Posts Tagged ‘sex’


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.

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On New Year’s Eve, 2011, I made the one and only resolution I have ever made. I have never needed to sell my soul to the devil in trade for a healthier me, as I am pretty devoutly insecure about my body all year round, which drives me to constantly seek another pound of lean muscle—another hard fought session in the gym—another day trying to look more like whatever it is I am chasing in my head.

I do, however, hate seeing all of the resolutionists for the first two weeks of the year in my gym. It is difficult to watch them struggle through the most painful part of getting in shape and then slowly die out and head back to their sedentary life. They carry with them a thousand excuses in disguise as reasons that the fitness lifestyle doesn’t fit into theirs. It is a tragic and unnecessary rationalization. But that is blog for another time.

Last year I spoke aloud, in front of the friends at my house bringing in the New Year that I was going to impregnate my wife with my seed. I would create life in 2012, and I would reign supreme as man. Fourteen days later, I sat on my throne, victorious. I am one for one on resolution completion, and I have no plans to fail. I don’t enter into a resolution with reckless abandon. I research, I research, and I research some more. I had spent the ten years prior to last year researching this whole reproduction thing, and I figured it out and did it…it was actually pretty simple on my part. Whitney had the hard work, mine was mostly a pleasure. I could do it every day if necessary…

This year, my blog will change, but just for thirty days. I am going to walk you through my trek into a Paleolithic diet. I have been reading and researching the benefits of leaving behind all the agricultural revolution brought with it. I am not going to peddle it to you. I am not even sure I will like it at all. I am a victim of the government’s subsidizing of the whole grain market, so this is very new territory. However, I am going to document my feelings on the process as I go through the delirium tremens associated with giving up all processed sugar, whole grains, and complex carbohydrates from other sources like legumes and whatnot. I am not trying to lose weight; on the contrary, I will try to continue gaining slow, lean, beautiful weight while trimming off the result of a holiday season. I knew for the last month that I was going to do this, and I think I ate like it. I ate like tomorrow I would never see sugar cookies again, and I feel horrible today. I am optimistic about the possible changes that may be in store for me. My blog will continue to entertain and I will try and be as honest as I can about my progress. Here is the kicker. My wife is the one who started this whole deal and I will also tell her story. She has been working hard in the gym to get back her pre-baby form, and this is the next logical step in the process.

She bought the book, The Paleo Solution: The Original Human Diet. I read it in two days absolutely riveted by the implications. I want to see where this goes, and so I shall. I am entering the month with no preconceived notions about whether it is a perfect diet or really anything revolutionary. I am just going to do it. We are going to do it together, and I am excited to describe the process. Whitney has given me full on permission to document her issues as we go. This means you will see us fail, and see us succeed. I think it will be kind of cool to watch and maybe this blog will make it more difficult to cheat. I am not going to discredit the Paleo ideology without being as strict with the process as possible. That would not be fair or honest. This is going to be fun. I do not want to call this a resolution, because it is a thirty day process that may or may not lead to something different. I want this to be an experiment with follow on implications for something much greater. I believe in the science of the diet, so here goes.

I will continue to write my blog, and it will tell my life as I know it. I think it will be worth your while—even if it is just so you can be overly critical of my decision making. The cool deal in all of it is that you don’t even have to read the damned thing.

After 30 days, I will stop telling you my story, and write only incoherent rants about teenagers, child rearing, and Whitney. Until then, you are stuck with this.

