Tag Archives: Humour

Hey! Stop “Bob Rodgersing” My Pregnant Wife!

old-guy-with-hand-down-large-womans-pants

A classic Bob Rodgersing. Here, this man is showing you a creative, one-handed variation of the Original.

Author’s Note: Sexual assault isn’t funny. And if Bob Rodgers were to ever “Bob Rodgers” the wrong person, he could conceivably get in sexual assault-ish legal trouble for doing so. I’m not a lawyer. But my friend is. And he just happened to be there the night Bob Rodgers “Bob Rodgersed” my pregnant wife, an event that forever changed our vocabulary, the types of photos we text or email one another, and turned a random guy’s name into a verb and a noun. The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty.

I spent my high school years living on a quaint little street at the bottom of a steep hill with a cul-de-sac on both ends.

It was quiet other than the occasional train roaring by on some nearby tracks. My parents (my mom and stepdad) were conservative and fairly strict. Nothing wild EVER happened at that house.

So, when my wife and I rolled up to my old house where my stepdad lived alone less than a year after my mom left and filed for divorce, and about 10 years after I’d moved out, I almost shit myself.

Hip-hop music was BLARING from the garage via professional DJ equipment.

People were everywhere, laughing and having a good time.

Are we back in college?

This was a bona fide keg party my stepdad (who I met on my 5th birthday) was throwing while trying to reclaim his life after the divorce.

Before long, I was drinking shots with friends and neighbors and relatives standing around the kitchen table where we prayed before every meal and where I’d never before drank alcohol.

I was bumming cigarettes to my uncle’s girlfriend who was trying to hide it from him.

I was laughing it up with friends and family all of who shared my awe of the surreal scene: What planet are we on right now? Can you believe this is happening here?

It was the second-most surreal and awesome thing that would happen that night.

One of the neighbors is a guy named Bob Rodgers. A guy in between my age and my parents’ age.

He was always nice to me.

“Hey Bob! Good to see you, sir! Want to drink a shot with us?”

Damn right, he did.

All night, we were filling up plastic cups from the kegs, and drinking occasional shots from my stepdad’s neglected liquor cabinet. This was a man that drank ONE light beer, once a month with dinner. Maybe.

It was a great party.

My lawyer friend isn’t just my lawyer friend. He’s my childhood best friend who happens to be an attorney also.

He and I were standing in the backyard admiring the sights and sounds of the summer-night party when my pregnant wife walked up to us.

“So, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but who’s that guy over there?” she said.

“That’s Bob Rodgers. He lives right over there. Why?” I said.

“He just totally put his hands down my pants,” she said.

I didn’t love when guys did that, but I was drinking a lot and am harder to upset under such conditions.

“What do you mean? Like the front? Like, he tried to touch you down there?”

“No. In the back. Between my jeans and underwear,” she said while sort of demonstrating how it went down.

My friend and I looked at each other, half-disturbed, half-amused. My top priority was making sure my wife wasn’t upset. She wasn’t, and we all started to lighten up.

“Wait. On top of your underwear? Like, he went for your ass, but checked himself before going full skin?”

“I guess.”

“He used both hands? God, his wife is standing right there! I wonder if she saw that. How far down did he go?” I said.

She showed us again. About down to where your thumb connects to your hand.

Maybe it was all the drinking. But things were getting funnier.

My uncle’s girlfriend came over to bum another covert cigarette.

I excused myself from the Bob Rodgers conversation and went to smoke with her. She leaned in close to my ear. “Do you know that guy over there?”

“Hell yeah, I do. That’s Bob Rodgers. He just stuck his hands down my wife’s pants!”

“No way!” she said. “That’s what I was going to tell you!”

“You saw him do it!? I totally missed it.”

“No, he did it to me too! Just now when I was over there. He pulled me in for a hug and put his hands down the back of my pants!” she said.

“This guy is unbelievable!” I said. “Important question that I’m sorry for asking: Did he put them between your pants and your underwear? I mean, did he stay above your underwear?”

“Yes. Exactly,” she said.

“Holy shit. Bob Rodgers is Bob Rodgersing everybody!”

I drug my uncle’s girlfriend over to where my wife and friends were standing. By now, more of them had been brought up to speed on the Bob Rodgers incident.

“Guys! Lisa got Bob Rodgersed, too!” I said, probably too excitedly.

Lisa and my wife compared notes and it became official: Getting “Bob Rodgersed” was now a Thing, and it had just happened to both of them.

