Well, don’t YOU look foolish now.

For some reason, I could never quite get the hang of talking dirty during sex. While some guys can be quite comfortable ordering their sexual partners to “Take it like a dirty whore! I’m gonna rip you to shreds!”, the nastiest thing I have ever managed to say to the Mrs. was “I hope this is equally unpleasant for YOU!”.

Once, when she was out of town on business, we decided to try having cyber-sex chat on our computers. I sucked at it, because of my tendency to always crack jokes at exactly the wrong moments:

[SomaCowJ]: Oh, baby…yes, baby…do it just like that…a Priest and a Rabbi walk into a bar…
[MrsSomaCowJ]: gah

So, I turned to my good, good friends Geoff and Mickey for some guidance on this topic, and asked them for their best dirty-talk lines.

(You know how, in cheesy horror movies, everybody in the WORLD except for the stupid person on-screen knows that it would be a terrible idea to open that closet door, because there will undoubtedly be an axe-weilding homicidal maniac inside? I was like that stupid person.)

Geoff, having control issues, is very demanding in his budoir babble: “You dirty girl, I’m going to f…why is there no coffee ready?! I’m risking a heart attack to give you mediocre sex, and you can’t even have a pot of WaWa brewing for afterward? Put a dollar in the jar! UHHNNNGH! Whew! Ok, I’m done. That was GREAT!”

Mickey was little help, since the only time he talks to people is while we’re recording the show: “Oh, baby, you are like a cascading style sheet that functions perfectly across multiple websites without debugging”. Yeah, I wish I could help him.

On a related note, I was recently researching my family tree, and was quite surprised to discover that several of my great-great grandparents had been porn stars in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I was able to track down some of the “dialog” from these early attempts at silent moving-pictures which CLEARLY demonstrate that my dirty-talk deficiency is genetic. Keep in mind that the language in these films was considered a vile and filthy obscenity in its day:

Yeah. That explains THAT.

If you have any ideas to help me improve my pillow talk, please let me know.

Until then I’ll be boning up on my Priest and Rabbi jokes, as it were.

In this episode the guys talk about beefs, small packages, and porn!

You know, having a baby sure does change your life. And I’m not talking about the physical act of birthing the baby, I mean just having one around. You might say “duh” but let me tell you… For the last 9 years, until 4 months ago, Geoff was a night owl. He would be up until 1 am easily watching TV, playing on the computer… I can’t count the number of times I fell asleep sitting up just trying to keep up with him. But that baby…you suddenly have all of these new worries, or, if they are the same worries, they are 10 times more worrisome now… Is the baby eating enough? Too much? How will I pay for her college? Is she happy? Will I lose my job? Who will watch her? Will she take the bottle???

And while I worry about them, Geoff works 60 hour weeks, puts on a great show, and spends as much time as he can with Rowan, all along worrying about the above and 100 other things. I’m glad he worries, I’m glad to know I’m not alone, and it’s good he thinks about these things and doesn’t just shrug things off until the worst happens.The worrying never goes away, though, does it?

So anyway, yeah, I’m using this blog space to type this (what else will I do with the notes I have ha! *wink*) as Geoff has passed out next to me at 9 PM and has to be up again early tomorrow morning. I’ll be sure to also throw his bedtime clothes on.

So in this episode, where Geoff, Mickey, J, and the live chatroom were definitely not sleeping, McDonalds was blamed for the meatpocalypse. Then Mickey talked about his small package and gave us all an update. Thanks Mickey!

After that they went into porn and the Chinese Milk drama. I can not wait to go back and listen to THAT segue!

Most importantly, birthdays were talked about. Who doesn’t love a birthday?? Well, Ross is hitting a big one (not the rolled up or water or gravity style, his age silly) and we hear he is having some kind of get together. Rumor has it maybe some trivia involved? We are so there!

So Ross, Happy Birthday. Despite what the song says, you are special!

And Geoff’s birthday is coming up and we are planning some mega-eating for that one. Check in, we’ll keep you posted on where and when but for now, pencil in Saturday, October 25th for some eating!

And in this week’s Weekly Constitutional (which he really does have to do in the bathroom, when else would he have time?) Geoff laments the fact that his Borders was going out of business. The only good thing? The number of books he got for next to nothing! But it is sad…all the little independent stores are practically gone and now the big ones, too?

What isn’t gone is our great music played this episode:

• Dirty Wormz – Top of the Food Chain
• No More Kings – God Breathed

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No, not Walt Disney World.

No, not Universal Studios Islands of Motion Sickness and Vomit.

I’m talking about: Flea World

Flea World, or, as the locals call it, “The Mall”, claims to be America’s largest permanent flea market. I have no reason to doubt this claim, as I have visited it off and on for 17 years now and I have seen only about one tenth of it. Granted, the one tenth that I have visited was the only part that was contained in air-conditioned, prefab buildings, but I can’t help that. That’s where all the discount Armenian and Slovak porn is sold.

The atmosphere at Flea World is much like that of a country fair, except not in this country. The chiaroscuro (the interplay or contrast of dissimilar qualities) of aromas exceeds my meager language skills to convey to you. The closest I can come is: one part hot car engine parts, one part funnel cakes, one part 1970s head shop, and forty eight parts unwashed foreigner.

In order to project a family-friendly image, Flea World provides beer-stained baby stroller rental for the day. The beer itself can be also purchased on the grounds. For a southern, redneck/mexican marketplace, the selection of beers is astounding, consisting of BOTH Budweiser AND Bud Light.

One of my favorite types of dealer booth is the incense vendor. Here you can purchase oils, sticks and cones that will make your home, and your hair, for the next three days, smell like such diverse scents as “Climax”, “Bitch” and “Wet Leather”.