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


  1. Surviving an airplane crash, but being forced to swim for an extended amount of time (anything over 10 minutes). It would be an awkward period of celebration coupled with a horrible, sinking feeling of my impending drowning. I can only hope debris would be everywhere and that I wasn’t on fire. Swimming could only be made worse by somehow making me have to swim while covered in burning petroleum oil. In the military we train to be proficient in the survival strokes and also to survive when the water is on fire due to gas and oil slicks burning; I have somehow fooled the military into thinking I am proficient, but let’s be honest, would a proficient swimmer panic when water goes into his or her ears? I can say, with almost one hundred percent certainty, that the answer to that question is, no.
  2. Being on a ship that has been sunk and having to swim for an extended period of time (anything longer than 10 minutes). Sharks would actually simplify the problem for me.
  3. Swimming in front of others or swimming alone.
  4. Getting into a full on brawl, caught off guard, and naked… this is why I actually do not sleep naked, not because I don’t want to, because I do and as often as possible, but because I cannot let myself be that vulnerable to an unexpected onslaught of violence. It is a necessary give and take to protect my best interests.
  5. Leading a group of rebel Scotsmen against a larger force, losing, but kinda winning, subsequently being drawn and quartered, and then subsequently having my body parts being buried in four separate locations throughout the country as a warning to any other groups of rebel Scotsmen.
  6. Being bullied by a group of high school kids who are all varying levels of awesome in the art of karate, subsequently befriending an old Japanese man who teaches me random movements, convinces the bullies’ karate instructor into staving off all fights until the All-Valley tournament, steals a black belt, and then relying on a martial art technique that is completely dependent upon the enemy to attack straight into a jump kick that is seemingly the only thing I could have done from the crane position….
  7. Being invited to a jungle island for a really cool getaway only to find out the person who has invited you has also been spending an inordinate amount of time cloning dinosaurs, and simultaneously, the person who invited you did not invest in back-up generators for the super-critical electric fence, which separates you from said dinosaurs and a storm hits causing the island to lose power and cancel all departures…
  8. Getting impregnated by a man who says he is from the future and subsequently having to rely on your unborn son to eventually get his criminal ass together, send back his best friend to impregnate you with said son, so that he can grow up, become a criminal high school student who steals money from people, and eventually become the key to the success of humankind while maintaining enough wherewithal to send back his best friend to impregnate you, and eventually grow up to become a criminal high school student…..repeat
  9. Being a cop who gets killed in the line of duty, whose remains are used in a secret squirrel program that combines humans and robots to form a “super cop,” who subsequently has weird and incomplete memories of his past life, and worse yet, has no visible means of relieving himself, and moreover, is blamed for the murder of a huge number of civilians he did not have any part in, black listed, and subsequently forced to kill a bunch or rogue corporate and government officials hell bent on killing him and his partner who still sees the humanity left inside his robot exterior….
  10. Going to the past in a sports car that fails miserably to sell in the real world that is powered by 1.21 gigawatts of electricity from a fusion reactor (unshielded), accidentally happening upon your father peeping on your mother from a tree in her front yard, being hit by a car, and eventually having an inappropriate exchange of saliva with your mother while your brothers and sisters systematically disappear from a photograph you are carrying in your pocket.
  11. Becoming a member of a special forces team that can kill any human element sent to destroy them, who is sent to Central America to rescue another team of operators who have been skinned alive by an apparent alien who seems to be longing to do the same to you…Along the way you run into Apollo Creed, who now works for the CIA and seems to want to kill you as well.
  12. Being born a midget in a fantastical world of supernatural powers and wicked evil where you are stuck with a human baby that needs to get back to normal humans, and along the way you run into Val Kilmer who consistently calls you a “peck” and eventually serves to help you on your way, but you are not sure you can ever trust him.
  13. Becoming a bouncer at a bar that is located in a corrupt town run by a rich man who is also a douche and is not happy with anyone not willing to be bought and serve his diabolical goals, subsequently, you finding yourself in the middle of an epic battle between the oppressor and the oppressed where you must rip a man’s trachea from his body, but along the way, you get to make it with the same woman who screwed over the bartender from Cocktail, but she is now a medical doctor with the key to your heart.
  14. Waking up and realize you are a Naval Flight Officer navigator, flying in the back seat of an F-14 Tomcat, with a reckless, and somewhat arrogant pilot, with boyish good looks, but suffers from feelings of inadequacy stemming from not knowing whether his father is a hero or an idiot.
  15. Being told you were born to balance the force and realizing quickly that there are far less people supporting the dark side…
  16. Falling and impaling myself upon a sharp object.
  17. Additionally, being buried alive.

