very subject, who was the doctor speaking? (Really sell right here that you are searching for a name, shit, you can even say a name, but then take it back and continue. It is much about the selling the drama as it is the phrase) I forget his or her name, but they said…..”

(I like this one, because you never really have to have attended any lecture on anything, plus you look like you walk around thinking about more than food, sex, and beer..)

3. This tactic is more delivery than an actual specific phrase.

I saw this recently during a brief where a friend of mine was asked to convey a specific plan by walking step by step through a process. With the confidence of a Spartan warrior, my friend proceeded to rattle off a random sequence of numbers and letters. He added in a few important words that everyone wants to hear like, safety, fuel allowance, worse case scenario, etc….you get the idea. My point is that my friend said nothing of value. I’m not even sure he had a plan in the first place, but he said nothing of value with such conviction that he received accolades for the thoroughness and depth of his plan. When I confronted him on this, he simply told me to shut-up and walked off hurriedly…you can’t shit a shitter.

4. The last tactic is not for the weak or faint of heart. This is boldness in action, and relies on passion. I use this as my, “all hell has broken lose” course of action. When you have realized you have argued yourself to a loss, simply attack the character of the person you are arguing. It can be subtle, but it must be based off of some small crumb of reality.

For instance:

Your opponent says, “the problem with your argument is that you are based purely on a flawed understanding of the world.” Your opponent is right, but now you have to make it look like this is name calling, and by sheer nature of this, you no longer want to engage in petty discussion. This makes you look so civilized it’s not even funny.

If all else fails you need to resort to name calling, but you need to make sure that you will not get punched, or that you can punch harder, and that you punching harder is universally understood by your opponent as to deter actual physical contact.

Use this and you will be successful.

I just wanted you to know, because I’ve been holding it in for years.


Firstly, I dedicate this blog to Barry, he is a good man who shamelessly admits that he reads my blog. He lives in the northwest with a wonderful lady, Brittany. Together, these two love puppies and promote the idea that all puppies are created equal and that all puppies are inclined to do good things; it is just their owners, who being less than dignified, nurture the darker qualities of aggression in animals. This is not their only good point I swear to you, but people who love animals, are almost always good people…it is what it is.

Let me begin by saying my caveman conversion is going well. The fact is, it is fun and the food is pretty damned good. During week two and three, I had this period of three days where I wanted to kill people at random. This is the delirium tremens from taking away processed food. The good news: nobody was killed, but I did lose my temper twice at work over things that a normal Heath would have only lost his imaginary temper.

My imaginary temper is what I can only describe as an escalation of force mechanism internal to the vast catacombs of my brain that allows me an in-between, a purgatory where I don’t have to operate at berserker levels, or a constant state of hyper emotionalism (hulk-smash). You see, I get wound up and I talk with my hands. It has its goods; people never have to guess what I am thinking, and generally, if you don’t have to guess what one is thinking then nobody ends up disappointed or surprised. I am sure it has bads as well, but I refuse to discuss bads when talking about my attributes…it just brings me down, ya know. My imaginary temper has ensured for years I have not been beaten to death by somebody around me, and I guess to a certain extent, it has protected those around me from me. In my head, in the same exciting place where all of my imaginary fights occur, 90 percent of what I want to say to people is filtered out and sent to a garbage bin located in one of the cortexes of my mind to be used in a blog later on.

At any rate, I lost my temper, but it was more like an unwinding where I just kind of disintegrate over something that would make anyone mad—I just do it like I am in a play. It is very dramatic and possesses some of the same qualities of interpretive dance, which I will have you know frustrates me. Interpretive dance is too whimsical and uncontrolled, lacking in structure. People doing interpretive dance should never admit they messed up, because even their mess-ups look like a move that someone, somewhere can describe as brilliant—the same way that abstract art by renowned artists, worth gillions, looks a lot like something I drew 15 years ago that my dad said sucked.

At any rate again, there were two distinct moments where I wanted frozen yogurt. I didn’t want frozen yogurt because it is a healthier version of soft serve ice cream either. I wanted frozen yogurt that I turned into a collage of all my favorite chocolate and peanut butter candy plastered to frozen yogurt backdrop by hot fudge. I wanted it to be a “pay-by-the-ounce” place, and I wanted three pounds. Again, these longings are the delirium tremens—the pangs of addiction to sugar. Delicious refined sugar. I prevailed, but it had more to do with the fact that my longing for frozen yogurt was only out dueled by my laziness. I knew my laziness would come in handy.

