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8:20 a.m. - 2002-09-12

THE ONE WHERE I REALLY PISS OFF THE LADIES

At the risk of being labeled as “sexist” or “controversial” or "an ignorant sack of horse shit", I’d like to preface this entry with a warning … I’m about to break down some stereotypes and share with you people exactly why men are far more superior than women.

Ready?

It’s because men appreciate peanut butter more than women.

Sure, there’s a few ladies reading this thinking “What do you MEEEEEAN, Uncle Bob?? I looooooove peanut butter!”

And maybe you do. And maybe you need to work on that whole “drawing out your vowels” thing that you use when you talk to me like that.

Ladies can like peanut butter. A few of them can even come close to loving it.

But women do not possess the chemical balance that allows them to appreciate peanut butter like a man can. Men will put peanut butter on anything and everything. We understand the value of peanut butter as a condiment and not just a creamy form of protein.

I sat next to a guy at the church breakfast the other day who put peanut butter on both his scrambled eggs and his biscuit.

Granted … the guy weighs well over 300 lbs., 125 lbs of that being pure chunky Jif coursing through his veins.

I’ve gotta admit … I love my peanut butter too.

But on scrambled eggs?!?

I took a look at him and said “Whoa, dude…my arteries are clogging just watching you eat that.”

“Don’t watch,” he mumbled back, shoveling his peanut butter and eggs in his mouth.

I’ve always put peanut butter on my pancakes and waffles … two breakfast foods that I haven’t eaten in years.

I am the originator of mixing peanut butter and syrup together to form a sweet paste that tasted like liquid butterscotch.

I like a spoonful of peanut butter in every bowl of ice cream that I eat, regardless of the flavor.

Pretzels and peanut butter? Of course.

Chili and peanut butter? Naturally!

But peanut butter and eggs?? Folks, that takes the love of peanut butter to new heights previously unscaled.

My wife will eat peanut butter very sparingly. Maybe four times a year she’ll indulge in something with peanut butter on it.

Every time I’m allowed to go to the grocery store by myself, a jar of peanut butter is purchased with the sole intention of making Andrew a peanut butter and banana sandwich (which he loves by the way).

Every time … that jar of peanut butter gets eaten up and Andrew gets one sandwich out of the deal.

…Daddy has snuck the rest of the peanut butter for himself.

I, like every other red blooded American male in this country and scattered abroad, cannot get enough of the creamy treat.

And for those of you guys who don't like peanut butter ... dude...keep it to yourself.

The last thing you want is Uncle Bob chastising you for being a girly man who doesn't like peanut butter.

And for those of you women who want to argue the fact ... save your breath.

Peanut butter is a man thing.

You wouldn't understand.


The other day, I was fondling my wife’s breasts absentmindedly.

Not exactly horny or even trying to get her attention. I was cooking actually. Just reached over and gave her hooters a lil’ squeeze.

She asked me to please not do that in front of the boy. Not because it teaches him anything bad, but he’s particularly protective of his Mom’s ta-tas and doesn’t like just anyone manhandling them like heads of lettuce in the produce section.

This whole act made me realize something. It’s been over 20 years since a woman didn’t let me touch her breasts.

I thought back to the days in high school and college when I’d be making out with a gal and after 30-45 minutes of kissing until our lips were raw and bleeding, I’d finally get the courage up to touch the boob.

I’d work my hands slooooowly to her chest and lightly caress it with the backs of my fingertips. As if it were an accident.

“Oh! That was your boob? I thought I was massaging your fatty elbow!”

It used to be such a game back then. Slowly easing your hand to the area where you wouldn’t normally touch the girl just to see if she’d let you do it.

Early on, most of the gals wouldn’t let me near the boob. Their hand would gently guide my hand back to their back. Boobs were off-limits, bucko. You want nipples, play with your own, Junior. These are mine. I don’t care if you just bought me dinner at Pizza Hut … hands off the bazooms.

Then … there was Stacey. The gal who stole my virginity and shoved it absentmindedly into her ass pocket like it was a Hari Krishna brochure.

Stacey allowed me to have free reign with her boobs. Wanna touch 'em? Have at it, chum! Squeeze 'em? Be my guest, Mr. Chest! Attach a car battery to them and send several thousand volts of electricity through 'em? Whatever floats your boat, pal!

