Today, we have a very special guest star!
Here is the direct link.
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Yesterday was fun. We hosted Christmas dinner for about 15 people. I made mashed potatoes and used my newly purchased BACONSALT and it was awesome. We had ham and turkey and beef brisket and roast beef and mashed potatoes (with BACONSALT) and stuffing and green beans and cranberry sauce and Amy made a shitload of desserts (I made the fudge).
We didn't do much gift exchanging this year, but I still got a few books I wanted (Dean Koontz's newest, the last two Stephenie Meyers's books in the vampire trilogy), some movies (Bourne Ultimatum, The Simpsons), and a video game (Super Mario Galaxy for the Wii). I got some random geeky things, a few gift certificates, eggnog- and gingerbread-flavored hot cocoa, and a new wallet, which was desperately needed, yet something I'd never go buy for myself.
I bought Amy some pajamas from Victoria's Secret (flannel ones with puppies and kitties on them), a GPS unit, a heated blanket that only heats one side so that she can stay warm but I don't have to sweat my balls off, and a digital picture frame/travel alarm clock for all of her business trips.
Jigsaw got a few new bones, a new toy, and a new outfit (thanks liquid!):

All in all, it was a hectic day, and I'm glad it's over, but it was nice to see everyone, too.
Now, everybody back to fucking work!
On Sunday night, before going to Britt's for Thanksgiving III, I stopped at Albertson's to pick up dessert. As I walked out of the store, starting to cross the road to get to where I had parked my car, this Jeep, going about 60, pulled up the crosswalk, tapped his brakes, and then floored it by me. If I hadn't been paying attention, I might have been hit. In fact, if it wasn't me, but a mother with a couple of kids, one of those kids would have been launched about thirty feet in the air.
The Jeep passed by close enough that I could feel it passing by. So I did what any person who likes to teach lessons to others would do. I smacked the rear right panel of his car as he sped past me, leaving an indentation.
I walked over to my car as the Richard Petty wannabe (we'll call him Chickenfucker Nutsack) squealed his tires as he turned around, and drove down the parallel lane, parking his car so he could face mine as I started to get in.
I was surprised that Chickenfucker Nutsack wasn't some 18-year old punk but a guy in his 40s, balding, pale, with thick glasses and a quivering face, wearing an Albertson's shirt. Chickenfucker looked like he was about to burst into tears from anger.
He rolled down the window and yelled, "Fuck you, jerk!"
I walked over to the front of his car and said calmly, "Maybe you should slow down when you're driving through a parking lot."
Chickenfucker's reply? "Maybe you shouldn't be so fat!"
I immediately busted out laughing. Tears were streaming down my face as I tried to stammer out a response in a properly patronizing tone. "Are you retarded? Special? You're special, aren't you? Who's in charge of you? Do we need to call someone to take care of you?" I made it sound like I was talking to a baby, in a very soothing, condescending tone.
He gave me the finger. But not The Finger, like someone who does it casually. Chickenfucker actually had to think about it, and then balled his hand up in a fist and extended his middle finger as if he had never done it before. Then he started to get out of the car. This big Samoan dude who had been watching the whole thing from his car started walking to the store. As he passed between our cars, he said to Chickenfucker, in this deep, gravelly voice, "I wouldn't do that, man. I don't think that's a very good idea." He reconsidered and got back in his car. I started mine up and was about to reverse out of the space, when he whipped around the parking lot and drove behind me, essentially blocking me in.
Well, you know what bumpers are for, right? Bumping.
I pulled out of the parking space slowly until my bumper was about an inch from his. Then I revved the motor a bit. Chickenfucker stood still. So I backed up into the front bumper of his car. The look of horror in his eyes was priceless. Frantically, he began to back up down the aisle. I continued in reverse and followed him all the way until he couldn't go any further without driving into traffic backwards. Then I drove my rear bumper into his front bumper again, very gently, shifted the car into drive, and drove off.
Having fun at Chickenfucker's expense brought a smile to my face, but when I told my wife, she blamed me for the whole thing! She said, "Why do you always have to teach people lessons? What if that guy had a gun?"
"Sweetie, you know I'm a ninja. Ninjas can dodge bullets without even trying!"
This didn't soothe her at all. "You are not allowed to teach lessons like that anymore!"
"But, babe!" I pleaded. "This is way better than me being a real teacher. I'm like a super professor of life lessons, with a PhD of The Streets! Plus I'm a ninja. Kapow!"
"No. More. Lessons."
So I said, "Well, think of it this way, babe. If the guy did have a gun, I'd either get a really cool scar, or you'd inherit over a million dollars in life insurance, plus you could sue the guy and make even more money!"
"Carry on, Professor Avitable."
I sat down at my computer to get some work done. I loaded iTunes and set it to the party shuffle.
The music started, and I started working. It's just background music to me that helps me concentrate on my work.
I wrote quickly, pounding my keyboard.
"Clackaclackaclackaclacka."
I was focusing on my work, and not even listening to the music playing in the background. I barely registered that it had just changed songs.
"Clackaclackaclackaclackaclacka."
