When I was number one on Google for terms like “best blog” and “funny blogs” I was approached a lot by companies who wanted to sponsor my posts. Most were firms of ill repute and were  peddling dildos and other items of adult nature. But still, it was an offer of free money. The problem is that they all required me to do something ridiculous like put a link to their product in the ad, or write about a topic which featured their items, etc. Stuff that I don’t approve of. I have integrity, yo!

At one point I almost went for it and had this idea of having my cat and dog review each product. But I think that one-joke sketch would have gotten old pretty quickly. Like most SNL recurring characters.

Then Google spanked me and I lost my SEO high status. Since then I’ve had to build up my brand back from the beginning, reader by reader. Now, my traffic is higher than before and my social media presence is growing.

This is funny. I was chatting up this girl recently who I wanted to date. She asked me if I was a big deal on Twitter. I was just about to say, “Well, not really, but I do have 56k followers.” In short I wanted to brag. Then, she said, “The last guy I dated thought he was kind of a Twitter celebrity and I dumped him.” So, I kept my mouth shut.

Since I’m not a mommy or fashion blogger I’m not cornered by brands who want me to pimp their stuff. Pre-natal vitamin companies aren’t beating down my door to advertise on the site. Heavy flow tampons don’t want to be associated with a guy that once wrote, “Why can’t we just send them to the edge of the village for three days?” Other than the  occasional  penis-pump manufacturer, I don’t get a lot of corporate love. Which is a little ironic because most of my readers are women in that demographic. Well… not the penis pump demo. At least I don’t think so. God, I hope not.

But what if I did have people courting me (I actually do have a few now, surprisingly), who didn’t require me to write particular pieces of content? What if at the end of each post it had a “sponsored by Deez Nuts” or whatever company wanted to put their name at the end? Would that piss you off? Would you run the other way screaming? Would I have sold out?

Truth be told I’ve put a lot of money into this blog over the last two years. I am in NO way complaining, as I will continue to put money in whether I decide to go with sponsorship or not.

I’m asking you because I give a shit about your readership. Sure I’ll make up my own mind but I respect your opinion. Some people hate the idea that a sponsor has input over content. Mine wouldn’t, but perception might equal reality and I don’t want to lose any of you.

So, what’s the consensus? I can afford the bandwidth and hosting charges, so if nobody ever spends a dime (other than my lovely advertisers), I won’t be shedding any tears. Do you care if I start getting some sponsors?

And, also, while we’re at it, should I start trimming down my chest hair? I mean, I am dating and all.

Time to check in to see how badly you failed! Or succeeded. Whatever.

And we’re going to set a new goal – so if you’re new to the site, get ready to become more awesome.

That cat sack just effectively killed my appetite.

How Let’s Get Fixed Works

1. There is a theme each week where you can join in the crusade to not suck so hard.
2. In the comment section declare what you will accomplish this week.
3. In seven days I’ll write a follow up post and you can check in. Succeed and you’ll receive a virtual make-out session from me.
4. If you fail, well, you’re just human and everyone makes mistakes. Just kidding – we’ll goof on you. Hard.

Last Week Goal Check-In

I vowed to get information about going back to school for my MBA. Now, truth be told, I did this a few hours before writing the post tonight. Hey, I had a busy week – my girlfriend was in town for a bachelorette party. I had to take care of two chihuahuas (instead of one) and an insanely drunk woman last night. When she stumbled in she was surprisingly not wearing a penis hat, penis necklace or anything else penis-ornamental. Some women love to go for the dildo-themed bachelorette party – her friend did not. Probably a better call for the bride’s dignity.

So, I was a little busier than usual. But I did manage to sign up for three informational events from schools I’m looking at – hopefully since I have a title that sounds way more impressive than it is, I can get into the Executive MBA program. This means you don’t have to take the tests and such, which would be killer as I don’t want to ever look at a graphing calculator ever again. Well, unless you turn it upside down to spell out “boobs” – hilarious.

Digression over – I won the week’s challenge!

This Week’s Goal –  Gratitude

As I’ve progressed through therapy, I’ve realized that I’m a pretty dark mofo. Many would describe me as super-upbeat, smiley, and always laughing – much of that is true. However, by myself I tend to focus on what’s wrong, what’s missing, and where my life would be today if my first girlfriend hasn’t broken my heart, tore out my soul, and extinguished the flame of my love light! Just kidding – she was a dopey chick with good curls. Bitches don’t get over on me.

No, I was born this way. My big issue is that in the moments of anger, sadness, and fear, I forget everything that is good in my life. I’m not a depressive, but I tend to look on the “what sucks” side.