Whitney is also doing well. She continues the hunt for new recipes, and neither she nor I have brought any processed food into this house. I like it. I like not eating the stuff. She made Paleo Bread, which we devoured with happy hearts. For our snack this week, she concocted an Almond milk chocolate shake with 25 grams of protein. Are you picking up what I am putting down here? I like the food, and that is essential to lifestyle change. I must admit that Whitney has been an extremely active sleeper since going paleo, but I am reluctant to reduce this to a result of the lifestyle when it is probably just further evidence that one day, she will kill me in my sleep, while she herself is sleeping, and that said killing will be violent and terrible. This is Whitney, she kills while she sleeps.

Insert perfect segue to another subject here.

I am reading a novel now. I have started reading for pleasure again. I recommend everyone reading this start reading for pleasure again unless that means you stop reading my blog, and seriously, if you cannot get pleasure from my blog, why were you reading it anyway—that’s kind of weird. The novel is The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. It is a terrifically written novel so far and fun to read, but you need to read some form of study guide with it to help you get all there is to get about everything this guy is saying. I am pretty sure that sects of Islamic people want to kill Rushdie for this work, so this only adds to the fun.

The second novel I am reading is written by my sister, S. E. Culpepper. For years, my sister seemed only placed on this earth to tell on me for things I did as a teenager. Hers was a police presence, but with time and work, she has transformed into the perfect heathen. She is extremely talented and has just released her latest book in the Liaisons Series. A quick disclaimer on her novel. If you are scared that you can somehow “osmotically turn gay” by reading a novel about characters who are gay, or if you feel like your soul will immediately burst into flames if it you read a book with gay characters, or if you are hoping that by ignoring the idea of gay people they will cease to exist, then this book is probably not for you. But, I am telling you, she is my sister, and she is a writer worth reading.

This is what is happening with me.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


My blog could have been titled:

Happiness is All Around Us, Except in Me…

I Want to be Happy For You, But I am Having Trouble Making it My First Priority

Please Don’t Be Like Me: A Study in How I Have Trouble Being Overly Critical

Or Finally,

I’m Insecure, So Excuse Me While I Look For Ways to Bring You Down to an Acceptable Level of Average…

I chose, No, I am Happy For You, I’m Serious….Just Not All the Way, because I think this sounds a bit kinder towards the object of the statement. I want to go down in the records as being a kind and welcoming man, but I also want to be painted with honesty, and so should you. I want to think that after reading this, you walk away thinking, “Hey, Heath is just like me, and maybe, we all need a little work,” or most likely, “Sweet, I am not the only one who has trouble with being a human.”

Congratulations, you’re normal. What I am talking about is the same emotion we feel when we see the trashy looking soul that won a zillion dollars in a lottery we played, but lost. It is the same lottery that you had already fantasized how you would spend the money should you had won, and more so, how you were going to impress all around with how respectable and responsible you were in your fiscal prowess. But now, because you lost, you spend the next fifteen minutes of your life wasting it on playing the winning guy’s miserable existence out in your mind. Immediately, you flash forward ten years in this guy’s life and hope that he is desperately addicted to meth or coke; that he took out a million dollars in ones and gave it to a stripper at the local club, only to show up on the news after being beaten by the stripper’s ex-boyfriend; her ex-boyfriend recently learned that the love of his life and baby’s mama, Cinnamon, was seen philandering with that guy who won the millions—he, in an attempt to save his pride that had been stripped away like Cinnamon’s last thong on stage at TD’s Gentlemen’s Club, took his frustrations out on the subject of our fantastical voyage into the future, and, oh by the way, he stole the last bit of his coke, and found the briefcase full of ones that the winner had intended to use to convince Cinnamon to escape with him to a better life; subsequently, her boyfriend leaves the miserable winner in the gutter, face down, mumbling garbled phrases of longing for simpler days when his worst worries consisted of how he was going to afford the next six pack of Natural Light from the 7-11 down the street and still be able to buy another carton of cigarettes…you know, the bare necessities.

You quickly insert into this unfortunately lucky guy’s life an ineptness that is so profound that he will not be able to function as a normal person, because he has never dealt with real responsibility…not the kind you have. Oh. My. God. You could have done so many more responsible things should you have taken home the millions.

That is what I am talking about. We humans spend a lot of time making sure that we are doing okay. To a large extent, this is relatively harmless, at least towards others. It is a thought process we utilize to maintain an operational level of self-esteem and self-concept. Why did that guy deserve millions? It must be because he is going to be a parable for something larger to the world. He is the proverbial example of “be careful what you wish for.” Now that you have denigrated the dude’s existence, you can go on and be successful. This is the average man’s way of not murdering people out of envy or jealousy…we do it mentally and then we move on. Admit it. None of you are happy for the guy. If you say right now that you are, then you are the worst type of person….dishonest—and there is a level of Hell that Dante built especially for you…

And to a much smaller scale, we do this every day in our normal lives. The good news is that the victims of our little murders are generally not people we know and care about.

