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Male, 67 United States
West Virginia, USA
2,901 mi from you
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Fantasies & Fetishes
Here I come, ready or not (me I mean)
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I'm just a guy looking for new friends with whom to share a laugh and a story.
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Older isn't always wiser...
Cry Me A River
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Honey Do Lists And Female Barbers
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
(c) Frank E. Jordan 2014
I'm telling you all right now; you can look it up on my profile: My turn-ons do not include crawling on my belly through damp, bushy, dark places with deep, wet holes....
OK, OK, I'll reconsider that.
I do not like crawling under the goddamned house to change air conditioner filters. I'm retired; I make enough money to pay some out-a-work coal miner to do that stuff, but "No-oooo," say my sisters. According to them I need to get off my ass and do some work around the house. I keep telling them that I'm working as hard as I can to get laid before I fucking die and if they keep this shit up I'm going to put all three of them in "The Home" (the only thing that scares these trolls is The Home).
Is it possible that a woman can reach the ripe old age of 75 and have never, EVER, hung a flippin picture? Is it truly necessary for me to build a picture frame from scratch and hang every goddamned crayon scribble drawn by one of their great-great grandchildren, or their fifth cousin's brother's aunt's nephew's 10x13 school picture?
Sure I love them; we've stayed together through the good and bad that life can throw at a family. But these sum-beechin Frankie-do lists have gotta stop. I can't even whack off to a really good porno flick (the really good ones have plots and story-lines to rival True Blood) without one of them banging on my door (or just barging the fuck in) wanting to know if I have time to fetch the doggy's ball out from under a three-ton doll cabinet. Sixteen times now, I've gotten to the point where the school bus driver accidentally gets his zipper stuck on the gear-shift knob and the red-headed chick saves everybody's life by using her teeth to... I'm not certain how it ends up because that fucking dog keeps rolling his ball under the doll cabinet.
And another thing that pisses me off: Women as barbers. Women did not use to work in barber shops. Absolutely, manly, heterosexual males cut hair in barber shops (with the obvious exception of Floyd in Mayberry). Now, there are three women cutting hair in this county.
Women should stay in beauty shops and those uni-sex salons. And I'll tell you why: the last time a woman cut my hair in my regular, testosterone filled, NRA affiliated barber shop, she asked me what I wanted. I told her I'd like a blowjob and to take a little off the top. She smiled, unzipped my pants, and circumcised me. No blowjob. I would have never thought of asking old Joe for a blowjob.
Grumpy Bastards Rule!
Monday, December 1, 2014
(c) FEJordan Publishing Group 2014
It is both in my nature to be grumpy and my nurturing assured I could never change. Seven European families make up the sum of my gene pool. It was pissed in, repeatedly, by the women who swam there.
Two of my family surnames are familiar to many folks. On my mother’s side are the Mad Booths of Maryland, and the Anderson Hatfield family of Mingo County, West Virginia. My father’s family is far less known outside the South. However, my father’s family is, if possible, a tad more warlike. In fact, the men comprising the seven families who are my ancestors, the Booths, Crawford’s, Ices, Jordan’s, Legs, Prices, and Ragsdale’s share a family crest and motto. The motto, translated into English from the Latin, that they could not read anyway, states: “Fuck or fight—Makes no difference to us!”
The men in my family don’t play well with others. There are anger management issues. The men in my family are so warlike, so prone to taking up arms, that they started European wars just so they could leave home to fight them, and hopefully, to die in them, thus making it unnecessary for them to ever return to the women in my family.
The Pope was so afraid of the men in those seven families that he started the first Crusade, not to rescue Jerusalem, but to get my ancestors the hell out of Europe. William the Conqueror sent my family in the first wave of the Norman Conquest because he didn’t trust them to bring up his rear. After the battle of Antietam, Robert E. Lee asked Stonewall Jackson who he would send first against Ambrose Burnside or JoeHooker and Jackson said, “Send the Ragsdale’s. They are stone-cold killers. They scare the shit out of me!” Unfortunately, for Jackson, the Ragsdale's were also very trigger-happy at Chancellorsville and shot him off his horse.
