Smart balls, or not so smart…

  • by Drew

At the risk of embarrassing myself, I have to share a funny little anecdote. See, Noah was awake at 3:50 this morning. Since he got Carol up at 3:45 yesterday, it was my turn. I argued, negotiated, cajoled, refused, was stern, read 2 stories, reasoned, left, came back, rationalized, left, etc.

We were dowstairs watching Barney at 4:30.

While he ate raisins and drank apple juice, I checked my email and did some surfing. I had several emails about how disappointed my girl is with my tiny penis (yet again). Sigh, and with the holidays here, you think I’d do something to bring her “great big more satisfaction so she stay not go to big dick man with rock hard power.”

There was a product called smart balls. I thought that sounded funny, but I didn’t want to click on a random porn-mail link that takes me to some spyware pumping Thai bordello, so I did a simple search. I came across a sex toy part of Overstock (one of my favorite shopping sites) with lots of customer reviews. Never found smart balls, but just before the rest of the family got up, I came across a glass dildo.

Several reviews complained that it was cold, and they weren’t convinced that it was really glass. Popular opinion was that it was acrylic. Here’s the funny part. Someone complained about the meager instructions. Apparently she needed some help with the, um, usage.

Now maybe it’s just surly Mr. 4AM speaking here, but should we really be selling a dildo to someone who needs a fucking roadmap to use it? It’s a dildo. It’s a handheld love rocket. If you can find your own personal “cosmos” in which the love rocket can take flight…

I mean…damn.

Peace

  • by Drew

I saw a nice, new, ice blue Camry with shiny chrome details the other day driven by a little white-haired woman. I got a good look at her stopped at a traffic light. She was neatly dressed with well-coiffed locks, probably around 70. The car was brand new and in excellent shape. It looked washed, waxed, and professionally detailed. The design on the door floored me. There was a fairly large peace sign (maybe 10 inches in diameter) on the driver’s door. It looked like a vinyl decal.

I see these once in a while on older cars, usually a little beat up, surrounded by other stickers that fall into such categories as liberal, religiously ambiguous, or Bush-thumpin’. I’ve never seen one alongside a Redneck or Git r Done decal, but I’m holding out for a Holiday surprise. Interesting – I can honestly say I’ve never seen a peace sign on  a car with any sort of Jesus loves you/me/everybody message. Hmmmmmm.

Anyway, before I go off on any mean-spirited tangents, let me circle back to the warm fuzzy point. This cute little old lady slapped a dirty old decal on the side of her brand new car just to express something extremely EXTREMELY important. And I was lucky enough to witness it as the Holiday season is kicking off this year.

The Big “O”

  • by Drew

I recently made a comment on my pal flygrrl’s Decapitating Shadows blog. Her post What’s Wrong With Oprah was thought provoking and interesting. And I couldn’t help but add my 2 cents. In fact, I had to edit out about 7/8 of my rant, leaving behind a froth of commentary so lengthy it probably firghtened flygrrl into thinking I was trying to hijack her blog. Or maybe, to “blogjack” her.

Blogjack – I just precedented that. (If you haven’t read the Daily Show America book by now, you should be ashamed of yourself for not knowing what I’m talking about.)

Anyway, last night while hacking and coughing my way through a sleepless night with the cold Noah gave me, I was reminded of a night maybe 2 weeks ago when I was hacking and coughing my way through the cold Jake had given me. That night, a little worse than last night, I went downstairs for some medicine and tea and TV. I forget exactly what time it was, but it was around 3 AM. Flipping through the DirecTV channels in the Nickelodeon/Disney Channel/Cartoon Network range (I was in the playroom after all) I flipped past the Oprah channel. 

