The Small Victories

Discouragingly dreary days during autumn months lead many into a depression spiral. Reduced light. Reduced heat. Reduced fun.

Feeling like a piece of shit in body and spirit can create a multitude of problems in a personal or professional setting. So in order to keep from feeling blue, maintain friendships, and prevent getting shit-canned, I celebrate the small victories of the day. Honoring the accomplishments is not done with a party or event. No cake and ice cream. No fireworks. There is no physical reward, but instead, merely the knowledge that I did something great.

The sensation from utter relief and complete satisfaction is achieved through no easier means than by vanquishing an especially dirty turd. The bigger the better. A mega dump is like birthing, but instead, you're stuck with the product for a couple minutes, not 18 years. Completing a bowel movement creates a sense of jubilation for the remainder of the day. Discharge two in 24 hours and you're the fucking boss!

Ingrown hairs are painful, irritating, and unsightly. So there is no greater pleasure than removing these ingrown fuckers from your body. Like a surgeon carefully conducting an operation, the cancerous hair is identified and removed. Savor the victory by holding the rogue hair hostage and taunting it - make any survivor think twice about growing backwards. Bam! A true triumph of the day!

Nose hairs seem pointless, so there's nothing worse than one of those dicks catching air out a nose porthole. The bastard's at least an inch and looks like a spider leg. As if a pubic hair was bored of it's crotch domicile and moved north to find better real estate. It's dominated the nasal cavity and pestered the nostril interior for far too long. Pluck the fucker. Evict it with a discriminating tweezer tug. Fuck yes! Feeling successful now!

This isn't a lunar landing. It's not the end of a war. There's no cure to a deadly disease. In the spirit of such mediocre events, no physical reward is called for. Don't pop champagne. Don't toss confetti. Just crack a smile, throw your hands up, and announce to the world, "I did something fucking epic!"

See? Feel better?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Useful Euphemisms

Modern day perverts are scrutinized for everyday vulgar vernacular they drop on unsuspecting conservatives. In the quest for political correctness, it may be requested that the deviant's crude language be silenced. In effect, censorship.

Limitations on the freedom of speech drive the dogged degenerate underground and forces s/he to speak in code. Enter euphemisms - dialect developed with the goal of leaving the tight-assed traditionalist scratching their pointy head. Aiding the cause of these devil-tongued terrorists, the following is a list of my seven favorite euphemisms, their definitions, and their proper use in a sentence. For consideration and inclusion in your vile vocabulary, I give to you...

The Seven Useful Euphemisms

Pressin' the Flesh
Start cautiously. Tread lightly. Test the waters with this commonly used term for a handshake, but turn it into something more.

Proper use in a sentence:
I took her back to my place and it wasn't long before we were pressin' the flesh.

Bump Uglies
First utterance CE is credited to Dr. Turk Turkleton on an episode of Scrubs. The word bump refers to the action of thrusting during intercourse, while the uglies refers to the reproductive glands.

Proper use in a sentence:
Dude...it smells like someone bumped uglies in your back seat.

Wrestling the Wookie
Kashyyyk is the dog-eat-dog home world of Wookies within the Star Wars universe. A planet where the strong survive and the weak are fed to Rancors. To wrestle with a Wookie and live to tell about it is a true feat of strength, courage, and honor. The phrase was coined to disguise the act of masturbation.

Proper use in a sentence:
I wrestle the Wookie so others don't have to.

Body Spelunking
Mask sexual endeavors with an uncommon sport: spelunking. The cave innuendo is lost on no one, and throwing body on the front clears up any possible misnomer that you wish to explore a subterranean area. Not recommended for use around those with claustrophobia.

Proper use in a sentence:
We harnessed up and went body spelunking all afternoon.

Bedroom Tetris
As a child growing up in the 90s and glued to my Game Boy, I had hours of Tetris practice. Now as an adult, practice is proving to pay off as I attempt to fit pieces together in the bedroom.

