The Belligerent Years
A Man Trying to Tell His Girlfriend that He is a Werebear at an Olive Garden
Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 28, 2008 at 11:16 pm
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“I’m sorry, John. That baby is just soooo loud. I don’t even know why they bring a kid that young to a restaurant. It’s just rude. Babies don’t like spicy food, anyway. Sorry, what were you saying? You’re an Ursanopope?”

“No. No. I’m an Ursanothrope.”

“Does that mean you can’t eat wheat or something? I guess that explains why you haven’t touched your pasta. You’ve been eating those breadsticks like crazy, though. Is that safe?”

“The pasta is fine, Sheila. I’m not hungry. To be an Ursanothrope, it means that once a month, I become something wholly different from the man you see before you. When the moon is full, I feel the call of nature and of the forest.”

“Is that all? So what? I love to camp. Why all the secrecy? I don’t mind. I own a tent. Well, I think I do. I might have loaned it out to a friend. I know I have a sleeping bag, because I just saw it in my closet—wait—I loaned my tent to Julie. God, I haven’t seen her since Easter brunch. I can’t believe that she never gave me my tent back. I –“

“—this has nothing to do with camping, I assure you. Shelia, I’m a Werebear.”

“A Werebear? Oh my god. I knew it. I knew you were gay. You are, aren’t you? I knew it. I should have known. I should have spotted it right away. I should have seen the signs. I could tell from how you hold your fork.”

“Shelia, I’m not gay. What’s wrong with the way I hold my fork?”

“Nothing is wrong with the way you hold your fork. If you’re gay.”

“I’m not gay. I transform into a bear—wait—how does a gay hold his fork, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Just – gay-like.”

“Gay-like? What’s that?”

“You know.”

“What’s wrong with your wrist?”

“Nothing’s wrong with my wrist. I’m just making a point.”

“So holding a fork with a limp wrist and a pinkie out like that makes a person gay?”

“I guess not, but it doesn’t help their case.”

“What case? I didn’t know that you were holding ‘gay’ court. Since when was cutlery usage a sign of homosexuality? Pardon me; I guess I should eat my dinner with my hands, like some kind of animal.”

“Like a Werebear?”

“Exactly. I guess if you happened upon me in Werebear form and saw that one of my claws was askew of the rest, you would think that I was gay Werebear.”

“Well, aren’t ‘Werebears’ gay guys who like guys with beards and hairy backs?”

“That’s just ‘bears’, Sheila.”

“John, you seem awfully familiar with male homosexuality.”

“Me? You’re the one who has been harping on it all evening. Not me. I can’t even think of a time I have even mentioned it.”

“What about the movie last week?”

“What about it?”

“You said that like that guy’s voice.”

“What?”

“You said, ‘I’ve always really liked that voice. Even as a kid.’”

“Sheila, that was Optimus Prime. It was a god-dammed robot. I watched the cartoon as kid. That’s all. I didn’t want to go gay with a robot.”

“I read that we make most of our psycho-sexual connections in early adolescence. Perhaps this Roddimus— “

“Optimus.”

“I rest my case.”

“Where did you read this?”

“In a magazine.”

“What magazine?”

“.”

“It was ‘O’, wasn’t it?”

“Who are you, the king of fact-checkers? It’s a good magazine.”

“You know what – you’re right. You caught me. I’m gay. Gay as the day is long. I love cock. Case closed.”

“My mother was right about you.”

“If she said ‘he loves in the butt’ then she was spot on, because I am a huge queen. I love dudes so much, I wish you were one, so we could ‘do it’ right here on this very table. Right in front of this enormous bowl of salad and God himself.”

“Does this mean that we’re splitting up?”

“Well, at first I thought my turning into a bear once a month would properly distract you from my raging homosexuality for a while longer, but since you found me out, there’s really no reason to keep up the lie.”

“What do you mean, ‘my turning into a bear once a month’?”

“Never mind.”