Something almost caught my attention, and when it registered about 10 seconds later, I headed back. Sure enough, my eyes had not betrayed me. There were two young women, probably in their mid to late 20s. One blond, one brunette. They were passing around a translucent orange length of rubber and smiling, sitting on a comfy couch. I turned the volume up and heard something that…well, kind of surprised me. I will paraphrase:

Brunette: It’s my favorite size for a dong. Really, just right.
Blond: And look at the material. It’s smooth and soft (poking it) and it’s stiff (bending it) but not too rigid.
Brunette: Exactly. It has a really natural feel. And look at this. I love this suction cup.
Blond: That’s my favorite part. You can stick it down in the bathtub and and really rock on it, hands free.

I think my chin hit the floor. This was not paid programming. This was a scheduled program, in the digital guide with a more detailed description than most network shows. That’s right, the O Channel is selling sex toys. I watched for 10 minutes. I saw specials on all sizes and colors of “dongs” – apparently the O Channel’s preferred label for a dildo. I saw Jackrabbits and Vibrators and all manner of insertion devices. I saw a great many tools that bore some resemblance to a crab claw, with one primary poker, and a shorter, secondary poker. The purpose of the primary was obvious, but I learned that the secondary could be used for either clitoral stimulation OR anal stimulation depending on your preference.

You hear that ladies? It’s all in your hands. Quite literally. 

And even though the O Channel has a reputation for skewing toward programming for the ladies, I want you to know, they had some pretty impressive toys for boys. Lots of rubber things, some shaped like balls, some shaped like…I don’t know what. They all shared a similar detail at one end. I am reminded of the work of Georgia O’Keeffe…

But I was totally floored by the completely waterproof, cordless “Stroker.” It looked a lot like the black plastic extension tubes on our vaccuum. Apparently the gentleman simply inserts his member in one end of the Stroker, pushes a button, and voila. The hostesses were particularly encouraging, suggesting that every lady watching buy one for the man in her life.

“Remember, it is cordless and TOTALLY waterproof, so he can jump in the shower, take care of business and he’s good to go for the day.”

 Well, well, well. And Christmas is only a month away…

Women are from Neptune?

  • by Drew

Just between you and me, I have a new favorite show. Like some of my other favorite shows (Arrested Development in particular) it is already off the air. I came across the show in a Best Buy flyer where, for this week only, Seasons 1 and 2 are going for $14.99 each. Regularly priced at $48.99. Frugal me did some quick reading and decided Season 1 was worth the investment. Watched the first episode and instantly knew I had to own Season 2.

 The show? Veronica Mars.

It rocks! I never understood 90210. I appreciated My So Called Life but never got into it. Many incarnations of Degrassi are cool, but mostly just because I love Canada. The OC is like licking a rusty razor blade. Nothing at all enjoyable about the experience. Veronica Mars has a distinct, classic noir feel. It has teen angst, but in a non-annoying way. For real. That first episode was tight and pretty well-written. Don’t laugh. It was good. Completely unrealistic, but highly entertaining.

Don’t laugh.

The Best Man

  • by Drew

I’ve been kind of blog-neglectful lately. Busy busy busy. That’s my excuse. I haven’t even mentioned how the Jeep got rear-ended after the Sheep and Wool Festival, but if you read my wifey’s blog, you already know about it. I’m sure I’ll get around to it in time. I’m going to try to get back into the sharing a little more regularly, and I have the best of reasons to start. My brother in law just got married, and I was the Best Man!

I’m definitely going to tell you about the Bachelor Party day thing we did a few weeks ago because it was a cool time with some good stories. It might even turn into another multipart epic like the infamous (or incredibly irritating – depends on your outlook) “I Fought the Law” series, but no promises.

So, this past Saturday, Mikey married Kathy and it was just lovely. The whole thing went down at St Michael’s Church in East Longmeadow. I really hit it off with the pastor of the church – that’s a whole other story involving a lot of denim, condescension, and moving furniture during the ceremony. But I didn’t hit him. That’s the important thing. And I barely cursed in the church, a personal triumph.

I did have to make a toast at the reception, and it wasn’t too bad. Sure there were hisses and people were telling me to shut up and drink, but I felt good. I actually spent some time preparing my remarks, and wanted to share some of the opening lines I chose not to go with. So here, without further ado, is my list of Wedding Reception Toast openers that did not make it into the final cut.

