How we roll

Helen, having been asked to do something in the previous post, did. You might also want to scroll down to see the photo of what was billed as "two nekkid lesbian twins."

You people surely know how to rock my weekend.

Goddamn it

The Internet warlock shown above, also known as John Lawrence Sheppard, went on and sent me the following photo. In order to balance out the amount of cute said photo spills onto my site, I offer the following: goddamn son-of-a-bitch mother fucker cornholing cocksucking cuntlinking fuck face shit ass fuck.

Helen, do something with him already!



And then, billed as naked twin lesbians, this miserable adorable fest arrives:



Thank you for your support.

And another

Well, well, well. It's Henri Banks. Yum! Who's next? Hm??

Rainy Day Woman, vol. 1

An open letter to Mike Rowe, wherein I challenge him to the dirtiest job around.

Got something to say about it? Email the Free Times.

Please bring beer

Having finished painting my toenails, I had little else to do save one of my myriad acts of random kindness. I thought I'd try and find Josh Williams a date.

Ever try to find a date for a guy holding a dead fish and a whistle?

I couldn't do one thing with him. So I just decided to go over there myself. Anyway, that's where I am if you're looking for me, so come on over. And bring some beer or something.

Thanks,

Erin

Sleeping beauty and other delights

I'm pretty sure any of these admissions could get me sent straight to one of Dubya's firing squads, but, hey, I feel I owe you people the truth.

Sometimes I pass out at my desk and my dearly beloved loves to take a picture of that.

Sometimes I listen to Neil Diamond. Holly Holy. And James Taylor. And Barbara Striesand.

Nearly every tooth in my head has a filling.

I love sporks, but only if they're plastic from some fast food place or some shit like that. I wouldn't trust a metal spork, its maker or its user.

After I fry bacon, I pour the resulting fat in a coffee can and put it in the fridge. Got about two years worth of stratified oink fat in there as we speak. Sometimes I use it for stuff I cook. Potato soup is one thing. Sauteeing onions. Can't think of what else right now.

After my dad died, I took his on-the-go tool box and set it under my desk. It's still there. That was almost four years ago.

Happy b-daily Bailie and some more of my Cleveland

Today is Grant Bailie's birthday. Bailie is one of my bestest buddies and I don't know what the hell I'd do without him. He is a dork because he won't smile for a picture to save his life, but what the hell can I do? Nothing. So I just smile for both of us.

To celebrate, we had lunch together at Cleveland's Tower City, which is a complex and historic old structure downtown. I'd say the same of Bailie, but I'm not sure how historic he is. He did write Cloud 8, which is a kick-ass book. Maybe when he croaks he will be historic. For now he is just Bailie.

Here is an article about when Bailie was locked up for a 30 day stint, during which he had to write a book. They eventually let him out. In the article, they call Bailie "Mr. Bailie." I wouldn't call him that to save my life. Here is another article written after he got sprung.

Despite his myriad shortcomings (which I'm sure as hell not going to list here), Bailie is one hell of a writer. Don't believe me? Read this.

That said, I don't give an eff and I yell at him all the time. I yelled at him and told him to update his blog Junk Drawer Drunk (is that a great title, or what?) so I might link it to this post. Go on over there and tell him something.

Here are a bunch of cool pix I took at Tower City. Bailie and I once sat at that table by the marble stairs and split a meatball sandwich and laughed our asses off. That rocked all hell and I loved it.

Happy birthday, Bailie. And Cleveland, I love you as always.

Yours,

Erin

Rainy Day Woman

Starting with their Sept. 27 publication, I will have a regular column in the Free Times, which is a major weekly indie paper here in Cleveland. They published a short teaser blurb about it here. The name of the column will be "Rainy Day Woman."

I have written for the Free Times many times in the past. Topics have included the local race track and masturbation and crossdressers.

What's not to love?