Girls, it works this way…It is the girl you see at the mall, who is dressed to the 9s and looking good…but maybe, a little too good for a trip to the mall, maybe a bit too revealingly clad, and you can tell this girl is as superficial as can be and that her entire existence is to get attention from men. You should be happy she is confident and pretty, right? Not in my world. She is looking at the same type of clothes you are and moves on to an area you are not interested in, but you kind of meander that way just so you can find the flaws in this little, under-dressed tramp…You examine her from top to bottom, you notice that she holds her bag, a certain way, that her make-up is a bit too thick….oooooohhhh there it is, this girl is hiding her real face from the world. Satisfied that you have deconstructed this girl sufficiently and kept your self esteem levels at functioning levels, you walk by her and say, “Girl, I just love your hair, it frames your face so well….” And then the girl knows you looked at her face…she is effectively neutralized.

It is what we do. Please tell me it is what we do…I want, so bad, to be normal…Personally, my “mental murders” are probably a bit over the top, but that is who I am. I am a man who constantly enters into imaginary fist fights with people and I win all of them. Usually the imaginary fights are the beginning of my mental destruction of whoever deserves it at that moment. Imaginarily, I have fought and won hundreds of battles. They have taken place in gyms, bars, bar restrooms, libraries, walking into work, and on Interstate 95 just outside my truck during a traffic jam. I have beaten many a redneck just for looking weirdly at me when they pass me by at Wal-Mart—all in my imagination.

The best part about my imaginary beatings is that they are all imaginary. No one ever gets hurt except the imaginary victim, and let me tell you, none of the imaginary victims were even close to imaginarily beating me. In the end, these imaginary conquests are just as much a part of me as the personality that you all see and hear. I cannot help what goes on in my insecure little brain. The imaginary fight is an unbelievable stress reliever for me, and an absolutely great way to boost my self-actualization levels. Have there been innocent victims on my imaginary battlefield? Sure, but such is life in my imaginary landscape. I have no time to get caught up in the “guilt game.” And guess what, I am a well functioning member of society. Imagine people who don’t function well and their inner thought life. I bet it is a scary, scary place. I contend they, too, have imaginary fights, but unfortunately, they cannot separate the two existences. Also, let’s be honest. I am undefeated in my imaginary world. My real world fighting experiences don’t always pan out as successfully….

To be completely honest, this is the part of me I hate the most. It is the part of me that reminds me that I am insecure about being among other humans. Worse still, it is the part of me that gives power to others over my existence. I hear other people say great and nice things to others, and I cannot help but harbor some skepticism towards what is being said simultaneously in their inner monologue. So, you can see, I project my inadequacies on others, again in hopes that it makes me more normal.

The Good News:

I know I do it. I know that I am probably going to continue to do it. However, I want you to know that many of the people I am closest to now started out as a person I tried to marginalize through my mental processes. This means that the feelings I have are not really affecting my ability to relate to them once meaningful discourse occurs. So, I am Happy for You, Just Not All the Way.

I am a work in progress. I will keep moving towards perfection, and along the way, I will probably mentally murder thousands, but I will be fine. I will write about it and be open with you people.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


Are you really surprised?

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20121117-084512.jpg (I did not take any of these pictures; conversely, I cut and pasted them from random news sites on the internet, this is my best effort at citing them)

This is what women do, people—all of them. If you are a female and reading this, I am not a she-hater, I love you, but I am acknowledging my conquering. Once a wild beast out gallivanting around the globe, I was lasso’d, wrestled to the ground, and hog tied by a fine ass woman. She was not mean or controlling; it took time, I didn’t even know it was happening, but flash forward to today, and all of my secret passwords are derivatives of hers.
I used to have my own PIN numbers, but at some point in the past, which I cannot put my finger on, I chose–let me repeat, I chose that things would be simpler if I just adopted hers. Not in front of me, but in a room, dark and silent, Whitney paid ceremonial homage to her conqueror heritage the day this happened. The ceremony was short, but respectful of a history full of women who have gone before her–all of them proficient in the art of domination.

20121117-084913.jpg (This is actually a pretty accurate depiction of Whitney. I mean, who wouldn’t let her drag them back to a cave for some Cro Magnon crazed relations…..)

