Maybe I'm having sympathy PMS from all the PMSy bitchiness enveloping me everywhere I go recently, because this video just feels kind of happy and inspiring, and I can't think of anything cynical or sarcastic to say about it.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Where The Hell Is Matt?

ALSO: I'm guest posting over at Robin's blog today while she's on her honeymoon. Drop in and say hi!

Confused? Befuddled? Horrified? Concerned for the fate of my sexuality? Go find out how the hell this happened.

Yesterday, shopping at Border's, I saw a ray of light come through the ceiling and alight on an endcap in the DVD section. Angels sang, and I walked in a hypnotic trance, grabbed the holy relic, and ran to the nearest checkout.

Gaze upon the glory of The Gilmore Girls full series DVD set:

It's the very definition of awesomeness. Awesomosity. Awesomtastic. I should just invent more words to describe it.

And my wife doesn't even appreciate it! She just rolls her eyes at me.

Hi, my name is Adam Avitable and I'm a Gilmorephile.

First, go see my guest post over at Tracy's. You can also see the full image here.

Secondly, go wish Britt's son Devin a happy birthday!

Thirdly, today is supposedly some blog crush day where you talk about your secret blog crush. Google it if you want more information - I'm too lazy. And while I have way too many blog crushes to list one in particular, I do expect several people to use their entire post today talking about me as their blog crush. Or there will be punishment!

Finally, I went to a friend's graduation from nursing school today over in Daytona Beach. The ceremony was quick, and it was nice seeing him get some recognition. On my drive home, since I was tired, I was blasting the radio and had the windows down, like usual. Flipping through the stations, I came across "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. For some reason, this song struck a chord, and I started singing. Loudly. And there may have been some dancing going on, too. I pulled up to a stop light in full-on gay diva dance mode and looked to my right. There was a car with four girls in it, all of the windows down, and they were listening to the same radio station and dancing and singing themselves. We glanced at each other, shared a moment, and finished the song in unison. Then, I went home, watched sports, grabbed my crotch, and watched lesbian porn. Is there anything else I should do to get my man card back?

Last night

I dream of toilets and peeing. I dream of oceans and fountains, and peeing in them. I keep having a recurring dream where I wake up, pee, and then go back to bed and then wake up and pee again.

Finally, I wake up. And guess what? I have to pee like a motherfucker.

I gracefully stumble to the bathroom, wearing nothing but underwear and a pair of socks.

I lift the toilet seat and face the toilet.

A stream of urine like none the world has ever seen shoots into the toilet. It takes all of the strength in my right hand to avoid spraying urine around the room like a fire hose.

I close my eyes. Enjoy the feeling. Say "Ahhhh..." in satisfaction of the simple things in life.

Suddenly, without warning, both of my feet begin to slide on the cold bathroom floor. In opposite directions.

Placing my left hand against the wall in an effort to prevent myself from doing what's called the "Urination Split" does absolutely nothing, and my downward trend continues.

Meanwhile, the stream is not abating. Urine continues to flow at an ungodly rate. I fear that I shall soon become desiccated and shrivel into a piece of Avitable jerky.

My feet separate further. I am now more than a foot closer to the ground. Before long I will be urinating directly onto the bathroom rug.

I close my eyes and clench. Not my fist or my foot but my penis. From the inside. And the urine stops. But much like the little boy who stuck his finger in the dike, I couldn't hold back for too long.

Using both hands, I push myself upright.

Quickly, I sit down on the toilet and resume peeing. It sounds like Niagara Falls.

My wife walks in, sees me sitting down to pee, and shakes her head as she walks away to use the other bathroom. I hear her mutter something about "such a girl" and "no balls".

I finish, flush, wash, and slink ashamedly to bed.

Before you get today's post, you get some more pimping. Don't forget to go visit my new site, Postcard Hell and buy some embarrassingly funny postcards to send to your mom, your dad, and your favorite uncle. It's only $4 for a 4-pack, or $5 for the assorted pack. You'll be my favorite people in the whole world!

Sometimes I wonder why I get so many people who seemingly enjoy reading this drivel I write. Is it the nudity? Humor? Dogs licking vaginas? Nope. I figured it out - it's the barber stories!