1. As we raise our glass in honor of Mike and Kathy, I need to ask one thing… CAN YOU SMELL WHAT THE ROCK IS COOKING!?!
2. Love between a man and a woman is a special thing. Not five dollar bills in a g-string, lapdance special, but still…pretty damn special.
3. Hey you in the wheelchair! I don’t care whose Grandmother you are, you want to shut the hell up? I’m making a fucking toast here.
4. Did you guys remember to wear your special underwear for the big night? I know I did. (At this point I would drop my pants and show myself off in a pair of crotchless panties, but Vicky’s Secret doesn’t carry my size – what’s up with that?)
5. Is anybody ready for some magic? Alright. For my first trick I’m going to need two volunteers, a razor blade and a hundred dollar bill. Where are the cards? Let’s see some cash.

I really did think a magic show would have been funny, but probably not too practical. Still, I’ve got a pen through bill trick that’s a real mind blower.

I admit it, I chickened out. No magic. No raunchy sex. Now Grandma insults. But it was still an okay talk.

Mega means great

  • by Drew

I have a new email friend. Her name is Ronda Temple. She has a middle initial, but for some reason it keeps changing. I’m not sure how she found me, but I have to tell you, Ronda is full of all sorts of great information. Did you know, for example, that mega means great? She told me that. She also told me that “penis pills make ya dick stand tall like the eiffel tower” right after asking “can you fuck for hours? i dont think so”

Boy Ronda, you know me so well. And yes, you’re right. I can’t fuck for hours. Not that I wouldn’t like to try. But with the 2 year old getting up at 4:30 AM every day, and the wife and I switching off late nights at work so we rarely see each other before 9:30. I mean, do the math. If we fuck for hours, when are we going to sleep? No time for foreplay, and no time to get her blind drunk. Come on Ronda, what do I do?

It bums me out because this new “development” Ronda keeps emailing me about (over and over and over again) called MegaDik seems like a real bit of wholesome, family fun. (Remember what mega means.)  She says it so eloquently, I’ll let her tell the tale:

Did you always wanted to be satisfied with an ordinary penis and ordinary women? We doubt that. So we offer something special to you. Mega is translated “great”. And this new development MegaDik makes your penis simply great!
Take it and find pleasure in your new successes with women! You.ll be so pleasantly surprised…

MegaDik is your fortune!

Indeed. My fortune. Now if only MegaDik would make Noah sleep past 6, because I’d really like to have a penis that is simply great. Who wouldn’t?

Bunny Convention

  • by Drew

Weird title, but its all I could think of related to procreation in a semi-humorous light. Why? Today, on the highway, within 5 minutes, I saw two very interesting license plates. One was from NY: MIDWIFE3. The other was from Missouri: MIDWIF. Is there some sort of convention going on? What’s up with that?

The Tick vs…

  • by Drew

I was coming home the other night and a little sports car shot by. The plate read MIND DOC. Now, I know you may have jumped to the conclusion that this was a Psychiatrist, right? But let’s think for a minute. Would you, as a sensible, literate, American individual trust your mental health to a Board-Certified quack with the plate MIND DOC. A joke? Not acceptable. Mental health is no joking matter. And mental health professionals should be distinctly bland and particularly serious. You know, like Peter Bogdanovich on the Sopranos. Uptight. Wussy. The kind of guy who likes how he looks in an ascot.

No, this was no head shrinker. It was clear to me that MIND DOC could only be one thing. A super villain. Don’t laugh (be a humorless shrink for a minute and consider). This was a flamboyant plate for a flamboyant person. This was a plate for the kind of person who would use his enormous intellect (probably enhanced by some sort of complicated encounter with radioactive space debris) to develop a sinister plot that would put all humankind in fearful jeopardy. This was some serious shit. A brush with MIND DOC.

