insurance design

Smoking Charges Ignite

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Advertise Here

If you care about your wife, you know this sound well, and as long as you don’t do Chandler’s version of it, I think of you as a manly man and hold you in high regard. Talking with my mom …...

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Re-gifting

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A Reasonable Explanation

Therapist: Take me back to the beginning. Tell me how it all got started, how you eventually wound up holding the bloody knife in the aftermath of your killing spree. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation....

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That's a Mouthful

Waking up to the sounds of birds and (outside) insects is alluring, and when you have your second 10th cup of coffee and realize you are on vacation, and this auditory lovemaking is real, not the result of an ambitious-carpet-cleaning hallucination, you can finally relax, letting your bulk stress...

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Stupid Piece of ... Oh, That's Right

I'm a realist. I call things like they are, and if I look stupid in the process, well, so be it. ...

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Deadly Donuts

The morning started off good. Four eggs fluffed with a splash of milk, mixed with Parmesan and salt and black pepper and red pepper flakes and slathered with Cholula hot sauce; four ounces of Bob Evan's spicy Italian sausage (sorry for the smell, honey, luv ya) fried into the wonderful concoction;...

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When Did I Become a Pushover?

I've never thought of myself as the Ultimate Fighter type. As a kid, whenever the possibility of bodily harm came up, I tried to avoid confrontation. But if the issue was pressed, I could stand up and issue fake threats along with the best of them and hope that my manufactured bravado was enough to...

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As I Approach 30

I live in a small town. Colona, IL has a population of just over 5,000. As a jogger, this means I am usually only assaulted with exhaust fumes a few times whenever I decide to go outside to burn some calories. But as far as the type of people passing me on the roadside? Over this, I have no control....

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Filed Under on October 25th, 2011

Wuhpah!

By Seth Kabala

If you care about your wife, you know this sound well, and as long as you don’t do Chandler’s version of it, I think of you as a manly man and hold you in high regard.

Talking with my mom a few months ago, we got on the subject of cars. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know about my 1985 Toyota Corolla or, more recently, its sale to the equivalent of Jeremy Renner’s character in The Town (don’t know what he wanted a $200 car for. Don’t wanna know).

Mom was complimenting me on keeping a clunker that I could pay for, and I reminded her I sold it to some schlep (I told him about her problems, most of them. I assume he’s running from the law with a big money bag over his shoulder by now, so I’m safe) because Amy was worried I would either fall through the floorboards while the car continued forward, shearing off my head in the process, or break down in sub-zero temps and simultaneously encounter a rolling wave of liquid nitrogen that would freeze me instantly.

Summary: I love my wife, so I spent some money and got a nice working car. We’ll leave it at that. Amy wasn’t hassling me every day, but when I would run my hands under scalding water before sprinting to the car, dive in like I was trying to get out the way of incoming grenades, and then drive like said grenades were raining down on me with the tenacity of the Tropic Thunder adversaries, so as to keep time in my heat-less vehicle to a minimum, I can understand her increased concern.

What does the world call this? Wuhpah! Or in other words:

Whipped.

Why is this? Why can’t we be concerned about what other people think? Take someone else’s feelings into consideration without being looked at like a weirdo or a spineless Dorfwad (Dorf on Golf scrunched into a ball. This reference is hilarious. Admit it).

Mom complimented me on listening to my wife, and I said I know how good I’ve got it, so even if I didn’t care about Amy’s feelings (and I do, so she’ll care about feeling … ), I should want to keep the balance that keeps our house running.

This is a woman who thinks she’s putting me out (this is neither a sex pun nor a reference to Amy’s side-business as my pimp) when I offer to help with the dishes. She’s frickin’ amazing. I’d go Jesse James on a train’s ass if she wanted me to. She’s that great.

She’s my booty (also not a sex pun. Well, maybe a little). My loot. My grand prize that I’m not sure how I acquired, but that I’d protect with my life.

Where’s your booty? Do you pay attention to your loot? If you don’t, it’ll fall right out your pockets, so learn to sew.

If you don’t have it, rob as many trains as it takes to get it, and then shoot any motherfucker who tries to take it away.

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Seth Kabala

About: Seth Kabala
Seth is an entrepreneur, writer, musician, family man, and juggler of balls--big ones. He lives with his wife and three children in Portland, OR.

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