Archive for the ‘sex’ Category

Things That Make You Go ‘Boing’

Posted: February 4, 2010 in sex, wtf

You got questions, we got answers.

Hopefully, your question is:

“How do I look naked?”

On a related note:

I wish my dad would stop emailing me.

I’ve digressed.

For some reason, I end up being the Oracle for people looking for answers.

Answers to mind boggling questions.

Questions that have challenged mankind for generations.

Questions like:

“What’s a shocker?”


What’s a Cleveland Steamer?”


I see a trend here.

Strangely, the trend mainly involves sphincters or activities on or around one’s sphincter.


(Trademark Pending)

(Want that shirt?? Buy it at my store!! (I’m a whore))

I also get questions like:

“Jesus H. Christ…Will you please stop touching me with that thing?”

You know…

…you’d think my wife would eventually just get used to it.


So it came as no surprise the other day when I got an instant message from a girl I used to work with.

I have not talked to this woman in three years.

Here is the IM:


Kellie: Ok Rodney…I need you

Kellie: well sort of

Kellie: what is the freakiest thing a woman has ever said to you that made you go “boing”

Kellie: I want to shock my husband and knowing you…you’ll know exactly what to say



Let me get this straight.

(that’s what she said)

I haven’t spoken to you in three years, and you want me to come up with something that will give your husband an instant boner.

I can do this.

If I remember correctly, girls used to talk to me.

“Get away” constitutes talking, right?


Okay…back to the IM:


Midgetmanofsteel: hmm..something a woman would say to make me go ‘boing’

* pause

Midgetmanofsteel: the word ‘hi’ comes to mind.



It doesn’t take much.


Midgetmanofsteel: keep in mind that I’ve been married for almost 14 years.

Midgetmanofsteel: I think the freakiest thing my wife has ever said to me that I can remember was: ‘I cleaned the toilets.’


Just kidding.

I’m the one who cleans the toilets.


Look at that.


Everyone, all at once:

That’s Asstastic!

* cricket

And I wonder why ‘Get Away’ is the phrase I hear most often.

I’m emailing my dad.

He may not be a good listener, but at least he emails me back.

I just wish he’d cut the shit with the photos.

Hold on one second.

I’m admiring this title.

Sometimes I’m brilliant.

On a related note:

This is not one of those times.

This post falls under the category of another ‘My Wife – She Taunts Me’ article.

For other versions of this, feel free to click here and here.

Don’t worry..this one doesn’t have Rachael Ray in it.

Thank God.

My wife, being a teacher, had a few days over the summer where she was alone.

Alone at home.

Alone at home without the kids.

* boing

You see where I’m going with this, right?

If so, let me know…the whole ‘Rachael Ray’ thing made my brain throw up.

I mean, hot…kinda…but she opens her mouth and all you want to do is punch her in the throat.

So where was I?

Oh yeah.


So, obviously, with me being a guy and having a penis and thinking about sex every seven seconds and OMG OMG I love Scarlett Johansson’s boobs and the hot redhead on the first floor wore a skirt today with hooker boots and great now I have to go masturbate.

(20 seconds later) with my wife being home alone, and a mere 7 miles away from my work…

I figured I’d shoot her up for a ‘nooner.’

Afternoon Delight, if you will. my case…

Ten Seconds to Love.

I’m pathetic.

So, the first day my wife was home…I sent this email:


To: Mrs. Moog
From: Mr. Moog



That’s it.

Just a simple ‘nooner?’ request.

Then I sent it.

About 5 minutes later I get a phone call from her.

I figure she’s taking me up on this.

Me: “Heeeeeey.”

(I’m Fonzie)

Me: “You ready for your nooner?”

Wife: “Ugh. REALLY? I get ONE day all to myself. Just leave me alone.”


I’m guessing that’s a ‘not today, my love.’

In her defense, I really really suck.

But a week or so later…


Another nooner opportunity arises!

Wife kids.

Let’s give this another shot.

The email goes out (I save them in ‘Drafts’ for just such emergencies):


Mrs. Moog
From: Mr. Moog



And I wait.

5 minutes later…

No phone call.

1/2 hour later…

No phone call.

No return email, either.


She just…


Jesus H. Christ.


If Seinfeld had a Nooner Nazi I’d be the guy in line saying ‘Oh..oh…that nooner looks good…can I have that with a BJ, too? Oh..wait…maybe we’ll just skip the foreplay since I’m on lunch break..’ and he’d be all stern and angry and slamming his nooner spatulas and screaming “NO NOONER FOR YOU!!”


