Mr. Squishy and the Tauntress

Posted: May 28, 2009 in about me, pain and suffering, wife

Before I start today…

Got a new movie review of “Night at the Museum 2 – Battle of the Smithsonian” over on Moog’s Movie Reviews.

Amy Adams: You haunt my dreams.

Ben Stiller: Seriously, dude. Stop making movies.

Carry on!!


Mr. Squishy and the Tauntress

Alternate title to this:

My Wife, She Taunts Me – Part 2

Yeah…part TWO.

You can find Part One right here.

(points at crotch)

If you follow this blog, you know that I have to go to physical therapy for my stupid fucking broken hand.

That’s my pet name for him: “stupid fucking broken hand.”

(the masturbation is SO much better when he’s angry)

It is here, in physical therapy, that I was given the greatest gift of all:


But we’re not here today to talk about Bob.

Today, we talk about Mr. Squishy.

* zziiiiipp


Wrong Mr. Squishy.

About three weeks into my therapy, my therapist looked at me and said:

Therapist: “Well…you’re coming along quite nicely.”

Me: “Shut up and swallow already.”

Then I got a new therapist.

Some guys have no sense of humor.

My new therapist looked at me and said:

Therapist: “You’re just about ready for your own putty.”


A tear rolled down my cheek.

Just like that Indian guy in that old commercial when people were throwing trash and shit all over the site of his new casino.

My…my own…my own putty…?


My own putty.

You see…not only do I have to roll Bob around in my hands all day…

(just like Elizabeth Dole)

…but I now have to squish this fucking putty in my hands in the morning and at night.

So, yeah…now Bob has a new friend.


Mr. Squishy!

So that’s Mr. Squishy.

Unfortunately for my wife, this has resulted in a lot of this going on in the house lately:

Me: “Hey…have you seen Mr. Squishy?”

Wife: “No.”

Me: “You wanna?”


Me: “You want to touch my Mr. Squishy?”

Wife: “No. Not at all.”

Me: “Yes you do. You want to touch him.”

Wife: “GO. AWAY.”

Me: “Touch my Mr. Squishy. TOUCH HIM!”

On a related note, these conversations happened pretty much every Saturday night even before I got the goddamn putty.

I cry sometimes.

So, of course, at one point…we were laying in bed.

My Mr. Squishy by my side.

This is when I decided to roll him into the shape of a penis.


In my defense, you can’t put squishy gooey putty in a man’s hand and not expect him to do weird shit with it.

It’s in the instruction booklet…page 42.

So, I hold up the Mr. Squishy penis to my wife.

Me: “Hey baby…want to touch my Mr. Squishy?”

Unfortunately, therapy putty has all the consistency of wet bread dough.

So, this is what Mr. Squishy looked like as I held it out to my wife:

She looked at it.

She poked it.

Then she spoke:

Wife: “It’s too big.”

* pause

She picked the gooey Mr. Squishy penis head up and it plopped back down.

Wife: “It’s about the right consistency, though.”

Then she started laughing.

* sigh

Me: “You’re awesome.”

Then I cried myself to sleep.


She IS awesome.

But thanks anyway for rubbing that shit right the fuck in, hon.

Bob wouldn’t treat me that way.

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