The men in my family are the way they are, and the way I am, grumpy sumbeeches because of the women in our family. Men in my family are treated like drones in a bee hive. We’re pampered, fed way too starchy, sweet foods that bulk us up; our sisters baby us; and then, at the height of our sexual prowess, we mate once, and our dicks explode and we die horrible, lingering deaths, starving, denied entrance to the hive, being beaten and abused by once loving sisters.
In the entire history of my clan, from Normandy, England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland, and finally Virginia, not one single man of us has ever gotten out alive. Never! My father didn’t; his father didn’t; and I won’t either. And that is why I am a grumpy son of a bitch!
Dear Facebook, Bing, Google and Amazon
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Dear Facebook, Bing, Google and Amazon:
I truly appreciate your vigor in sending to me items of advertisements geared toward my daily rounds of searching your engines for products and the like, but I am stumped regarding one ad that recurs on my pages:
It is usually a stunning photograph of some very young, nubile teenaged girl in a Miley Cyrus type cut-off shirt and short pants who stares at me with some sort of longing and the text tells me (variously) that I can get 50 Viagra for 37 cents apiece; free-floating testosterone (is that kind of the free-range chicken of the hormone?); or something else like that.
The fact is that the ad makes me believe that if I take advantage of your kind offers I will turn into a young, nubile teenaged girl with a body like the model in your ads.
In fact, I am quite happy being a 63-year-old man and am in no way lured by the chance to become a teenaged anything again, much less a girl. The time when such promise might have appealed to me is long gone. Not that I remember ever wanting to be a teenaged girl, I did certainly want to find one back then. I was singularly unsuccessful!
I suggest you send me advertisements that will allow me to make bills of such quality that a bank will never question accepting them and that I can deposit into my accounts from which I will gladly spend much of the money on your products.
Frank E. Jordan
Why I refused to wish Maureen, the owner of SA, a happy birthday
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Yesterday’s birthday girl was the owner and founder of SA, Ms. Maureen. She celebrated her 34th birthday (I ain’t saying how many times she has celebrated this particular milestone)! I would have wished her a happy birthday yesterday except she refuses to hop a plane, come to Ohio and cook me a large pot of pinto beans (simmered in Australia’s own Fosters), Appalachian cornbread (sans sugar), along with a side of cast-iron skillet potatoes fried in lard with a whole sliced onion thrown in during cooking).
Maureen owns and manages this site while simultaneously running one of the most popular of the online food blogs. She has thousands of reader-followers spread across every continent on earth. Once we talked about where the two of us had lived and we found out we were both living near Sanford, Florida at the same time. Now then, you would think that Maureen would give an old neighbor a hand up and find me a wuminzezz on this site, but she never has, and here is why: Maureen doesn’t like me; she has never liked me EVER.
So, no SA date led to this blog where I intend to out her bad behavior. Maureen was born in a Yankee town north of Boston (way north). She had a normal up-bringing (such as it was) but, for some as yet unknown reason, Maureen was forced to flee her Maine home. Like a Yankee (female) Forest Gump, Maureen ran away from home and in the fullness of time she ran all the way south to Knoxville, Tennessee where she attended (at her leisure) classes at UT.
For a while Maureen enjoyed the university crowd, but then, due to her bad, unladylike behavior, she was forced to flee again! And this time we do know why she had to flee Knockersville, but it waddn’t because of the viscous and untrue rumor that she peed in the pool at Dollywood. That is a bald-faced lie. Actually, Maureen peed in the staid reflecting pool at President Andrew Jackson’s home, The Hermitage.
She fled Tennessee; then Maureen ended up in Seminole County, Florida at a time when I was teaching theatre and creative writing at a Longwood high school, and community college. I lived in Sanford, Florida, just north of where Maureen pitched her gypsy tent in an orange orchard near Red Bug Road around the small crossroads intersection of Florida Highway 436 and US 17 & 92 that ran through Casselberry (they had a LUMS there that sold hotdogs steamed in beer).
