Relationships come in all different shapes and sizes, but the one thread they all have in common is the necessity for the creation of a strong trust bond. I call this trust bond, “The Trust Sweater”. As a couple, both parties wish to knit a trust sweater for each other that never comes unraveled. If only you could create an indestructible trust sweater, but unfortunately wear and tear will occur and it becomes essential to take proper care of your sweaters for them to last.

The issue is that men and women use different material and techniques to knit these sweaters and like the Christmas sweater you get from your grandma every year you have to put it on, grin and wear it. It may be too small, too tight, too big, too ambiguous or just plain ugly but none the less it is a gift. Peter’s Tip: treat your plus 1 as a gift if you want them to always be present.

Remember that you are the one knitting the trust sweater for your partner. Peter’s Tip 2: It is better to knit it a size too big then a size too small. If you or your significant other creates a sweater that is too small I can honestly say that you are looking at problems. Nothing is more uncomfortable then not being able to breathe because your trust sweater is too tight or doesn’t cover certain areas of your relationship. Knitting a trust sweater that is a bit bigger than your partner is crucial if you want them to truly grow into the relationship.

Of course, normal wear and tear will occur and it becomes critical that both parties are willing to cut any loose strings that pop up from time to time. Peter’s Tip 3: If you can’t cut the little strings don’t buy the ring. When your man decides to stay an extra hour out with the guys and doesn’t answer your call because the game went into overtime and he is in a loud crowded bar, you have to be willing to cut the string. If your woman wants to hang out with a sexy male co-worker you’ve never met you have to be willing to cut the string (well cut the fuse shorter on the dynamite so it blows up faster, just kidding) because if you don’t cut the string and continually pull on it you are going to create huge holes in your trust sweater.

Peter’s Tip 4: A comfy trust sweater makes a relationship better. What you put into creating your trust sweater is just as important. If you use itchy, abrasive material your partner will not want to wear their trust sweater when things get hot if you know what I mean. In the end, I am a sentimental Sally and truly believe that a trust sweater can last through the winter of your love.

ZOWZERS has quickly become the most versatile word in the English language (not including its bastard French and Spanish versions, LE GRAND ZOWZERS and LES GRANDE ZOWZERS respectively). Its original form was one of disbelief mixed with excitement at something that crept up on you like a shot of whiskey at your first sleepover. For instance, when a car load of hotties pulls up next to you at the stop light and flashes you a smile (wink, wink) the appropriate response would be, “ZOWZERS! I’m good looking!”

Of course as words are incorporated into the vernacular of the American public there tends to be a distortion from the original usage. ZOWZERS has now come to encompass every emotion known to mankind. Someone stubs their toe and you hear, “Z@WZ#&S! That stung like a boot full of bees” or some negative Nellie doesn’t get their way and in their head they hear, “Zowzers. Wah, wah”. Even bedrooms across America have been filled with the echoes of, “UMMMMMM, ZOWZERS!” and if they are lucky, “ZOWWWWWWZERRRRRRS!”

The best part is that the overall morale of the country has been lifted while simultaneously reversing the moral decline (ZOWZERS is quickly replacing all curse words) because of the positive and uplifting influence of the word ZOWZERS!

P.S. ZOWZERS! That’s one good post!

First, this decadent tradition is definitely outdated because of the greater emphasis on higher education and thus the high school diploma has lost some of its luster. Second, it tends to be gayer than a San Francisco politician. Recently, for instance, I heard one young gentleman you had his picture taken with his girlfriend. I’ve seen senior pictures with students holding balls but this is ludicrous.

That is why Wham and I decided to mockingly recreate our senior photos to exorcise some old demons and to shed a fresh light on the Teen scene. The first photo is the classic prone front double hand chin lift with a double leg curl. As you can see this recreation definitely exaggerates the complete and utter homo-ness of the senior photo.

The second photo is the ever classic nature scene. Wham pulls off the, “Sitting on the dock of the bay, wasting my senior year away” pose without a hitch in his get up. Of course, the shirt off is a tad bit risqué for a senior photo but that’s Wham being Wham.

Poses that didn’t make the cut include the “in the tree, look at me” pose, the “wondering on the water” and the “Kevin Meldrum is fat” pose.

Currently the bipartisan bullshit of this country is pulling us farther apart than William Wallace at the end of Braveheart. Why are these smug son of bitch senators and congressman who are so far removed from the reality of the American public making decisions for us on health care, budget cuts, spending, etc. etc. etc..? Seriously a room full of chimpanzees throwing poo at a dartboard could make better decisions than these bipartisan baffoons. Of course, it is the American public that elected these congressional cuckholds so can we really complain. Yes!  

Why is there such an anti-Obama feel to this country? The guy has had a little over a year to fix the ills of 8 years of George W. Bush, who may I remind you had the lowest popularity rating of any president this side of the Civil War (those damn rebels sure had a dislike for Honest Abe).

