Facebook is an amazing way to pass time when your board.  It's filled with games and quizes you can do while not connecting with your friends.  I recently took the "How Many Sexual Partners You Have in 2009/2010" quiz.

 My results - "None, because your lame ass spends too much time taking douchey ass survey's on Facebook, when you should probably be at the bar looking for women who leave their drinks unattended."

My wife Jenny and I have two conditional rules in our three-year-old marriage ― once a month I am allowed to sleep with a hooker and when she is away for extended periods of time, I am allowed to sleep with our neighbours’ 18-year-old daughter Nancy Smith. Now the only conditions about these two rules are that my wife is never allowed to find out about either the hookers or randy Nancy.

Being a writer, I spend most of my day at home while my wife works at some bank (who’s name I am not allowed to mention) as a consultant. I spend at most about five months a year really writing; the other months are spent promoting whatever I have written and mowing the lawn or something. Depending on my mood and emotional health, some months or years I simply just take off. This means that most often I have a lot of time to kill by practising my hobbies such as growing peaches in our backyard or bedding Mr and Ms Smiths’ youngest daughter.

Nancy’s visits used to be a once-a-week thing due to her possessive boyfriend and her busy schedule as a first-year medical student, but the weekly visits were fine with me since I was only fucking her for the experience of her tight vagina and her fetish to be tied up. Months later when my wife caught us in bed together for the first time, Nancy was getting fucked like a dog with her head forced into the pillow and her hands tied behind her back ― a scene my wife labeled as “barbaric” and “distastefully brutal”.

After about a month of screwing around, Nancy dumped her possessive boyfriend which meant that we were able to play on a daily basis. Each morning after my wife left for work, Nancy would attend her first class of the day which usually involved biting and bondage. The sweet “ding dong” sound of the front doorbell ringing while I laid in bed reading the paper went as well with my coffee as blasphemy. My first-touch with sunlight for the day would usually be when I open the door for Nancy. Her routine ― yet irritating and redundant ― question of “Is the lovely wife gone?” would usually be the only words out of her mouth not dictated through screams. I usually respond by saying: “I am going to fuck you so hard you are going to split in half.” Nancy’s daily visits opened up the windows to both experimentation and wariness. When my wife caught us for the second time together I was once again entering Nancy from a rear position. This time the words “In here” were written on Nancy’s lower back with a black marker and an arrow was pointing towards her anus ― unlike the previous time, my wife refrained from making a comment.

My affair with Nancy became the oyster garden for my inspiration as a writer, but not for my life. Even though a lot of work was being done behind the typewriter and behind the 18-year-old sexual prodigy, I kind of became bored with life. Screwing Nancy behind my wife’s back was exciting to a certain extend, but I had a bigger lust for wickedness. At the tender age of 27 I have achieved tremendous success by means of simply minimising my workload and maximising my self-confidence and persistency. But despite all of that, I have simply run out of ways to enjoy the simple things in life. It started to feel that every day I lived and every single thing I did was just another forgettable moment that has passed. The more I searched for excitement the more erratic my behaviour became, especially my new-found habit of touching myself while in conversation.

My sudden change in behaviour and my refusal to go for therapy did raise some questions among my loved ones, especially my beloved wife (who won’t learn about my and Nancy’s affair for another three months). Jenny was starting to feel guilty and she admitted that due to her long hours at the office, she was neglecting me. I wasn’t that bothered by Jenny’s “negligence” because I was too busy fucking Nancy and maintaining my mini orchard to even notice that there was a distance growing between me and my wife. I was however very amused by the irony of the entire situation since I was convinced that my wife was having an affair with a co-worker, Michelle Olwagen. My suspicions of my wife having an extramarital relationship with a female co-worker didn’t bother me even the slightest bit; for starters, I was busy fucking a barely legal teenager on a daily basis and secondly, it’s not like some other guy was putting his fat cock inside my wife.  And even though I have never met or seen Michelle Olwagen before in my life, I knew someone very well who knew her very well.