 You can laugh at me now, but in a few weeks, when there’s a doomsday ray pointed at the White House, and MIND DOC is demanding a billion dollars or he’ll vaporize the president…ok, bad example. Maybe the ray is pointed at the United Nations, or a box full of newborn kittens. The point is, when that doomsday ray is pointed at something we actually want to save, you remember you read it here first.

Obama and the Vibrator

  • by Drew

Two amusing license plates spotted a few days ago. First, I think I may have brushed with political austerity. On the Taconic I saw a nice blue Jaguar with a soft top. Looked very new as it blew by. When I spotted the plate ROLLBAMA I was like, “Hey, hold everything.” Could it be a clever play on ‘rolling down the highway’ mixed with Obama? Could this be the Democratic Presidential hopeful, out for a drive, sans secret service? Probably not. I don’t recall from TV news that he was anywhere near New York. And though I tried to catch up, a glimpse of the candidate wasn’t worth getting a ticket for doing 80+ on the Taconic. Too much fuzz for comfort. So, I can’t be totally sure, now can I?

But a Jag, man. Makes you wonder where those record breaking campaign contributions are really going, doesn’t it?

My disappointment was soon replaced with a good, hearty belly laugh. Yet another car blew by me. Where were all the cops? Geez, from Dutchess to Westchester I often see more 6 or more cruisers. Still, I’m glad they weren’t out or I might have missed this gem. It was a Pontiac Vibe. Sure, not as cool as a new Jag convertible, but here was the license plate:

VIBERADR

That’s a man confident in his ability to please the ladies, know what I mean?

Is Your Baby Gay?

  • by Drew

I’ve been silent for a while. No reason, just been a little busy. And no really good license plates lately. Though DEBS TRK (a Ford F350 supersized pickup) had a funny sticker, words surrounding a giant Ford logo: Bad ass ladies don’t drive Mercedes. She had another sticker of a cowboy on a horse (maybe a cowgirl with mannish hair) next to a bull. No lie, it kind of looked like the horse was mounting the bull. I think it was an optical illusion, but it did kind of look like Deb was riding a horse trying to ride a bull. Hee hee. Go Deb.

Which brings me to my next point. Is your baby gay? If this concerns you (which it should, right?) then you can drop everything and for only $19.99, get the definitive answer from Is My Baby Gay .com. I’m not linking to it because I spent a minute and a half on the site and these donkey fuckers do not appear to be kidding. See, you make your kid lick a piece of paper (not just any paper, you have to print a page from their site and press your infant’s tongue to a circle – don’t salivate outside the circle), mail the paper to these bags of shit and they will somehow use the magic of science (or perhaps some sort of Divine Communication – they don’t really say) to tell you if your kid is gay or not. Even better, there’s a 150% refund if they’re wrong!

Somebody shoot me in the head. This is worse than prime time Bingo – and that’s saying a hell of a lot. How sick is this. First, who is the warped ass who came up with this idea. Second, who are the completely fucked parents who are mailing this crap in with their $20. And don’t scoff, you know people are doing it. This kind of nonsense really does make me ill, though. Maybe I’m missing something, but I don’t think it’s a joke. I mean, at first I thought it was really funny. Then I realized they’re not kidding. At least I don’t think they’re kidding. Oh man, please let them be kidding.

Here’s what we need to do. We need to all send in saliva samples, maybe a few blank sheets just to test their system too. Or better yet, get your dog to lick it – but don’t let him or her lick outside the circle. You may end up with an inconclusive result. Then, everyone who gets a negative needs to file a claim in a few weeks.

Dear shitbags! You sed my kid was not gay but you were rong. He refuses to particimpat in jim class and only wants to dance ballay. He sings and has expersed sirius intrest in crochet. Your test was shit and I am very disastified. I want my money back. I sent 20 bucks and I want my 150% back. I will expext 25 bucks in the mail very soon or you will be hereing from my brother who is also a attorney.

Or maybe your daughter expresses too much interest in Tonka trucks and dodgeball. Whatever. We need to take these fuckers out!

Oh please let this be a joke…

[sigh]

© 2026 Drew Bancroft. All rights reserved. Totally.