After I crammed down a juicy burger at the Division picnic yesterday, I lined up to race on the Velcro Obstacle Course. It's  like a blow up bouncy house, but with tunnels and things to climb over.

Two people race at once to make it a quick, competitive challenge. You put on a Velcro suit and crawl through the Velcro course, getting stuck to walls, etc. as you go.  

There were two lines. I counted back to figure out who I was lined up with to race. This might have been a coincidence, but have a feeling it wasn't.

Looks like I would be racing Szymanski.

That little fucker wanted to race and beat me just to rub it in my face because it now looked like I also lost Blair to him. He's younger than me, in better shape--but not necessarily more athletic. I suspect he's gay but just hasn't come out yet.

I didn't look around, but I knew Blair was watching. She did not want me to win. However, knowing Blair, she also did not want me to lose. Typically, Blair is the kind of person who routes for a team to lose instead of routing for the other team to win. But in this case, she would be disappointed no matter what the outcome.

I zipped up, loosened up my arms, and was ready to roll. 

Adrenaline was pumping through my body. I could not let this idiot beat me. He was so confident, so utterly cocky, I just had to put him in his place. I was like a bull ready to bust out of the gate.

I heard "Go!" and without hesitation dove through the first Velcro tunnel.

My shoulder got stuck, so I yanked hard and ripped it right out. But what exactly did I rip out? I heard a Pop! and at first ignored it. But when I got out of the tunnel and tried to grab the rope to pull myself over the wall, my right hand extended only part of the way. I looked down at my hand knowing my brain was telling it to grab the rope, but there is hung in the wind, unwilling or unable to grab the rope.

I grabbed the rope with my left hand and swung up on top of the wall. Straddling the wall, I looked down and saw there was another wall with a rope. I wasn't sure what happened to my shoulder, but my right arm was useless. If I went down and tried to come up another wall, I wouldn't make it. So I leaped across, gimp arm and all, and rolled off the top of the wall down to the next tunnel.

I hobbled through the tunnel like a goofy dog and rolled out at the end. 

There stood Fessler with his right hand held high. Apparently, fucked up shoulder and all, I had beaten that little bitch Szymanski.

Fessler was looking for a high five. I tried to raise my arm, but could only manage to raise it slightly. He met me half way.

I quickly took the Velcro suit off, pulled up my sleeve and found my shoulder bone lowered and poking out in the wrong place.

I tried to pop it back in, but apparently it doesn't work that way--at least not the first time you dislocate a shoulder.

There was so much adrenaline coursing through my body, I hadn't felt any pain yet. But then it came. Holy shit. I have never felt that much pain in my life.

An Ambulance showed up, and when they tried to lift me up onto the gurney, I thought I was going to puke. How happy was I that I crammed that burger down my pie hole right before the race? It was embarrassing enough that was lying on the grass writhing in pain in front of everyone I work with, now I was going to puke for them as an encore. 

Somehow I held my cookies. They carted me off to the hospital, shot me up with Morphine and some other junk, then snapped that fucker back into place. I've got it immobilized now. I'm not supposed to be typing with two hands, but what the fuck.

I caught a glimpse of Blair when they were putting me into the ambulance. She had a genuine look of concern on her face. It's rare you ever see Blair concerned about anyone other than herself. This was truly a unique moment...

But fuck Blair. She wants Szymanski, she can have him. I dislocated my shoulder at the beginning of the race and I still beat that pussy...

It's not easy having a lovers quarrel in public when both people are married to someone else.

Blair accused me of fucking around with Maricruz. Technically, she's right, but I know that Blair only accuses me of fucking around with someone else when she wants to fuck around with someone else. If she pretends to think I'm fucking around with someone else, she doesn't feel so bad fucking around with someone else.

If she really thought I was fucking around with Maricruz, she wouldn't accuse me of anything. It would just be over. If she takes the time to accuse me of fucking around with someone else, I know she doesn't really think I'm fucking around with someone else.

Trying to have this argument in front of hundreds of your co-workers is not a simple task.

And no matter how calm our dispositions seems on the surface, I'm sure everyone around us can feel the heat of our underlying tension. 

I know she wants to fuck around with Szymanski, that little weasle. So I said, Fuck you, I'm done.

And done I am. I left her with her face all aghast, so I'm sure she's done too. Now she's free to fuck Szymanski.

Little whore.

Well, it's almost time to race in the Velcro Obstacle Course. The sun will be down soon. I'm going to eat a burger, put on a Velcro suit, win a race, and try to enjoy the last part of this stupid picnic.

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Sent from my iPhone.

It's that time again. Time for the fall picnic.

Unlike the holiday party, I do not get much action at this thing. And here are the reasons why:

• The picnic is in broad daylight. I'm like a vampire when it comes to fucking around: darkness is my ally; sunlight is my downfall...
• For some reason, someone always gets hurt at these things, which puts everyone in a somber mood instead of a fucking mood.
• Did I mention the sunlight? Blair can watch my every move. If not her, then her tits--or any of her other spies.
  
• It's at a park instead of a place like a hotel, which conveniently has beds.
  
• There's no alcohol.
• There's no fucking alcohol.
  

What kind of celebration or party doesn't have alcohol?

