Tag Archives: Life On The Edge

The Good Guys Always Wear Black. . . Underwear

The book’s release must be getting near* because here comes Barry yet again. This time, Barry has a thrilling story about why you should always wear black underwear. Although I’m not sure Barry’s really thought it through on this one. Still, let’s hear him out.

All right, dudes, let’s give it up for. . . Barry!

I am a dude of rather. . . substantial means. And by substantial I mean large. And by large I mean, well, large. In any number of ways. *wink* But the way I’m talking about is related to the pounds I’ve packed on since I purchased a really nice Brooks Brothers suit.

I put the suit on and, while the fit was a little off, I looked even more awesome than normal so I decided to go with it. Which, looking back, might have been a mistake.

One thing I know was a mistake was going out to eat dinner with some friends and eating a cheeseburger. I knew I was living dangerously, living life on the edge, as it were, but I didn’t care. See, I have lactose intolerance.

For those of you dudes lucky enough know to know what that is, I’ll make it relatively simple. I can’t eat dairy (drink milk, eat cheese, or ice cream or anything made from milk). That is, I can, but there’s some severe intestinal problems should I do it. And by intestinal problems, I mean, um, well, let’s just say you can smell the problems and you’d understand.

So, there I was: post-cheeseburger, dressed in a nice, but slightly tight suit and I was getting into the car to drive to work. It was at that time that my lactose intolerance acted up and I had to let it, ah. . . express itself? Yes, express itself. That’s what it did. It was rather loud and I found myself grateful that there was no one else in the car or withint a ten-foot radius.

Feeling slightly better, I headed off to work. I had like five meetings that day; in and out, up and down, before the cheeseburger began to demand that it wanted out. And it wanted out NOW.

Once comfortably ensconced on the porcelain throne, I relaxed and sort of glanced down toward my feet. Unfortunately, what I saw was the floor of the bathroom. Nothing exceptional, until I realized I was looking at the floor through my pants.

What I had thought was just a fart was, in fact, me ripping the nethers out of my pants. There was a hole so big that. . .

pants photo

You know what?

I’m not even going to describe it.

Here, take a look. This is the hole in the back of my pants that I walked around wearing all that day. Yes, really. This pair of pants. Isn’t it lovely?

That one, right there. See the white in the middle of the pants? Yeah, that’s the bedsheet you can see through the whole hole.

And I never once noticed until it was far, far too late.

My point here is to serve as a bit of a warning for all you dudes with your little dudes and suchlike, to make sure your suits fit? No. Um, not eat cheeseburgers if you’re lactose intolerant. Okay, good tip, but not the one.

Oh, wait. I’ve got it: always try and match the color of your underwear to the color of your pants. That way, if anything. . . untoward happens, at least you’ve got some sort of camouflage. Or something like that, anyway.

*it is. Our book, Dude’s Guide to Babies, has a new publication date: It’s March 22. Mark it on your calendars now.

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Freaky Friday: It’s All About The Chocolate, Baby

by Richard

There’s the old saw that women, and only women, love chocolate. I’m here to tell you that the old saw just won’t cut wood. Now, I wouldn’t say I’m consumed by the thought of consuming chocolate, nor are many other men and women I know — and, hey, if I don’t know anyone like that then it just must be true because I am the center of the universe — but I do know that I will be eating more chocolate in the future. Why?, I hear you asking. The reason is simple: Chocolate will help me stay alive.

According to a recent study, eating chocolate helps to cute the death rate in heart attack survivors. Hhn. If only I knew a heart attack survivor I could ask about this. Oh, wait. That’s right. I am one. I’ll ask myself. Heh, heh. This makes me feel right funny. In a good way.

Heart attack survivors who eat chocolate two or more times per week cut their risk of dying from heart disease about threefold compared to those who never touch the stuff, scientists have reported.

Smaller quantities confer less protection, but are still better than none, according to the study, which appears in the September issue of the Journal of Internal Medicine.

Apparently, the study found, the benefits to heart attack survivors are only specific to chocolate. Unfortunately. Which means I won’t be eating more of that vanilla ice cream of which I’m so fond. Oh, well.

In the study, (scientists) tracked 1,169 non-diabetic men and women, 45-to-70 years old, in Stockholm County during the early 1990s from the time they were hospitalised with their first-ever heart attack.

The participants were queried before leaving hospital on their food consumption habits over the previous year, including how much chocolate they ate on a regular basis.

They underwent a health examination three months after discharge, and were monitored for eight years after that. The incidence of fatal heart attacks correlated inversely with the amount of chocolate consumed.

“Our findings support increasing evidence that chocolate is a rich source of beneficial bioactive compounds,” the researchers concluded.

The results held true for men and women, and across all the age groups included in the study.

Of course, there is that one slight drawback. Unhindered consumption of chocolate might be contributing to that growing spare tire that’s sitting above my belt. And we all know that fat bodies don’t go well with stricken hearts. There’s a fine line to be walked here, but I do love to live life on the edge. Maybe this is my latest edge walk. Care to join me?

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Blogging About Blogging Is Still A Sin

And I still love to live life on the edge so here it is, once again, that time of the month when I get stretched thin searching for ideas with which to pummel you people and I delve into the monstrous volume of statistics this site generates. Well, anyway, it feels like a monster sometimes.

Over the last couple of days, we’ve been getting more than a few (well, let me put it bluntly) strange search terms directing folks here. I mean, I understand when someone types “what is a dude” into Google and gets directed here. But what the heck causes Google to cough up our site when someone types in “short dude got lucky” other than that one word? The dude who found us that way must have been venturing deep into the wilds of the back pages.

Speaking of which, did you ever enter a search string into Google and then start hitting the pages with at least double digits? Dude, I gotta tell you, there are some strange things that Google can think are related to your search. Like, for instance, oh, I don’t know, “kid runaway ideas.” I mean, seriously, there’s no way we’re going to be giving out that sort of information. What sorts of parents would we be if we did that and didn’t even get paid for it? (Kids, you know where to reach me. Send cash or check.”

Finally, no venture into the search strings would be complete without the obligatory, um, ah. .  . erm. . . sexual-ish stuff. Some dude still keeps finding us when he’s looking for something about “sisters dress him up.” I looked at that Google page and, well, not something I’ll be doing again. Much. We also get a callback to the darkest period of the blog’s history. Someone found us by typing in “fellatio guide.” Yes, it must have been the post when I found I was lied to by the internet and passed along an urban legend as fact. I still can’t believe it got past our fact checkers. I just get so angry.

*falls to knees, leans head back and clenches fists and screams* IIINNNNTTTTTTEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTT *Kirk mode off*

— Richard

P.S. Hey, look! No cheap Hulk joke about not liking me when I’m angry. You like me! You really, really like me!

P.P.S. Sorry for the cheap Sally Field joke. I’m sure only three of you got it and all of you threw up a little in your mouths. Not into each other’s mouth of course, I mean. . . Never mind.

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