It was a Thursday evening and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky when I drove through the city on my way back from a meeting with my publisher. I was waiting for the green light at a robot when my eye caught two superfine women standing on the street corner; the one was smoking a cigarette and the other one was exchanging words with a distinctive gentleman who looked like a policeman. Judging by the way the women were dressed and the quality of the area, the thought that they were hookers didn’t even pass through my mind ― I would rather have mistaken them for two power-dressed lawyers than streetlovers. But when they approached my car with a charismatic “Hey there, you” I knew that they are the type of women who only accepts cash.

Now I have never really gone as far as my brother to actually sleep with one of the princesses of twilight, but it has always been somewhat of a hidden desire and definitely in the top spot of my to-do list. If this part of my life had a chapter, I would have called it: “Meeting the other end of the rope”.

Prostitutes have always been similar to a good movie to me. If a lot of different people pay money to go see a movie, it is most certainly a box-office hit. The same goes for a prostitute. If many different guys, who could rather fuck their wife or girlfriend, would go so far as to pay a woman to fuck her, then her box must surely be a hit.

The two prostitutes that approached my car must have been somewhat of an upper class or new to the business, because they were too well groomed for a hooker ― especially the way the one’s pubic hair was trimmed into the shape of a half-moon. The same night I saw the one prostitute’s moon-shaped pubes, I learned that she does prostitution as a part-time job and to “watch people act frail”. I found this absolutely intriguing.

That first night I met my two new friends ― Moonflower and Gothgirl69 ― I bought them both. They were so cheap, it was literally a buy one get one free special. I took them to a Holiday Inn near my house because it would raise the minimum amount of suspicion and most importantly, it was convenient for me. Since I am the type of guy who has enough confidence in his sexual performance, I don’t do threesomes or orgies. So when we approached the elevator, I told Moonflower to kindly wait in the bar area while I take her friend, Gothgirl69 (which turned out to be a competitor), to the hotel room so we could get things up to business. After I did both of them and paid for their drinks while they waited their turn, I gave them their money and assured them that we would hook up again ― I did, however, only continue seeing Moonflower.

From there on it became a regular thing. The sex I had with the prostitute, Moonflower, was passionate and gentle and the sex I had with Nancy was violent. My wife, who still haven’t found out about my affairs, kept on working long hours and I was still convinced that she was sleeping with that Michelle girl. Now and then my wife would query on the bite marks and bruises on my body. Once when I contracted a mysterious rash on my dick (most likely from Nancy, but it turned out to be Moonflower), I narrowly escaped being caught out before telling my wife that I got the rash from her and that she might be suffering from some fungus on her virginal area (luckily for me, Jenny just happened to have a fungus on her left lip which she contracted from Michelle).

It was close encounters like these that made me master the art of lying to Jenny, usually about the origin of my injuries.  Sometimes I even confused Jenny into believing that she gave them to me during some sexual brawl.

“Those are your handy work my love,” I would often say to her before accepting her apology which was usually followed by a missionary-style fuck. It is when the sex life you share with your wife is degraded to plain old missionary style that you know that the spark is gone. But in the rare times that I did however made passionate love to my wife, it was usually with anger ― not the angry sex that I had with Nancy, but the type of angry sex that says, “What the fuck have we done to each other?” Sometimes Jenny wanted our lovemaking to be soft and gentle; I preferred thrusting her like I was paying to do so.

The morning my wife caught me with Nancy for the second time, I thought that it was over for sure. It was only after an embarrassed Nancy left and my wife and I sat down at the kitchen table that she confessed to having an affair.  My wife told me that she was suffering from depression and that the affair was with a female colleague; she further told me that her lover had decided to end their eight-month affair after meeting a man. As I held my wife I felt her tears running down my chest ― which still carried the aroma of Nancy’s pussy― and at that moment I told her that I only slept with Nancy three times and that she caught us two out of the three times. But whether my wife believed me or not about the “three times” I had been with Nancy, it was the truth when I told her that I would never see Nancy again. After four months with Nancy, we have literally exhausted our imaginations and our sexual abilities ― there was simply nothing more humanly possible that we could do in the bedroom.