I also tend to have a bad reputation at these picnics. For whatever reason, I tend to be either directly or indirectly responsible for that "someone" getting hurt.

Last year I convinced Maharajapuram to climb a tree so that he could jump out onto the bouncy house roof top and collapse it on the goofy adults bouncing inside. I figured the people inside would get injured, not Maharajapuram. Apparently Maharajapuram is not very athletic and he missed the bouncy house completely. One broken ankle, that's all.

The year before I had my own contest. I said I'd pay a thousand dollars to anyone who could drink a gallon of milk (which, by the way, is impossible). I had three takers and they all puked. They were ill the rest of the day, as were most of the watchers.

The year before there was a water fight. Janis from Hardlines was six months pregnant, but still fully capable of participating in the battle. She and I got into it, and somehow, Gladstone thought it would be a good idea to help out his old pal by grabbing Janis from Hardlines from behind and holding her arms behind her back. This was the exact moment I had raised a bucket of water to dump it on her.

At that moment we froze and looked around as everyone stared at us: Gladstone holding a pregnant woman's her arms behind her back and me about to drench her with cold water. I could have been a child molester and gotten more sympathy at that moment.

Well, nobody got hurt, but it sure was hard to shake the image of the guy who gangs up on helpless pregnant women. 

This year, I'm going to take it easy. I'll just stay away from everyone. Nobody gets hurt. 

Haha. Not possible. I'm curious to know who I'll hurt this year.

Well, I guess the division picnic has some redeming qualities after all...

Some vendors are better than others. They all buy you expensive lunches. But some pimp out their hot young assistants for

sex.

Those are the vendors I like the most.

McCroskey is exactly that kind. I had lunch with him today and he brought along his new assistant Giselle. He thinks if she puts out, I'll put out some cash and hire some of his contractors. But really, I only hire people I know will make me look good. So if he has those people, I'll hire them. If he doesn't, I won't. Giselle just buys my time so that he can pitch his people to me face-to-face.

I met them at La Scala around 11:45. Giselle was really cute and young with perky, very friendly talking tits. At first I thought I was hearing things. But after a moment of hearing them speak, I knew those bouncy melons had a mind of their own.

Giselle's Tits: "So, you wanna get some?"

Me: "Of course. I always want to get some." 

Giselle's Tits: "Well, Giselle wants to give some. McCroskey just told her to flirt with you and smile a lot. But we all know exactly where that's going. Don't be fooled by her innocent eyes. Just because she flaunts an angelic disposition, doesn't mean the rest of us are pure. In fact, we're fucking perverts. We're out of control. Pinch us, bite us, slap us around. We want it hard. And guess what? She doesn't even attempt to stop us. Because she knows we do what the fuck we want to do, and there's nothing she can do about it."

Me: "Nice. I like Independent tits. The kind of tits that don't hold back. Well, you can count on me to utilize you to the fullest extent. I do not take tits for granted."

I wonder why tits are so friendly to me. I mean, I'm certainly friendly to them. Even Blair's tits are friendly to me. Sure they keep an eye on me for Blair, but ultimately, they seem to adore me when ever I'm close. Maybe it's because I never discriminate. I love tits of all colors, shapes and sizes. I treat them all the same. And they show their appreciation in a big way.

After lunch, McCroskey handed me his card, which of course had Giselle's number on the back. I'll give it a couple of days, call her up and ask if I can speak to her tits.

I was nominated for Hot Blogger Calendar on hotbloggercalendar.com (thank you Winter). According to their site, if you post something about the contest, you will get increased exposure from them, and therefore, possibly more votes. I'm not writing this to get more votes; I'm writing this because I think they should change the title of the calendar from Hot Blogger to Bought Blogger.

Those who have the most votes have the most "flare" about the contest on their site. They are even hosting their own contests to buy votes. I, sadly, have 2 votes. But I also have no flare on my site nor do I offer any bribes. But I also believe I should not be on this calendar for two reasons:

1. Nobody knows what I look like. So nobody knows if I'm hot or not.
2. There are no photos of me, so what the fuck are they going to put on the calendar?

Don't get me wrong. I understand how it works with blogging. It's all about getting traffic. By hosting this contest, Hot Blogger gets traffic. By putting up flare on your site, Hot Blogger gets traffic and you get votes, and if you get on the calendar, you get more exposure and therefore more traffic. I get it. I'm not complaining about it, I'm just calling it out.

But I still have the one complaint about the title of this contest. The "gals" who have the most votes seem to be "mommy bloggers". No offense, I mean, you gals are nice and sweet and informative. But you are not hot.  Posts about baby clothes, diets and recipes are not hot. You gals can sit around and tell each other how sexy your posts are, but it don't make it so.

So when the final tally comes out and we've got a Hot Blogger calendar full of mommy bloggers who bought their votes, I suggest you rename the calendar to something a little more appropriate. Here's a few more ideas:

• Mommy Blogger Calendar
• Not Hot Blogger Calendar
• Shopping is Fun, Just Read My Latest Post Calendar
  
• Being a Mommy is Fun, Just Read My Latest Post Calendar
  
• I'm Not Hot, But I'm in this Calendar Anyway Calendar
  
• I Bought My Spot in this Calendar Calendar

Well, maybe I should host a calendar contest myself and get some actual hot bloggers who live up to the title. Just a thought...