I am gleefully beside myself over this new permutation of my life. The column is scheduled to run every other week and will afford me regular print exposure all over Northeast Ohio. I intend to showcase my very best writing in it. All the columns will be online and worry not, I will copiously link them in these pages. Notably, Free Times editor Frank Lewis offered me the gig due in no small part to my work here at the Owner's Manual.

I knew I was effing around with this silly blog for a reason. This post, "Housewife," is one of Lewis's favorites.

And before any of you mother effers ask: No. I haven't heard from Mike Rowe yet, but I'm certain he'll be calling this Rainy Day Woman after next week's debut. Oddly enough, my Dearly Beloved doesn't seem the least bit concerned.

Whole earth on warts

The Last Whole Earth Catalog
updated August, 1972

As stated on page 1, here is the purpose of this publication: "We are as gods and might as well get good at it. So far remotely done power and glory--as via government, big business, formal education, church--has succeeded to the point where gross defects obscure actual gains. In response to this dilemma and to these gains a realm of intimate, personal power is developing--power of the individual to conduct his own education, find his own inspiration, shape his own environment, and share his adventure with whoever is interested. Tools that aid this process are sought and promoted by the WHOLE EARTH CATALOG

This excerpt, with formatting intact, is from "Country Cures and Medical Stuff," page 217:


Dig Warts

I cured my WARTS with a Swiss ARMY KNIFE. A true testimonial by Malaclypse the Younger of San Francisco--Plagued with Planter's Warts for over a year, and advised by the medical profession that regular medication is GENERALLY HOPELESS, I cured my WARTS with a Swiss ARMY KNIFE and voodoo. Twice a week for twelve months I cursed the warts and made them feel unwelcome. During that time, I took my stainless steel Swiss ARMY KNIFE and dug at them relentlessly. They have now more or less DISAPPEARED leaving only gaping holes and volcano-like craters on my calouses. I recommend this cure for any person with a cool hand, a knowledge of voodoo and a Swiss ARMY KNIFE. A Swiss ARMY KNIFE may be purchased at your nearest Swiss ARMY KNIFE dealer.

Friday fun

It is 4:45 a.m. I am off to Nolan's Bar to catch the morning crowd (yes, really).

As a writer, I laughed like hell at this post. And more cowbell is always in order.

Since were on the subject, fellow writer Tim Gager will be doing a radio show over here tonight at 7:30 EST. Figger out a question to which there is no answer and call in. 888-379-5442.

Gotta go. See you at the bar!

Pet

All you effers post photos of your effing cute little pets.

"Look at my cute little puppy!"

What are you effers? A bunch of effing 19-year-old Playboy centerfolds? Next thing you'll be saying is how you hate people who lie and how you love long romantic walks on the beach.

Shit sucks.

This is my pet. How you effers like that shit? This effer hauls serious ass. And that's without shitting and shedding and pissing all over the effing place. This effer stays in his bowl and doesn't eff around.

Lights, camera, god

I received a flyer in the mail inviting me to the first service of the new Momentum Church, which was to be held in the Cinemark multiplex a few miles from my home.

Who could resist?

Although I left the good congregation with the same amount of faith I had when I joined it, I have to admit that the cynic in me had a hard time faulting a group of people trying to find a glimmer of hope on the eve of the fifth anniversary of the September 11th tragedy, which, suprisingly, the preacher did not mention. I wrote a short blurb about the service anyway. You can read the words I sold to the Cleveland Free Times here.

Amen, brothers and sisters.

Feet and Orgasms

First, you have to go and view this YouTube entry that I lovelovelove and was authored by my buddy Bobby Farouk under one of his numerous aliases. Guy's got more identities than Cybil.

Obviously, we have a lot to talk about here.

Regarding my feet and Farouk's feet and his sister's feet, you decide. They all seem to be pretty good feet. Mine are the most naked. And, although I'm only showing one foot in the photo, trust that I do have another and that it was as naked as the one depicted at the time of the photoshoot.