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


Things I have written down in my phone notepad that haven’t really got enough legs to make it into a blog as of yet, but are still worth reading.

On Reading in the Military….Or more aptly: My Work Makes Me Read Things I’d Rather Not…..

I have been reading. I read a lot. I read mostly things I am forced to read and little that I’m not. I read a lot of books and such about tanks and bombs and guns; I read a little Shakespeare, but mostly, I read none. I often wonder how reading would be if I could choose the book, but I don’t chase the dream too long, because of where I work.

Things That Are Cooler in Idea than in Practice

This Blog.

Running marathons

Cross Fit

Eating an entire can of frosting

Remaking Karate Kid with Will Smith’s kid and making it based around a twelve year old kid. Subsequently, I went and saw the movie with another gung ho fan of Karate Kid the day it opened and looked like a child molester….Not to mention the awkward romance between two twelve year olds. Ali with an “I” was hot and every man wanted her….and here I am watching some Chinese child and whatever Will Smith’s son’s name is and trying to connect with the characters. When I was twelve, I was scared shitless of girls, and just wanted to play. Whatever.

More than two spoonfuls of fruit cocktail

I bet people who have showers with multiple heads that come at you from all angles and levels mostly use the normal shower setting.

My wife has a car with a camera that displays on the center console when you are going in reverse. It shows you everything, and to a certain extent, even looks around the corner. My truck does not have this feature. My truck has a normal stereo in the center console. I have now backed out of multiple areas while staring at my stereo console and never even looked to see who I was about to kill…..

A Notice of the Things I Want Upon My Death:

When I die I want a band that plays a song like Puff the Magic Dragon or Gloria Estefan’s “Christmas Through Your Eyes” in my honor, and then I hope that song is stuck in all of your heads, perpetually.

Since I will die old, I want all of my children and grandchildren brought into a room and told of a vast inheritance they are due. I want the lawyer to leave the room for fifteen minutes while my kids and grandkids grow giddy with excitement. I then want the lawyer to return and explain that the inheritance is all debt. I am not even sure people can inherit debt, but I would still like this done, because I am dead and I deserve my wishes be granted.

When I die, I hope all those who have angered me or betrayed me get stuck waiting while my vast train of a funeral procession drives by, and I hope those waiting, who deserve their fate, have to pee. (In some states, when a funeral procession goes by all traffic going in either direction must stop out of respect for the dead. I like this the most of all ceremonial traditions, because in this ceremony, the person who died finally gets to do to others what others have done to him or her his entire life—screw them over on his or her way somewhere. It is the one moment where the world stops for the person being transported to their final resting place has complete power—they are like the president for a day. Plus, they get those motorcycle cops, which remind me of CHIPS, and CHIPS was a great television show.)

I actually want Officer Frank “Ponch” Poncherello (Eric Estrada) as an escort for my funeral procession. This may seem impossible due to age differences, but that is not my problem; you people need to make this happen—have some respect. (I do not under any circumstances want his partner involved in any way, shape, or form.)

When I die, I hope that people throw a party, but not because I am gone. I hope the party is like I was still there and we all just partied on.

I want a casket with explicit instructions on 1) who I am, 2) who are my relatives, 3) relevant addresses 4) a list of my enemies. I will use this information to help me determine whose entrails I will eat first, after I turn to a zombie. I will eat my enemy’s entrails first and all others who are not on my “relatives list” second. Of note: I will sell spots on the “relatives list” to people who are not actually my relatives. The money will go to the band that will play at my death party. (No guarantee I will not kill you; there is little research into how much of the brain a zombie utilizes; therefore, I cannot, with any level of certainty, commit to not eating your entrails).