So, here we are, 2012, soon to be 13, and another one bites the dust. Maybe, another two bite the dust, fallen victim to fine ass women. In English classes, we do a lot of discussing and writing about characters suffering from the greek term, Hamartia. The term denotes an individual’s “tragic flaw,” but when one writes a greek term first and then defines it for his reader, he or she is immediately more credible. Trust me, I have made a living trying to illustrate my credibility. Well, people, here is a shocker, which I have alluded to before, most men are suckers for attention from fine ass women. A strange phenomenon occurs in a man’s brain when a fine ass woman engages him in any way, shape, or form. Ask my wife, who is a fine ass woman, we crumble, we invite you places, we make deals with the devil, and we entertain our darker angels. This hamartia doesn’t have to ruin you. If you can understand it, you can beat it. There exists men who do not crumble under pressure, but there are others who, when entertained by a fine ass woman other than the fine ass woman who conquered them, fail. This is their tragic flaw. Pictorially, and very simply,

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Heroes fail, and in the case of most heroic men, it comes at the hands of a woman…..

Luckily for us men, most women are like my wife and conquer kindly, and are not trying to bring down nations, at least to this point, but this essay is on the great and evil conquerors, and I am going to layout before you specific literary and historical females who conquered with malice. But understand this, woe is the man who doesn’t understand that the woman whom he loves, honors, and obeys, has conquered him with great efficiency and skill. Men, this is a woman’s world, and we are but victims of their device. Like the cat batting at a toy dangling helplessly from a string, we are hanging at the mercy of a woman. Understand your plight, men, lest you find yourself thinking you are actually in control .

Again, and for the sake of being repetitive as a literary device, because I have heard that this is what writers do, women are trained conquerors. They have been doing it since the dawn of time, billions and billions of years ago in caves, I am sure, and continuing throughout all of history to today. It is a trait of evolution that the female species has developed and passed down from generation to generation. Women are hand-made to bring man down, and they are growing more and more efficient in their role as trained conquerors. Some women use their power for good and kind of conquer their man in a manner in which we men do not even understand is happening…this is called marriage or long-term relationships. The best and nicest of women have conquered their man. There is the exception, of course, the bone headed man, that traipses around bragging of his unconquered status, but he is a rarity, and usually not functioning. They are the men who you can find in a studio apartment selling elves, dwarves, magic potions, and other World of Warcraft awesomeness on eBay.

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I guess in order to do this right we have to start at the woman who ruined it for everyone….

Eve

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And so it begins, and how fitting that the first woman ever would bring down mankind….I could be chilling on the other side of the fence separating the heathens from us angelic men looking out at a bunch of suffering women laboring through pain, and all other types of horrible things. All the women would be working on stuff and dealing with the whole living in sin thing, whilst I frolicked from tree to tree sampling fruit we were allowed to eat and hanging around with wild animals that live in harmony with me…..I have to believe that if Adam could have just stuck to his convictions, the man upstairs would have sent down a much less fallible female for him to hang around with. As each subsequent woman failed, they would be cast out to hang out with Eve. Instead, here we are partaking in a perpetual cycle of eating the preverbal apple, all suffering together.

Delilah

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One of my favorite examples of what Santana sings about in the hit song, “Evil Woman.” Taking advantage of a man while he sleeps is the lowest of the low. You know how this story goes, but I offer you a weird bit of irony. I once went to a show in Vegas that re-enacted the Sampson and Delilah story; however, this specific version of the biblical drama was enhanced with the addition of the usual Vegas-style topless girls. As the tragedy unfolded, and Delilah systematically brought down Sampson, I was systematically being distracted by a woman’s breasts. In retrospect, I find it amusing how easy it would have been to cut my hair and steal my strength. I am a weak, weak man.

Lady Macbeth

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There exists no better example of a woman exerting a diabolical level of control over a man. Macbeth, an already successful and affluent member of society, convinced by his wife that it was not enough, began killing just about everyone. The blood of children, women, and all sorts of innocent people flowed freely in this Shakespearean play, and this blood is on one woman’s hands. The best part of this play is the complete mental breakdown Macbeth experiences on his trek to placate his demanding and evil wife. A terrific read and worth your while, but more importantly, another example of women as conquerors.

Cleopatra

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Cleopatra was probably as smoking hot as any biographer currently bedding retired generals. What’s great about Cleopatra is that she pretty much conquered everyone by being smoking hot. It is really that simple….ask Julius Caesar.

As far as I know, there is only one man who cannot be conquered. Like the beastly leviathan that cannot be caught or destroyed, one man has withstood multiple women’s attempts, and thrived through it all.

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If you think about it, I left out so many other easy examples. According to my sources (wikipedia), there are about 3.3 billion women on this earth, and I just didn’t have enough time for a picture of all of you.

So, here’s to you, women, Happy Conquering!!!