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Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 28, 2008 at 9:08 pm
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The Massage Table
Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 26, 2008 at 11:08 pm
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Part One

Please stop fucking my portable massage table.  I need it for my work.  It’s a pretty robust table, but that doesn’t mean it’s suitable for intercourse.  You’re really good about cleaning it afterward, but just knowing that you have fucked it, makes it difficult for me to massage people on it.

 

It’s not that I don’t want you to be happy; I believe people need to be able to seek their own pleasure.  I just don’t understand why your object of affection has to MY massage table.  If it’s such an attraction, why not buy one for yourself.  I concede that they are rather pricey, but not totally outside the realm of gainfully employed gentleman.  If you watched your spending, you could have your own in a few short months.

 

Part Two

Hey, it’s me again.  Just checking in.  I hate to be running this into the ground, but I really feel that something needs to be said.  I know you’re still fucking my massage table.  Don’t ask me how – I just know.

 

Part Three

I’m willing to allow you to skip paying rent this month, if it means that you will take the money you save and apply it to the purchase of your own massage table.  If I could, I would buy you a table myself.  This is just isn’t possible as I have been unable to work since I realized the frequency that you molest my massage table.  I think it would be unethical to massage one of my clients on the table, knowing full well that it has now become you sole (?) source of sexual gratification.

 

I am losing sleep over this.  I don’t feel that it is safe for me to leave the table in the apartment anymore.  I’ve taken it carrying it around, even if I don’t need it.  You must know how heavy it is.  My back is wreaked.  I sweat so much, that my clothes are ruined.  I look like a fool.

 

Part Four

As you probably have surmised, I have moved out of the apartment.  You will find the massage table in my former bedroom.  I will send you a check for my half of utilities, but not for the rent.  As far as I am concerned, you bought that table, buster. 

 

Also, I fucked your alarm clock.

 

 



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Entertainment Phobias and Diseases
Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 26, 2008 at 5:14 pm
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Juliarobertphobia – The fear that a beloved comic book character will be portrayed in a movie by an actor who has never read a comic book and is proud of that fact.

 

Nicholascagaphobia – The fear that a beloved comic book character will be played by an actor who is actually a fan, but whose ego will not allow them to understand that they are wrong for the part.

 

Georgelucasphobia – The fear that on will wake up to find that all their childhood memories have been “fixed”

 

Martinscosesephobia – Persistent fear of hearing “Gimmie Shelter” in so many films that all interest in ever hearing it again is destroyed.

 

Sizemore-Madsen syndrome. In ability to differentiate between the actors Tom Sizemore and Michael Madsen. Not to be confused with Dermot Mulroney – Dylan McDermot’s Chorea.

 

Panetiere-Symplex II. Anxiety in males caused by the counting down of days until an attractive starlet’s eighteenth birthday. Formerly Spears-Symplex I.

 

Mammary-Oculary Degeneration. Eyestrain caused by staring at high-resolution red carpet photos in hopes of spotting a “nip slip”



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Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 25, 2008 at 8:47 am
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Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 25, 2008 at 8:36 am
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Feb 25, 2008 at 8:32 am
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Benny On Benny
Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 25, 2008 at 8:30 am
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European tennis sensation Benny Frittas was voted Playgirl Magazine’s “man to watch in ‘77”. His fast and furious court style, mixed with boisterous interactions with line judges and the press made him a favorite with tennis fans. Poised to win several championships in 1976, Frittas commissioned a custom-made tennis racquet while on holiday in Zaire. The use of uncured zebra skin for the racquet’s handle caused a severe allergy in Frittas. The resulting “racquet-rash” left Frittas in a coma for thirty years.

After a power failure at his care facility caused his ventilator to fail, Frittas awoke from his coma. His muscles have atrophied to almost nothing, but his mind is still sharp. He can no longer play tennis, but can use his considerable mental skills to offer advice on things such as, life, relationships, and sport.

Dear Benny,

My girlfriend of eleven months is pressuring me into having a baby with her. I think we need to be married or at least know each other a little better. How do I tell her, without making her angry?

–Fertile in Florida

Dear Fertile,

I was in a coma for 30 years. Now I can’t even go to the bathroom without help. If I had a chance to make love to woman, put a baby inside her, I would be doing it right now. I would not even have time to write this. I would be humping and humping even more. I would hump you, even.