We spent the rest of the night sharing the story with people and inventing new ways to Bob Rodgers someone. My lawyer friend’s wife’s cousin (seriously) lived down the street and she already knew about Bob Rodgers and his inappropriate groping.

This was apparently what he did all the time. He’d get super-wasted at bars or parties, then would Bob Rodgers (the verb) every woman he could. Then he’d pass out and have to be carried home.

The rumor was his wife knew about Bob Rodgers’ nasty habit of Bob Rodgersing everyone.

My stepdad was pissed when he found out my wife and at least one other borderline family member was groped by his drunk neighbor during his party. We assured him all was well, but that it might be wise to keep an eye out for this sort of thing in the future.

(I have a young sister. When she was still in high school, Bob Rodgers would make very Bob Rodgersy comments to her. He’s probably a ticking time bomb.)

How to Bob Rodgers Someone

This is a photo of Kendall Jenner getting Bob Rodgersed by sister Kylie.

This is a photo of Kendall Jenner getting Bob Rodgersed by sister Kylie.

As I do not, and will never, condone uninvited touching of other people, especially in areas covered by underwear, I want to clearly state in no uncertain terms that you should only be Bob Rodgersing people who you are allowed to Bob Rodgers (the verb).

That said, here are some basic Bob Rodgersing techniques you can use at home. (I apologize for the lack of illustrations with directional arrows.)

The Original Bob Rodgers

In a classic front-facing hugging position, stick both hands down the back of his/her pants, inside the pants, but outside the underwear.

The Reverse Bob Rodgers

Basically, this is your classic courtesy reach-around while standing behind him/her, except you must leave your hands atop his/her underwear.

The Double Bob Rodgers

Best accomplished from the side, the Double requires you to put one hand down the front and the other down the back (on top of the underwear!) simultaneously.

The Bent-Over One-Handed Bob Rodgers

This guy's almost got it right.

This guy’s almost got it right.

A common maneuver in Turkish oil wrestling, when he/she is on hands and knees, you put one hand down the back of the pants. Counting to 10 is optional.

The Double Reverse with a Twist Bob Rodgers

This is tricky shit, and is virtually impossible to pull off when belts or tight-fitting pants are involved. In a front-facing position (like the Original), you slide BOTH hands down the front of his or her pants (above the underwear), but then giving a little twisting finger motion at the end to let them know you mean business.

These are your entry-level, super-basic Bob Rodgersing techniques to get you started.

There are no limits, so please let your imagination run wild.

If you have Bob Rodgersing tips, stories, or new entries to the How to Bob Rodgers Someone Library, I hope you’ll share them in the comments.

From the Bob Rodgers Training Facility, over and out.

Another Author’s Note: There are more than likely MANY guys named Bob Rodgers out there. I want to reiterate that Bob Rodgers is a totally made-up name and is NOT the actual name of the guy doing all the Bob Rodgersing in this story. If your name is Bob Rodgers or you know one and like him, I’m really sorry.

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The Accidental Vagina

vagina emoticon

I was falling asleep because it was late and I wake up early.

“Talk soon,” I texted before plugging my phone in for the night.

She replied: “Goodnight!  ({})”

I stared at it for a minute. Did she just send me a vagina emoticon? It was too late and I lacked the brainpower to figure it out.

The Vagina Dialogue

I forgot about it for most of the next day, but a text exchange with her later that night reminded me of the vagina symbol, and I felt compelled to ask about it.

“Before I forget. Did you send me a digital vagina before I fell asleep last night?”

“WHAT?!?!? NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!… Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha what are you talking about?!?!?”

“Was it a Rorschach test? I totally saw a vagina. ({}) <– that is a digital vagina. My face hurts from laughing about this.”

“Hahahahaha! It’s a hug!!! It’s a smiley face with two hands giving a hug!”

I questioned her sanity for the first time, as this was the clinical psychologist who befriended me and convinced me I had adult ADHD and needed to treat it properly to maximize my quality of life.

“That’s a vagina hug!” I said.

“Omg. That’s amazing!!! Hahaha. I don’t see a vagina at all!!!”

“I just showed it to a friend. He is not especially pervy. He’s married with two kids. I asked, what is this? He insta-replied: ‘That’s a vagina,’ and I laughed some more.

“He said, and I quote…”

“I’m dying right now from laughing,” she said.

“…it may be a little wider and looser than I prefer. But that’s definitely a vagina.”

“I really don’t see it!!! What role do the white hands play? So like, ({}) what is the white part and what is the yellow?? All I see is a smiley face with two hands.”

“I don’t see any color here.”

“The round thing is yellow, and the bottom is white. Ok, I’m going to text myself to the iPad and see if I can see it.”