I do not fake orgasms. I am heartened to learn that Farouk was privy to the change in the quality of his girlfriend's orgasms and noticed when she shifted from real to fake. Any man who can't tell the difference is sad.

Sad, sad, sad.

Are men really afraid of women's orgasms? I thought men liked them. I thought they liked to go around all puffed up wearing their "I just made my woman climax!" tee shirts. In fact, the reason women fake orgasms is because they feel bad for the poor guy. Sheesh. Poor guy. Doing all that work and I'm about as close to climax as Pam Anderson is to an A-cup. This shit is never going to end. Gotta do something. Gonna have to fake it. Shit.

The essence of orgasm is absolute loss of control to pleasure. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. A man or woman might be able to control when they crest and finally let the orgasm fall out of them, but after that, it is the ultimate release. Faking an orgasm is essentially replacing loss of control with complete control.

It is inherently tragic.

In some ways and particularly when it comes to sex, men are a lot like big dogs that talk, which has its limitations. And even though their orgasms are not nearly as complex as women's, they cannot fake orgasms, although some may try. Anyone have evidence/assertions disputing this?

One time this guy sent me a short porn video. There was a chick, a strap-on, another chick and some guy. Sort of confusing, but hey, whatever. They're all screwing and licking and slapping. Then the one chick says, "Shit! That sucker is big!" and goes and fakes an orgasm. I watched it once or twice, bewildered. Was it arousing, maybe a little, but I laughed more than anything else. It was contrived. Fake. A sham. What's the point? Am I missing something?

Today

No topic feels appropriate for this tragic anniversary.

Until tomorrow then, my friends.

Love,

Erin

Guest blogger: the Goat

Good morning motherfuckers. My Dearly Beloved has asked me to share these thoughts with you. All I'm going to say is that I came clean about this before.

With a resolve and determination unmatched in recent memory, Erin O'Brien and her world famous Snoring Stones gave a concert last night in the Adult Wing of her home theater. Not only was the performance memorable due to its length, the variety was also spectacular.

The performance began with an O'Brien classic: the inhale snore. She then ran through some of her extensive repertoire: the inhale snort, the end of breath snort and the mid-breath snark.

Despite the efforts of the lone audience member (capacity of the theater), O'Brien heroically continued to saw logs throughout the night. He attemped to reposition her and/or contain the volume via a series of nudges and leg movements. Neither the arm bar nor the pillow cover had any effect. At one point, the exasperated audience completely flopped O'Brien over to no avail. There was a brief intermission at some point in the evening that inflated the beleaguered individual with cautious hope, but then the session continued with renewed vigor.

In a startling revelation, the audience member discovered one of O'Brien's precious and magical stones beneath one of her seventeen pillows. Thrilled, he placed said stone within O'Brien's reach. Alas, she did not grasp the stone and calm, but instead crescendoed to a new volume.

O'Brien finally wound down with a brief end-of-the-night whisper a little after 4 a.m., which gave the audience just enough time to fall blissfully asleep at 4:52 a.m., a scant eight minutes before the alarm sounded at 5.

Laundry *UPDATED*

Eff all you mother effers who don't think I know what the eff I'm doing.

*UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE*

Looks like I need to add some information to this entry.

1) Listen effers. If you effers need an effing soup can to know how big an effing book is, you are effed. Eff off. I'm not taking another picture.

2. The work lists copyrights for 1965, 1966, 1969, and finally, 1973. Looks like this baby was born in 1965 just like me. I, however, only come in one edition. I am not now, nor ever was I, available for 50 cents.

3. The book is chock-full of helpful information including how to care for Alpaca wool; drying curve graphs of time vs. temperature for light and heavy loads; and how to remove stains such as blood, alcohol and lipstick (information of which I'm certain each of us is in need).