Tuesday, I went in for a shave and a haircut (say two bits and I'll punch you in the crotch). I decided to make some changes, because even though I have been getting haircuts every two weeks and shaves every week, I still feel shaggy.

"Shave it all off." I said.

"Really?" Cori, the owner, asked.

"Really."

"Reeeealllyyy?"

" . . . Yup. Let's do it."

"Okay," she said and whipped out the razor and moved it towards my head with lightning speed.

"Wait wait wait wait wait!" I flinched with the humming razor a millimeter from my beautiful locks.

"You said okay!"

"Can't a boy change his mind? Let's not shave it all bare. How about you use the #3?"

"Fiiine. Take all of the fun out of my work." Cori put on the #3 guide which would still allow me to keep some of my hair.

"Hey, while you're shaving my beard, can you give me two eyebrows, too?"

"Only if you let me wax it instead of shaving it. You've got hair from your hairline down to your eyebrows, and under your damn eyes. It needs a waxing, Sasquatch!"

"Will it hurt?"

"Only about as much as this." She reached over and yanked one of my eyebrow hairs right out of my head.

"OW!"

"Pussy."

"Fine, I'll let you wax my eyebrows. Sigh."

In the end, the waxing wasn't really painful at all. She had to wax above my eyebrows all the way to my hairline, to the sideburns, and underneath my eyes, and the worst part was the anticipation. I didn't flinch in the slightest and talked to her the whole time that she did it. All of you women who talk about how painful it is are a bunch of pussies. Next week I'm having her wax my asshole.

Go behind the curtain for pictures of me at the barber. Read more...

"So, what's up, dogfucker?" the voice in my ear smacked loudly and then exhaled as Britt sucked on one of her cancer sticks. She is so loud on the phone when she smokes that it literally sounds like Denis Leary's parody of smoking loudly.

"Not much, just working, like usual." I said, barely paying attention as I responded to an email and listened as one of my employees attempted to sell a client. "Amy's leaving early today to fly out of town for business, but that's about it."

"Well, blah blah blah blah," she talked for a while about things that you don't need to hear about - real estate, her job, her vagina. You know, the usual. (I'm NOT saying that this was boring, just that I'm not going to recount the entire conversation.)

"Mmmhmm, that's nice." I said, finally happy that the smoking sound had died down, only to be replaced by a peeing sound! "Are you peeing outside?" I asked, horrified.

"No, retard." Fluuushhhhh. "I'm at the mall - I was outside smoking, and now I'm going to go buy some stuff at Bath and Body Works. But ooh - Victoria's Secret is having a sale!" She squeeeed (it's onomatopoeia, fucker).

My email and employee seemed less important. My focus had shifted, and I was channeling all of my brainpower into creating the ability to see. through. the. fucking. phone. line. It didn't work. "So, what are you going to buy?" I asked, casually.

"Boobs boobs boobs Bra boobs boobs," she breathed sexily into the phone. Or something like that.

"Oh yeah?" Trying to sound cavalier, I cavalierly asked, cavalierly, "So, what are you, like a 33B?"

"No, fuckwit. I'm a 34C. Jesus Christ, haven't I shown you my boobs enough for you to know what size they are?"

"I am horrible with sizes. Remember how I said my penis was 43 feet long? I don't even know what my wife's bra size is, and I've been with her for eight years!"

"Really?" she judged, "that makes you a bad husband. You should find that shit out."

"Fine. I'll go be a good husband." I get up with the phone and walk across the house to the master bedroom. I go into the closet and rummage through my wife's underwear drawer, coming out with a plain white bra.

"Will it fit you?" she asked, giggling with that airy blonde lilt to her voice.

"Well, all I need to do is strip down, grab a pair of panties, and I'll have quite the sexy ensemble," I said, holding the bra up against my chest as I pulled the strap around to look at the tag. I do a little twirl in the closet and say "Wow, I think this would fit me! It looks like she's a size-" right as I turn to face my wife who had come home early to pack for her trip.

The shower in our master bathroom is pretty big. It's a little over six feet long and about three and a half feet wide. This means that it's perfect for relaxing, lying down, napping, or, in my situation, performing full-body accidental breakdancing.