“Allow me,” I said, and proceeded to text her the vagina symbol.

“OH MY GOD!!!!! Hahahahahahaha.”

“I thought you sent me a vagina. I thought you were trying to be sexy, like: ‘Hey, check out this super-hot vagina!’ But I really had to go to sleep.”

“I can’t believe it. I send that A LOT. Oh. My. God.”

“This is one of my favorite moments, ever. I am 100-percent writing about this.”

“Do you see what it’s supposed to look like like??? Hahahaha.”

vagina hug

“Yes. I’m giddy. You’ve been sending vaginas to everybody.”

Despite being a super-smart and easy-to-like human being, she’s like your crotchety parent who doesn’t want to use new and improved technology, and refuses to give up using a Blackberry. So this kind of thing was bound to happen.

My mother literally said to me the other day: “I’m going to buy a new TV—but it’s not going to be a smart TV!”

“Why don’t you want a smart TV, mom?” I asked.

“I don’t want those sonsofbitches spying on me in my living room!” she said.

dr evil right

So when you send hugging emoticons from a Blackberry to people with iPhones (and hopefully Android devices, too!), what they really see is vaginas.

I thought you needed to know.

You’re welcome.

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The Jesus Fly

Robert_Wadlow fly

The Jesus Fly looked a bit like this.

There was a noise at the kitchen window.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

A sound like that could mean only one of two things: Either every woman in the neighborhood was standing outside holding turned-on vibrators against the glass, or an enormous insect was buzzing around the window.

A quick investigation revealed zero sex toys and one very large fly. It wasn’t scary-mutant big like I was having a bad Honey, I Shrunk the Kids acid trip. More like the difference between Robert Wadlow and a regular person.

Normal fly = regular person.

This fly = Robert Wadlow.

“Good God. Check out this fly. It’s the size of my head,” I said.

My friend, the homeowner, walked over to confirm I was exaggerating. Then he disappeared for a second and reappeared with a freaky-looking tennis racket which turned out to be a rad hand-held bug zapper designed to improve the fly-swatting process. It was my first time seeing one.

“Dude. That’s awesome,” I said.

He was about to show me how it worked. Unlike a fly swatter, the rate of impact isn’t a factor. When insects contact the inner coils, they are promptly met with 3,000 volts of I told you not to fly by the potato salad, sucka.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

The giant fly hit the coils. SNAP! There was a loud pop like the sound of a Snap Dragon hitting the ground. And Mothra fell to the floor.

It laid still on its back, apparently dead.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

The fly was still alive! Because the Lord of the Flies laughs at 3,000 volts.

SNAP!

My friend hit him again. Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!

The fly was obviously dead this time, but we were awestruck by its resilience.

It was really quiet otherwise I never would have heard what happened next.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

“You can’t kill me, fuckers!!!” the fly said* before flying away again.**

The fly landed on my friend’s counter. He put the zapper racket on top of the fly. As soon as it tried to fly away… Bam. 3,000 volts.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

SNAP!

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

SNAP!

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

SNAP!

Three times that tough sonofabitch flew into the death racket before finally succumbing to eternal(?) sleep.

“It’s gotta be dead now, right?” my friend said.

“No way. That’s the Jesus Fly and I think he’s got another run left in him,” I said.

My friend’s wife walked in the room and looked at us like we were holding turned-on vibrators against the kitchen window.

“What are you guys? 10?” she said.

Instead of accepting her fair question silently, I tried defending our behavior.

“Hold on. Check out this fly. It’s died, like, 14 times already and it keeps coming back to life. It’s immortal. The Jesus Fly. A miracle. You’re not impressed?”

She wasn’t.

My friend spoke up.

“If it comes back to life again, we have to let it go, right? Since it was such a worthy adversary?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “If he’s dead I think we should have a ceremonial burial for him in the back yard.”

“Yeah, I think he’s gone-zo this time,” he said.

“Impossible!” I joked. “That fly is totally immortal.”

He went to dispose of the fallen beast.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

“Holy shit!!! He’s still alive!!!” we yelled. We were giddy because we’re children.

The giant fly rose like a phoenix. It had taken 3,000 volts on the chin a half-dozen times. The music from the spaceship liftoff at the end of E.T. started playing out of nowhere* as he rose majestically to the ceiling and flew out of reach.** Just before flying above the accent-lit kitchen cabinets, it turned around and flipped us off* but we weren’t even mad because it was the Jesus Fly.**

And it must still be alive somewhere because all evidence points to the irrefutable fact that this fly is unkillable and will never die.