Proper use in a sentence:
I just set the highest score in bedroom Tetris!

Sheath Excalibur
Condoms are a necessary evil in a pre monogamous life. Fortunately the word condom doesn't have to be with this throwback to the Knights of the Round Table.

Proper use in a sentence:
King Arthur never had to sheath Excalibur when he was with his dear Guinevere, but they were married and his only option was lambskin.

The Trilobite Tangle
Evolution is a commonly accepted theory in the scientific community. Human genitalia evolved from trilobites. This veiled provincialism again refers to sexual intercourse. Not recommended for use around Creationists or those with weak stomachs.

Proper use in a sentence:
Just finished studying for our paleontology exam; we really crammed the trilobite tangle.

If the above made your virgin ears scream, you may side with the aforementioned condemning censors. You may be one that would limit the speech of others in the interest of pushing their beliefs through the subversive claims of political correctness. You may have motivations to straitjacket the tongue of those that speak such a loathsome lexicon. If that's the case, this blog may not be for you.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Bachelor Diet Picture Cookbook

Recent conversation among age peers and geezers has been dwelling on my diet. Upon hearing bachelor diet ingredients, nutritional guidance is commonly offered. Suggestions pour in. Eat this. Cook that.

Well fuck this and fuck that, I say, and prepare yourselves for the ultimate guide to eating like a dude in his mid-twenties. Exactly what you need to satisfy the stomach pangs of that closet bachelor within. Welcome to The Bachelor Diet Picture Cookbook.

Chapter One: Appliances

Effective preparation of food will be seriously inhibited without the following bachelor diet tools.

The microwave. This fucker cooks everything. Period. If this fucker does not cook food item, item is deemed inedible and is not purchased.

One fork. One spoon. One knife. Utensils may be left dirty for extra flavor.

The pizza wheel. Also doubles as crust-remover for those wishing to experience elementary PB&J like mom used to make.

Can/bottle opener combo. Truly the Swiss Army Knife of kitchen appliances.

Chapter Two: Food

These iced meals are nutritional gold. Title and packaging allude to the idea of healthy contents within. Cooking instructions found on the back. Plus they're cheap. Stock up on these things Y2K style.

Fred Meyer sells a $1 microwavable pizza. That's one fuggin' dollar! A greasy gut bomb delight.

Fish has protein in it. Tuna is a fish. Nuff said.

Beverage of choice: beer. Light beer is used to wash food down. Dark beer is used as an MRE.

Snack of choice: crackers. Often accompanies a dark beer MRE for crunchy satisfaction.

To spice up the menu, keep seasonings on hand. Pepper. Cholula. Love.

Chapter Three: Supplemental Insurance

Because doctors, nutritionists, and lawyers may not agree with the above dietary recommendations, supplement consumption with supplements. Like a meal in pill form.

Afterword:

Satisfying the stomach is, in the end, merely an opinion. Personal preference for tantalizing the taste buds should not be judged by others. However, in the spirit of those casting scorn upon my cookbook, I'll slight your eating style.

Time spent slaving over savory concoctions doesn't make you superior. It boils down, pun intended, to an opportunity cost pertaining to quality of life. We make a judgement on how much time we allot to food preparation, and what you dub as useful exploration into culinary genius, I deem a waste.

It's a hobby. Food is the result. No different than this blog. Every week I spend hours blogging. It's a waste to some, but the end result is a blog, and I am satisfied. Equally satisfying is the variety of Lean Cuisines in my freezer.

So the next time you consider handing out unsolicited advice from your nutritionally superior lifestyle, please keep in mind that the individual on the receiving end doesn't give a shit. If it tastes good, he eats it.

After all, you are what you eat, and I eat the bachelor diet.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Gone Fishin'

Just kidding. I don't fucking fish. I'm sick as balls and have a splitting headache. Promise to be back next Wednesday.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Adventures of Young ShavedGolf: My First Speed Stick

Miss Kim began the school day in her 5th/6th blend with a stern lecture. According to our teacher's nose, there were a handful of children in the elementary classroom that were beginning to smell. The lecture turned into a preamble for sex ed later that year, but Miss Kim delicately explained how our bodies were changing and because of these "fun and exciting changes," we smelled. We were instructed to wear deodorant.