The most amazing part, to me, is the degree of variety in the products offered for sale by any one vendor. It is not in the least uncommon for a single booth to sell both chinese throwing stars AND Beanie Babies, or fake designer sunglasses AND fake designer power tools, or lingerie AND auto upholstery protectant. Ok, that last pair actually makes a creepy kind of sense.

It’s not just the products that keep the tourists coming back for more. It’s also the services offered. Where else in the WORLD can you get a gruesome tattoo, a haircut (choose from “mullet” or “buzz”), prepare your income tax return, have a root canal, ride bumper cars, and file divorce/inheritance paperwork, all in the same hour?!

If you ever have a chance to visit Flea World yourself, by all means do. You may even see me there, drinking a Bud Light in the Armenian porn booth. Be sure to stop and say “Hi”.

I’ll be the guy whose hair smells like “Climax”.

In this hour we discussed J and I’s visit to Open Mic Night, Comedy and Hecklers, and Book to Movie translations.

We headed out last Thursday to Copper Rocket, located next to the tracks that separate Eatonville from Maitland north of Orlando. It’s a good bar, the kind of place where the bartender has a Hunter S. Thompson shirt on and the seats are all knifed up by revelers past. We snuck into a decent seat right near the stage, and my pregnant wife Jen and I began the arduous task of pushing the table back and forth between our bellies. I was at a loss as to who should win, because, on one side, the table crushing her belly might mean the permanent disfigurement of our child, whereas if it were crushing my belly, I might be discomfited for a while. Thankfully, J arrived and we both opted to shove the table into his rapidly shrinking belly.

So, the comedy started up, and it was good. The emcee was a mic shouter, but in a club full of assholes that turn their back on the stage, that’s sort of to be expected. In all we saw about 10 comics, 5-6 of which were chicks. Some were fantastic, like Uncle Ray, Alicia, and Katie, and some were… well… They were working out the kinks of their act, let’s just say that. I found the room to be oppressive for comedy, and I think that went a long way towards showing the skill of some of these people. To generate laughs when you have a dull crowd, a weird lighting system, and one f^%$ed up redneck heckler can’t be easy.

And that heckler guy exercised every Floridian Redneck Retard Trait you can imagine. What? You’ve never heard of an FRRT? It’s how you spot the natives, people! Allow me to clue you in, so that you can keep an eye out for this truly rare and special breed. He frequents bars, clubs, Denny’s, and truck shows.

1. Hair – disheveled, lengthy, sweat soaked and yet buoyant. This guy may be balding, but he doesn’t let it faze him. Look for what appears to be a mid-eighties South Eastern Championship Wrestling style haircut, kinda like Sammy Hagar, but with no hint of product.

2. Skin – Slightly resembling Trashcan Man from The Stand by Stephen King. All visible areas will be lobster red, with deep seated melanoma from spending day after day toiling in the brush. This guy works hard, and it shows. Sure, we’ve had silly things like sunscreen, hats, and shirts for a few decades or so, but he is hesitant to change, cause chicks dig a nice dark 3rd degree tan.

3. Clothes – If you have ever been to a gas station on the wrong side of town, and seen an enormous box with what appear to be dirty shop rags spilling out of a funneled slot near the top, you have seen the FRRT boutique. Usually there is a strength in teals and yellows, but the occasional shirt sans sleeves is always appropriate, even on a 50 degree night. The gooseflesh really helps the blisters stand out, you know?

4. Shoes – Flip Flops or sandals. The bluer and rattier the better. The goal of all FRRT’s is to showoff their busted ass feet, which have had countless drills, bricks, car tires, and bottles smashed across them. Typically, an FRRT will grow hobbit fur on their toes to cushion the blow of these many accidents, and this fur they will groom fastidiously if given a second stool to hoist them up upon.

5. Accessories – Ah, here is where the FRRT shines! From the puka shell necklaces they got on Spring Break 32 years ago in Daytona before dropping out “for one semester”, to the sweat stained cigarette or blunt behind their ear, this guy knows how to bring an ensemble together. Look for sunglasses, even though it is 10:30 at night in the bar equivalent of the goddamned Bat Cave, a Firebird or Camaro keychain, and bus transfer tickets. I would say that the frothiest, most spillingest, stankest foamy beer you can imagine is also an accessory, but no FRRT has even been seen without one, and if he spills one, you can be damn sure he was two-fisting.

6. Eyes. Always vacant, they stare in a way that perfectly indicates how many miles of edging and blowing this one man has done in his life. Also, yellow. Very, very yellow. Jaundice, or gonorrhea? Something. Do not maintain eye contact with an FRRT exhibiting individual, for any reason. If you are a male, it will indicate your desire to fight, or discuss “The Mexicans”. If you are a woman, it will indicate your desire to copulate with him, and your need to also discuss “The Mexicans”.

Hope that helps!

Anyway, the gals and guys did a good job in the face of such adversity, and we’d definitely go back, and I think J wants to do a set, which would be a hoot that I will be sure to videotape for you all. Have you ever done an open mic night? How did it go?

We wrapped up with some discussion of Where the Red Fern Grows, which J and Mickey never read. I am beginning to think that the book topic may not be such a hot item, seeing as I work with two guys that spend more of their time staring at porn than they do anything else. Maybe I should do Porn Reviews, instead. At any rate, J hated Frankenstein for the dumbest reason I have ever heard. I actually bought him a puka shell necklace.

See you guys here next week, or, come join us in the Ustream for our show, Sunday at 2pm, Eastern. We’ll be giving away the iTouch live, so if you entered, good luck, and if you didn’t, well… damn.

We yukked it up to the following great musics in this hour:

• Straight Outta Junior High – Happy Fun Song
• Snog – The Happy Song

And check out some of Katie Hughes work:

Myspace Video from Bonkerz