I want a breakaway lid to the casket and I want a shovel with me to help me get to the surface faster after I turn zombie, as well. The shovel should have a short handle, no more than 12 inches as I will not be able to utilize a shovel of regulation size. Picture, in your head, the difficulties involved in negotiating the shovel handle when with only a foot and a half of depth, plus the pressure of six feet of dirt pushing downwards on me and all you have left me is a regulation shovel? I need to preserve my zombie energy.

Additionally, I want a fresh pair of corduroys and Doc Martins in the casket because I want to be a zombie with grunge era fashion sense.

It is important that you all pay attention to my desires, because If I come back as a ghost, I will haunt the living hell out of anyone who denies me what I want.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been writing these little things on my iPhone for weeks, but didn’t know what to do….


The restroom with the romantically lit changing table, nestled in the dark corner of the handicap stall was more attractive than practical to me. I should have known. It would, however, become the infamous locale of my first public diaper change. Like Chernobyl, Mount Vesuvius in Pompey, Mount St Helens, Omaha Beach, and so many other explosive landmarks related to less than happy occurrences in humanity’s illustrious history, this romantically lit changing table, nestled in the dark corner of the handicap stall would become a place of infamy.
Such an unassuming changing table extended from the rear wall of the roomiest stall, in an elegantly lit bathroom, where candles caused shadows to flicker and creep across the walls marking my movement from the entryway to my pending doom. Darkness came to gather in the corner of the stall and ultimately settled over the innocent looking changing table smothering any existing light and dulling it to an orange glow.
Reaching out my hand and placing the perfectly organized diaper bag on the cozy table, my finger grazed the top of the hard plastic meant to hold a soiled and yet sleeping baby girl. Sleeping for the moment….The resulting cold permeated through my hand resonating outward, inward, and upward following paths forged in the womb decades ago. It should have been the omen I needed to turn away–my impetus to seek refuge elsewhere, but inside the darkened catacombs of my brain, came a reassuring echo. The echoing voice should have been the omen I needed to turn away, because it was the same voice that has failed me repeatedly, relentlessly and reliably. The voice was there at the grocery store and told me to steal that candy and sealed my fate. I heard its words tell me to drink the beers that made me run when the cabbie came. The voice is pleased to meet you, I hope you guessed its name….
My daughter rested in my left arm with her head kind of hanging off of the side like a drunken sailor being carried back to his ship after an all night bender by the shore patrol. She wore a onesie covered in dancing kittens made of the softest fleece Target could import from China. I remembered the steps leading me to this moment, and the looks from the other diners at this fine establishment with an equally fine changing table, nestled in the dark corner of an elegantly lit restroom. My walk was met with the approving eyes of mothers at other tables. Their smiles seemed to say, “Look at you, fine sir, taking an active role in caring for this child…” I nodded at them in recognition of their recognition of my contribution to my child’s rearing. I was proud and knew that, in me getting this changing right, I was showing my wife that we were still normal and could function outside of our home. This moment had to happen, and I had to be successful, because the world hinged upon the outcome; the entire world hinged upon this single instant in my life.
Changing the child is a routine that offers little forgiveness. The child cares not whether she is wearing a diaper and will do her business even if it is not convenient for the individual changing her. I know that this is true because earlier in the day, Whitney had been very kind in explaining to me that my method for changing the child was flawed. I was surprised at the detail with which she was able to describe the flaws in my style; furthermore, I was surprised at the rehearsed nature of her suggestions. Whitney spent quite a bit of her suggestioning on the amount of time I leave the baby without any diaper beneath her when transitioning from old to new diaper. I remember thinking, “What does she know? I am a winner and I am not going to be trifled by suggestions.”
The stage was set; the players were in position, and the show was about to begin. You enter into the changing process happy. You are happy because you are doing something to help your child be more comfortable. I hate sitting in my own urine, and therefore, I do not want my child to sit in her urine–it seems logical that this child would be extremely happy to not be sitting in their own urine. I learned in the elegantly lit stall that a baby girl is just as illogical as a grown one.

