For Sale

Browsing CraigsList to see what they had for dining room sets, and came across this gem:

Beautiful oak table with six solid chairs and two additional leaves. Four of the six chairs have been professionally refinished.


I didn't mess with this picture at all. That is what they posted to sell the professionally finished furniture. I can kind of make out a vase or something, and maybe I can see some chairs in the background. But it's not wetting my interest, I have to confess.

Maybe take the picture after you have your medication next time? Or switch to decaf. Just a thought.

A Question About Underwear

Here's the scenario:

You are visiting someone you consider a very good friend. You discover you have neglected to pack fresh underwear. Do you ask this friend to borrow a clean pair of theirs?

When this question was asked, it was a guy-scenario, but women feel free to chime in.

I voiced my belief that commando was way better than borrowing a strange pain of skivvies, no matter how good the friend was. His boys had been in there, and so no way Jose'. That vote pretty much carried the room, except for one guy who proclaimed he wouldn't have an issue with someone else's underwear.

"It's been washed." he claimed.
Regardless, I and several others agreed that commando was a way better option.

Then it was asked of the group if the same applied to bathing suits?

"Not the same." I said. "They spend all their time in the water, and it's mesh as opposed to solid material. I'd have no problem slipping into a clean borrowed bathing suit, save a speedo."

There was more derisive thought on this matter, particularly on the point that "somebody else's boys had been there". True, but in a chlorine-laced water, which makes it somewhat sanitary. But we all agreed that the speedo was totally out of the question.

It seems pretty clear-cut to me.

Funny. Scouts Honor.

12-Year-Old Boy Scouts Volunteer To Give Women Breast Exams

The Double Down

The music pounded through the dark, slightly smokey room. A small crowd hung at the bar, standing under the signs advertising the establishments drink specials, one of which was called "Ass-Juice". Our little group was draped around one of the pool tables, sipping red-bull & vodkas while Tim lined up a shot on the pool table. Mid-stroke the bartenders voice came over the PA saying "Put your shirt on." Tim straightened and yelled over to the bar "I can't, I just lost a bet!"

This was day three of our Vegas jaunt, gathering in the city that barely sleeps with a few childhood pals for golf, gambling and general mischief. Tim had put the event together, and knew about this place, the Double Down, a towny punk bar out near the airport that had no glitz or glamor but more personality than a dozen Vegas Strip casino lounges. The sign that hung outside said "The happiest place on earth." A sign inside said "Puke Insurance $15". We were home.

After settling in to our drinks and racking up the 50 cent pool table, Stinky pulled out his research for "the bet". Tim had come up with the idea - give Stinky the name of several classmates from high school and have him find out where they were now, and what they are doing. Then Tim and I would guess who was doing what where. Sparks just sat there and laughed at our guesses. The closest to the reality was the winner.

The original payment of the bet was the loser had to walk through the Mirage pool area in a speedo. Since we didn't get to the game until our last night, that payment was uncollectable. So the shirtless pool was a poor substitute, but better than a double shot of ass-juice.

The game was on. I won round one by guessing that the validictorian of my class was now a shady club owner. Tim countered in the next round by pegging a classmate as a small-business mogul. The last round was the decider, and it was based on a brother-sister pair we knew in high school. Turned out we were both off the mark (turns out he died a few years ago) but my guess on the sister was the closest, so I was named the victor. Which brings us back to the topless pool game.

Tim went to the bar, his white chest shining in the dark room and illuminated the bartender to the bet, and he grudgingly allowed the shirtless game to continue. A few moments later, a grizzled bear of a man walked in with a PA speaker on his shoulder like he was carrying a shoebox. As he placed the speaker down he said "Put your damn shirt on." Tim started to explain that the bartender had OKed the scenario. The man looked at Tim for a second, the said, "Oh alright. Make it quick."

The man (who turned out the be the owner) walked a few paces away and turned back again and addressed the pale billiards player behind him. "You didn't make a bet about your pants, did you?"

Fuck that was an awesome place.