So, the last time my wife was home alone for the summer without kids, I didn’t even bother.

I didn’t even mention it.

But she did.

I get home and get…


Wife: “I was going to email you today to see if you wanted a nooner.”

* blink

Me: “REALLY?!”

Wife: “Then I realized that it was 12:15 so it was already too late.”

Then she laughed.

I laughed, too.

She’s really pretty funny.

But yeah…my wife…

She taunts me.

Seven Seconds? I Got that Shit BEAT!

Posted: January 5, 2010 in sex

Men think about sex every seven seconds.

That’s what they say.

That means that in the time I’m done writing this sentence, I’ll have thought about putting my P in a V or my P in an A or maybe cloning myself and putting both of my P’s in a V and an A or maybe putting my F in an A while my P is in a V or having my P in an M while my T is in a V or, if she’s bathed recently, my T in an A.

I had no idea the alphabet was so filthy.

The Letter People were whores.

True story.


I think I’m actually above average on the seven second thing. Like, maybe once every 2 or 3 seconds.


This is in stark contrast to Luke Perry, who is one second below average.

8 Seconds?!

Fucking loser.

The problem is that my wife doesn’t think this stuff is funny.

Or appropriate.


I’m in handcuffs.

But what’s weird is that it’s okay for HER to talk like this at work or with friends, but when I try, forget it.

This is how that goes:

Wife: “At work today, we were talking about all the old nursery rhymes and how filthy they sound.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Wife: “Like..a lot of them say stuff like, “..when I pet my pussy..” and “..I love my pussy…” There’s a lot of stuff that sounds like they’re talking about women’s pussies.”

Me: “Really? Those rhymes all talk about ‘pussy?'”

* pause

Wife (glaring): “Don’t ever say that word again.”

* sigh


They’re handcuffs alright.

And not the fuzzy kind that I have in the trunk of my car next to the can of ether.

The problem I have here is THAT IS HOW I THINK.

You the time it’s taken to get to this point of the post…

I’ve already thought about P’s and V’s and A’s and maybe some BJ’s and DP and DVDA and – in the interest of being really filthy here – redheaded Asian midgets.

It’s how I roll.

But you’d figure she’d know this by now and be used to it.

Case in point:

We were out with the kids the other night at a local furniture store.

Said furniture store has an ice cream parlor AND ‘water fireworks’ INSIDE THE BUILDING.

You know…the ‘water fireworks’ are like the ones in Vegas that you see in the movies except Nicolas Cage isn’t there and my herpes is in remission.

Perhaps I’ve said too much.

Regardless, we are sitting FRONT ROW at the water fireworks, eating our ice cream.

We’re getting spritzed every so often.

At one point, my wife – eating her ice cream – looks at me and says:

Wife: “Ugh..I’m getting wet.”

I look up.

Me: “Wow. Ice cream’s that good?”

* cricket



Wife: “REALLY?!”



How she doesn’t see this shit coming is beyond me.

She’s just lucky I didn’t say what I was really thinking.

Which involved taking a scoop of that Butter Pecan and doing all kinds of freaky nursery rhyme shit with it.


…just thought of a different thing to do!


I’ve got that seven seconds thing beaten by at least half.

I’m awesome.

Today I unveil a new segment based on LiLu’s popular and always funny:

‘Shiz my Boyfriend Says’theme.

Since I don’t have a boyfriend…

(As such, my sphincter is nearly flawless! Yay for heterosexual me!)

…I’m doing this about my own quotes.

I love myself.

You can, too, for $85 an hour.

I accept PayPal.

Where was I?

Oh..yes…shit I say.

“Moogisms,” if you will.

(trademark pending)

Today’s Moogism Episode:

Sex with Pastry and Blind Education

Blind Education

My 6 year old son was getting ready for karate the other night.

As we were leaving, I noticed he had a new water ‘sport bottle.’

On it was a logo for ‘Spindel Eye Associates.’

Because, you know, nothing screams ‘I’M SPORTY!’ like the optometry profession.

Me: “Cam…where did you get that water bottle?”

Cam: “We had to take an eye test at school today.”

Me: “No kidding. How did you do?”

Cam: “I passed. I didn’t miss a single letter!”

Me: “Phew. That’s good. Because you know, if you fail an eye test, they won’t let you into college.”

* blink

Cam: “Really?”

Me: “No. Not Really.”

Sex with Pastry

My wife is an excellent baker.

She still remains the only woman I know who can burn water, but she can bake the shit out of cookies and cakes.

So the other day, I walked into work with a big plate of  iced pumpkin cookies she made.