He’s still alive, probably partying with some other cool, but inferior flies. Being the grand champion of every fly that has ever lived.

Never forgotten. Forever revered.

Keep on keepin’ on, Jesus Fly.

The end.

*- I made that up.

**- but not that.

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Your Penis Looks Bigger When You Don’t Procrastinate

(Photo by The Plain Dealer)

This could have been me! (Photo by The Plain Dealer)

There are two ways to write this post.

There’s the way where I paint myself a victim of circumstance—someone who got totally screwed and didn’t deserve it.

And there’s the honest way.

I am a chronic procrastinator and am grossly irresponsible for a 36-year-old father.

It’s the reason my retirement account isn’t as large as it should be. It’s the reason I don’t have any books published. It’s the reason I don’t have a 28-inch waist. It’s the reason my house isn’t as clean as it should be. It’s the reason my ex-wife gets pissed at me when I overlook or don’t pay attention to some detail related to our son’s school schedule. It’s the reason I let my auto insurance lapse last year.

And it’s the reason I don’t have natural gas service to my house as I sit here typing this.

“What’d you do, Matt? Not pay your bills!?”

No, dick.

I actually have a credit on my account because I pay more every month than I need to, thank you very much.

But what did happen is the gas company kept visiting my house to inspect my gas meter when I wasn’t home. Not the entire company, I don’t think. Probably just one guy. They need to inspect meters (mine’s indoors) to ensure they are gauging gas usage accurately and to regularly check for natural gas leaks.

So, instead of just breaking in or maybe letting my uncle’s ghost show them around, they left a little card on my door knob informing me I needed to schedule an appointment to have my meter inspected.

It seemed important, so I put it in my Jeep to remind me to call on my morning commute instead of calling immediately. I called one time a couple days later, but the offices were closed, and I just sort of never tried again.

I just kept on living because if I just don’t worry about it, it will magically go away!!!

Because I live in Ohio, the temperature can swing 30 degrees in one day. And it did. We had a little cold spell recently, where it was in the 30s and 40s (Fahrenheit) at night, and in the 50s during the day.

Wednesday, I noticed the temperature reading in my house was 59 degrees. Unacceptable. I turned on the furnace and went to bed.

When my alarm clock woke me yesterday, my sinuses were totally clogged and my bedroom was about 55 degrees, as if a little magic ice troll was camped out in my air duct shooting pneumonia sprinkles and fuck-you dust at me all night.

I assumed my furnace was broken since that was the most expensive explanation. Whatever. I’ll fix it later!

I put a space heater in my room last night because I figured possibly setting my house on fire is better than being a tiny bit cold and also because screw that little ice troll.

Everything seemed fine until the part where I got in the shower and screamed obscenities. Because that was hell.

That’s what hell is, folks. An endless cold shower where all the women you find attractive take photos of your shriveled penis and post them to Instagram and Facebook and then tag your grandmother.

“Hahaha! See how funny it looks with the Lo-Fi filter!?”

Like. Like. Share. Like. Share. Like. Like.

No hot water combined with my furnace blowing only cold air told me all I needed to know: Those bastards shut off my gas.

Is that a little harsh? Shutting off gas to a customer who is a couple months AHEAD on his bill paying? Maybe another warning stuck to my door? Might that have been a better way to handle it?

I think so.

If it was winter and they shut off my gas, my reaction would be infinitely less measured. The gas company would have a real problem on their hands. And by that I mean, I would have complained to four or five people who don’t procrastinate all the time, and then do exactly what I’m already doing, which is meeting a gas company person at my house whenever they call me.

(Insert magic time-travel sound effect here)

I have a minor gas leak in my house! Gas company man just left. He was cool.

Now I’m waiting for the plumber to come, install new fittings, then I’ll have to call the gas company back so they can restart service.

I think this is one of those times it’s important to look on the bright side.

Is it fun waiting for a plumbing company to call you back, and then overcharge you for the work they’re going to do?

No.

But is it kind of awesome that I will greatly reduce the risk of dying in a fiery explosion in my own house?

I feel like it probably is.

Maybe you guys would hear about it someday. “News at 11. Procrastinating blogger’s home explodes, killing him, but also saving him from having to power wash his exterior walls and mop the basement floor, so don’t feel too bad.”

Or maybe you wouldn’t hear.

Either way, I’d probably end up in that forever-cold shower, shriveled penis exposed, and going viral on Facebook – Eternal Damnation Edition™.

Like. Like. Share. Like. Share. Like. Like.

But, hell. Since I’m still alive?

I guess I’ve got some things to do.

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