All Hell Breaks Loose

My routine is simple: I undo the bottom portion of the onesie and fold it backwards so that it is not directly underneath what I call the blast zone. At this point, I am ready to make the move and remove the diaper. Things are going so well to this moment. I remove the straps from the diaper, grip her feet together and gently lift her little butt off of the soiled diaper to remove it. Again, complete success. Flashback to the cold I described earlier in overly, and unnecessarily verbose hyperbole. That same cold was about to travel through her tiny cheeks paralyzing her body and causing all hell to break loose even with the thin paper changing pad I put down to pad the plastic. The resulting chain of events has changed the course of diaper changing history. Initially, this baby girl was stunned by the cold and relatively silent, but her face contorted into that of an old man, and in the candlelit orange glow, I thought her face was a cherry red hue. To increase the cold factor two times, I forgot to warm the baby wipe with my hands before “prepping the landing zone” for the new diaper. It didn’t seem to increase the old man face, so I continued. In the slowest possible manner, I turned my attention to the new diaper.
Diapers come all folded in a manner conducive to packaging into the smallest container possible, and this in itself is not a huge issue, but the fact that I left the diaper in the bottom of the diaper bag, is. I pulled the diaper out, extended the diaper to the correct proportions for applying, and I looked back to beautiful baby girl. To my surprise, laying quiet and warm, on top of the folded up legs of her onesie, in a pool of her own urine, was my daughter. Urine. The amount of pee was unreal. It was like a urine-soaked crime scene. The folded up onesie had absorbed a great deal of the urine, but there was still excess enough urine to pool off of the sides of the table, making splashing sound as it hit the tile floor, which echoed through the elegantly lit bathroom. I picked up the child and looked onto the carnage from above. There was no doubt about it, my daughter would not leave the elegantly lit restroom in dancing kittens. Her onesie was the first thing to die that day–the second was my pride. Maybe Whitney would think it was normal for a changing to take 20 minutes….Maybe Whitney would not remember that it was dancing kittens, and would accept little monkeys without question. Maybe, if she did recognize these small details, she wouldn’t immediately connect the dots and ask if I waited too long to get the new diaper under the baby….
I cleaned up my mess. I wrung the urine out of the dancing kittens. The torque from my wringing of the fabric had left the dancing kittens looking like a bunch of white people dancing on the club floor. I dressed the baby in the spare onesie with little monkeys and said, “Monkeys look a bit like kittens,” and I walked out from the elegantly lit restroom into the cacophonous conversations of diners chatting on the path towards my table. I could see the look on Whitney’s face from forty feet away. I swear I saw her mouth the word, “monkeys?” inquisitive tone and all. How did this woman see monkeys from that far away. I tried not to make eye contact and just pretended all was normal. Whitney leaned in and smiled at the baby and said in a happy sounding, make your baby smile kinda voice, “daddy didn’t listen to mommy, did he……” I stayed quiet and thought, “stupid dancing kittens…..”

I just want 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…..


This is the second edition of a two part blog that documents my wild ride to meeting my daughter. If you did not read my blog yesterday entitled, From the Womb to the Cold, Cold World, you are reading from the middle of the story. I encourage you to go back and read it. I also encourage you to pimp this blog to everyone you know at the expense of your friendship. Think of it like your friends that sell AMWAY, Tupperware, or some other pyramid scheme that you avoid, because they are always trying to sell you something, except in this case, you are doing it to them and you don’t benefit from it at all—to tell the truth, nobody really benefits from it.

When we last talked, I left you as my wife had invented the Two Pushes and a Gag method of pushing a baby from the womb into the cold, cold world. Without sounding like the beginning of a television show that recaps last week’s adventure, Whitney was doing well and was pushing like it mattered.