That needs to change.

For example, if I’m arguing with my girlfriend, in that moment of frustration I forget that this is the same person that rebuilt and organized my closet when I was out of town. That’s a big deal.

I think this insanity is a result of not being practiced in seeing what is  good. Part of is psychological too, and I have a shrink to aide with my silliness.

So, what’s the plan? Well, I’m turning to the time-honored practice of hitting my knees in the morning. Yeah, like the Catholics do in church during the wafer part. Which is so uncomfortable and boring. Just sit already. Yes, we’re all impressed with your kneeling. It’s so holy.

Now, I’m not doing this because God loves us kneeling before him. I hope that his ego isn’t that big, and he’s got more important things to get fixed that my stupid prayers. No, this isn’t an homage to the big guy – it’s a recognition of the people in my life that love and care for me AND all the great stuff I’m doing that should be acknowledged.

I asked my friend Bill, who I don’t think even believes in God, about the getting on your knees part. He’s one of the smartest guys I know and only does shit that get results. “Getting on your knees works. Not sure why. It does.”

I will hit my knees first thing in the morning and give thanks to the people in my life that rock, and for all I do that rocks.

It’s Your Turn

What, if you thought about it, would bring forth more gratitude in your life? I don’t mean deny the bad stuff – that’s just moronic. But can you honor both the dark and the light? Like, sure your Facebook stalker is kind of needy. But at least he think you’re hot! What is going well in your life that you forget because you get caught up in the gunk? Let’s get fixed this week and honor that good.

Tip – If you fail to see any good in your life, simply drive around your town and find someone who just looks like they blow. Point at them and chuckle to yourself. At least you’re not that bozo! You’ll feel instantly grateful.

Anyway, this group is on the other side of town, in Logan Square.  Which means I have to bike from the South Loop to Logan Square, which is a city ride.  All streets.  Normally I ride along the bike path on the lake – no cars.

The whole way there’s a bike lane which is a little area on the street where cars aren’t supposed to hang out.

Apparently, and unbeknownst to me, there was a car that didn’t like my activity in said lane.

I pulled up to a red light and I heard something behind me.  I turned to see this attractive woman on a bike next to a car.  She’s talking to the passenger window and it appears from her body language that she’s upset.  I had been riding behind her for the past mile or so, and had just passed her on the previous block.  I smiled at her as I passed with a, “Sorry, can’t help it – guys are better at stuff” look.  She laughed.

Anyway, I pulled out my earbuds (I was listening to a John Mellencamp Best-Of album – not proud), and I heard her yelling at the people in the car.  We’re still at the red light, by the way.  I’m thinking that this bike chick must be nuts.  Yelling at a car.  That’s weird.  But, lots of bike people are angry.  I know.  I ride with them every day.

She comes over to me right next to the car and asked:

Did she hit you?

What?  No.  Wait – hit ME?  Huh?

That bitch just threw a penny at you while you were riding!

She did?  Why?

She said you were in the car lane, but I was watching, and you were not in their lane!

She threw a penny at me?  That’s awesome!

I went and yelled at them!  Nobody does that to someone!

Well, think of the poor slob that has to be married to that.  I feel bad for him.

Ha ha.  Screw them!

—

This whole conversation took place not four feet from the window of the car.  I thought it was hilarious.  Now, I was  a  little  upset – I mean, I have my dog in a backpack.  And I’m not above praying for the destruction of my enemies.

Dear Lord/Jesus/Holy Ghost – please deliver Peyronie’s disease to this skag’s first born male child.  This is where his penis will be super curvy and the dudes in high school will take a photo when he’s showering in P.E. and put it up on YouTube and the whole school will laugh and call him 90 because his dick goes 90 degrees the wrong way.  And yes I understand it’s not his fault, but someone has to pay for his mom throwing a penny at me while I was riding.  Lord hear my prayer.

I can’t believe I upset a woman so much that she threw a penny at me.  It is a little insulting – the lowest form of American currency.  Maybe if I become more famous someone can start chucking Susan B. Anthony dollars at me.  That would be really nice.

photo credit:  Thomas Hawk  via  photo pin  cc

Write the truth.  Don’t lie, and don’t exaggerate (or try really hard not to).

Why?  Because it’s too easy to lie to make a point or a joke.  I’ve found that in life the hardest thing to do for me is to expose my  vulnerabilities  to others.  It’s scary, and my mind has many ways of coping.  Mostly by denial and/or humor.