I just want you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


I was going to do this long blog about how the conservative side of politics, of which I somewhat prescribe to, at least fiscally, will never win an election in America if they don’t rid themselves of their shackles to a platform that will only ever be attractive to 48 percent of the people in America. But, who wants to hear me talk about something that is so obvious; instead, I want to talk about something so much more awesome that has a broader appeal to the masses.

The United States Marine Corps.

Born in a bar, in 1775, the Marine Corps has become as much myth and legend as it is history. They wear their history everywhere they go and it is written in blood; in training, they learn about the Marines who built the institution with their lives and heroism. The battles the Corps has fought live in the colors on their uniforms–the blood stripe on the trousers, the swords in the scabbards at their sides. Marines are linked to one another throughout history, transcending time; the Marines of yesterday never die or fade away because their blood flows in the veins of today’s war hardened new breed. I like Marines because they respect a sacred institution with an equally hallowed tradition of excellence.

One could argue that America doesn’t need Marines, but I think it would be difficult to prove America doesn’t want Marines. Marines are a rare bunch of men and women that represent all that is good about this nation. Currently, they are young men and women who joined a fighting force knowing they would be in harm’s way, down range in a foreign nation, fighting an often unpopular war, but still they chose this profession. Historically, they have been anywhere there was a fight regardless of the odds and regardless of what these young warriors had to leave behind to do so. Marines do not understand the concept of an unbeatable foe. Marines cling to an image of a few Marines and a Sailor raising a flag on Iwo Jima, because it illustrates how they think, who they are, and that no matter the mountain, or the conditions, they will scale it and win. I like Marines, because they are winners. They are your sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, neighbors, and friends, and they are willing to give themselves to something bigger than themselves. This is a trait we should want for all of our citizens, and Marines embody it phenomenally.

Marines are the best kind of people. They work relentlessly and all they care about is accomplishing the mission. They hear a song, their hymn, and they pop to attention and do it because some Marine, somewhere, is fighting for them. Some Marine, somewhere, is waiving goodbye and leaving, again. Some Marine, somewhere, is hunkered down waiting for relief. Some Marine, somewhere, is celebrating the Marine Corps Birthday in a fighting position, but they are celebrating it all the same. That person is their brother or sister, and they celebrate with a happy heart. I like Marines, because they celebrate their service’s birthday more festively and reverently than their own. I like Marines because they are selfless to the core.

Marines will continue to exemplify what General Mattis described as, “Marines, no better friend, no worse enemy.” They knock on the doors of nations in desperate need of rescue, providing assistance to get them on their feet again; and in a moments notice, we they will kick down the doors and meticulously fight this nation’s battles in the air, on land, and sea. They are professional warriors. It is said that Marines are the most ready, when the nation is not-your 911 service when all other options have run out. Marines live in a reality where their life is only partly theirs. I like Marines, because they walk a line, and they do with honor.

A Marine’s family is steeled in the flames of the conflicting lives a Marine must live. A Marine’s life is only partly his or hers, and the victim is the innocent. The family of a Marine waits, sometimes for a call, sometimes for a letter, sometimes the family just waits. Sometimes what the family waits for and what arrives is a tragic example of sacrifice. A Marine’s family is as strong, if not stronger, than the Marine themselves. I do not wish “waiting” upon the worst of people. I like the Marine’s family, because they give their soul, on loan, to the country, and they do it with a happy heart.

Today, Marines across the globe celebrate their birthday. They will drink and toast to fallen brothers and sisters, and they will tell stories about yesterday’s heroes. Marines will listen to a chaplain say an intercessory prayer on the behalf of those forward. Marines will watch the oldest Marine pass a piece of cake to the youngest. Marines, today, will celebrate their birthday the same way yesterday’s Marines did in Korea, Europe, the Pacific, and numerous other climbs and places.

Happy Birthday, Marines. Semper Fidelis.


Lets be honest for a moment. We have all seen it, especially lately. Women have a voice in today’s society and it’s a good thing, I guess….Until they use it poorly, which I am about to illustrate to you. I put this all on women, because when I hear a man speak like what I am about to describe, I know they are simply brainwashed by a woman they are trying to make want to sleep with them. Trust me, I know men; we are all the same, and we will sell our souls to the first chance at luring a woman into thinking we are worth their while.

I am going to describe for you a couple of occasions when I think women have it all wrong. I suspect this will be a very popular post among females, and under this expectation, I have conducted a RealClear Politics Poll with statistics to back up my claims that women sometimes use their voice poorly, and the poll had shocking results. Of the three people I talked to, 100 percent concurred. Of the same three that I talked to, zero percent wanted me to use their name out of fear their woman would kill them.

Before I go any further, I need to write a disclaimer: The opinions presented in this blog are not the opinions of the writer and in no way can be attributed to Heath Phillips. It is also important to understand that Heath Phillips’ wife is beautiful and he loves her. She is also hot.