Where was I? Oh yeah, well, by that time, Maureen was telling fortunes in her tent, but also had 23 children to feed, so she had to take other work where ever she could get it. It turned out that Harry’s Bar in Sanford, Florida (my favorite bar in the universe) was hiring so Maureen ended up sling hash and tending the bar. She made excellent money via tips and her salary, which she hoarded until she had enough money to purchase Harry’s Bar, which she did. She had at last found her true calling as a gypsy hash slinger, but, once more, disaster struck and she was forced yet another time to flee for her life!
And here is why:
Having acquired Harry’s Bar, Maureen was free to experiment on recipes and she did. One dark and stormy night, Maureen decided to put sugar in her cornbread which she did. Plus, she cut down on the amount of sugar she put into the iced tea she served with her All You Can Eat Pinto Beans, cornbread and friend taters and onions. Let me tell you something here and now: we southern folk don’t much like sugar in our cornbread, but we love sugar, and lots of it, in our sweet tea! Well, Maureen did it anyway and, in central Florida, THAT DOG DON’T HUNT!
An unruly mob carrying lighted torches and pitchforks gathered at the door of Harry’s Bar. They wanted Maureen’s head on a stick. Well, Maureen was a plucky fighter, and somehow she managed to fight her way through the crowd and flag down a ride all the way to the Orlando Airport.
That she hadn’t lost any teeth in the riot was a miracle, but the only clothing she had left was the shirt on her back. She definitely stood out in the airport crowd because she was nekkid from her waist down; but she played it cool with the security guards and immigration officials at the airport. And, after a ten-hour strip search (they still talk about it today), Maureen was allowed to board a plane to Australia. It was a nonstop flight, and six days later the prop plane landed in Australia. It was winter time and Maureen was a bit exposed if you get my drift. The immigration guards at the Australian airport searched her for another ten hours and they were so impressed with Maureen’s “pluck” they all chipped in to purchase her clothing at the Duty Free shop. They also gave her ,625 bucks to tide her over till she could get her feet under her again.
With the funds so generously given to her by the immigration officials, Maureen purchased a hash house that reminded her of Harry’s Bar in Sanford, Florida. She made a gazillion dollars selling pinto beans cooked in Fosters, corn bread laced with near lethal levels of sugar, fried taters and onions cooked in sheep lard, and iced tea with miniscule amounts of sugar in it. As it turned out, Australians had no concept of what good cornbread should taste like and, as I said, she made a gazillion dollars, especially with her “Maureen’s Tennessee Cooking franchises.”
In the fullness of time, Maureen met a very special man. This man could write computer code and had a sense of business about him. He took the 8,234,957.04 bucks Maureen had earned and stashed away for a rainy day, and invested in Sexy Ads. He also had a green thumb. He can grow 6 tons of corn in a one square foot plot of land between the eves of their house and the guy’s house next door.
Once more, in the fullness of time, Maureen began her food blog, The Orgasmic Chef (obvious to me that there is food porn involved) and she has lived happily ever after, slinging hash and sugared up cornbread (in the south we call that stuff corn-cakes) and that brings us up to today, Maureen’s 167th celebration of her 34th birthday.
Today I wish I could wish Maureen a happy birthday, but she ain’t made me any pinto beans, or no-sugar cornbread, or fried taters and onions, so I won’t wish her a happy birthday. Aww shit, Happy Birthday Maureen from me and thousands of your fans all over the world!
Why I should have won the Mega Millions Lottery yesterday!
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
(c) Frank E. Jordan
December 17, 2013
I can tell you that I bought 4,382 two-dollar tickets for this drawing, but I didn’t win it; I never win anything of value. I once won a free Bahamas trip from www: wetakeyourmoneyandmakeitours.com. It cost me 3691 bucks and change by the time it was over and done. Not only that, but I got arrested by the Bahamian Police! It seems as if it is a felony in the Bahamas to tie an American Flag to your pecker and walk down the beach. Who knew?
Another time, I won three free raffle tickets for an Ithaca pump shotgun at a Turkey Shoot in Valdosta, Georgia. I won the shotgun and it only cost me 17,500 bucks! The shotgun was stolen. Furthermore, the shotgun had been used in a hold up of a filling station. I was arrested, booked into a nasty Georgia county slammer, and sentenced to 60 years in State Prison. By the time my attorney straightened it out, well, like I said, it cost me 17,500 dollars, even though the judge said he was sorry to have put me through all of the anguish and expense, but he’d try to have my record expunged by 2011 (this was in 1999).