So, if I’m feeling angry or sad or ashamed and you ask me how I’m doing, there’s a small chance I would actually tell you the truth.  Now, I don’t think it’s always appropriate to reveal the most raw parts of you to others.  When you expose yourself to people, they can hurt you.  But I’m talking about my closest friends.  I’m afraid to let them see that I’m not perfect.  I’m much better at this now, though.  I’m in various groups where we get together and talk about the hard stuff.

And since I pride myself on each post on this blog, when its in reference to me, being honest and open, I have a shameful confession.

I purchased 2700 of my Twitter followers.  

Why?  Because I wanted YOU to think I was a big shot.

I wanted you to think I had a ton of people following me so that you would be like, “Wow, I need to jump on this rocket ship!  This is headed straight to famous!”

The reality is that  I obtain about 1-2 new Twitter followers a day just from this blog.  But God forbid you see that my super popular and awesome blog only has a few hundred measly followers.  So, in reality, I probably have like 700 real followers.

How do you buy followers?  It cost me $5.  Just Google it.  You can buy anything.

I owe you the truth.  Many of you pour your heart out via private emails to me, or through the commenting.  I value that, and I’m glad the gaffes about my father’s penis resonate with you.

My deepest apologies in trying to impress you with fake followers.  The joke’s on me because you don’t care how many Twitter followers I have.

But I do want to re-confirm that everything I write is pretty much 100% true.  I really do poop while talking on the phone, I used to wear tight jeans back in 2003, and I once killed a man in the desert.

Okay, that last one wasn’t true.  But I wish it were.  (I’d be the coolest!)

Please forgive my trespasses, or however that old rhyme goes.  Thanks for being a fan.

If you’d like to follow me on Twitter, and I hope you do because I love interacting with readers, please click here.

When is the last time you saw your father naked? I’m going to bet, for most of you, this is not an easy question to answer. Not because of the subject matter, but because you can’t quite remember a time when this happened.

Up until about a month ago, I was right there with you. If pressed, I supposed I would have answered something like you, which is:

Hmm…  I guess I remember seeing once as a little kid.  I sort of remember taking a shower with him and noticing it, but it’s kind of fuzzy.  Why are you asking anyway?  Gross!

So, it’s not like I could draw it from memory or anything.  I can hardly draw my own from memory.  And I’m pretty familiar with it.

After the story I’m about to share where I saw my father’s dick, I was reminded of a second story involving my father and his penis.  I didn’t feel like this would be an ongoing series where I relayed constant anecdotes about dad’s privates.  I only have two.

So, let’s knock ’em out and move on.

If That Shirt Bounces Any Higher, I’m Going to See…

Shit – It Just Went Higher

Our family recently went to Las Vegas.  My mom had a conference out there for work, and she invited the whole family.  My sister and her boyfriend flew out from New York which meant we really only needed two rooms.  I would share with my mom and dad, and Dana and Al would get the other room.

Las Vegas is just not my kind of town.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to do – golfing, gambling, shows, restaurants, etc.  But even the nice places seem gaudy to me.  I remember walking around our hotel, which is considered one of the nicest on the strip, and thinking, “This still looks wrong to me.  Like they’re trying too hard.”

But hey, I’m not a gambler, I don’t care about sports, and I don’t often go to nightclubs.  So, I guess it’s not the ideal place for me to visit.

I’m not complaining, however.  The pools were amazing, and they even allowed toplessness, which is never a bad thing for these eyes.

Also, I saw the Beatles’ Cirque du Soleil show, which was really the best thing I’ve ever witnessed live.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with context, let’s get to why you’re reading this – my dad’s dong.

Dad and I had just finished a round of golf.  It was a 102 degrees during the round, which is hot even without humidity.  Four hours in that heat even when you’re not sweating is kind of rough.  By the way, here’s a quick tip my dad taught me.  In that sort of weather, when you finish the ninth hole, do NOT go inside the clubhouse for any reason.  If you have to pee, visit a cactus.  Food or beer?  Wait for the cart-girl to come by.

Sidenote – Ever notice that, on average, a cart-girl ranks at least an eight on the hotness meter?  They’re almost always drop-dead gorgeous.  If any are reading this (they aren’t), then hit me up for a date.  I’m buying.

Back to the tip – if you don’t go inside after the ninth hole, you’ll be fine for the next nine holes.  If you go in the clubhouse even for a moment, you’re done.  Consider the rest of the round to be miserable.

Now let’s jump out of  this two leveled digression I just made you sit through.