So under that premise, I present to you just a couple of things that women say as a collective that need to be curbed.

1. Women describe their baby’s age in months for entirely too long. There is a point where this becomes completely useless to me. I am good with numbers in lumps of three. Once you get to three of something, we need to call it something different. I think it is the Marine in me. No Marine really ever supervises on an immediate level more than three people. They may be responsible for more people, but they use a team of three to get things done.

Back to the point. When a woman is asked how old their child is, and the reply is “32 months,” my head actually blows up inside and it hurts my soul. I don’t even know how long 32 months is. Nobody does, and the ones who do, first had to do this mathematical equation in their head:

1 Year = 12 Months.

24 Months = 2 Years.

36 Months = 3 Years.

36 – 32 = 4.

12 – 4 = 8;

Thusly, the child is 2 years, 8 months old.

Right? Yeah, I don’t know either. Hey, and listen, just because there are those among you who can do that math faster than others, doesn’t make this okay either.

When I am elected into office on Tuesday, I will do away with months as a gauge for a child’s age and everything will be addressed by how it relates to a year. For instance, on Wednesday, my daughter will be 1/12 year old. On a related note: Women probably get this from when they were teens and dating and constantly bludgeoned their boyfriend for presents after every successful month they amassed in their torrid adolescent love affairs. If you are still using months to analyze the longevity of your relationship, there is a good chance the relationship is on shaky ground…..just sayin……unless this offends you…then just disregard.

2. Women say all kinds of things, but rarely do they say what they want. If a woman could get this one thing about a man, just this one thing, they would all have the man of their dreams; this one revelation is: Men actually don’t want to be on your fighting side. We want our females happy, so that they may want to enter into some form of relations with us. While at home, practice this today: “Honey, I would like ________,” and then fill in the blank with a want you may have. I know, this is revolutionary, but I make you this promise: Men will bend over backwards to give it to you.

On a related note: Men don’t want to make a decision that a woman’s happiness hinges upon when men think women already have a decision in mind and are just hoping we come to the same one. Make sense?
This is not fair, and actually sets you up for a trip down misery lane.

It is readily apparent to me that women conduct meetings and they come to certain agreements with one another–inter-gender treaties, if you will. At one of these meetings, women must have come to the decision that how much a man loves a woman is evidenced in their ability to decide upon a place to eat that matches the place the woman was already thinking of in their head. The aforementioned is why when Whitney says, “Heath, tonight you get to decide where we eat,” I always say Taco Bell, because it forces her to just come out and say what she wants….I am a brilliant man.

These are two specific instances where women are missing the mark. There are many men all over the world right now that are breathing in a collective sigh now that I have aired this out. We are lovers not fighters, and we are actively looking for loving at every avenue we come to. So we aren’t very good at the logistics of getting to said loving. In the end, all of us men are seeking the same goal…if we have somehow found ourselves actively arguing with you women over anything, it is just as much of a surprise to us as it is to you. I guarantee you that our goal before the fight started WAS devious in nature, because we are hunters on the prowl, but our intent was without malice. All we need is love…daily and nightly, and ever so rightly.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years


Read and watch a man, who has no earthly idea how to raise a child, raise a child.

I have been a father for about twelve days. This means that I possess the experience and all the prerequisites necessary to be deemed an expert in parenting by whomever deems people such things. As such, I can and will offer you unsolicited advice on the subject for the next, well, forever. For those of you who are not parents and have no interest in the matter, have no fear! Continue reading. I vow that my rants, advice, and rumblings will have value on a general life level. You just have to trust me, and help me–help you…

I want to talk to you about what nobody will. But I have to first write this disclaimer: I love being a father, and I am looking forward to every second of fatherhood. My wife loves being a mother and is also looking forward to every second of motherhood. It’s just not all rainbows and unicorns. Babies these days are just not as self sufficient as I was at two weeks old.

I am a bit concerned. All of this crying every time my daughter is hungry isn’t going to get my daughter married and out of the house anytime soon?

It’s two weeks into this raising a child thing, and every time my wife and I see a couple enjoying their life, or who looks like they may have slept more than three consecutive hours, we are quick to point out that they must not have kids.

My child is like an unhappy, non-contributing citizen of a communist government. My wife is the branch of the government that provides food. I am the part of the government that polices its citizens and enforces governmental regulations. As such, I have found my daughter guilty of a heinous crime–leeching off of all facets of government without contributing to its greater good. There you have it, I have illustrated the inefficiencies of communism by paralleling it to the state of my household. She is thankless in her leeching. This is not a trait I would have passed to her, I grow more and more concerned my wife has passed communist tendencies to my daughter.