True to herself, Whitney did not change anything about her demeanor through the entire process. During the Active Labor portion of the entire show, the woman tends to get tired and needs pushing, or at least I thought that she did. I also thought the best way I could support her was to treat her like I would a Marine who worked for me and was showing the initial signs of fatigue. Marines have a horrible tendency to pontificate that everything can be overcome purely by being mentally tough and exhibiting stick-to-itiveness. Compounding this issue, Marines don’t coax one another, we belittle one another—it is our way.

So, as Whitney pushed and pushed and grew tired, I thought I should step in and motivate her. Raising my right hand exactly two feet in front of my body, while simultaneously forming a “knife hand,” and subsequently thrusting it on every other syllable towards Whitney’s tired face, I said the following: “Whitney, you need to rise above this pain and start pushing for real.” The problems with that statement exist on at least two levels.

The Most Obvious Level: Using the collection of words, “start pushing for real” to motivate somebody relies on the hope that the person you are motivating doesn’t read into the statement and search for what it actually means. To start pushing for real negates every facet of pushing that occurred until that point in time. I could have worded my motivational phrase as follows and received the same look from Whitney, “Whitney, here’s what I am seeing. I am seeing a lot of work and no progress….I need you to start pretending this means something and get your head in the game.” I do not know what I was thinking, but again, you don’t need to worry your little head, because the Whitney that we all know and love doesn’t take shit from anyone particularly when she is in labor.

The entire labor stopped.

Doctors, nurses, janitors, and other patients faded into the surround like ethereal spirits. The air grew so cold that I could see my breath misting as it rose towards the ceiling. Whitney’s head spun 360 degrees and stopped as she centered her wicked gaze upon my trembling soul. Reaching forward and parrying my knife hand to the side like a child’s toy, she spoke. She spoke in three different languages all at once, and to this moment, I do not know what she said, but I do know that what she summoned in that moment is following me. Its every shadow creeping and crawling across my floor, and it is a constant reminder that I need to shut my mouth when I am talking to Whitney.

The temperature returned to normal, doctors and nurses went about their business of delivering a baby, and the world was normal. Whitney smiled and continued. I decided that would be the last time I would use the, “Whitney Needs My Words of Motivation” technique, and all was as it should be.

Whitney pushed for an eternity. Before we entered into the process of labor, we understood that there was a distinct possibility that Whitney would not be able to deliver this child naturally. Without getting into the science of it all, Whitney has the perfect body for bearing a child, minus the minute detail of a pelvic bone structure to let the baby out. The perfect incubator with a bum trap door, but we wanted to try as hard as possible before making the final decision.

Enter the Surgeon.

I would not be exaggerating if I said to you now that George Patton reincarnated would be the doctor who delivered our baby. I could not pick a more emotionless surgeon to conduct the cesarean section. He walked through the doorway and stood there just long enough to appear only silhouetted in its frame. Making his way into the light, George Patton matter-of-factly marched towards Whitney. To shed even more light on the man, this surgeon is honored every year as the oldest practicing doctor in the Army….AWESOME.

He was, by nature of his title, allowed to scour my wife’s nether regions and as such smacked on a rubber glove and began the magic show. While doing so, he made random statements like, uh-huh, yep, okay, there it is, hmmmmmhh, and other sounds of discovery. At the conclusion of the show, he retracted from his scouring and looked at Whitney. This was the doctor’s entire pre-op and informative session with Whitney prior to surgery and it consisted of three sentences:

We can do this for four more hours and you won’t get any farther along, let’s cut this baby out of there, any questions? Good. Let’s do this.

I half expected George Patton to slap Whitney in the face and walk off, but he refrained and we geared ourselves up for the upcoming surgery.