After my wife confessed to her affair with Michelle Olwagen, we didn’t separate. It had absolutely no affect on our relationship as most people would imagine. We did however start to have somewhat of a steamier sex life ― Jenny even allowed me to butt-fuck her ― and she also started seeing a therapist to help her deal with her depression. Jenny and I agreed to work harder at our marriage, but I wasn’t able to let Moonflower go. With Nancy out of my life and my wife under the impression that the holes in our marriage were all patched up, I was able to continue my affair with the prostitute.  One evening when my wife was out with friends, I invited moonflower over to our house for the first time.  She told me that due to the feelings she started to have for me after months of sleeping together, it was no longer necessary for me to pay her. She sex that followed was the worst sex I ever had with Moonflower; I guess since money was no longer involved it just wasn’t the same. That night was the final straw in my marriage. When my wife caught me for the third time with another woman, she did have a comment.

“So this is the jerk you have left me for, Michelle?”

Despite protests that golf is an elitist and sexist sport, golf will return as an Olympic sport in 2016. To fend off criticism, Golf officials agreed to allow women in the clubhouse during the Olympics to serve drinks.     

Police said this naked man broke into a home in Louisiana on Monday and proceeded to cook himself a meal, make himself several drinks and take a shower before finally fleeing.

(I can only hope he at least had enough sense to steal some clothes.)

Security video captured this image of him outside the house and police booked Keith Potter, 50, on burglary charges Wednesday.

(At least Potter now has a clean prison jumpsuit to wear.)

Potter was arrested after a relative recognized him in media reports about the case and called authorities.

The relative was quoted as saying, “I’d recognize that pale, ugly ass anywhere.” 

I was talking to my friend Jessica last night, and she was saying how she rarely drinks, and has never done drugs.  Growing up she saw the effects of drugs and alcohol on her parents, and that's why she's mostly straight edge.

I learned a similar lesson with my mom's addictions.  Growing up she would do an enormous amount of cleaning only to have me mess up the house again. So as an adult bachelor I'm pretty straight edged about not cleaning... I'm just going to mess it up again.  That's called foresight and good time management. 

Adrian Peterson was pumped full of emergency fluids following the second quarter of Minnesota's game against the Cleveland Browns. Looks like Matt Leinart isn't the only one who drinks during halftime.

Two of his most popular mixed drinks were the "fuzzy navel" and his own special concoction-- the "fuzzy ear."   

McDonald's reported sales increased in July, as the nation's biggest fast food chain benefited from cost-conscious consumers, promotional coffee drinks, and an expectation that a universal health care bill that will take care of our clogging arteries will pass Congress.

 At the White House backyard BEER SUMMIT talks, the Waiter arrives to take the drink orders and asks “What is your pleasure, gentlemen?”   President Obama says “I think I’ll have an ARROGANT BASTARD ALE.”  Professor Gates  says “That sounds good.  I’ll also have an ARROGANT BASTARD ALE – ICE COLD!”  Sergeant Crowley then states “I’ll have a DOUBLE BASTARD ALE.”

After a few minutes, the Waiter returns with a tray full of drinks and says “Mr. President, ARROGANT BASTARD.”  Embarrassed, he says “Oops. I’m sorry for how that sounded.”  President Obama looks at the Waiter and says “Don’t be sorry.  I’m not.”  The Waiter then turns to Professor Gates and says “Professor Gates, ICE COLD ARROGANT BASTARD.”  Too late to take back the words, he again says, “I’m sor-,”  He was immediately cut off by the Professor who says “Ya-ya-yah,…I’ll bet you enjoyed saying that.  You probably wanted to bring me a BECKS DARK because I’m a black man, you little racist shit.  Here’s a news flash for your Momma.  Things are different now and my shoes are dirty – get your shine box!”  The red faced Waiter turns to Sergeant Crowley and says “Enjoy the DOUBLE BASTARD!”  A puzzled Sergeant Crowley retorts, “Do you mean my BEER or my COMPANY?”

I remember as a kid I would hear the thumping of the shoes in the morning and the close of the door. It was six o’clock in the morning in our quiet suburban hood. We were getting ready for school and a warrior was getting ready to go to the boxing ring. Like Rocky he was ready to fight the enemy, but unlike Rocky the arena was not a boxing ring but in the world of corporate law…..and he had all of his brain cells. His name was Dad.

Yes Dad. At the end of the day we would scramble to tell him the tales of our conquests in school whether it was a fitness award, an academic award, or an A on a math test. However if we were in trouble we hoped to God our mother would catch us. Whenever we got caught red handed we would act like the crook who had been Mirandized and thrown in a jail cell pleading, “Please don’t tell Dad.”