We get back to the hotel, and it’s shower time.  Since my folks are springing for the room, it would only seem respectful to allow my father to jump in the shower before me.

I head over to the computer to check my email.  As I look up after a few minutes, I see my dad, in a state of undress that is unusual and alarming.

Unusual because I’ve never seen it before.  He’s standing adjacent from me, a profile view, about eight feet away wearing only a polo shirt.  Nothing else.

He has his phone in his hands – one hand is constantly swiping the screen from right to left.  I guess with his phone that’s how you navigate through emails.

His genitals are barely covered by the hem of the shirt, and with each swipe, the shirt raises a little with a short bounce.  This is why I mentioned alarming earlier.  But it was a controlled bounce, just high enough to cover his junk.  I’m telling you, not a  millimeter  higher or you’ve got balls.

I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but there was no chance I was looking away.  And he must have had like thirty emails, because he was swiping every three seconds.

And then, he must have seen something that either angered him or overjoyed him.  All I know is he swiped a little harder than he had been previously, and the shirt jumped up three inches higher.  I saw it.  IT.

Now, as soon as the penis was presented, I did, in fact, look away.  I was pleased and instantly satisfied with myself that my instinctual reaction was that of flight.  Two seconds later, I did look back, and the shirt was back to it’s original position, covering his essence.

I didn’t say anything, because clearly this was not his problem.  My father apparently is not one to feel the shame of  nakedness, and has no problem standing in a hotel room with his son wearing just a polo shirt exposing his dork.

I went back to my computer, processing silently what I had just witnessed.  But here was my issue – I had a growing, gnawing thought that wasn’t going away.

I did not like what I had just seen.

“Of course not, D.J.!  You just saw your father naked!  That’s awful!”

I’m not talking about my feeling about the appropriateness of seeing a parent’s genitals.  That’s another discussion.

I’m referring to more of the objective assessment of what I had just seen.

Now, granted I only got a  millisecond’s  view.  But something was bothering me.  I had to ask my mother who was now getting dressed.

Dad had since retired to the shower, and had closed the door to the bathroom.

I whispered, “Mom – psst!  umm… This is a really odd question to ask, but umm…  ahem… Dad is  circumcised, right?”

My mother looks at me for a good five Mississippi before replying.

“Hmm…  I –  I think so.”

I felt it was important to tell her that I just saw his cock and balls, and it could have just been my  imagination, but something seemed off about them.

She looked at me, as if she were about to ask me to explain more about what I had just said.  Her eyes were scanning me trying to make sense of my question.  But instead…

“Hey Del!” my mother yells through the door, “You’re circumcised, right?”

Another five Mississippi.

“Yeah!”

That was it.  The end of this entire story.  I’d love to say my father got out of the shower, ran into the room and asked his wife why, after nearly forty years of marriage, she didn’t know he was circumcised, but that’s not what happened.

He got out of the shower, put on his trunks (thankfully in the bathroom), and we went to the pool.  Had a good time, too.

Part II Coming Soon – “You Do What To Your What?”

And yes, I’m quite aware of the irony of calling this story “Two Stories About My Dad’s Dick” and only providing you with one story.  Sorry.

UPDATE – Part II is completed!

When is the last time you saw your father naked? I’m going to bet, for most of you, this is not an easy question to answer. Not because of the subject matter, but because you can’t quite remember a time when this happened.

Up until about a month ago, I was right there with you. If pressed, I supposed I would have answered something like you, which is:

Hmm…  I guess I remember seeing once as a little kid.  I sort of remember taking a shower with him and noticing it, but it’s kind of fuzzy.  Why are you asking anyway?  Gross!

So, it’s not like I could draw it from memory or anything.  I can hardly draw my own from memory.  And I’m pretty familiar with it.

After the story I’m about to share where I saw my father’s dick, I was reminded of a second story involving my father and his penis.  I didn’t feel like this would be an ongoing series where I relayed constant anecdotes about dad’s privates.  I only have two.

So, let’s knock ’em out and move on.

If That Shirt Bounces Any Higher, I’m Going to See…

Shit – It Just Went Higher

Our family recently went to Las Vegas.  My mom had a conference out there for work, and she invited the whole family.  My sister and her boyfriend flew out from New York which meant we really only needed two rooms.  I would share with my mom and dad, and Dana and Al would get the other room.

Las Vegas is just not my kind of town.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to do – golfing, gambling, shows, restaurants, etc.  But even the nice places seem gaudy to me.  I remember walking around our hotel, which is considered one of the nicest on the strip, and thinking, “This still looks wrong to me.  Like they’re trying too hard.”