I do not want to make light of the surgery, because it is a major event and it was an exceptionally surreal process. They dressed me up in a big bunny suit and let me record the event as long as I didn’t look past the curtain. As one would expect, Whitney rose to the occasion and was pretty amazing. Britney Spears scrubbed in for the surgery and aided General Patton as he began cutting.

I have never been more nervous in my life as I watched Whitney laying there. She was talking to the doctor about what was being cut and when and she did so with just a tinge of drug induced hilarity, but damn, I was impressed by my little warrior wife during the process.

The doctors made a big deal about the moment before they cut through the uterus, and I thought it was an appropriate amount of drama.
I heard General Patton say, “I’ve reached the uterus.”
Britney Spears says, “Whitney, you ready to meet your baby?”
General Patton continues, “Cutting Uterus.”
Silence………and then boom a baby cries. Britney Spears, breaking protocol, grabs the baby and lifts her over the curtain showing Whitney our daughter. I’m crying, Whitney’s crying, children everywhere are crying, midgets show up again and start crying, General Patton does not cry; instead he made angry eyes at Britney for her breach of regulations.

My beautiful wife Whitney was ecstatic about meeting this baby, and I knew that she was overwhelmed with emotion, tired, and ready for this process to be done. As she calmed down and in true to herself, my wife opened her mouth and said her first words regarding her daughter. She asked, “Is it normal for the baby to sound like Yoda when she cries?”

That was her first question, and I think I have it recorded. I cannot wait until this girl is old enough to understand me, so I can tell on Whitney.

I am not emotionally driven. I do not like when emotions are overly advertised and things like this. It’s my father’s fault, but it is a flaw I think helps me as much as it hurts. But in that moment, when my daughter cried and I saw her make her old man face and look so incredibly unhappy to be joining us in this cruel world, I was a broken man. This girl, this little baby girl punched me right in the heart, and in “Whoville, they say-that Heath Phillips’ small heart grew three sizes that day.”

As I was relishing the moment, things started to change in the operating room. Whitney could feel more pain than she was supposed to, and as a result everything went into some weird bizarro world.

This is an exact transcription of the conversation that occurred next.

Whitney: Shouting “I THINK I AM DYING!!!!”

General Patton: Emotionless “Somebody give this woman something.”

Britney Spears: Excitedly “No you are not dying, Whitney, I am holding your uterus in my hand.”

Whitney: Curiously inquisitive, but emotionally charged and shouting “YOU ARE HOLDING MY UTERUS?”

Britney Spears: Honestly and excitedly, “Yes, and look, you are still alive!”

General Patton: Emotionless, but sternly spoken, “Someone give this woman some drugs.”

Whitney: Very inquisitively shouting, “ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE IT BACK?”

Britney Spears: Excitedly, “Yes, I have my own.”

Whitney: Passes out in a drug induced sleep.

Seated in a wooden chair in the corner of the recovery room, I was holding my beautiful daughter. Outside in the hallway, it sounded as if a parade was approaching and we were about to see the front end pass by our door. The first event in the parade was Dr Britney Spears, who I love for being there, behind her was a train of nurses; doctors; random men and women; midgets and orphans; and last but not least, in the most dramatic float of them all, rode Whitney Phillips spouting out drug induced nonsensical phrases. Britney Spears approached me and my mother-in-law. She leaned in and said, “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but in the post-operating processes, the following words were heard coming out of Whitney’s mouth: Dildos, Mike and Ike Candies, Hot Tamales, and dear God, Don’t Let the baby look like my husband.”…………..

On October 10, 2012, Shakespeare Ian Phillips entered the world. In doing so, she has given me more material to blog about, I’m sure. I cannot wait to shoot her first boyfriend. There have been many people who have questioned the name we have given her. My favorite is when they tell me it is too long, and I point out that it is only two syllables. Another common concern is that Shakespeare is a boy’s name. For instance, the doctor we have been seeing asked me in a very concerned voice, “You do know that William Shakespeare was a male author, right?” I acted completely surprised and embarrassed of our mistake…

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