Things I've Missed

Morning isn't really morning at the Ghost  Manor.  Some days, I'm vertical by 6am, others I may not see light until noon.  Has a lot to do with how many beers I did or didn't drink the night before and how much Rock Band the missus and I did or did not play.  We've been called the White Stripes of Rock Band by those that have seen us perform.  Which I'm told is mostly because there's two of us, and our relationship is the Octomom of question generators.  I have a feeling I'll have to plot that last comment out on a chart later today, someone please provide a chart.  Thanks. 

My son was born December 5, 2005, at the Naval Hospital on Camp Lejeune.  I was there.  My command let me skip out on my platoon's hypothermia holiday in California so that I could be present for the birth of my first child.  Looking back, I really can't believe they made that happen.  Three weeks later, myself and thirty of my nastiest friends left for Fallujah. 

I spent close to eight months in Fallujah, and my son spent that time with his mother, my wife at the time.  I was sent pictures and kept well informed of the little one's antics.  I kept his picture on the dash of my Hummer and touched it each time I left the gates for patrol/camping trips.  I returned safely  from deployment and found that holding him as I had before wouldn't work so well.  He had grown.  And changed. 

May 16th, 2010, my daughter (the Sixth Element, Shamrock Pirate) was born here in hellish Grand Junction, Colorado.  My boots are in a box in the garage and my medals and ribbons sit in a shadow box on a wall at the Ghost Manor.  I warned my new wife that after the first three weeks, I have no clue what I'm doing.  I haven't been a part of this stage in parenting, so who knows how this is going to play out.  But I guess what I'm pushing at here is this: in not knowing what I really missed in my son's first year, I'm seeing what I might have missed now, and I guess I'm a nostalgic asshole after all.  So I'm doing what every father does when they realize they have shorted one of their kids: overcompensating.  Fuck you, I'm allowed.  Ironically, here I am, giving my son little more than he got in 2005 so that I can give my daughter everything I couldn't give him five years ago.  Luckily, I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember me not being there so in his eyes, I never missed anything and he will just have to go the next seven months entertaining himself more than he typically would have to.  He's only here half the week anyhow, the other half he spends with his mother, my now exwife.  His life is anything but shitty, so he'll be ok.  My older daughter is still adapting to my whims and assholery so I feel that she probably would be able to tell you how much has really changed since her little sister shot out of my wife's vagina.  She's here, all the time, and has probably taken a bigger hit on all of this than my son has.  And, while I want to feel shitty about it, I really think that years from now, she will understand what all this Baby First Bullshit is all about.  I missed seven months of my son's life, and seven years of my older daughter's life, so I'll make sure to start the paybacks with the older one.  She remembers everything. 

Sorry about all the parenting business on here, I'll come up with something more adult and revolting next time.

I'm Such a Nutbag.

Toldja.  That, my friends is The Ghost Bag, the day after the operation.  You're welcome.  As you can see, the VA is not the place to schedule your next bikini wax.  As a bonus, it seems the VA gave me an extra set of really little balls on my mainsac.  Again, thank you, government spending.  I got pretty good and hammered the night before drinking PBR and Natty Lite, so once they got the IV running on me, I was feeling pretty fucking nice.  I still have a few days before I can start having sex with my hand and my wife's nasty whore mouth (and by mouth, I clearly mean anus) so of course I am waking up with extremely glorious wood that has no place to go.  It's a shame when I think of all the perfectly great erections that are being wasted.  I'm guessing most of you have given up on following this blog, and I guess I don't blame you.  But, if you stick around, you might catch something better than chlamydia. 

How Does This Thing Work Again?

While it seems that my heroic hands may have been broken, I promise they have not.  They have been busy not answering phone calls and feeding the Sixth Element.  Neither of us have time to catch up on what has happened during my leisure period, so let's start the fuck over. 

My name is Ghost.  I have been known to speak emphatically about the joys of anal sex, screwing in dumpsters, and being nothing more than what is least expected of me morally.  I do have a temper, I do love beer and I do remember that time in college when you and your roommate experimented sexually.

I'm going live tonight here: http://www.ustream.tv/channel/skankelodeon with my smokin wife, please join us.  Or don't.  I could care less, this is all about the me and the her.   However, if you tune in, you might get a good look at our latest addition, The Sixth Element.  That's code for our baby.  Yep, baby code.

Of Ghost and Hooker...

Here's what's been cooking at our brothel.   May 16th, 2010, the Sixth Element was spawned.

Dog Testicles, In A Jar, On My Coffee Table.

I don't have a coffee table.  I don't think I've ever actually seen a 'coffee' table.  Maybe in magazines, I've seen them.  But in thirty years, my ghoulish digits have yet to feel a coffee table.  I have, on many occasions, made use of a vast array of short tables:  'Tables That We Chop Lines On' Tables, 'Bong Resting' Tables, 'Unprotected Sex' Tables, 'More Unprotected Sex' Tables, 'Tables That Hold Beers, Cocktails, And Ashtrays' Tables, and of course, 'Tables For Coke, Grass, Booze, And Ashtrays After The Unprotected Sex' Tables.  Never have I made use of a coffee table for just coffee.  Why can't we just call them 'short tables'?  Oh, Life, with your fucking malignant riddles. 

I have balls.  They are, well, hairy and shaped like testicles.  I can't imagine life without them.  My chihuahua, Axel, has balls.  They are hairy and shaped like testicles.  The problem with his balls, well, I'm told that they are responsible for a wide variety of less than desirable behavior patterns.  And, I've seen these patterns, first hand, every time I tread over the upstairs carpet.  So, I've had a talk with the little man, and he's losing his balls. 

I know very little about medical procedures, protocol, what's appropriate to say to people in wheelchairs, etc.  You can imagine my shock when I discovered that once his balls are extracted, I don't have the option to have them jarred and sent home with the dog and I.  Why the fuck are we talking about health care in this country?  You mean to tell me, that if I have a toe amputated, I can't keep it?  It's my fucking toe, isn't it?  Sure, I'm a sick motherfucker for wanting my severed toe.  Ok, the hospital is worried what I might do with it.  Guess what I can't do with it?  Walk.  Why does the hospital want to keep all of our bits?  What the fuck are those sodomites doing with our body parts?  More importantly, what the fuck does a veterinarian need my dog's balls for?  Go ahead, tell me what a pervert I must be for wanting to keep my dog's detached testicles.  Go on.  Gross, America, gross.  I don't think I want any healthcare, fuck you very much.  I don't want you to charge me for anything, I don't want to pay for anything, I don't want healthcare like that for free either.  Look, I don't even want to hear about any of it ever again.  Call it something else, like 'jello'.  Yes, replace all medical terminology with the word 'jello'.  Because Allah knows that this motherfucker right here did most certainly not go to war for a country that won't let me keep my pets' body parts in jars on a short table.  This is fucking America.  Fucking America.  We're better than this.  Had I known such jackassery and tomfoolery were afoot in my home land, well, I might have asked the recruiter a few more questions.

Alpha

In the beginning, there was my blog.  Then there were reviews.  Then there was the show.  Now there is this blog.  I'm just going to jump right back in and we can all pretend my absence never happened. 

I recently found myself participating in a group project.  No, not the type that requires lube and safewords, this project is for my Lit class.  I also found myself working with two females.  Again, no lube, spanking or livestock.  One of these bitches just happens to be a self proclaimed expert in the topic we were assigned, so we should be all aces, right?  Well, we were until this stupid pregnant slut decided that she would take the entire project on by her self.  Pause. 

In the world of higher learning, there are a few unwritten rules.  Rules leftover from the playground, if you will.  I'm not going to bore you all to hell with all of them, but here is the one that White Socks With Black Birkenstocks McFuckerston broke recently. 

IF THOU HAST A PROBLEM WITH A CONTRIBUTOR IN YOUR GROUP, THOU SHALT TAKE UP YOUR PERCEIVED TRANSGRESSION WITH SAID MEMBER BEFORE GOING AND BITCHING TO THE PROFESSOR.