My friend, Kristin, who I share a cube with, tried one.

Kristin: “Oh my God..these are good.”

Me: “I know. Her baking season has started and she’s off to a good start.”

Kristin: “What else is she making?”

Me: “Next up is ‘pumpkin roll.’

I. Heart. Pumpkin roll.

Kristin: “Pumpkin roll? Is it good?”

Me: “IS IT GOOD? Holy shit, if I didn’t think it was illegal, I would totally fuck pumpkin roll.”

Yes..I told her I would fuck a large gourd-derived pastry.

It’s that good.

Unfortunately, I told my wife about this conversation the other night.

I don’t think she’s letting me anywhere near her pumpkin roll this year.

You know…

Probably a good idea.

Moog out.


Gross blog post ahead.

(grosser than, you know, usual)

You’ve been warned.


Well…looks like it’s another of Lilu’s TMI days here on “Mental Poo.”

Saying there’s “Too Much Information” here on Mental Poo is like saying there’s too much cat in my Sweet and Sour Chicken at the Chinese restaurant.

Redundant redundancy.

A while back, I wrote a post about taking my daughter on her first ever loop coaster ride.

In that post, was this picture:

If you’re wondering what a picture of Diana Ross getting nailed from behind has to do with an article about my daughter going on a roller coaster, then you don’t know me very well.

This is how my mind works.

Scientists from around the world have yet to figure out why.

I’ve digressed.

Regardless, the above picture was actually an inside joke and ‘tip of the hat’ to my buddy, Jim – a guy I used to work with YEARS ago.

Knowing that he’d know what this was, I sent him this email prior to posting that article:


Hey Jim…today’s post has a tip of the hat to you in it.

See if you can pick it up.


Shortly afterward, I get his email reply:




You’re killing me. How did you even remember this?

Only you could tie the “great celery incident of 1988” into your blog.


The Great Celery Incident of 1988.

Here…in Jim’s very own words…

Is his recap of the story.

It’s long…you might want to take breaks.

Especially when you start to feel nauseous.

And you will.



I don’t remember it that well myself…..

Here is what a do remember:

My girlfriend Donna lived at home with her parents. Occasionally I would stay over at her parent’s house (if there was room- she had 5 other siblings also living at home).

This was back in the 80’s and her parents did not allow us to sleep in the same room.

On this particular night one of her brothers was away from home so I was able to sleep in the bedroom right next to hers.

Since I didn’t have to drive home, that meant I could drink massive quantities of alcohol. So we walked downtown, hit a few bars and got hammered.

On the way home we decided to play “hide the salami” at her house.

We both said “good night” really loud (in case her parents were listening), then Donna snuck into my room.

We tried to be discreet, we were very quiet and we kept the lights off.

Here comes the TMI part:

For some strange reason, I prefer the “doggie-style” position when I am plastered.

So Donna got on all fours and I plowed ahead into the darkness (remember, it was very dark and I was very hammered).

However, instead of the expected “loosey goosey”

…I got the unexpected “righty tighty”.

Then Donna gasped:

“That’s the wrong one!”

I had never done buttsex before.

Yay me.

Since it actually felt pretty good, I said “Why don’t we try it?”

All I heard was a drunken “Oh, OK”.

* blink

Green light, GO!

That is all I needed to hear and the reaming commenced.

She started making some pretty funny noises at this point, so I (quickly) finished up and she waddled back to her room to sleep.

I had to pee so I quietly went into the bathroom.

After “little elvis” took the stage I looked down.

Something didn’t seem right.

There was something…

ATTACHED to him.

I turned on the second (much brighter) light.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

There was something green stuck to my dick.

I pried it off with a piece of toilet paper and looked closely at it.

(Editor’s note: Um…Jim…you looked CLOSELY at it?

It was a piece of…




A piece of celery was stuck to my dick.


It was in pretty good shape too…kinda like the “magic bullet” from the Kennedy assassination.

Not quite pristine, but still re-edible.

(Editor’s note: Never let Jim write for you ever again. Ever.)

I flushed the evidence down the toilet and went to bed.

The next morning Donna said something about “me taking advantage of her last night” and she never wanted “to do that again.”

Blah blah blah. Whatever.


I had seen anal sex in porno movies before this event, but I had never seen any shit (or food) hanging around.

Apparently, they must do some prep work before filming.


* cricket

You still there?

Shit. I’m surprised I still am.


Maybe now you know how I’ve never been able to forget this story.

And now you won’t, either.

You’re welcome.

Little Elvis has left the building.

..and he took his celery with him.

Moog out.