I did everything short of tieing those boobs in a knot and don't think I didn't try that at one point or another.

Stacey bore the brunt of those three or four girls before her that wouldn't let me go near the boobies because they were "nice girls" who wanted "nice dinners" before they let you touch their "nice flesh bags".

I miss the days when a woman wouldn't let me touch her boobs.

Granted, I'm sure there's plenty of women out there in the world who might take offense at me grabbing their boobs and trying to swing from them like a jungle vine.

Maybe I've learned not to walk up to women in the workplace, the grocery store and the mall and slap their boobs around like red-headed stepchildren.

Since I've been with Susie, I've groped two other sets of breasts that I can recall. Both times were right in front of Susie and both times she just rolled her eyes and laughed at me.

Is there any wonder why I married the woman?

Both times were back in the 80s during my heavy HEAVY drinking days. When I could drink a case of beer and a bottle of Jagermeister and only then be ready to party.

The bar we used to work in would close anywhere from 2-4 a.m. and if we had a good night, all the employees would clock out and stay around and party in the bar.

Things usually got a bit out of hand during these after-hour parties. Well...I use the word "things". What I meant was "I" got a bit out of hand during these after-hour parties.

I'd sit there at the bar, drunk out of my gourd and tell two of the waitresses ... Dondi and Becky... that I needed to touch their breasticles ever so badly.

If Dondi or Becky were in the middle of a dry spell sexwise...they'd always welcome the opportunity for me to latch onto their knockers and milk them like a dying cow.

It was all innocent fun and usually done at a point where everyone was so inebriated that there was little chance that the acts would be remembered the following night.

...Except there were several photos taken of me with my hands all over their boobs and my face contorted in a display of drunken ecstasty.

And the photos were taken by my wife/girlfriend at the time. In case she ever needed to use these photos in a court of law to take me to the cleaners as a result of a divorce.

We still have those photos somewhere. Photos to always remind us that at one time we were all in our mid-20s and a bunch of drug-addicted alcoholics who had no respect for each other's bodies or our own.

Good times.


For those of you who have been asking ... Maggie my dog is doing just fine.

She's totally comfortable in the apartment now and can go all day without using the carpet as her bathroom. I think she knows that she's supposed to hold her urine until Daddy gets home and not just go whenever she feels the urge.

We're getting her fur all shaved off next Tuesday, the day we move in to the house.

It should be a pretty traumatic day for her. We take her to the vet, which she hates. We get her shaved, which she hates. Then we pick her up and take her to a whole new house, the last house she'll ever know.

I'm not sure if she'll hate that or not. She's got a half acre of land to explore, plus there's no leash laws out in our neighborhood so she can basically run free around the place. And since we live on the end of a cul-de-sac, there's no traffic to speak of, so it's not like she'll get run over or anything.

So that's Maggie's story.

People have also been asking about my no-good, sonofabitch brother-in-law and why they haven't been hearing about him lately.

My guess is because we moved into the apartment which is now ten miles from his workplace, rather than one mile from it in our previous location.

Plus he and his mother moved away twenty miles north of here. So we don't all get together like we used to.

The best thing?

Brother-in-law and Mother-in-law have NO IDEA where our new house is!!!

They're the only two people who have not been out to the house or the neighborhood to see any progress being done on it.

Which would mean that technically, we can move and they'd never be able to find us.

Except for the fact that Susie's lost her mind and wants to invite them over next weekend to see the house.

I swear.

Sometimes I don't know why I married the woman.

I guess because I thought that she would always allow me to squeeze other women's boobies in public and just shrug her shoulders when I did it.

Stupid alcohol and drugs.

I wish I'd been sober on our wedding day. THEN things might have been different.


Speaking of the house ... it's very nearly done.

The speaker guys came out and finished my home theater set-up, hooked up my outdoor patio speakers AND put speakers in the master bathroom, so it looks like the speakers they put in our bedroom on accident are staying.

I now have more speakers in my home than you would find at your average Metallica concert.

The only major things they have left to do are hang the window blinds and build the fence in the backyard.

Soooooooo...you wanna see a picture of it, taken last night??

Hmmmmm??

Alright....here.

Das ist meine dream haus.

And Monday ... it's alllll mine.

Except for the parts that are Susie's.

And Andrew has two bedrooms too.

But the rest?

Alllllll mine, Pancho.

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