As always, the link has nothing to do with the post, it is just a fun little story. I love TheSmokingGun . But on to business.
Apparently there are at least two people clamoring for my review of MI:3. Wow. I feel like Ebert, but with lips and a neck. And I get laid. Other than that, it is eerily similar. So lets give the old BSR one word review
Yup, it is a fun movie. JJ Abrams gets a good performance out of Tom Cruise (no small task), and Phillip Seymour Hoffman is just a badass. I always knew he could act, but to see him play evil, well it is scenery chewin' time, and Phil has one hell of an appetite. But this isn't about nuance and depth and inner monologues. Mission Impossible is about ONE thing, making your eyes glue themselves to the screen with one cool damn thing after another while you shovel that $8 drum of popcorn with "golden flavored topping" (I actually use the stuff to re-lube my gear shift the other day. WD-40 has NOTHING on golden flavored topping) and sucking down that 1.5 gallon size Diet Coke with enough ice in it to reverse global warming (but hey, free refills. And I am thinking about trying to set the Guinness World Record for longest pee duration in a public restroom - Urinal Division). Ving Rhames is his usual fun self, Lawrence Fishburne is cool (even if his teeth are a little like corn nubs. Somehow he pulls it off). The British guy with the middle name Rhys (pronounced "Reese". Is it just me or has there been about 500 British guys with the middle name "Rhys" popping up in every other damn movie made? What is it with that name and pensive brooding and impaired oral hygiene?). And because of that movie, I now have a new career goal. I want to be a remote held to the thigh of the Asian chick in the movie. The one held on by a garter belt. I don't care what I would be a remote for (but I have some ideas if she is reading. Yeah, right). Oh. My. DAMN.
Now on to more pressing matters. The BOOB Thief. The Boob Thief also goes by the name of Ben. Ben is my mortal enemy. Ben is, to the best of my knowledge, less than a year old. Let me explain. Wifey works in an office (at least some of you that are reading this are looking over your cubicle wall at her right now and saying "Yeah, we know. Dumbass". Well screw you and your elitist attitude! But anyway, in this office are other employees (the aforementioned elite), and some of them are female. I am painfully aware that one of them got knocked up and had a kid. A boy named Ben. It seems that Ben is the cutest thing EVER. At least that is what I am told. Repeatedly. Well, if his only crime was cuteness, I would be fine with his continued existence in my world. I have never claimed to be cute, and I have no real desire to have that added to the list of adjectives that are used to regularly describe me. Well, it seems that he has a fetish. A fetish for my wife's breasts. Now if you ask Wifey, she will tell you that she has perfect breasts. And since, as Wesley pointed out, there are very few perfect breasts in this world, it would be a shame to ruin them. AND THAT IS WHAT HE IS DOING!!!!! Not ruining them in any physical way, but ruining my enjoyment of them. Whenever he is brought to the office, he immediately makes a bee-line for Wifey's Grand Central Stition (get it? Huh?!?). Now for the rest of the day will be IM's from Wifey cooing about how cute he is and how adorable he is and all that crap. Well let me tell you something Boob Thief. I am ON to you! The longer you rest your perfect little head on my Wifey's bosom, the longer I have to wait to get to use them for my own nefarious purposes. And I only have a limited window until we start having kids of our own, and then I don't get them for at least a couple of years. He gets her motherly instincts all whirled up, which is good from the standpoint that she wants to go home and practice making babies the old fashioned way, but bad because she starts plotting on how to use them for our eventual brood and then I don't get to play hide and go seek with my friends Lefty and Nips. And that is just wrong.
Also, I need to make a point clear here. Wifey and I damaged the bed the other day. And by damaged the bed I mean we bent the bedframe. If you know me, you can probably imagine me being able to do that without any help. But when libido calls, sometimes you have to crawl to position. Just don't crawl to the foot of the bed on a regular frame. Well, we took care of the problem the next day, we got a new Heavy Duty Lifetime Warranty bedframe for a reasonable price. And the salesman threw in two free pillows for to sweeten the deal (more on pillows as weapons in a moment). But (and this is a MAJOR but), I guess Wifey just HAD to let her mother come over the one day that the bed as in a state of limbo, with one end being held up by a personal sized igloo cooler I have had since my high school football days. And she just HAD to let her go to the bathroom, which is downstairs next to the bedroom. And she just HAD to not block her view and MOMM-O version 2.0 just HAD to notice. AND WIFEY COULDN'T LIE TO HER!!!!!!! I mean come on, I am not naive enough to think that Mv.2 was unaware that we had consummated our marriage by now, and I don't expect her to have a big problem, since she wants grandkids as much as my parents do (possibly more, since my parents have my niece and nephew from my sister and her hubb-o). But it was the bottom leg of the bed that broke off. And why is that a problem? Because you wouldn't break off the bottom leg, the one by the foot of the bed, if you were having regular old Walton's Family approved sex. She would have been in the middle of the bed, with her head at the top. In order to snap off that leg, we had to be going for some bizarre synchronized swimming, cirque de soleil type maneuver. And I am willing to bet she doesn't want to picture her daughter doing THAT (I can just hear it now. "Daughter, why is there a hole in that wall? And where are the ceiling tiles? Why did you need to reinforce that beam in the ceiling?"). And that is why I have banned Mv.2 from making any kind of contact with me for the month of May. No phone calls, no instant messages, no being at the house when I come home, no coming in when I am already there. Not because I don't love her, but because I cannot fathom the thought of making eye contact with her. And apparently Wifey clued her in to reading this. ARRRGH!!! I put up semi-pornographic pictures of Disney characters and Wifey tells her mom to read? Now that I think about it, I might have to extend the ban until June.
And one final thing before I end this thing. We have already established that Wifey like to treat sleepy time like she is Germany and I am France (there is an obvious Maginot Line joke here, but for all I know I have made it previously. I am too lazy to check, and now it is too late to make the joke. TPPPBBBBBBBTH). Well, let me add that I am not a very cuddling person when it comes to sleep. I sweat quickly and easily, and having someone pressed or draped against me can only cause the rivers to flow. I need air, and will spend a lot of time during the night kicking my covers off to cool down, then getting chilly and pulling them back up. I have apologized to Wifey privately, and now I do so publicly. I am sorry I am not a cuddler. That being said, Wifey likes to bring extra pillows to bed. Not those stupid little decorative pillows that people with too much money have all over their beds and couches, but standard regulation sized pillows. Okay, I can deal with that. But while it may start as innocent cuddling with sleep gear, it soon turns violent. And by that I mean the pillow will somehow magically migrate from her arms to her ass, and as she turns away from me, she bends and contorts and uses her fluff down doom to claim the bed's Kashmir. Like a padded badonk-a-donk bulldozer, she flattens the rainforest of the bed that is me. This morning I told her we were going to have to re-think her use of pillows as potential WMD's. I am all but sure I am going to lose the battle, but I will not go down without a fight.
Now I must take my leave of you. I have to get back to work, and I have to allow lunch to finish running its course (yup. That is the nicest way of saying "I gotta take a shit" as there is. You can use that). But let me leave you with this. Either tomorrow or Friday, I promise a review of the Burger King Texas Whopper, and to reveal to you that while I am a raging heterosexual, I am officially gay for George Clooney.
Stay tuned. And taste the rainbow!