Guy on left: Hey thanks for the cig. What are you doing Friday night?

Guy on right: Going to Schad/Jordan Years show at the Gallery Cabaret. You?

Guy on left: Shit. That’s Friday? Damn, I wanted to see if you wanted to get a bite to eat because I’m secretly gay for you. Forget it, I’m so embarrassed. Tell my family I loved them..Ahahhahahahahahahh!

Hey folks, Fred the Tuckpointer here with a quick check in from my sister Mis’ place in North Royalton.  Since my shoulder separation, Sadie decided we should be separate too, at least until I “get my act together” -  whatever that means.  Its not too bad – Mis works third shift down at the clinic, so we barely talk to each other and she gets lots more cable channels than what we get at home.  And her internet’s faster.

So Joel on this site here chimed in and wanted to get my take on Obama blowing the Olympics.   I think its awesome whenever bad things happen to the country, as long as they happen while Obama is president.  Let me explain: we all know that Obama, and everything he stands for is everything our Founding Fathers fought against.  Take the socialist medicine program Barry’s running down the pipe; in the old days, when George Washington was wounded he would call his OWN doctor, not some British appointed court quack to get it patched up.  That’s the way it was, and the way it should be.  So when the insurance companies threaten to raise everyone’s insurance rates, then that means Obama is a failure and should be impeached.  Same deal with Afghanistan – he got us in this mess we’re in over there, and now he can’t make up his mind how many troops to send over.  Whatever he ends up doing, if it doesn’t go well that means America wins in the long run.  Its important that he looks bad, no matter what.

So back to the Olympics…its no coincidence that Chicago, that dirty and corrupt city, was in bed with Obama the whole bid process.  I was rooting so hard for him to get embarrassed, and when they gave the games to Rio, it was the first of many nails into the coffin of his presidency.

And the Noble Peace prize thing…well, I think everyone knows that’s rigged.

In other news, I still can’t move my arm above my shoulder.  I work in the receiving bay at Wal-Mart, so it may be tough to do much of anything, but I can’t afford any more time off.  Maybe I’ll drop by the house on the way to work tomorrow to see if Sadie’s up for a visit.  In the meanwhile, Fred the Tuckpointer signing off.

Just a scant nine years after Michael J. Fox starred “Teen Wolf,” Jack Nicholson made his own mark on the genre with “Wolf,” a film that probably would have been even more successful if it had been considered the third of the “Teen Wolf” trilogy.

Nicholson plays a mousy book editor who is fortuitously bitten by a werewolf the same week that he is demoted, his position filled by his weaselly metrosexual protege, played by James Spader, who is also sleeping with his wife. 

Now filled with the “passion of the wolf,” Nicholson’s senses are heightened: He can read without his glasses, he can smell the tequila his co-worker drank for breakfast, he can leap shrubs in a single bound, snap the neck of a deer, and drink from its neck like its severed artery is a spigot. He can insult Michelle Pfeiffer straight into bed.

And when James Spader dares to make idle chit-chat with him at the urinal, Nicholson turns his spray on his enemy’s suede shoes. “I’m marking my territory,” he tells the pretty-boy, before cruelling adding to the insult by identifying this batch of urine’s vineyard: “Asparagus.”

If “Teen Wolf” is the puberty allegory of this trilogy, “Wolf,” it seems, is the Viagra metaphor.

I don’t care.

Let me be more specific. I am talking directly to my co-workers. Hey – I’m all excited for you. I think it’s wonderful that you have taken it upon yourselves to run mass distances and try to beat imaginary times. I have respect for people that train for hours on end to become really good at running. To be the best running person you can be. Even better if it’s a first time thing, and you’re getting psyched for that first race that you know you can’t win, and your only stated goal is that you “finish” it. And that there’s this thing called “Personal Records” – PR for the initiated – and that you go out and compare your PR with someone else’s PR and then another PR of some guy from Botswana and then that dude who was right in front of you for the first 11 miles, and then at 12.2 you just overtook him and beat his PR and your PR and then there was a PR party.

I get it. I just don’t want to have to hear 30 minutes of talk about it. 30 minutes of how you pushed through. Of how you massaged your leg afterwards. How you wore the new shoes. How the socks are good. How you wore too much or not enough pants.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate your dedication to your health. Heck, this may be out of jealousy. But don’t make me listen. Please. This is akin to hearing about someone’s grandmother. I’m sure she’s a dear, but she ain’t my grandma.

Ack. Maybe I’m so grumpy because it’s Tuesday.

I soooo would have “Called In Gay” today. But I don’t. So instead I’m cleaning the toilet and then I’m going to do a load of laundry. The Gays like to clean, right? Fight the power, Gays — I’ve got your back!!