As an ascetic, forward-thinking fifth grader eager to grow up, the invitation into adulthood via deodorant was borderline emancipating. Furthering evidence of age impatience was my choice in reading material - while most were reading Boxcar Children and Goosebumps, I was studying the Oregon DMV pamphlet for my learners permit a full six years early. Adulthood could not come soon enough. I needed to grow up. I needed to land a career job. I needed the American Dream. And deodorant was going to take me there.

I can only imagine what my poor parents were saying behind my back after I hurried home that afternoon and excitedly informed them that Miss Kim demanded I wear deodorant. To be labeled as parents of the smelly kid is less than desirable. Perhaps in fear of the family reputation or worry that the stinky issue might embarrassingly come up at parent/teacher conferences, they gave little resistance to deodorizing and rushed me to the nearest supermarket pharmacy aisle.

Options were limitless. So many deodorants used flowery marketing like Xtreme Sport or Arctic Chill, but I wasn't fooled. My first deodorant was a Speed Stick. The name said it all. I needed a deodorant that could keep up.

To say I was excited about wearing the stuff is a gross understatement. Ignoring my mother's request to unload the groceries, I dashed down the hall to the bathroom, ripped my shirt off and began generously applying my Speed Stick.

The rush. The tingle. The sensation.

Notifying my parents that I was no longer their little boy was the hardest part. I explained to the audience of two, likely rolling their eyes, that I had applied the forbidden pharmaceutical fruit of adulthood to my underarm and it smelled delicious.

Figuring that I could master the Speed Stick, respect it's power, and wield it responsibly was my parents' mistake. Like Smeagol to the Ring, my fondness for the newest weapon in my adulthood arsenal quickly grew into an obsession.

Lathering my pits post shower soon seemed insufficient. Frequency of use was increased to include the typical morning application and an additional bonus round right before bedtime.

In following the American mantra of more is better, the next move was to increase the dosage. Smothering skin with Speed Stick became a five minute OCD ritual. My pits were lathered with cakey layers.

The final act was to maximize potency by increasing surface area covered. Underarms were inadequate. My chest was carpet bombed with the stick. There was a method. An enormous X stretching across the entire chestal expanse was drawn followed up with a box outlining my frame.

My Speed Stick lasted a week.

The deodorant protocol lasted until the morning mom caught me applying the X across my chest. She told me I was ridiculous, I was wasting the stick, and if I couldn't use it properly she would take my new found manhood away.

Ashamed of the eccentricity and frightened by her threat, I weened myself off.

Uncle Ben once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." His life lesson is applicable in no better situation than my deodorant coming of age tale. Respect the Speed Stick and it will love you back.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

My Burn Ritual

I am all that is man, and as such, my testosterone levels are off the fucking chart. Men tremble while in the presence of my virility. Women swoon with a whiff of my potent man musk. Children cry from the knowledge that my fiercely refined masculinity pales their fathers'.

But alas, being a man and a half is not all it's cracked up to be. The problem with testes the size of kumquats is the ferocious growth rate of my bold-bristled beard. Whispering whiskers are an endangered follicle within the fur ecosystem on my face. Sandpaper stubble is the norm.

Based on stubble strength, I cannot rule out the possibility that, if left to grow, the epic facial feature would reach two or three feet in length with enough girth to conceal a weapon, ferret, and a small child. If I was a caveman neanderthal, or a dirty hipster from the east side, I'd proudly sport the magnificent man-beard. Unfortunately, my high-powered, sales-oriented, client-facing vocation of importance dictates the face be kept an uninhabited expanse of opportunity.

Truly a blank canvas has never begged for a greater work of art; be that as it may, I conform, and shave the shit out of that bastard.