4. When I was 16, Pete Wilken came to my house and we necked on the couch while my parents were out at a party. Pete became so aroused that the tip of his enthusiastic member peeked out of the waistband of his jeans and he ejaculated all over my shirt, which was crafted from cotton gauze. After I laundered the shirt, I found that there were holes and frayed spots where Pete's semen had landed.

Although the Maytag Encyclopedia of Home Laundry offers this advice regarding the removal of catsup: "Scrape off excess with a dull knife. Soak in cold water 30 minutes. Rub detergent into stain while still wet and launder in hot water using chlorine bleach. For non-bleachable fabrics: Same method. Launder in warm water. Omit chlorine bleach," it has no specific instruction regarding my situation with Pete, my cotton shirt and his ejaculate.

5. I love you.

Tonight, tonight, won't be just any night

I'll be over at Bostick's place tonight at 9 p.m. EST chatting on stickam, babies.

I will not be wearing a brassiere during this event.

Puffies, chubbies and fluffy little kitties

Mr. Beautiful: Just read the piece of erotica you wrote on that guest blog.

Erin O'Brien: Did you like it?

Mr. Beautiful: It surely gave me a puffy.

Erin O'Brien: A puffy? Calling it a 'puffy' is the gayest thing I ever heard.

Mr. Beautiful: What? It's a puffy.

Erin O'Brien: It's even too gay for actual gay guys. If you said "puffy" to a gay guy, he'd say, "Puffy? That's gay."

Mr. Beautiful: It's no big deal, I just call it that.

Erin O'Brien: Puffy is a name for a kitten. Kittens are called Puffy, not dicks.

Mr. Beautiful: You know what I mean. "Puffy" means just a little bit erect.

Erin O'Brien: Holy shit! Never tell anyone that again!

Mr. Beautiful: But that's how it works.

Erin O'Brien: "Hello, My name is Mr. Beautiful and I'm a little bit erect."

Mr. Beautiful: You are a woman. You don't understand. It's a guy thing. There are different levels for different situations.

Erin O'Brien: Beautiful, the more you say about this subject the worse it gets.

Mr. Beautiful: It's like an elevator or a t.v. commercial.

Erin O'Brien: Dear sweet Jesus.

Mr. Beautiful: Okay, I'll stop.

Erin O'Brien: Oh, don't. I find this infinitely amusing.

Mr. Beautiful: Guys understand what it means.

Erin O'Brien: Tonight's program will feature "Six Degrees of Erection" by Mr. I. M. Beautiful.

Mr. Beautiful: Puffy or chubby, it's the same thing.

Erin O'Brien: Beautiful will explain his theory of the six degrees of erection using simple language (chubby, puffy) and universal comparisons (elevators, t.v. commercials). In this heartwarming presentation, Beautiful is sure to reach the inner man in every man!

Mr. Beautiful: Ask your husband what a chubby is and get him to explain it.

Erin O'Brien: Beautiful will also elaborate on the female form of the chubby, commonly known as the "moist."

Mr. Beautiful: Maybe don't ask your husband. He'll beat me up when he finds out we were talking about dicks.

Erin O'Brien: But we're not talking about big hard dicks, we're only talking about puffy dicks, which are about as threatening as a fluffy little kitty!

Mr. Beautiful: Stop talking about your pussy, O'Brien.

Erin O'Brien: Okay, Beautiful.

Mr. Beautiful: Goodnight, O'Brien.

Erin O'Brien: Goodnight, Beautiful.

Sorry folks, but this site started to get so many spam comments, that I had to shut them off on Dec. 10, 2006.

My Cleveland

This is the Veteran's Memorial Bridge in Cleveland, one of several that traverse the Cuyahoga River and link the East and
West Sides of town. At one time there were four sets of train tracks inside the underbelly of the bridge. The trains are long gone but the space they occupied is still there.

Twice a year, the city opens the subway level of the bridge to the public and you can walk the length of the brigde, including the scary steel span over the river.

I love this town.

A snappy guy

My dearly beloved is working night shift.