At least as it applies to blogging.

After being outed as a 10-year blogger (beating the mistress of the haus by 3 years) our beloved Erin Cooks has tweeted into the friendternet, asking if she could win a prize for longevity.

To that I say yes.

It will come in the form of a Costco-size pack of Depends and a bottle of Geritol.

…

Thank you I’ll be here all night.

But seriously, Erin Cooks will probably be pissed at this post. That’s O.K. She’s making limoncello and can drink her blues away.

Of course her recipe might not turn out, in which case she’ll have to settle for prune juice.

Out with friends the other night, I met the most charming girl. Her name is Jody and she is a 34-DD.

Now you may be asking yourself, why, pray tell, does Hänni know the cup size of a girl she just met?

Well, it’s not because I was checking her out or anything … Because I was … And it—I mean they—were awesome.

But yeah, I know Jody is a 34-DD because she told me so.

It was in the context of this story:

“So,” she started, “I’ve got boobs, huge boobs, 34-DD boobs. And I’ve got this boyfriend. We’ll call him James, like James Dean.

James has a sport bike. It’s a Suzuki—like a crotch rocket. Like a rice burner. Like a thing that goes ‘weee weee’ when you rev the engine.

James loves that bike. He loves it so much he has a pre-ride ritual. First he runs his hands over the front where the headlights are, then over the seat, then over the smooth plastic above the rear wheel. Next, slowly, lovingly, he pulls on the gloves he bought specially for riding. And then James puts on a jacket to protect against the wind. When all that’s done, he mounts the bike for its “warm up.”

The “warm up” (which I don’t think is necessary) consists of revving the engine a time or two or twenty. Only when James feels he’s made a sufficient amount of noise, does the ride begin.

Not too long ago James was having a rough day. He decided his Suzuki would chase away the blues. The wind in his face would be just what the doctor ordered.

As usual, James did his routine. Running of hands. Wearing of gloves. Donning of jacket. Revving of engine.

As he drove out of our complex, a sense of serenity overtook him. The engine’s growl combined with the rough and rugged sensation of dirt bouncing beneath tires made James forget all his troubles. Just a boy and his bike, James felt like a million bucks.

James felt like a real bad ass.

James rides on some paths near the boulevard, and not too long after he started, he had to stop. Passersby were honking their horns, and while the first time it happened James figured it was alright—someone was showing their appreciation for his fine-ass ride, by the fourth time, he thought something might be amiss.

And there was.

And it had been waving in the wind while James flew down the pathway.

That something amiss—it was my ginormous bra. And it was attached, by its hooks, to the back of James’s jacket.

Horrified, James undid the bra—which ironically is how it ended up off my body in the first place—and shoved the contraband under his seat.

When he got home, James was upset. I tried to cheer him. I told him that if things like this happened more frequently, maybe there’d be no war. When he questioned my statement, I explained that the undergarment being white and all probably looked like some sort of flag of surrender, some sort of high-flying flag of freedom.

For some reason, James was not impressed by my analogy.

I laughed until I about peed my pants though,” Jody said.

And that’s the story of the boy who went from bad ass to jackass in the snap of a bra strap.

The end.
—–
The AI Cocktail Countdown ends tonight. Get your votes in so I can get my drink on this Wednesday for the American Idol finale party.

Angelface and I have this friend. His name is Mike, but I like to think of him as Mister Misadventure. Mister Misadventure makes Hänni happy. While I’ve split my pants a time or two (or three or four), I’ve never unclogged a toilet with my bare hands and I’ve never forgotten to remove “I like sex” from the Hobbies section of a resume I sent to an employer—Mister Misadventure has done these things.

Recently Mister Misadventure told me a story that was a real hum dinger. Or should I say hum stinger?

One afternoon, after finishing some yard work, Mister Misadventure and his lithe, little missus decided to hop in the shower. What would’ve been an opportunity for romance quickly turned bad as an uninvited guest entered the bath.

The intruder was dressed in yellow and black. Agitated and confused, a bee had gotten in and was buzzing rather ominously near the showerhead.

M & M Misadventure were pretty frightened. I guess you could say that bug scared the bee-jesus out of them… but I digress.

Anyway, wearing nothing but what the good lord gave him, Mister Misadventure leapt from the tub. He quickly scavenged the kitchen looking for some sort of weapon. Running short on mace, chains and medieval torture devices, Mister Misadventure settled for an empty cool whip container.

Armed and ready for action, the Mister returned to the shower. When he threw back the curtain he found that in his absence the Missus had further pissed off the party crasher. By frantically splashing water on the bewildered bee, Madam M. had escalated the situation.

Someone was *not* going to get out of the shower unscathed.

Unfortunately for Mister Misadventure, he was that someone.

Gesturing with his hands near his groin, Mister M. explained it was probably because it’s so big that the angry bee chose his penis for a target.

Yes, Mister Misadventure got stung on the stinger.

His first reaction was not unlike mine when I found out TomKat was pregnant—in a fit of panic and confusion, the Mister screamed like a twelve-year-old girl.

And then, in a knee-jerk reaction he’d soon come to regret, Mister Misadventure gripped his cool whip container and thrust it towards the bee … on his crotch.

And then Mister Misadventure started screaming like a twelve-year-old girl again.

And then he had black and blue balls for five days.

And that’s a true story, you better bee-lieve it.
—–
I never liked her much anyway. Blonde’s Death was voted out last night in the AI Cocktail Countdown. We’re still got four more kick offs to go, so keep voting kids. Poll is in the sidebar.