Before I begin, I need to educate you on the way that I shower. I usually use the Bath and Body Works Temptations 3-in-1 Body Wash, Bubble Bath, and Shampoo (Gingerbread, Caramel, or Chocolate, usually) for my entire body. I use Aveda facial moisturizer for my delicate beautiful face, and I use Aveda rosemary mint shampoo for all major areas that have hair. However, since I am lazy, I barely wash my legs and never wash my feet. I figure that the body wash suds will reach those areas without a problem thanks to gravity.

Yesterday, however, I decided that since I had been walking around in the yard barefoot, I should probably make the effort to actually wash my feet. I'm really fucking lazy, though, so rather than try to wash my feet properly, I just squirted tons of body wash on the shower floor and stepped in it, then started sliding around, letting it get all sudsy. Then I started sliding from one end of the shower to the other, watching my feet get all sparkly clean without doing a damned thing! It was a genius plan.

Until, of course, my momentum got the better of me. First, I was pushing on the sides of the shower walls to slide myself around. My hands were sudsy and slippery, and one push resulted in my right hand slipping, which made me start to spin. My left foot shot in front of me, hitting the wall with a painful crunch, and my right foot flew off to my right. Having no feet on the actual ground means that I was gravity's bitch. I fell over, doing a split that someone my size should never do. Simultaneously, I put my hand out to stop my fall. My hand supporting my entire body, being filled with suds, slipped out from under me, which actually caused me to flip completely over, kicking the glass shower door with one foot and flailing around with the other until I was ass-up in the air, laying on my shoulders and still trying to figure out what the holy fuck had just happened.

And then the shower door that I had just dislodged fell on me, luckily staying in one solid piece.

And that's why I'll never wash my feet again.

Today's topic, gentle reader, is underwear. Or, as I call them, "manties".

I wear boxer briefs. They're comfortable, loose fitting, and I can wear them around the house, answer the door, get the mail, and even drive to McDonald's while wearing just my manties. They're the best parts of tighty-whiteys and boxers combined.

Anyways. Wednesday, after staying up too late chatting with my favorite bitches, I get very little sleep. Thursday morning beats me in the head and I stumble into the shower. An hour later, I emerge, feeling more awake, but still tired and mentally functioning on the same level as a retarded senior citizen with Alzheimer's.

I go to my bureau and open my manty and undershirt drawer. The undershirt goes on, and then I realize that there's only one pair of manties. This is strange, because I usually have 20 or so pairs, but then I remember that my wife was out of town the week before on business which means she didn't do the laundry, so I had no clean manties. "She'll have to get a beating once she gets home from work," I mutter to myself and make a mental note.

So, I pull out the pair of manties. They're a type that I used to buy but don't like anymore because they shrank too much in the wash, and now they're a bit tight. Nothing I can't handle for a day, but not something I'd wear if I had options. Unfortunately, I had no options.

I hold the manties down to the ground and step into each leg hole. The right one in first, and then the left one. The first thing that occurred to me was that this pair was really tight. Like, it was actually painful pulling them on my legs. They were clearly my underwear, but Jesus Herbert Walker Christ did that hurt!!

I'm standing there, manties halfway pulled up, and I have to bend over and pull on each of the legs to stretch the legs a bit. And then they made that snapping sound that cotton does when you stretch it and some threads break but it fits better. So I'm able to pull them all the way up and wow are they still crazy tight! I mean, it feels like there are invisible hands pushing on my crotch and my ass! It was still very uncomfortable, and the manties were fitting around my ass in a overly friendly groping way that really made me feel uncomfortable.

So I did what any smart man would do. I just grabbed and pulled. And once again, heard the sound of threads snapping, but it felt more comfortable. Except for the pinching around the waist and the searing pain on my balls and ass, that is.

And, like a man, I ignored it and went to work. And eventually, due to numbness, business, server problems, and retarded monkeys, I forget about it.

Until that evening.

When I go to the bathroom.

And pull down my manties to sit on the toilet.

But it still feels like I'm wearing something.

And I realize, after staring in the mirror in shock and horror.

That I was also wearing a pair of women's black thong panties.

They must have been stuck inside my manties, aligned perfectly with the legholes.

And they were now stretched, shredded, and wedged in my ass.

The. Fucking. End.

PEEE ESSS: If you think this is painful, you haven't seen anything yet. Go check out Britt's post about spelunking in her vagina!