I am not sure about a lot of things, but of these I am convinced:

1. My daughter seems unequivocally disappointed in my fathering abilities, but is willing to deal with it if I am holding a bottle.

2. My daughter is hellbent on killing her parents by systematically depriving them of all pleasures they once held dear. Mostly sleep, but followed by all other things I once derived joy from such as, but not limited to: beer consumption, eating a warm meal, smiling, not changing diapers, not being peed on, not being yelled at by a baby who refuses to use her words to specify what she is frustrated about, and finally, being able to touch my wife’s breasts without a look of horrific pain shooting through Whitney’s face.

3. She spawned from the womb well versed in Sun Tzu’s, The Art of War motivated and ready to utilize all aspects of warfare to annihilate her foes, and it seems we, her mother and I, are her mortal enemies.

I have developed a few Standard Operating Procedures (SOP) that help me in my struggle against this skilled, thinking, and adapting foe. They are as follows:

1. In a sweet and nurturing voice I say what I really feel to my baby. Just like I would say, “look at my beautiful baby girl, is she a happy baby, yes she is…..” You know the voice, I say, “look at this little terrorist who steals my sleep and consistently tries to make me fall asleep while driving to work….” I feel like saying exactly what I feel helps me get through the process. We both win in this scenario.

2. I have also become the most wicked swaddler of babies, I want to call it what it is; I don’t swaddle I straight-jacket, and it is amazing. I was reaffirmed in this process by a movie I watched about making your baby the happiest baby on the block, so, now it’s a free for all.

3. I have began conducting reconnaissance patrols of my child’s living areas when she believed no one was paying attention. Imagery from this patrol has confirmed my worst fears–I may be fighting a much more formidable foe than I first thought. This snapshot was taken just before my daughter snapped her eyes open. Of note, the recon team that took this picture has not been seen or heard of since this transmission. We are convinced that this picture is evidence of some form of telepathy; yes, my daughter is a Jedi, who may be leaning towards the dark side.

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In the early hours of Tuesday morning I was awake holding the most beautiful terrorist imaginable. I felt what I can only describe as resignation. This darling girl, my nemesis, was already beginning what my mother warned me about years ago: That being; I would one day pay for my transgressions against my parents in the form of my own child–this is my reckoning.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years…..


Buying an RV and then utilizing your wife to help in its maneuvering can be a rockin’ good time. Should you do this and then survive the impending doom that will be your marriage for the initial few trips, your marriage will come out stronger and more ready to deal with other issues that life may throw at you.

Buying a Travel Trailer was a big move for us. I already had a mullet, the 250 dollar swimming pool from Wal-Mart in our backyard, and I wanted to complete the redneck trifecta. So, a trailer felt right. I have mentioned before my man skills and that some of them, well most of them aren’t as developed as they should be. One of the traits that I had never even attempted to test was my ability to pull and maneuver a trailer. Because I had never tested my skills in this area, I went and bought the longest damned trailer my truck would pull—33 feet of absolute insanity. My wife was with me on this, the whole time, like a trooper. She may be a pregnant zombie with crazy and irrational pregnant behavior, but she is the most supportive and blindly loyal woman in the world. If her husband had to have this trailer, then for the love of God, he was going to get it.

After the trailer was hooked up and we got an entire days training on how the thing works, what it does, and what not to touch, we got into the truck ready to pull it off into the city. It was at this point when reality hit us. We felt like children in way over our heads. I remember looking at Whitney and saying, “they are going to let us leave with this thing, do they know who I am?”

Some background that I left out: I am certain that I talked Whitney into this trailer, it is not like her to own something like this; it is all me. I had one when I was a kid and felt like this would be a great move. I had fantasies of going on really cool outings and just enjoying a new dimension in our lives. Whitney is a fast car and rims girl. She is into fashion and accessorizing. She is a pretty, party girl, a socialite. She is more royalty than redneck (except when she gets in fights at local Wal-Marts: see Part One), and in one sweeping decision I brought all of it down. The first instant I realized what I had done was on the way home when I made a surprise stop at the Cracker Barrel. After nearly ripping the mirrors off of six or seven cars, I pulled that rig into the Cracker Barrel parking lot and stretched it across like twenty spots. I looked at Whitney and I swear I heard her voice crack when she said, “Oh my God, I am one of those people now….”

The reason I bring up the trailer is because there is nothing more difficult in the world than backing it up through tight places when 1. The driver is an inexperienced man-child with a bad temper, and 2. The wife is gifted, but operates on her own plain. Another really cool thing about my wife is something I call “Professional at Whatever We’re Doing Right Now” Syndrome. It comes out whenever we undertake any do-it-yourself projects around the house.