All of a sudden, startling myself, without any warning, I began singing loudly:
"Close your eyes.
Give me your hand.
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreeeeeeeaming?
Or is this burning (BURNING)
An eternal flaaaaaaame?"
Eternal Flame was our wedding song, and every time it's on the radio or we would hear it in any way, we would start singing it to each other, so apparently that's why I unconsciously broke into song when it was playing in the background.
That doesn't explain why I did the same thing later when I heard "Asshole", by Denis Leary, though.
I love you very much, sweetie!
Saturday was the day.
The fateful day.
My Real Wife and my Work Wife (formerly my Blog Wife) were spending time together.
Without me.
While drinking.
Lots and lots of alcohol.
By having the woman who has seen that tattoo of the Martian Manhunter on my taint talk frankly with the woman who has actually touched said tattoo, only bad things could happen.
Acting as Designated Driver, I chauffeured the two drunk women home and attempted to find out what they discussed during their evening out. Fuckin' whores wouldn't tell me.
So now, my imagination has run wild . . .
Real Wife: So, what's it like working with Avitable? (Yes, my Real Wife calls me Avitable)
Work Wife: Well, he only seems to work in spurts of about 30 seconds at a time, and then he's exhausted and wants to sleep.
RW: Sounds like our sex life.
WW: Really? According to how he tells it, he's like John Holmes with the stamina of long-distance runner.
RW: More like Oliver Wendell Holmes with the stamina of a small-fused firecracker.
WW: BWAHAHAHAHAHA!
RW: HAHAHAHAHA!
WW: Seriously, though, it's not too bad. But enough with the working in the underwear already!
RW: Well, I've tried to go through and throw away the pairs that have holes in the crotch so his balls aren't always hanging out.
WW: I think you've missed a few pairs. And he definitely needs to shave or wax or something. It's like he shoved a bear rug down the front of his manties!
RW: His ass is even worse. It's like a Chia Pet gone wild.
WW: Oh, I know! My first day of work he treated me to four separate moonings. The one where he bent all the way over will scar me for life. I wake up randomly in the middle of the night screaming silently at least once a week now.
RW: I can tell you, eight years later, it does not get better. I still have my weekly ass-crack nightmare. If Avitable wakes up when it happens, he just laughs and laughs.
WW: That girly, high-pitched giggle?
RW: HA! Yup, that's the one. I swear, between the giggles, the room sprays, and the Gilmore Girls, he is such a woman.
WW: He told me that I was being mean and that I should be more sensitive yesterday.
RW: I hope you took away his man card.
WW: Not only did I take away his man card, I made him do Time Out in the corner for an hour.
RW: Good for you. He also hates it when you call him Ahmoo. Just don't use it too much or he might cry.
WW: Awesome! I'm so glad that we decided to do this. It's driving Avitable crazy, too.
RW: I know, and that's part of the fun!
WW: Hey, let's make out!
RW and WW: Muamauamammmauamaumaslurp.
The fall is the busy time for my wife. She leaves tomorrow at 7 AM and will be gone, off and on, until the last week of October. She'll be traveling everywhere from LA to Philadelphia to Seattle to Alabama, just to name a few.
Amy enjoys traveling for business, and I have no problem being a bachelor for a week or so, but when it's this long, it gets a bit tiresome for both of us.
So I've decided that I need to put an ad out for someone to help do all of the things that Amy usually does. Here's what I was thinking:
Needed: Strong-willed woman to clean dishes, do laundry, hang my shirts that can't be dried in the dryer, wash dog, tidy house, go to the movies thirty minutes ahead of time with me, change sheets, put toilet paper on the dispenser, make me laugh, pick up my socks, get the mail, water plants, change light bulbs, go grocery shopping, do small home repair, walk dog, fill soap dispensers, feed dog, make cereal for me to eat in the morning, clean gutters, fix roof, put steak out to thaw, sew holes in my shirts, throw away my shredded socks and underwear, laugh at my jokes, give dog medicine, tie my shoelaces, pinch my butt, and wake me up in the morning. Must be 5'10" or taller, weigh no more than 125, and be able to stare down a rhino with a condescending look. Compensation will be in the form of dinners out, small random compliments, occasional appreciation, and sexual favors that will last between 12-14 seconds.
I'm expecting there to be hundreds of applicants banging down my door.
If we eat dinner beyond a bowl of cereal or cheese and crackers, we will go out to a local restaurant. And while we have much in common, our differences are the clearest when we go out to eat:
My wife is a vegetarian.
I am a vegiphobe.
"I'll have the chicken caesar salad, with no chicken. There's no other meat on there, right?" asks my wife.
"I'll have a bacon cheeseburger, no vegetables. That's right, no pickle, no onion, no lettuce, no tomato." I say forcefully.
She'll have a glass or two of wine, or maybe a margarita. Or a beer, if it's that type of restaurant.
I'll have fourteen Diet Cokes that I drink so quickly the waiter will usually just bring a pitcher or bring them two or three at a time.
She takes small, measured bites and uses her fork and knife.
I use my hands and take bites that would choke a horse.