My parents had a great way of playing good cop bad cop. After we had been accused we would be dragged into the living room which would be turned into the interrogation booth. Much like an episode of Homicide Life on the Street we would go in acting all hard and tough denying our sin whether it was not doing the dishes, breaking something, or lying about a missing report card. My mother would play good cop telling us if we told the truth it wouldn’t be so bad. My dad on the other hand was the bad cop informing us, “I know you are lying. I can tell by your eyes. I do this all day you know.” Finally we would break. We would break hard. There would be dramatics. There would be crying. It was like, “Yes Asi, we did it. We lied. But we did not act alone.” And then we would proceed to name names. Then the accomplices would be called in, which in my case was usually my sister. And then the punishment would be dealt accordingly. Sometimes we would be denied television or telephone. But the worst was the stick.

I remember one of my most famous meetings with the stick. I was eight and was a bit of a brat, surprise. I was refusing to listen to my elderly babysitter, gave her a hard time about doing my spelling words, and was downright ornery. To boot I had learned “yinz” “warsh” and “red off the table”, popular slag in my hometown of Pittsburgh, we not real words. My babysitter of course barely had a high school education and I proceeded to correct her. From there I decided to impress everyone with my new vocabulary which included some interesting four letter words. The last straw came after a family day out when I informed my family dinner filled me so much I had to take a dump. Needless to say I met the stick and got my ass beaten. After that day I never disrespected anyone with little education ever again. And I still watch my language in front of my dad. Sure, it may not have pleased Dr. Spock but I know right from wrong and that is more than I can say for a lot of people.

As a kid my Dad was a real history nut. Whenever we would go downstairs Big Battles would be on. The Americans would be storming Normandy Beach yet again. However my favorite were my Dad’s renditions of the Civil War. He read every book pertaining to the time period there was. And the way he would talk about it was brilliant. My Dad forgot more history than anyone ever knew. I remember we were all talking once and my dad informed me that Jefferson Davis attempted to escape from the Yankee soldiers wearing his wife’s dress. I remember being twelve at the time and asked my Dad if his wife ever got her dress back. To which my dad replied, “I don’t know. We could ask him but he’s not here.” To this day I still love history and documentaries. I suppose I have my dad to thank for that one.

Another thing my dad was invested in was our educations. On occasion he even tutored us which was a trip in itself. I remember I had trouble reading and we started reading the paper together which I still read to this day. One thing about my dad though was he knew the value of hard work. As a kid he had a paper route and saved the money. The money put him through college. My Dad was the first in his family to go to a four year college and then he went on to earn an MBA and a law degree. Mind you my grandpa, despite being a master machinist in the mills of Pittsburgh, did not graduate high school. My dad actually worked one summer with my grandpa in the mill. It was the summer Premier Kruschev came to town. Kruschev apparently gave his Timex to this character my dad worked with, a man who was half black half Cherokee. The guy of course being nuts pawned it for forty dollars. Whenever I hear the story it still makes me laugh, but it also makes me realize how lucky I am to have a dad who was invested in making me get an education.

Just as education was big with my family so was fitness. As kids we would all go on family runs. My mother had been a swimming star and had been a captain of her college team while my dad had been a track star. On their second date my dad showed my mom how to do a track relay for her high school gym class and she fell in love with the sport. So we ran as a family. My brother would be forced to run up to the track with my dad, and was usually ragged on for being his less than enthused partner. My sister and I would ride up with our mother and as a family we would all complete a three mile run. We would run rain or snow, my dad didn’t care. One time when my sister was little and it was snowing we made a bend around the track and she disappeared in a snow drift. We went to find her and fished her out. Ironically she would become the star runner of the brood. The crazy thing is, for as much as I hated it as a kid I run every day now. Guess there is no shaking somethings.