Two Examples:

I was putting a new chandelier in the dining room once and I was working on it alone. My wife was in the other room doing her own thing. She came into the dining room for one thing or another and started giving me advice on my methodology. Her dispersing of advice is probably warranted because I am man-skill challenged, but that doesn’t mean that her dispersing of advice is going to be met with understanding ears. I am on a ladder, holding a chandelier up that is dangling by the wires from the ceiling by balancing it on my shoulder. If I move too much one way, the chandelier will come crashing to the ground. Sweat is pouring down my face; my fingers are fumbling for two wire nuts that lay just beyond my reach, and I am a step away from Hulk Smashing the entire fixture, and it would have felt great. My wife must have seen the struggle on my face, and she must have recognized the rising anger burning a hole in me, because in what must have been an attempt to soothe my soul, she said, “I don’t think you’re doing something right, the box says install in minutes and it’s been an hour…..” I am so thankful she was there to point out the error of my ways, but before I could look up and exchange pleasantries with her, she had vanished like a thief in the night, a thief who has had practice in witty banter.

This is the same girl who was napping one year when I was hanging Christmas lights outside. Halfway through the project she appeared. I was half dangling off of the roof and attempting to fasten a light to a brittle edge of a roof shingle, while gripping the roof with my inner thigh and groin muscles. IMy wife must have seen the struggle on my face, and she must have recognized the rising anger burning a hole in me, because in what must have been an attempt to soothe my soul she began explaining to me that, if I had began the lights on the opposite side of the house, I wouldn’t have the odd amount of lighting left just suspended over the ledge—and further wouldn’t be in this awkward predicament. God damn it if she wasn’t right. There is nothing worse than when she is right, and god damn it, it happens every time. My reaction at this point is my favorite ever. I released the Hulk. This means that I stood up on the roof, climbed to the highest point and yelled out “Merry F*&%$ng Christmas!!!!” I knew this wouldn’t cause any problems or embarrassment. My wife’s reaction at this point is my favorite ever. She released the She-Hulk. This means that she knocked the ladder over and went inside after shouting back “Merry Christmas to you, Dick!” I stayed on the roof until she felt guilty enough to come fix the ladder.

So, where to store the trailer? We decided spot 38 at a local storage facility was ideal and signed the contract. I brief Whitney on the plan to get the trailer into the storage area and then from there where we will back up the trailer into. She seems to understand and I start the work of getting us there. When we arrive at the storage place, there is a truck, a truck painted in camouflage blocking the entrance. I drive by and cursed his redneck ass. My wife says, “Your father told you never to travel down a road that you don’t know where it leads to.” If there is something I can’t stand it is when my father or any man is used to underline the fact that I am making poor decisions. I say, “c’mon Whitney, like this road is just going to end abruptly without a spot to turn around a 33ft trailer.” No sooner had I said this then we rounded a corner to an abrupt end of the street with no possible way to turn around a 33ft trailer. God damn it if she wasn’t right. There is nothing worse than when Whitney is right, and God damn it, it happens every time. Needless to say, she expertly guided me up a driveway and we conducted a precision turnaround.

Once we entered the storage facility, I get the trailer into the area where we will begin backing it up against a fence. Whitney gets in position and starts hand and arm signals. I learn a lot about Whitney during this evolution. The first thing I learn is that Whitney is not a slave to conventional backing up hand and arms signals. She understands them, and utilizes them, but once her arm is tired, she just switches the motion up. For her this is a great strategy, for me, all it does is confuse the shit out of me. She was making a normal back up motion and suddenly she switches to a motion reminiscent of making some biscuits in the air. I have no clue what biscuits in the air means so I yell at her. She gets frustrated and I get more frustrated, but I just adapt and realize that biscuit making motion means “keep it coming.” I am backing up, she is making biscuits. As I get closer and feel like I am nearing the fence, the following exchange occurs and I learn my second fact about Whitney:

Heath: Whitney, why don’t you do something like count down the feet left , you know like six feet, five feet, steady as you go, four feet, and so on…..

Whitney: I am not good with feet, can we come up with some more familiar benchmark?

Heath: What do you mean, you’re not good with feet? You’re thirty years old and a teacher.

Whitney: I just don’t judge feet well. Can we use something more familiar?

Heath: (still backing up slowly) Okay Whitney, whatever benchmark you can work with.

Whitney: Okay, you have approximately one of me left when I am not wearing high heels.

Heath: Are you serious? We are using you without high heels as the benchmark?

Whitney: Yes, I am very familiar with my height, with or without high heels….

These are the times that try men’s souls….

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in since the day she used herself as a benchmark….