Robert Downey, Jr. is HOT; HOT like a habanero chili pepper soaked in Tabasco sauce, wearing a wool sweater in the flaming recesses of Hell.
I was tempted to limit my post to that one sentence, but I thought it would be a waste. I mean, with so many words in the English language, surely I could expound on my feelings for this man (no offense Jan, but you know how it is).
Last Saturday Jan and I made plans to go to dinner, then see Iron Man afterwards. Needless to say I was 
pretty pumped about the whole evening. We wound up going to Marie Callendars where I gorged myself on their sinfully delicious Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. My God that dish is good. If you want to know what it feels like to have your taste buds reach a level of euphoria known only to the few strong enough to survive such pleasure, then I suggest you order this entree next time you make it into one of these fine establishments (Best. Sentence. Ever). The sauce was full of flavor and so rich and creamy, the chicken was delicious and tender, the pasta cooked to perfection. Yeah, it was definitely some good shit. I could practically feel my arteries closing up as I shoveled bite after bite into my greasy face. But fuck it. My mom always said I would die with a full stomach, and dammit she’s right. It’s no secret I love a good meal.
This is where it gets good...
My favorite part of any wedding is the reception. I love free flowing alcohol, delicious food, and good company. Actually, even if the company isn’t all that good the other 2 things more than make up for it. Shitty company seems less shitty after a second helping of tri-tip and 7 beers.
That’s where I was this past weekend, by the way: At a wedding. We drove up to Sacramento to see one of Jan’s brothers get hitched (”we” being me, Jan, and his parents). The drive was long (8 hours) and definitely not something I’m in a hurry to do again. I’ll spare you the details of how my legs got so cramped I contemplated sawing them off or how I suffered a horrendous attack of gas. That shit was brutal. I wound up holding in farts until we passed groupings of cows out to pasture. Once we were close enough, I would silently ease out a few torpedoes and hope the other 3 people in the car blamed the smell on “manure”. I could have gotten away with doing this the rest of the trip if I hadn’t made the mistake of letting one go as we drove past some orange trees. Apparently oranges don’t smell like dookie.
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Ill-fitting garments are nothing new. We’ve all been somewhere, either alone or with a friend, and have witnessed it: a poor soul wearing a shirt or pants several sizes outside their neighborhood. We might gawk, politely look away, or pull out our camera in an attempt to snap a photo (or is that just me?). Now I’m not trying to talk about anybody, but…. DAMN. What is the problem? Do their homes lack mirrors? Are their friends or loved ones too chicken shit to tell them how they really look? When (or IF for that matter) they look in the mirror, who exactly are they seeing?
This has to stop. People need to realize when an outfit is just not working.
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Why do guys think it’s OK to wear bottoms tight enough to strangle a flea?
Seriously, what’s up with the “banana smugglers”? I know in the past, it was HOT for a man to wear skin tight trousers. But not so much today. Males who wear “nut busters” are an aberration and frankly, I despise them. These “sack grabbers” aren’t flattering in any way, they’re not cute, and I don’t care how many chicks you’ve banged, they are very much unacceptable.
CEASE AND DESIST!
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