41 Year-Old Virgin

Do not be deceived, gentle reader. The Greyhound is not the Alan Alda-esque, sentimental softy that you might think. He is a cynic--a cold-blooded, dispassionate, jaded cynic who has no use for fakey Hallmark holidays like Valentine's Day. That's why I give you this present for Valentine's day from the bottom of the dark and empty pit where my heart would otherwise be:

[Video of "Love Stinks" removed to quieten down the blog again]










How'm I doin'?





Didja believe me?




Not buyin' it huh?




OK, so don't tell, but Superpounce and Mrs. Greyhound are getting Valentine's Day presents after all. They will each receive Pajamagrams with handwritten notes from the man of the house.

Uhm, that's me.

Then of course, there's a further gift that only Mrs. Greyhound will enjoy. The oh-so-smooth silkiness of Greyhound's new legs--sans hair pants. As racing season approaches here in the south, I decided to clean up my act and get smooth again, but not by stealing my wife's razor, like some triathletes. Indeed. Mrs. Greyhound is not down with shaving because of all the pricklies.

So, I went for a manly waxing. My first ever. Maybe my last. We'll see.

Legs only, mind you. I did not invoke the name of Kelly Clarkson even once, and I didn't cry.

Much.

I know, no pictures means it didn't happen, but you'll have to visit Steve in a Speedo if you're that kind of sicko. Believe me, it DID happen.

I hope she likes it . . . when the swelling goes down.