She's well-dressed and very fashionable. She flies out to Los Angeles once a year to do her shopping for the seasons and buys only designer clothing. She has trendy glasses that cost $1500. She looks like a professional.
I'm wearing a black buttoned shirt and black shorts, except the blacks are different shades. I have black sneakers on with red shoelaces. I have a week's growth of beard. I definitely don't look like a lawyer, much less a CEO.
She's supermodel thin and almost six feet tall.
I'm six feet tall but an 800-pound gorilla. My knuckles almost drag on the ground.
She is demure and polite, and while she has no problem using bad language (and is, in fact, quite adept at it), she is also discreet.
I sometimes belch, and if I spill something on my arm, I'll lick it off. I also like to throw around profanity just to frighten the small children seated around me.
Even with all of these clearly disparate elements, it amazes me when the waiter invariably hands me the check. Are they so blind that they don't see that a professional woman is taking pity on a homeless man by taking him out for a warm meal before he dies in the street? Or is sexism so firmly entrenched that they still can't help asking the man to pay for dinner, even if he looks crazier than the Republican National Convention?
To mangle a phrase: "Behind every perverted gorilla man is an awesome woman who is really in charge." And with that, I would like to present a post written by my wife Amy. Read and comment in droves!
How do I put up with thee? Let me count the ways.
When Adam told me that he had a big fan base for his blog, I was sure that was the case since he’s always had followers of his wit. But when he said he was afraid that many people would think that his stories were exaggerated or never really happened, I knew that only I, his wife, could set the record straight. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I really do exist. So let me just tell you a little bit about why I love Adam.
10. He’s cute and funny. Adam has always been adorable. Whether as a precocious five year old who loved wearing lederhosen or as a cuddly man-boy with an obsession for cheesy girl bands, people have always loved Adam. Like the mail man who stalked him in college. Or the peeping tom who watched Adam unabashedly leave his dorm windows open when he was naked (yes, Adam was the naked guy). Or the bevy of girlfriends he’s managed to collect during our years together. What’s amazing is that he has all of these female hangers-on and it doesn’t occur to him that some of them have crushes on him. One carried his picture around, one used to give him free food as an excuse to talk to him, and one used to call him at all hours because “no one understands me like Adam.” What can I say – he’s just so dreamy.
9. He has a great fashion sense. On the runway, we see the Avitable in his trademark ensemble – black button-up shirt, long indigo shorts and black shoes with red shoelaces that do bear a certain resemblance to clown shoes. Why indigo shorts, you might ask? Because he thought indigo was another word for black and he’s colorblind. And yes, I do let him go out of the house looking like that with holes in his socks and occasionally in the crotch of his pants. I’m not his fucking mother.
8. He’s trusting. Let me give you a little example. In law school, he was having car trouble and didn’t feel like paying to have his car looked at by a professional. So he gave the transient at the crack house next to his apartment $200 to fix his car, and even took him to the liquor store so that the guy could get “parts.” Unfortunately, the guy disappeared (we’re still worried about what happened to him), but not before he took Adam’s starter so Adam couldn’t even get his car started to take it to a professional. I still feel guilty about being the jaded one who said you shouldn’t hire the homeless to fix your car.
7. He’s great with people. Adam has a natural charisma, particularly on the road. He drives fast even though he has no particular place to go, and cuts people off just to teach them a lesson. There have been a number of times when we’ll be sitting at a red light and someone will get out of their car and come up to us to express to Adam just how much they appreciate his lessons. One time, when I was out of town on business, I was talking on the phone to Adam and he had to go because the cops were at the door. Sadly, that was not the first time he’d said that to me. Apparently, he had cut an old lady off in traffic, she’d followed him home and blocked the driveway, he tried to “teach her a lesson,” and she called the cops. Lucky for us, there were no witnesses. And don’t even get me started about when the cops came to our wedding.
6. He’s observant and witty. Of course, one of the reasons that he’s so popular is his sense of humor. You see, when I make snide remarks, am sarcastic or judge people, I’m an insensitive bitch. When Adam does it, he’s witty. I love that.
5. He’s fair. He takes every opportunity to offend people equally. You have to hand it to him, he really doesn’t try to offend one group more than another. Except for fundamentalists. They drive him crazy. Oh, and ugly people. He just can’t take those uggos. And the disabled. Oh, never mind.
4. He’s patient. He puts up with all of my faults, like my drinking and cursing and domestic abuse. But he does get a little frustrated with the barfights.
3. He’s imaginative. He imagines all sorts of things, like that it’s ok for grown men to wear clown shoes or that the Spice Girls had talent. But the most impressive is his night terrors. He imagines giant spiders on the walls and the bed, and he used to leap across the room in the middle of the night when he saw them – which is a very eye-opening sight, let me tell you. He even sees them on my face sometimes, which may just be a defense for when he someday plans to murder me.
2. He’s a teddy bear. Not figuratively. Literally.
1. He’s honest. Oh yeah – I just remembered why I’m writing this damn thing. Because he is honest, and everything he’s written so far is true. Except for the size of his penis in his illustrations. It’s much bigger.