My morning shave ritual sees me up at o'dark:thirty. Fumbling while half asleep, I manage to clear cut the beastly five o'clock shadow from yesterday with an electric razor. This is no small feat, for the five o'clock has evolved from the manageable PM version to the dangerously powerful AM monstrosity. The bastard is close to becoming self-aware and achieving the end goal: rule my face.

Electric razoring lasts roughly ten minutes and is never truly successful. Already the face flesh is reeling from the vicious punishment of the painful Panisonic. While attempting to vanquish beard beast, the skin will occasionally break open. This weakness is not known by my relentless facial hair. A splash of cold water from the faucet notifies my face that phase one is complete.

But the beard battle has just begun.

Touch ups are done in the shower with a Gillette Fushion ProGlide Power. The name says it all. Five blades of fury designed to take no hair hostage. Fresh blades will glide effortlessly across the face and remove any trace of the Euro grunge look; however, forget to replace the razor's head often enough and you'll pay dearly.

Post-op, my face burns with the intense fieriness of a thousand suns. The torrid temperature causes searing pain and agony lasting hours. The follicle genocide and subsequent emotional scarring is a ritual played out in my bathroom daily. This is the price I pay...because I'm successful...and far more manly than you can imagine.

It puts the lotion on it's skin or else it burns like a mother fucker again.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Art of Ninja Vanish

Ninja Vanish (verb): To quickly disappear from sight like a Japanese warrior escaping to fight another day.

The art of ninja vanish dates back to seventh century Japan. Large armies were commissioned by the Japanese emperor to defend the island from Mongol invasions and the occasional Godzilla attack. The elite among these men were recognized early and expected to train as Ninjas. These archaic special force commandos had a multitude of special skills to carry out their warrior missions, but no one skill was as important as the ninja vanish.

Perfecting the ninja vanish is paramount to living a productively prodigious modern-day life. Many situations necessitate a ninja vanish, yet many have not mastered the ways of this amazing feat. The art of ninja vanish is easily perfected with the designation of a target, proper timing, and knowledge of terrain.

Designating a target is the first step in successfully ninja vanishing. Know your enemy. Bystanders do not matter. This clod cannot see you leave. The ninja novice should start with the designation of a single target, but as skill improves the number of targets may increase.

Example: While in a bar you run into that weird kid from junior high that always smelled like shit, wore socks with flip flops, and had an awkward skin rash. Time has not changed him - he smells, dresses, and looks the same today as he did in school. This man is your target. The patsy won't know what hit him.

Appropriate timing when performing the ninja vanishing act is accomplished through recognition of opportunity. The moment a window opens, the ninja vanisher must recognize it and act swiftly. There's no time to think when you're going mach 3; you think, you're dead. Realize fortuity and get out of dodge.

Example: The smelly, sock and flip flop, skin rash has been chatty Kathie about old junior high drama of little interest to anyone but him. Not much has been accomplished in his life since he went through puberty, so he's singled you out to reminisce about a time most of us choose to forget. Opportunity presents itself when skin rash suddenly gets one of his infamous nose bleeds. Claiming to run for napkins and paper towel, you bounce. Peace out, stinker!

Lastly but not leastly, to achieve maximum vanishing, a ninja must be ever mindful of surroundings. Constant cartography of terrain and topography is vital in avoiding the post vanishing altercation with the previously designated target. Know the lay of the land and you shall be rewarded.

Example: Stealth mode through the bar crowd post vanish from the rancid, rash-covered, flip flopper. Recall the exits from earlier mental mapping. The previous preparations will lead you to the closest door. Take it. Your freedom is at stake. Vanish into the night.

Japanese warriors gifted a magnificent skill, and it has been passed down and perfected through the centuries. The art of ninja vanish rewards the practiced and prepared with successful escapes of awkward or unwanted situations. Proper application and preparation of the technique in today's world will aid the modern-day ninja in the quest for avoidance.

Know it. Learn it. Use it.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf