Monthly Archives: February 2011

Ripped Pecs To Man Boobs And Back Again

For the final week of February I had chosen to write all about boobs.

Well it’s the final day of the final week and I am still going to stick to my plan.

But I’m gonna talk about my boobs.

My man-boobs.

There was a time when my boobs weren’t boobs… they were rippled pecs. 

I’m 31-years-old these days and although I may appear not to be overweight… I can feel myself slipping away.  I used to be able to eat ice cream every night, beer every weekend and an entire pizza if I was hungry enough and still look like this:

Circa 2005

Now, after years of consuming mass quantities of various crap foods without consequence… it’s finally starting to catch up with me:

Circa a few months ago…

Or this:

Circa a year ago…

Or more specifically this:

And this:

I’ll spare you a picture of my sagging breasts even though I know you’re begging to see them.

I’ve been noticing my body taking the “I’m a married man with kids and I’m just comfortable” form for a while.  While I still think it’s humanly impossible for me to become grossly obese it doesn’t mean I’m impervious to being grossly out of shape, overly buoyant or just looking like a pasty outta shape dude.

I’ve alluded to taking this weight gain seriously on this blog several times and set out to obtain Ryan Reynold’s abs numberous times… but nothing has materialized.

But luckily for me, my wife sprung this question on me several weeks ago, “Hey honey… do you want to do Weight Watchers with me?’

I was in the process of cooking some Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for breakfast but I didn’t waste a second in answering her, “Yes.  Absolutely.”

It was that morning almost three weeks ago that I decided to get happy with my body (and my man-boobs) again.  I’ve started sweating my ass off in the gym and sticking to the Weight Watchers method of eating correctly for almost three weeks.

And I’ve lost nine pounds already and my beer gut is steadily shrinking along with my second chin.  My nipples may point straight ahead again some day.

I’ve never dieted before… EVER.  I’ve never had to.  But my age is showing and I’ve got to adapt.  I’m ready to be ripped again.  I’m ready to be sexy again like Bunny.

You wait and see.  It’ll happen.  I’m gonna be a sexy beast (with a six-pack).


What Are Your Unspoken Rules?

Believe it or not, I’m looking forward to March 1st so I can start talking about whatever I want to talk about again.  This February challenge I put upon myself (to set aside each week during the month to blog about someone/something I love) is wearing on me!  I appointed this week (February 2/22 – 2/28) to talk about boobs and it’s quite difficult to write about them without sounding too much like a total Neanderthal or erotic novelist.

But I’m doing my best.  Only a couple of days to go…


While upping my tweets yesterday, I happened upon a new “celebrity” I wanted to follow.  That “person” would be Quagmire from the delightfully obnoxious show Family Guy.

Giggity giggity goooo!!

His most recent tweet said this, “Girls complain when guys stare at their (boobs) when they talk, but If our (wiener)-was on our chest I bet they’d do the same thing.”

Hmmmmm… that would be exponentially more weird but I think it’s pretty true.

It would also be exponentially more disgusting than this point of view

Some time ago, I established some rules for what I believe to be the acceptable amount of time every straight, red-blooded, married or single male should be allowed to glance at a woman.  Let me be clear:  I do not think that all men should ogle at girls and claim its the evolutionary nature of men because that’s a total cop-out.  What makes a man is acknowledging beauty when he sees it and treating it with respect.  I know I make a lot of noise about how much I love boobs on my blog (because I do) but I also value and respect the relationship with my wife.  I wouldn’t say or do anything to disrespect her.  I’ve been there and done that once and I’ll never do it again.

So with that being said, what do you think is acceptable?  It’s hard for me to accept that NO MAN should ever look at cleavage other than their wife or girlfriends.  It’s quite unavoidable sometimes and should be treated with some kind of rules. 

I’ve given you mine… what are yours?

When Is Science Going To Bring Mannequins To Life?

Anyone ever seen the movie Mannequin?

If you haven’t then consider yourself lucky.

It happens to be one of my wifes favorite movies and every time we happen upon it while channel surfing she demands we watch it despite my groans of agony. 

In the movie, a female mannequin comes to life and the clerk involved in arranging her in the department store window falls in love with her.  “Hilarity” ensues.

It’s all fine and good but I dislike the movie because it gives certain individuals an unrealitic view on a time where, through science, we will be able to bring mannequins to life.  It’s not fun to toy with people’s emotions like that. 

While the mannequin in the movie was a semi-attractive one, there are some mannequins that would scare the partially digested BLT right out of me if they came alive.  You know the ones I’m talking about.



What’s up with that?  Are these mannequins with half a head or no face a product of department stores that can’t afford the rest of the head and/or face?

Anyway, while most mannequins are pretty creepy, there are a few who warrant some sort of futuristic plasma ray gun that brings them to life.  Like this one:

Bunny, DLG and I were in Miami last year going in and out of souvenir shops when we happened upon a shop that had nothing but extremely realistic looking female mannequins.  Well… perhaps I should say they were realistic looking “erotic swimsuit models with unnatural enhancements” mannequins.

It was a little shocking and I had to stop myself from staring.  I had to look away because I thought I might get beat up by the mannequins boyfriend once she tells him how much I stared at her.  This is of course after he’s brought to life through the miracle of science in probably another year or so.

I quickly arrived that we were in Miami and that there’s really no way for an enraged mannequin-boyfriend-just-brought-to-life to find out where I live in a years time.  So I did this:

Yes.  I’m five.

It’s been a year and I haven’t had a silver-faced dude with the upper half of his head sliced off knocking at my door yet so I assume I’m in the clear. 

In closing I… wait a minute… there’s someone at the door.  OH HOLY SH…………………………….

helllo mynam is bret and i am a mannequin brot to lif throo the miracle of sients i jst smashd papa k face wit a larg steel beem becaz he exposd my grlfrend boob last yeer let this b a warnng to al of yoo to stay awa from my grlfrend

sory its hrd fr me to tipe becaz the top haf of my hed is slised off,,,,,

Gluteus Maximus Finally Receives The Recognition It Deserves

I make a lot of noise about (  .  )(  .  )’s on this blog because… uh… well, because it’s my blog gosh darn it.  I happen to be a hormone-enriched Neanderthal of a man and am not afraid to admit my fascination with God’s most fabulous accessory creation.  Men are visual creatures and I am no exception to the rule.  Rather than worship them in hushed tones, I choose to say, “Hey… I’m a Neanderthal!  Me likey!!”

But this post isn’t about what I’ve written about in jest several times before this.

“But Papa K,” you’re asking yourself, “You’re supposed to be writing [all classy-like] about boobs during the whole fourth week of this month of February [where I set aside a week to talk about individual people/things I love]!”

I know.  I know.  But this post isn’t about boobs. 

It’s about the derriere.

I was somewhat horrified when scanning everything I’ve written in the two-and-a-half years I’ve been doing this and not one single post was dedicated to the tush.

What a horrific revelation!

I have nothing against rear-ends.  In fact… I quite fancy them!

Thus my fascination with Academy Award winner Kim Kardashian I suppose:

My fascination is not far beyond most rappers infatuation with boobs’ southern cousin.  Countless songs have been written by bejeweled and/or grilled rappers regarding the ba-donk-a-donk to a point where I’m sure it could warrant its own XM radio station.  In fact, more songs have been written about the tail-feather than have been written about its more flaunted cousins from the north. 

Sir Mix-A-Lot was really ahead of his time.

Now, this is real deep stuff… but quite frankly, the booty and the breast would be helpless without one another.

Disney’s Booty and the Breast… what a great flick

You may claim to be a breast man or a booty man but if you have one without the other it’s like eating a sandwich without bread or kicking ass without taking names or watching The Wonder Pets without Ming-Ming. 

So, am I a boob man?  No.  I’m a boob AND arse man.

It’s time for me to give these lovely lady lumps their dues.


(PS – Do you know how hard it is to come up with so many different names for Gluteus Maximus?)

(PSS – I’m thinking about submitting this post to Rearders Digest)

(PSSS – I seriously can’t believe I came up with that joke.  I’m laughing at myself.)

(PSSSS – It was really late when I wrote this)

Because I Know You All Are Tired Of Reading About Baseball

Starting tomorrow I’m talking about boobs until the end of February.  Don’t worry… I’ll be all classy about it and stuff.

Baseball Is Better Than Football

So far, this week of February (2/15 – 2/21) I’ve seen a drastic drop in the number of hits I’ve received on my blog.  I’m assuming this is because I’ve chosen to talk about baseball during this seven-day period.  In case you didn’t know I had dubbed this month, “the month of love” and chose a particular topic I love to talk about each week.  The first was DLG, the next was Bunny, this week is about baseball and next week is about boobs.  Yes, I’m going to talk about boobs for a whole week.  Don’t worry… I’ll be classy about it. 

Even though some of my readers have left (for the time being I hope) I still will plug along and talk about baseball.  I’ve never wanted to segregate this blog on any ONE topic and I enjoy challenging myself to write about a wide spectrum of things.

So, I’m not going to take this opportunity to write an essay as to why baseball is better than football because frankly… I don’t want to.  I’ll let George Carlin do it:

Baseball is a sport where your athleticism isn’t used physically against the other team.  Baseball uses finesse, incredible talent, deep strategy and a special kind of mentality that can only be used within the confines of the players own skin.  What I mean is that while other sports require physicality against the other team in order to win, winning a baseball game lies in the mind and talent of all the players and the team as a unit.

In football, you have to violently tackle the other team to prevent them from scoring.  It also helps if you’re biceps are the size of soccer balls and/or a descendent of Andre the Giant.

In basketball, you have to put physical pressure against the other team to steal the ball or prevent them from scoring.  It also helps if you’re taller than an oak tree.

In hockey, you’ll get your teeth knocked out if you’re in the general vicinity of the puck.  It also helps if you grew up in Canada where you skated to school.

In baseball, while there is occasional physical contact, it doesn’t require you to bring physical harm against the other team.  It all lies in how hard you work and how talented and mentally tough you are.  I’m not saying that the other sports don’t require hard work, talent and mental toughness… I’m just saying that baseball requires the most of all these things. 

While it would be fun to tackle the pitcher if you couldn’t hit his breaking pitch… you can’t.  You gotta stand up there and make an adjustment and figure out how to scratch out a hit.

While it would be fun if you could prevent the other teams power hitter from jacking a grand slam off you by getting your teammates to crowd him at the plate and put extra pressure on him… you can’t.  You gotta stand in there and throw him your best stuff.

Baseball, while being “violent” at times, requires you to use more brains and strategy than muscles. 

The great Yogi Berra once said, “Baseball is 90% mental, the other half is physical” and I couldn’t agree with him more.  That’s what makes baseball great. 

Quite frankly, I’m a bit giddy.  When this time of year comes around, I start to get excited because baseball is on my brain.  Springtime is a time or rebirth when the world comes out of it’s seemingly eternal slumber back to life.  Spring training begins and baseball rises from the ashes of yesteryear and new hopes spring eternal in the hearts of each teams die-hard fans (even Pittsburgh ones) for the ultimate goal: a World Series Championship.

For me, it is going to be hard to repeat last seasons heroics by my Texas Rangers.  They went all the way to the World Series and even though they lost… it was hard to be too disappointed.  Nevertheless, I was saddened by their inaugural failed attempt at a World Championship.  

With a new season though comes new hope.

Is baseball better than football?  I think so.

2010 AL Champions.  2011 World Series Champions?  I don’t know… has a nice ring to it…  


What about you?  What do you think?

I Could Have Been A Contender

If you’ve been around me when I’ve had a few drinks and we’re swapping stories then this story will invariably come out:

“You know… I struck Matt Holiday out in high school… twice!”

Matt Holiday, for those of you that don’t know,  is a professional baseball player who signed a $120 million contract last year with the St. Louis Cardinals. 

Matt Holiday… please don’t find me and crush me for embarrassing you because you are a giant giant man

I haven’t done the math but I’m sure he surpasses my yearly salary in just a few plate appearances!

If it was only known how easy it is to strike this guy out… he’d be your friendly neighborhood trash man instead of the new, highly overpaid baseball superstar.

How do I know this?  Well, lemme tell you:

I was the starting pitcher for the Ponca City Wildcats in our home opener my senior year.  Our opponent was our cross-town rivals: The Stillwater Pioneers.

Damn I’m sexy in my perscription sunglasses

Among the Stillwater Pioneers was the legendary Matt Holiday himself.  We knew back then the kind of skills that Matt possessed.  We faced Stillwater often and every time we did there would be Major League scouts with radar guns in the stands.  They were there to see Matt exhibit his God-given gifts.  

The lesser, more inept players like myself whose future consisted of staring at a computer all day to earn money instead of playing baseball for a living saw this as a chance to knock down the golden boy and steal some of his glory for ourselves.

Despite being naturally amped up because this was the first game of my Senior year in front of our home crowd… my adrenaline hit it’s peak when I saw Holiday step into the batters box after the first and second hitters grounded out.

Feeling good at my chances of at least getting out of the first inning unscathed I threw my 82 MPH heat right down the middle.  Obviously a mistake pitch.  You weren’t supposed to throw an 82 MPH meatball to Matt Holiday because he’d more than likely hit it right back through the back of your head.

Luckily for me his bat never left his shoulder.

“STRIKE ONE!” the umpire yelled.

I realized that I was INCREDIBLY lucky not to have a baseball shaped hole going through the middle of my face.  I tried to be a little more accurate on the second fastball…. but I pretty much accidentally threw the same pitch a second time and it went into the exact same location.

Again, his bat never left his shoulder.

“STRIKE TWO!” the umpire screamed.

I stepped on the rubber and prepared my final pitch.  The catcher called for a curveball.

Even though I’d been throwing the curveball for several years, I still didn’t have good control over it.  I mainly only threw it when the count was working in my favor.  In this instance I had the future superstar down in the count so a curveball was to be expected… even a crappy one like mine.

I threw the curve.  What materialized out of this pitch was probably the worst curveball I’d ever thrown.  The minute it came out of my hand I knew it wasn’t right.  Its trajectory would put it in the general vicinity of the last two fastballs I had thrown… only much slower and easier to track.  This kind of curveball is called a “hanging” curveball.  Not exactly the kind of pitch you’d want to throw to a behemoth like Matt Holiday.

As the ball headed right for the future millionaire’s wheelhouse I imagined one of two things:

     1.  He would hit the ball and it would shatter my testes into a million unintelligible pieces, or

     2.  the ball would go down in history as being the furthest ball hit at our baseball field

Luckily for me, neither of those happened.

What I’m assuming happened was that I surprised him with such a tailor-made pitch to deposit somewhere between home plate and the planet Pluto that he wound up swinging with every ounce of strength he had in him… and completely missed.

Strike three.  Inning over.

I actually struck Matt out a second time in the game but we eventually lost (as we did often that year) and I never got a call from the Colorado Rockies or the Oakland Athletics or even the Kansas City Royals. 

Matt Holiday went on to be drafted by the Colorado Rockies, played in a World Series, played briefly for the Oakland Athletics and eventually became a superstar who just agreed on the contract worth $120 million to play in St. Louis.

Oh yeah… I also beat up Albert Pujols in grade school…

I’ve often wondered if St. Louis knows how easy Matt Holiday is to strike out?  I wonder if they would have offered him so much money.  If somehow it becomes common knowledge that to strike him out all you have to throw is two subpar fastballs and then a hanging curveball right down the middle then they’re going to be pissed!!

Note to self:  Call St. Louis Cardinals and have them pay me hush money.  Then, for fear that Matt Holiday will find me and smash my head like a grape, enter the witness protection program.


You can say it.  I’m awesome.

Passing The Torch

Alright… after some slacking on my part I now am going to award the winner of some TattooID’s.  If you didn’t get a chance to read my review of this fine product then please do so! 

I just now did a random drawing at of all those who made a comment on my review post of the product and the winner IS……..

KIM FROM BABY FEET!!  I think she’ll be able to put them to good use. 

Kim, email me at and I’ll forward your information to Steven who will then touch base with you.

Thanks everyone for your comments!


I originally wrote this near the end of baseball season last year and it appeared as a guest post at “The (Virgins) Guide To Baseball” (which is an excellent read if you get a chance) but the purpose of piece is timeless so it doesn’t matter when I post it.  I thought it would be a good transitional post while I go into this week (February 15th – 21st) where I talk about the sport I love: baseball.

When my daughter first introduced herself to Bunny and I, it quickly became apparent that she didn’t like to take naps.

“What is wrong with our kid?” we asked, tired and droopy-eyed, to DLG’s pediatrician.  We knew there must have been a miracle cure for this “no-nap disease” SOMEWHERE!!

It wasn’t until successfully answering a barrage of questions that the doctor simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well… it appears that you have a baby genius on your hands!”

“What?” we both said in unison, “What would a kid who decides to give up naps at the tender age of three months be a baby genius?”

She proceeded to tell us that studies done over many years from when a baby is born to the time they graduate college show there is one unifying factor with ALL those finishing with an above average intelligence:  they gave up their naps at an extremely tender age.

Now, she is a doctor… so I wasn’t going to be one to argue with her.   I can’t say that my chest didn’t puff out a little more than normal as if to say, “Well… of course she’s a baby genius!?  What else is new?”

She proved this to be true.

She crawled at eight months, walked at ten months, knew all animal sounds and the alphabet at the age of one, put together full sentences at a year-and-a-half and is now, at the age of two, is able to memorize children’s books after having them read to her once and is nearly potty trained.

Yes, I know.  I’m a proud dad and being a bit braggadocios and for that I apologize.  But all these things fail in comparison the most important thing she’s learned:

Honey… who’s Daddy’s favorite team?” I’ll ask her.

Texas Rangers!!” she’ll say.

Wide-eyed and full of excitement I’ll respond, “That’s right!  Very good!  Now… who’s daddy’s favorite player?

Um… Josh… HAMILTON!!

After that response, I go for the kicker, “That’s right honey!  Now… what happens if we say, ‘Go Yankees!?’”

Her brow will furrow with a look of concern and she’ll say, “I go to time out”.

Just like the doctors said… she is a genius.

After the laughter from her (generally small) audience subsides, I hug her, kiss her and tell her that I love her very much and to please not grow up and be a Yankee fan… geniuses just don’t do that.

You see what I’m doing?  I’m pulling my kid into what I’m so passionate about.

I can’t imagine anything more special than sharing something I love with the little girl I helped create. Even though she’s a genius, she won’t fully comprehend all the idiosyncrasies the game provides… nor will she ever.

DLG moments before seeing her first Texas Rangers game

But that’s not even important to me.  What’s important to me is that it’s going to be something we can share together. 

Besides sharing her mother… I can’t think of much of anything more beautiful than that.

Well… a Texas Rangers World Series Championship trophy would be close…

Here’s to more baseball bonding moments

Valentines Day: A Day To Be Overly Smarmy

So here we are at another Valentines Day.

And, as always, I’ll join the mass of bloggers as they etch their words of love and affirmation for their loved ones in the vast, expansive blogosphere.

In my case, that loved one would be Bunny:

My Photos | Mindy

But, what makes this post so much different from any other post, is that I’m not rallying all of my efforts to get a multitude of people on my blog to read about my undying love and devotion to my wife.  This post is quite simply just for her.

So… read on if you like.  Otherwise this might get a little too smarmy for you.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So anyways…

Bunny: without saying too much of what I’ve already said over and over again, I love you with a deepness not even I can explain.  You have helped guide me into the person I’ve become today and I’m light years beyond what I ever thought I could be.

You carried our beautiful daughter for nine months and did it so gracefully.


The sacrifices you’ve made to keep this family operating the way it operates do not go unnoticed and I hope you know that one day you’ll see what a difference you’ve made in the lives of those who you care about the most.  Our daughter loves you and will continue to love you because of the person you are and the mother you’ve become.

Nothing make me more angry than someone who wrongly accuses your intentions.  I know the conditions of your heart and I would die to protect their integrity.  I’ve never been more ready to protect you than I have this past year.  I’m proud to say that it’s something I wasn’t quite sure I had in me and it’s the love we share that brought it out of me. 

Your personality can light up a room and your smile is like a 10,000 watt lightbulb.  Your beauty quite simply transcends time and I must say I’m quite proud of myself knowing that I “married up”.  You are the trophy wife to end all trophy wives… but your beauty is just a bonus.  It’s what’s inside of you that makes me keep falling in love with you over and over again.

All my love babe.

Thanks for being married to a five like me… even though you’re a ten.

PS – you have sweet boobs too.

Papa K Gets Trained

I’m a little behind on answering your questions.  I had requested everyone ask me questions before I came up with this idea to set each week in the month of February to talk about something/someone I love.  So that means that I won’t get around to answering the questions until March BUT I do need to award the random commenter their $15 iTunes gift card (or any other gift card they’d like) by commenting on either this post or this post).  So without further ado, the winner of the gift card generated from for simply asking me a question (or telling me who’s autograph they’d like) is……


Candice (who’s question I’m not sure how I’m going to answer) also has a hilarious blog you should check out (she’s also doing a $60 CSN giveaway on her blog you can enter).  Congrats Candice.  Let me know where to send the gift card by emailing me at

Next post I’ll be giving away the TattooID’s so stay tuned for that…


When I first met Bunny, I wasn’t the perfect picture of male chivalry for her.  In fact… I was quite the sloth.

I look back at the clothes I wore and the things I did and I’m not surprised that I hadn’t found the buxom Playboy bunny I’d always dreamed of running in to.



Yes… that’s me with a bleached goatee

I just needed a Playboy bunny to look past my t-shirts, khaki cargo pants, bleached goatee and beer breath and take on my charity case.   A charity case that I will assure you… was looking pretty bleak.

Then THE  ONE AND ONLY Bunny entered my life and decided to give it a shot.

No.  I haven’t been beat up.  That’s just the way I look in the morning.

I needed some training not only on how to dress but on how to operate with a woman in my life.  I had been a bachelor my whole life and while I wanted to settle down with a lady-friend I was oblivious to the ways a woman wants to be treated.  I just needed my eyes opened a little bit.

Bunny recalls one time many years ago when she was hanging out with me in my apartment and I got up, went to the kitchen, made a hideous TV dinner and sat back down next to her to eat it without asking her if she’d like anything!!!  Or when I left her to get a pop out of the pop machine without asking her if she wanted anything.

Not crimes of epic proportions I know… but relationship crimes nonetheless.  Whether most dudes want to admit it or not, it IS the gentlemanly thing to do to look out for your wife or girlfriend before you go looking out for yourself.


If you don’t carry your wife everywhere… then you ain’t a gentleman…

From the years I’ve been with Bunny, I haven’t only become a better person on the inside… but on the outside as well.  My chivalry and fashion sense are better and as much as some “manly” men wouldn’t want to admit it I believe that the wide majority of women like a well-dressed, polite guy.

Hey… who’s that guy with my wife!!!!  Oh yeah… that’s me.  In a sweater-vest.  Sweater Vests are sooooo gangsta.


If you’re a chick… is being polite and attentive to your needs important?

If you’re a dude… do you think it’s wimpy or “un-manlike” to be sensitive and kind?

If you’re a hermaphrodite… do you get to decide if you want to pee standing up or sitting down?