My Dad was big into commitments when I was a kid. We would rise every Sunday at seven thirty in the morning for mass….I yawn just thinking about it. My Dad was an usher. He wasn’t just any usher, he was the one to get things going. Until he came to church mass couldn’t start. It was like a Broadway play. My Dad was in charge of deciding who took what aisle for collection and what aisle for communion. He was always catching some old person who fainted as they tended to do, because after all mass must go on. Then there was the taking up of the gifts. Not just anyone could do it, you had to be right for the part. It was something Fosse would have wept at the sight of. Mass was moving smoothly and my dad was the director. Finally there was the giving out of the bulletins at the end of mass. Occasionally my sister and I were drafted. What better touch than kids, right? To my dad’s credit I still go to church every Sunday and even sometimes serve as a reader.

Being from Pittsburgh I am a big football fan, and so is my dad. As a kid the high school game was one we would follow every Friday because my brother played defensive line. Saturday was college and Sunday and Monday, depending on the Monday, were Steeler football. Every Friday we all went to my brother’s games and were usually decked out in buttons in typical Western PA style. One time my dad won the fifty fifty raffle and the announcer requested for Bill Brucker to come to claim his prize. Of course my dad and my brother have the same name so they both looked up at the same time. Finally the announcer had to clarify it. That was just a typical Friday night for us.

But everyone on the booster staff, an organization where my parents were both quite active, appreciated my dad not only for his hard work but his honesty. One year my folks were drafted to do the program, which means selling ads and taking pictures of the kids. One of the football players, actually the quarterback, had taken a picture that was pretty bad. It was probably after a night of partying with the cheerleaders. Because the picture was God awful my parents were going to take it again. My mom called his mom and tried to be the diplomat. This mother was resisting because she too was a bit of a goofball, surprise surprise. That’s when my dad took the phone and informed her, “Maureen, frankly, your son looks like hell.” Needless to say the picture was retaken. My Dad once said it best, while it is best to be brutally honest you shouldn’t enjoy the brutality of the honesty. In essence tell the truth but don’t be nasty about it.

My dad was a football dad all the way, even when he went to see my musicals. One time we were there and he informed me he had met my musical director during half time. Then he also informed me that he had met the parents of some of the kids I was in the musical with at half time. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was intermission. Then again despite being an actress and a comedian and knowing the terms and rules I don’t have the heart to correct him. He’s my dad.

When it came to life advice growing up my dad still has some gems I quote. One was when I went to him about a friend. I had to have been early in high school. It was actually a guy I dug. He was always getting into trouble and was risking being thrown out of school, the juvenile version of my current dream man. I remember saying to my dad, “But nobody understands him.” To which my dad replied, “That means he’s an asshole and everybody knows it.” Let me tell you my dad was right on.

For years I thought I got my love for performing and comedy from my mom who is a bubbly outgoing little woman. But now I think I got it from my dad. When he was in school he actually was a soloist for his church choir and apparently they made a record. He was so good the nuns used to nab him out of class to sing wedding a funeral masses. As a kid he used to sing some of the old Latin hymns for us in his deep base baritone voice. Ironically now, one of my survival jobs involves singing for a living. Who would have thunk it?

But my dad loved comedy and he loved standup. Growing up I learned to love the Marx Brothers and the Three Stooges, partly due to my dad and I enjoying them together. My dad was also a fan of early George Carlin and Dennis Miller. As a matter of fact my parents had met Dennis Miller before he made it big while he was still playing the Pittsburgh Funnybone and had a few drinks with him. In addition my dad was also a fan of Rodney Dangerfield and went so far as to read his autobiography. And then of course he also liked Norm Macdonald and his style of comedy. But nothing beats the biggest surprise of all….his love for Beavis and Butthead. I remember my dad saying to some of his corporate friends, “I don’t know what the big deal about this program is. Its so funny.” Of course my dad, brother, and I would be watching Cornholio and his latest exploits much to the chagrin of my mother and sister.

My dad could also tell a story when I was a kid. It was the wording and the voices, he did it all. He read joke books and still reads them, and when you come to the house he will even tell you a few. Of course these days he has taken it to the next level, he is even writing his own jokes. Whether or not he busts out the notebook at an open mic night has yet to be seen, but who knows, I may have a willing opener when I tour.

Bottom line is, parents do the best they can with what they have, and my dad didn’t do bad with us. My brother, sister, and I are all well educated, God fearing, tax paying, responsible citizens. I would have posted this later but I will be at the brother’s wedding this weekend. With that Happy Early Father’s Day. Love April