–Benny

Dear Benny,

Part of me really wants to get an Iphone. I have a perfectly good cell phone plan right now, and switching over to the Iphone would cost me a great deal of money. Aside from that, I just like they way they look and I think I would look really cool with one. Do you think I’m being shallow?

–Iphoned in Iowa

Dear Iowa,

You want to know what shallow is? The Tupperware jug they give me to pee in. It fills up so fast, I have to stop mid-stream and get a fresh one. Bladder control isn’t an exact science and sometimes I can’t stop as quickly as I like. I hope that helps.

–Benny

Dear Mr. Frittas,

What do you think of today’s tennis racquets? Are the old-school wood ones really the way to go?

–Mr. Backhand

Dear Backhand,

Funny you should mention wood. I remember the early graphite racquets and I did not like them. They always felt too light in my hand. I like a little bit of resistance in my racquet. That way, the muscles in the arm can expel their full swing, without overpowering the ball. The new racquets seem not to have that shortcoming. I think I would have to give them a second chance.

Thanks for the great question. I have to go now and find out why my family spent all my money and left me to rot in hospital for the last thirty years.

-Love, Benny



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Dessert Menu at Jimmy MacCougar’s
Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 24, 2008 at 10:15 am
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Chocolate  9/11                                          7.95

United we stand for this sweet treat.  Two collapsing slices of our most decadent chocolate cake, sandwiching a slab of dark, unsweetened chocolate, splattered by a chocolate-raspberry drizzle.   Encircled by a cloud of mocha whipped cream and cocoa dust.  If you don’t finish… the terrorists win.

Fudgatory Rape                                          9.95

Your mom and dad can never find out…how good this is!  This is where ice cream and fudge go to get cozy.  One smooth piece of our specially aged creamy fudge, caresses a fresh, homemade scoop of fudge stripe ice cream on a bed of crisp graham crackers.  So good, you’ll swear it should be technically illegal.

Cinnamon Suicide                                      6.95

Don’t forget to leave a note.  Cinnamon Lovers will have nothing left to live for after tasting this permanent solution to a temporary hunger.   Layers upon layers of thin puff-pastry made into a sticky-sweet noose to cradle a great neck or our signature fried dough.  Covered in maple syrup tears.  Served with a white chocolate stationary and a licorice pencil.

Sub-Prime Meringue Meltdown               6.95 to 14.99, depending on day ordered

The whole family is going to have to share this one – on the street.   First, we give a generous portion of our most delicious lemon custard.  Then, when you think you have had enough, we begin to pile on more meringue than you could possibly handle.  You beg for mercy, but to us, that just means you are trying to worm your way out of it.  You knew what you were doing when you signed on for this dessert.

(Jimmy MacCougar’s desserts  are proudly trans-fat free)



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Beards of the Civil War: Part One
Posted by thebelligerentyears
Feb 24, 2008 at 8:31 am
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August 23, 1863

My dearest Eliza Bell,

I write you from the very lip of perdition. The horrors I have encountered are too much for me to recount to such a delicate angel as you. I hope that my missive does not cause you melancholy or distress. I long only to hide my face deep into your chestnut hair.

Speaking of hair, my beard has become most excellent. It is full and lush, and even the bare spot under my chin is filling in nicely. I hope that the mustache will meet my cheeks by Christmas. Oh, what a glorious gift that would be. I often think of you while stroking my beard, feeling what a cruel trick has been played on the female, not allowing her the chance to grow whiskers. I think of what a magnificent beard you would grow, my dearest Eliza Bell. Deep, dark and scented with lavender, you could brush it with the horsehair brush I bought you for your birthday.

When I think of all the beards lost in the pointless war, I break down and cry. Young men with the faintest of whiskers lying next to massive testaments of hirsuteness, their follicles are grave markers with no name.

I wonder if two hundred years from now we will have learned from this horror. Perhaps then, anyone who wants a beard can have one. That is a good dream indeed.

With undying love,

Corp. J Roscoe Pegsbourd



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