But hey, I’m not a gambler, I don’t care about sports, and I don’t often go to nightclubs.  So, I guess it’s not the ideal place for me to visit.

I’m not complaining, however.  The pools were amazing, and they even allowed toplessness, which is never a bad thing for these eyes.

Also, I saw the Beatles’ Cirque du Soleil show, which was really the best thing I’ve ever witnessed live.

Okay, now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with context, let’s get to why you’re reading this – my dad’s dong.

Dad and I had just finished a round of golf.  It was a 102 degrees during the round, which is hot even without humidity.  Four hours in that heat even when you’re not sweating is kind of rough.  By the way, here’s a quick tip my dad taught me.  In that sort of weather, when you finish the ninth hole, do NOT go inside the clubhouse for any reason.  If you have to pee, visit a cactus.  Food or beer?  Wait for the cart-girl to come by.

Sidenote – Ever notice that, on average, a cart-girl ranks at least an eight on the hotness meter?  They’re almost always drop-dead gorgeous.  If any are reading this (they aren’t), then hit me up for a date.  I’m buying.

Back to the tip – if you don’t go inside after the ninth hole, you’ll be fine for the next nine holes.  If you go in the clubhouse even for a moment, you’re done.  Consider the rest of the round to be miserable.

Now let’s jump out of  this two leveled digression I just made you sit through.

We get back to the hotel, and it’s shower time.  Since my folks are springing for the room, it would only seem respectful to allow my father to jump in the shower before me.

I head over to the computer to check my email.  As I look up after a few minutes, I see my dad, in a state of undress that is unusual and alarming.

Unusual because I’ve never seen it before.  He’s standing adjacent from me, a profile view, about eight feet away wearing only a polo shirt.  Nothing else.

He has his phone in his hands – one hand is constantly swiping the screen from right to left.  I guess with his phone that’s how you navigate through emails.

His genitals are barely covered by the hem of the shirt, and with each swipe, the shirt raises a little with a short bounce.  This is why I mentioned alarming earlier.  But it was a controlled bounce, just high enough to cover his junk.  I’m telling you, not a  millimeter  higher or you’ve got balls.

I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but there was no chance I was looking away.  And he must have had like thirty emails, because he was swiping every three seconds.

And then, he must have seen something that either angered him or overjoyed him.  All I know is he swiped a little harder than he had been previously, and the shirt jumped up three inches higher.  I saw it.  IT.

Now, as soon as the penis was presented, I did, in fact, look away.  I was pleased and instantly satisfied with myself that my instinctual reaction was that of flight.  Two seconds later, I did look back, and the shirt was back to it’s original position, covering his essence.

I didn’t say anything, because clearly this was not his problem.  My father apparently is not one to feel the shame of  nakedness, and has no problem standing in a hotel room with his son wearing just a polo shirt exposing his dork.

I went back to my computer, processing silently what I had just witnessed.  But here was my issue – I had a growing, gnawing thought that wasn’t going away.

I did not like what I had just seen.

“Of course not, D.J.!  You just saw your father naked!  That’s awful!”

I’m not talking about my feeling about the appropriateness of seeing a parent’s genitals.  That’s another discussion.

I’m referring to more of the objective assessment of what I had just seen.

Now, granted I only got a  millisecond’s  view.  But something was bothering me.  I had to ask my mother who was now getting dressed.

Dad had since retired to the shower, and had closed the door to the bathroom.

I whispered, “Mom – psst!  umm… This is a really odd question to ask, but umm…  ahem… Dad is  circumcised, right?”

My mother looks at me for a good five Mississippi before replying.

“Hmm…  I –  I think so.”

I felt it was important to tell her that I just saw his cock and balls, and it could have just been my  imagination, but something seemed off about them.

She looked at me, as if she were about to ask me to explain more about what I had just said.  Her eyes were scanning me trying to make sense of my question.  But instead…

“Hey Del!” my mother yells through the door, “You’re circumcised, right?”

Another five Mississippi.

“Yeah!”

That was it.  The end of this entire story.  I’d love to say my father got out of the shower, ran into the room and asked his wife why, after nearly forty years of marriage, she didn’t know he was circumcised, but that’s not what happened.

He got out of the shower, put on his trunks (thankfully in the bathroom), and we went to the pool.  Had a good time, too.

Part II Coming Soon – “You Do What To Your What?”

And yes, I’m quite aware of the irony of calling this story “Two Stories About My Dad’s Dick” and only providing you with one story.  Sorry.

UPDATE – Part II is completed!