Honestly I have to really question the general intelligence of the American public. I have never personally watched The Jersey Shore but I could guess from the water cooler conversation that I would never get that time back  and would in fact be less intelligent from the ”guido”-ness. The next time I see or hear someone say its fist pump Friday I feel it’s my right as a rational human to punch them in the face for falling into the “reality” TV trap and in fact bringing them back to reality. This genre of TV has the same effect as someone shooting off an uzi inside of a steel cage full of friendlies; the bullets just ricochet around the space taking out innocent bystanders.

I am wondering why is that they have curling in the Olympics? but yet horseshoes is not in the summer games? or Bocce Ball? Seriously, can it really be a sport to slide a stone down the ice and then have your teammates sweep it? They are really stretching the limits of athleticism with this one. Any “sport” that you can play while drinking is not a sport. So in the 2012 London games should we expect bowling and or lawn darts? Of course I have a feeling the next dancing with stars will be on ice so that they can really build off the strong ratings that the olympics got from Ice dancing.

Their love for one another soon blossomed like a field of dandelions. They kept this romance a secret for as long as possible, but as we know when two stars this big collide in the night it’s bound to make quite a scene.

Recently, I ran into Wham Dickham on the streets of Clawson and asked him if the rumors where indeed true that he is in a bit of a fender bender (wink, wink) with the hottest traffic girl this side of the Ohio Turnpike. He gave me the thumbs up and walked on. 

Rumor on the streets is he wooed her with a little Dave Matthews Band, “Crash into me”. He sang, “If you’ll be my dixie highway, I’ll be your traffic Jam and we can drive together down to Birmingham”. Her response was simple, “life is a highway and I want to drive it all night long..(we’ll be right back after this message from our sponsor, get2choppin.com:  if you aren’t choppin, you aren’t cutting it)..with you”.

I hope their love is like two cylinders beating as one and as long he isn’t a two stroke engine if you know what I mean I think it will be clear ride in the express-lane of love. Again this is Dick Wiley and remember: If the noose ain’t tight, the news ain’t right!

You get the point. Basically they have befriended the behemoths of beauty within the g2c legend community in a rather pathetic attempt to bring ladies closer to their spider web of sexual perversion in the hope of ensnaring one or two in their trap of temptation. This age old trick is called the beautiful letdown. They hang out with the good looking guys of g2c knowing that the ladies will not be able to resist the animal magnetism of the legend’s love lure and will gravitate toward the group.  This is where they make their move.

They then proceed to deflate the egos of the ladies by telling them that something that beautiful is out of the league of mere mortals. They inform the ladies that these gorgeous gentlemen are like museum pieces that are stared at in amazement of their beauty and exquisite shape but in the end must stay in the museum for all to admire.  What they can have from this experience though is a souvenir of the experience; something that really, really wants to be like the real museum piece but is in fact a cheap knock-off. It is a quarter of the size if you know what I mean and a lot cheaper. In reality they are purchasing a beautiful letdown. A fleeting connection to the beauty they once were in the presence of.

Morally and ethically I am opposed to this abhorrent behavior, but I do not judge my friends or find fault in them for their shortcomings (and let’s just say they have quite a few of those). Did Mother Teresa kick out the lepers? Were not Jews and gentiles included in the early church? I mean if we as legends were to just hang out with people of similar tastes and talents it would be a small gathering of goodlookingness and graciousness. Even the ugly duckling should have a chance to swim with the sexy swans.

Here it goes:

Wham is a jerk, a big, old jerk who should be named Dirk the jerk. He’s a jerkity jerk, and a jerk-a-lurk. He gets perks because he’s a jerk. He wears jerkenstocks and eats beef jerky. He’s not a Turk, he‘s a jerk. He jerks off to Steve Martin’s film, “The Jerk”. He’ll jerk you around and jerk you to the ground because he is a jerk.

Johnny Blues hasn’t paid his dues. He sleeps in and repeatedly hits the snooze. He doesn’t care if we win or lose. He sits on the pews and takes his cues, dotting his I’s and crossing his T’s while down on his knees. He comes and he goes, but as for when, nobody knows. What we do know is that he likes his ho’s with ten fingers and ten plump toes.

K.C. the Sunshine Man never wants to play “kick the can”. He’d rather cuddle up with his girlfriend and read Amy Tan. If there was a Facebook page for get2choppin I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be a fan. I guess he’s out of the frying pan and into the fire like his buddy Dan.

Sgt. Shanie B. oh where, oh where, is this G? I joke. I jest. He’s one of America’s best, all wrapped up in his Kevlar vest. You may think he passed the test when he was on guard duty out west but he’s found himself in a hornet’s nest. I may seem like a pest but I’ll never rest until he has the same g2c zeal and zest.

The call has been made; the question is will anyone pick up. I hope I’m not forgetting anyone but if I did I suggest you better watch your back to the future again if you know what I mean.

The latest addition to the g2c fold is renowned children’s singer Kelvin “King Koala Bear” Meldrum. From the picture you can see how he earned the nickname king koala bear (the lovable and quite pinch-able jowls, hugecontagious smile, and big rosy cheeks), but what you can’t see is the immense talent this young lad has when it comes to music. His latest song, “I like my caterpillars” is soaring to new heights in the top ten toddler’s chart. Here is a brief sampling of the lyrical genius of Kelvin, “King Koala Bear” Meldrum. Enjoy!

