Confessions of a Peyton Manning Forehead

I have a confession to make. I've been trying to keep this secret safe for a long time, but after years of living neck deep in denial I can't take it anymore. I have to tell someone. And that someone is you, cyberspace...

I have a Peyton Manning forehead. You heard me. A huge, sky-scraping, Peyton Manning forehead. In case you don't know who Peyton Manning is, he's the most biggest and bestest football quarterback in Colts history. He also has a forehead the size of several Great lakes. Here's a picture of Peyton and his obnoxiously large drive-in movie theater noggin:

Man look at that thing. It's so big that I can't handle it. I've tried to cover up my Peyton Manning forehead with shaggy hair and bowl cuts in the past, but they've done very little to stop it's protruding ways. It's like the top of my head de-evolved a couple thousand years without my permission. I've always been self-conscious of it but it also gives me a small amount of pride. Why? Because a bi-product of this genetic marvel is the ability to give a pretty devastating head-butt. I take comfort in the fact that if it ever comes down to fisticuffs my opponent will receive a face full of dome before they even notice how freakishly large it is. The overhanging brow of my cascading cranium also provides much needed shade for my sensitive eyes. Is my forehead disproportionately large? Yes. Do I feel a little embarrassed special ordering XL hats? Yes. Will it save my life someday? Probably.


When I was waiting for the #26 bus this morning, I felt a tightening in my I went through my mental check list. No nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, or was something else. After my initial research I deduced that it was a fart. And not just any fart. By the speed at which my stomach tightened (along with the fact that I ate Wendys the night before) I knew it was going to be a hot, meaty, putrid fart. A ghastly air biscuit who's smell would be on par with a really old zombie dying then taking a dump after it died. I looked around the bus stop. The gentle roar of passing traffic provided noise cancellation and a stiff tailwind was ready to steer my rancid bottom burp into no man's land. Conditions were ideal. I smiled a little as it came out. Sweet guilt-free freedom.

Win the day, or Rue it?

Will this blog be a winner, a champ, a contender? Will it win the day and receive praise along with a pack of American Spirits? Probably not...but a blog can dream can't it? A dream blog is a god-given right. A right to BE right...or is it write?