I guess about the worst thing I ever won was five free kisses with Shirley Hoofenmouth at the Chamberlain Elementary School Fall Festival in 1962. Shirley was a pretty little thing with red hair and freckles, green eyes and just the hint of the shapely body that would later haunt the dreams of many a Kanawha City boy like me. My five free kisses came with a free case of herpes simplex virus, and at no extra charge, ringworm.
No, I didn’t win the 500 million dollar Mega Millions Lottery this week, but I should have won it, because if I had I’d have spent most of the money on good causes. I wouldn’t have squandered it all away on frivolous things for myself, no never!
I’d have spent at least 5,000,000 smackeroos on the education of Charleston’s hookers. I’d have taught them all the things I think a good hooker should know-- like how to please me. It’s really fairly simple and the lessons would take place at my new Charleston Hookers College (that is where most of the 5,000,000 dollars would have gone, into building great Study Halls for the girls). Who could fault that expenditure?
I’d have also constructed the Fr. Francois Dubois, S.J. Memorial Substance Abuse Day Care Center to give all of the Franciscan and Dominican Priests and Deacons a warm and safe place to do their abusing (of substances, not children). Well, I’ve not quite thought that one through, but it would be expensive because there are so many . . . like I said, I haven’t quite thought that one through yet.
I’d also have spent a lot of my winnings funding things other people aren’t interested in funding. There is The Randy Travis Driving School. Randy would be the only student, but by all accounts it would take a boatload of cash to finance that program.
Also, I’d have given money to rehabilitate all of Taylor Swift’s former boyfriends. No, I think they have enough money. I’d have rehabilitated Taylor Swift. She used to be such a shy young thing before she got laid by whichever of her exes . . . Never mind. I’d figure out something to straighten her out. And I’d get her a set of jugs. Big jugs. Jugs to fit her inflated ego. Holy crap, that’d take most of my 650 million.
Related to the Taylor Swift funding, I would also have funded the Kanye West School of Charm and Manners. Crap, I’d have been nearly out of cash already. That one would have cost a mint. But I have done it for the good of all involved.
Finally, I would have purchased
the Illuminati so that JayZ and his Hollywood cronies could actually join
it. You see, the Illuminati have this
racist thing going; they refuse to allow people of color to join or learn their
secret handshake and stuff like that. I
know JayZ would love to be in the Illuminati, but not only does his skin tone
keep him out, and all his other buddies in Hollywood (regardless of skin tone), but he
cannot spell Illuminati. For 5 or 10
million bucks, I’d have hired teac
I’d have also liked to throw in
a few million bucks to buy Dick Cheney a heart.
Yes I know he has had a heart transplant, but I do
I’d also have bought Sarah Palin a brain. Enough said?
For me. . . for me, I’d have liked to have a Do Over on the last 40 odd years. I’d have gotten myself a better personality, a new chin, teeth, and “other” equipment I never had. And a dog. Oh yeah, and a computer that I could operate without crashing it every other hour.
I didn’t win, but I should have won. Look at all the good I could have done!
Thanks for the entertainment in chat.....you are quite comical and engaging.
Added: Wednesday, July 17, 2013 11:52pm
do you wish for the day when "gag" meant "joke"...?
Added: Thursday, March 7, 2013 7:36pm
thank you for the comment!!
you make me laugh all the time, i finally got you to laugh! LOL
Added: Friday, March 1, 2013 9:09pm
Look Out!! Here comes a big old smooch!
Happy Valentine’s Day ~PhoenixFyre
Added: Friday, February 8, 2013 1:05pm
Sorry ...would you like me to make every post about you !!! LOL
Added: Saturday, January 12, 2013 11:54am
oh holy night
da starz dey iz a-shiiiiiinin’
it iz da night
dat i brings down da tree…
Added: Thursday, December 20, 2012 11:47pm
bewitched, bemused, befuddled...
just a random pic of two cats square dancing.
Added: Tuesday, September 4, 2012 5:58pm
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