“I like my caterpillars”

If you don’t like your caterpillars, let me know

I like my caterpillars ‘cuz they’re nice and slow

I can set them on my finger And that’s right where they’ll linger

They are creepy, crawly, fuzzy things

That turn to butterflies in the spring

If you don’t like your butterflies, let me know

I like my butterflies to flutter and land on my toe

They are quiet and don’t make much sound

And can blend in with what’s around

They can be seen on the branches of trees

And they pollinate like the birds and the bees.

If you don’t like your bees, let me know

I like my bees ‘cuz they make the honey flow

They all live together in what’s called a hive

But it’s the queen bee that makes it all jive

They make honey that is sticky and sweet

But they’re not like the birds that go tweet, tweet.

If you don’t like your birds, give me the word

I like my birds ‘cuz of the sounds that can be heard

Whether it’s a robin, blue jay, or a chickadee

They have such a soothing melody

They land on my window sill at the break of dawn

And their singing brings me out of that yawn.

If you don’t like your caterpillars, let me know

I like my caterpillars ‘cuz they make me glow!

For those that don’t know Nate Robertson is a left hand pitcher for the Detroit Tigers. He is as cool as ice and as unflappable as a ten button pea coat. He single handedly got the Tigers to the World Series in ’06. His trademark cheek full of Big League Chew rallied the Tigers in more games than Brandon Inge could swing a stick at (which is what that strikeout machine tends to do quite a lot). Watch out or Master Nate will blow gum all over your face.

You have to feel for Nate Robertson. A fat guy running a mile in a muumuu gets more run support than Nate, but he doesn’t complain. He just sustains his greatness. He has battled back from an injury that would have ended most normal pitcher’s career. My motto for Robertson in 2010 is, “It’s never too late to be great Nate”. 

This lovable lefty is not just about the diamond, his off the field work has more jaws hanging than his wicked off speed pitches. At a recent fundraiser hosted by the University of Detroit Mercy in which participants biked for 36 hours straight, Nate Robertson was the anchor man that brought it home like Pete Rose in the all-star game; hard and fast and he didn’t let anything get in his way.

Rumor has it that “Nasty” Nate Robertson was living in the Titan weight room this off-season. Most people (or maybe I should say Nater-haters) would take that figuratively as that he spent a good deal of time there, but his true fans know that he actually lived there. He was in the weight room 24-7 since the meltdown in the Metro dome. The lefty with the lens has endeared himself to this city with his hard work and big heart so when he steps on the mound this year let’s give him his due respect and stand and cheer for the man, the myth, the lens-gend.

Side note: Nate if you do perchance ever read this, please take Brandon Inge under your right wing (the left one is too sacred) and tell him to get rid of the soul patch, cover the tattoos, and then take him to Lens-crafters and have his eyes checked out.

It started out great with a nice little breakfast of a three-cheese, bell pepper omelet while watching the Today Show. I followed this up with some quiet reading time and an energy drink. About half way through my allotted hour of reading I heard the mailman pull up. I put down my book and went out to have a friendly chat with the civil servant. I asked him a simple starter question, “So how ‘bout this warm spell we’re having?”(I was being ironic, because it is not really warm) and I got a single “grummph!” I thought maybe the guy didn’t hear me, with his U.S. Mail issued fur hat with the optional earflaps down. I changed direction and cracked a joke, “Why was the mailman mad at his daughter for eloping? (wait, wait, wait) because he didn’t put his stamp of approval on it”. Let’s just say I got a bit of a cold stare after that joke. I didn’t take too kindly to his glare so I dropped my weekly circular and as he went to pick it up for me I cocked back my hand and did my own delivering, POW! Right in the Kisser!

After that little encounter, I had worked up an appetite and headed off to Qdoba for some delicious chicken nachos. I waited patiently in line as the lunch hour rush worked their way through the burrito blender. Finally I got to place my order, “Chicken nachos with black beans and extra queso, don’t worry I’ll pay the extra peso”.  This got the guy laughing but unfortunately this affected his job performance because the next words out of my mouth were, “come on buddy! Even though it’s no secret that focus is important let’s try not to spill the beans on that nachos there”. He did not take too kindly to this cuisine critique and started to skimp on the ingredients. In a flash I had reverted back to fat kid mode and reached across the sneeze guard and had the guy by his salsa-stained apron as I growled deep from the pit of my empty stomach, “I know you don’t serve it here but you are about to get a fist full of squash” I then reached back and let loose, POW! Right in the Kisser!

 All the excitement had gotten me riled up so I decided to end the day with a nightcap at the local watering hole to ease my nerves a bit. I sat their sipping on my whiskey and water, when I felt something burning a hole in the back of my head. I spun around on the bar stool to see this pretty brunette giving me a look that could’ve melted a glacier. I stood up and sauntered on over to her table and shadowed over her as I stared into her hazel eyes. She tried to speak but I put my right index finger on her lips and said, “Ssshhh, don’t say a word. You’ve said enough with your eyes” and as I leaned closer, POW! Right in the kisser! Let’s just say she was weak in the knees and hearing the birds and the bees if you know what I mean!