Oh, McFuckerston, didn't you notice the rapport I have established with the professor?  She's a big fan of my writing.  When you decided to arrange a meeting with the professor, one that I had already told you that we needed to schedule, you should have fucking told me about it.  Hard for me to show up to a meeting I don't know about.  Oh, and if you're setting up a roast without me there, you better fucking make sure that the other girl in the group shares your outlook.  What's that?  She had no complaints about my contribution?  Really?  I'm glad you at least told her about the meeting.  Why she didn't tell me about it, I'll never fucking know.  I could care less though, bitch, because I met with our professor today.  And she told me all about the issues you had with me.  Nice to hear it from our fucking professor, really.  In a roundabout way, instead of doing the right thing, and filing your grievances with me first, you went and attempted to fuck with my livelyhood.  I'm a GI Bill student.  If my gpa falls below a certain point, I lose my housing allowance.  Yes, that means that I can't pay rent and keep my wife and two children sheltered.  So, I now have no other choice than to repay the favor.  Starting today, I will be on a mission to find a way to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions.  I think I will start by inviting a homeless man to class next week.  A really smelly son of a bitch, and have him sit next to you in class.  I know how sensitive a pregnant woman's nose is, you won't like this one bit.  That addresses my lesson in livelihood.  Now, as for your lying, I have a solution for that as well.  McFuckerston, when I asked you to meet me at noon in an effort to present you with my research, you didn't show.  I was there at 1150, and finally left for class at 1250 after roaming the single hall for one hour.  I haven't had six beers in the last two weeks, so I know I didn't miss you.  I paced and paced and finally texted the other girl telling her I would just email her my shit because you never showed.  Thanks for telling the professor, however, that it was me that wasn't there.  I could have let your first offense slide, but when it's added to a falsehood about me, and implicates me as a liar, well, you're completely fucked.  Standby, McFuckerston, I'm about to shit all over your birckenstocks. 

Number Two

I realize that I may be confusing a few of you.  I realize that this shouldn't be shocking at all.  So, here comes another year.  Hey, I got married last month.  Yes, the hottest internet relationship ever has been officially made official.  Officially.  Oh, did I mention that Bimbo Baggins is incubating my super seed?  Well, I just did.  We're expecting May 20th and hoping for a boy.  We actually have agreed to play out our suicide pact if the fucking stork brings a girl.  Why?  Because there is no room for another banshee in this townhouse.  Let's see, I'm trying to update the blogger faithful on happenings in the World of Whorecraft...oh, the animals.  The fucking animals.  Since two of Slutty McSlutterson's cats decided they would rather live in the nursery next door, we have been furiously adopting animals to replace them.  Or fill some odd emotional defficiency.  Yeah, let's go with the defficiency thing.  Here's the tally, for those of you keeping score at work:

1 Snake
1 Chiuahua
1 Blind, Deaf, Mildly Retarded Cat

I found the snake under my truck on our driveway.  He was alive and I was quick to capture him.  We decided to keep him, snakes are pretty low maintenance, right?  Yep.  He has been with us two months now and enjoys goldfish.  His name is Trowser.  As in Trowser Snake.  I'm proud of that one.

Shortly after we were blessed with a chiuahua named Stevie.  I am a small dog type of spirit and I was thrilled to get this one.  He is ubercalm, handsome like his father, and likes to hump things.  He's about forty per cent cock.  Again, a chip off the old...well, me.  Being as how I refuse to associate with anything 'Stevie', the dog has been dubbed 'Axel'.  Because I can't get over Gun's N Roses.  Seriously, I wanted to name my first born Axel, but, oddly enough, that didn't set well with anyone.  Fuckers. 

While I can understand people paying to visit a zoo, it would appear that the Mrs. and I are paying to LIVE in one.  Craigslist, I'm blaming you for this one.  The Mrs. found an ad for a 'special needs' kitten.  That's right, a retarded cat.  This cat is pretty small and won't grow anymore due to abuse suffered at the hands of her first owner.  Also, the cat is pretty blind and mostly deaf.  We aren't totally sure on the deaf thing, but it really seems that way.  After sorting through all possible names for such a handicapped animal (Helen Keller, Corky, Nacho, and a few others) the Mrs. landed on 'Fishstick'.  I'm slow to argue the motherfuckery that led to the adoption, I'm not going there, but I guess Fishstick is a good name for a retarded cat.  No?   What the fuck do you know, anyway? 

So, those are the new animals at the Ghost Hooker Pad.  I will continue updating the blogger faithful during my break from studies.  Stay tuned, big Cadillacs and fake boobs are on the horizon. 


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