I Believe in God. Not Sure He Approves of Everything I Do.

I believe in God.

Figured I'd get that out of the way before somebody asks how a man who sells his dirty underwear on the internet can believe in the Lord.

I don't know. I just do.

Never said I was a damn preacher.

Grandma Arlene used to drag my ass to church every Sunday. Didn't matter if I wanted to go or not. Didn't matter if I was tired. Didn't matter if I had something else I wanted to do.

Sunday morning meant church.

And if you were living under her roof, you were going.

That woman could hear me trying to sneak back into bed from three rooms away.

"Joseph, get your ass up."

"I'm up."

"Then why ain't I hearing you moving?"

Couldn't get away with a damn thing.

She'd make me put on decent clothes, comb my hair, and sit there through the whole service.

I remember one Sunday I asked her why we had to go every week if God was everywhere.

Seemed like a reasonable question to me.

She told me God might be everywhere, but apparently my ass needed to be in church.

End of discussion.

I spent most of those Sundays thinking about fishing.

And lunch.

Mostly lunch.

---

I haven't been to church in a while.

Not against it. Just haven't gone.

I work all week, and by the time Sunday rolls around, sometimes the last thing I want to do is put on a decent shirt and sit somewhere for an hour.

Half the time I'm lucky if I've got pants on before noon.

But I still talk to God.

Usually when I'm driving.

Sometimes when I'm fishing.

Sometimes when I'm sitting outside with my coffee, wondering how the hell I ended up with a teenage son who thinks he knows everything.

I don't get down on my knees or make a big production out of it.

I just talk.

"Lord, if You could help me get through this day without telling somebody to go fuck themselves, I'd appreciate it."

Some days He helps.

Some days I don't give Him much to work with.

---

Now, I'm sure there's somebody reading this thinking I ought to clean up my act if I'm gonna talk about believing in God.

Maybe.

I've done some stupid shit.

Still do.

I drink beer. I swear. I tell dirty jokes.

I've got a shirt for sale that says "Ask Me About My Wood."

And apparently there are people willing to pay good money for underwear I've already had my ass in.

I don't know what to tell you.

It's a strange world.

I don't remember Grandma covering that particular business opportunity in Sunday school.

I can just picture her finding out.

"Joseph, what are you selling?"

"My underwear."

"Your WHAT?"

"My underwear, Grandma."

"Well, why don't those people go buy their own?"

Fair question.

I don't have a good answer for that one.

She'd probably tell me to wash them first, which would pretty much defeat the whole purpose.

Then she'd ask if I'd eaten.

That's how she was.

---

Here's the thing, though.

I've known people who went to church every Sunday and treated everybody around them like shit the other six days.

I've also known people who couldn't tell you the last time they walked into a church but would stop on the side of the road in the pouring rain to help somebody change a tire.

I ain't saying one cancels out the other.

I'm saying I notice that stuff.

Grandma didn't have much money. She sure as hell didn't have an easy life. But if somebody needed something and she could help, she generally did.

She'd complain about it the whole damn time.

But she'd do it.

I remember her making food for people who were sick. Helping neighbors. Giving somebody vegetables out of her garden.

She wasn't standing there telling everybody what a good Christian woman she was.

She was just doing what needed done.

And then she'd come home and holler at me for leaving the damn door open.

That was my religious education.

---

I've been thinking about this more since I wrote about Grandma the other day.

Maybe because I'm getting older.

Maybe because Tucker's getting older.

Maybe because I spent half the night writing an article about jerking off and now feel like I ought to balance things out a little.

Don't know.

I do know I want Tucker to be a decent man.

I don't particularly care if he grows up to wear the same clothes I wear, vote the same way I vote, or like the same things I like.

I'd appreciate it if he'd quit telling me my shirts look like shit, but that's another conversation.

I want him to keep his word.

I want him to help people when he can.

I want him to know when he's screwed up and have enough balls to admit it.

And I want him to know he can come to me when life goes sideways.

Even if he's done something stupid.

Hell, especially then.

I've got plenty of experience with stupid.

---

I don't know what happens when we die.

I believe there's something after this. I hope there is.

I'd like to see Grandma again.

I'd like to sit down with her and tell her about Tucker. Tell her about the construction business. Tell her some of the things I've gotten into since she's been gone.

Well.

Most of them.

Might leave the underwear business out until we've had a chance to catch up.

I figure when my time comes, me and the Lord are gonna have a few things to discuss.

I'm hoping He starts with the construction work.

Maybe the times I helped somebody. Maybe the times I did right by my boy.

I'd appreciate it if He saved the internet stuff for last.

And if Grandma Arlene's standing there waiting for me, I'm turning my ass around.

Because I already know what she's gonna say.

"Joseph Durst. What in the HELL have you been doing?"

And for once in my life, I might not have a smartass answer.

Joe

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Advice From a Stranger: I Need to Respect Myself More

Got an email this morning from a fella who stumbled across my website.

Said he pushed a few buttons, found some pictures of me that weren't exactly suitable for church, and thought I oughta make them harder to find.

Told me I needed to respect myself.

Then complimented my dick, my eyes, and said fishing sounded fun.

Well hell.

That was a lot to unpack before I'd even finished my coffee.

Now I appreciate somebody looking out for me. I really do.

But here's the thing.

I got plenty of respect for myself.

I work. I take care of my boy. I try to treat people right. I pay my bills and mind my own damn business.

And every now and then I apparently show more of my business than some folks think I ought to.

I'm 43 years old.

I ain't sitting around waiting for somebody to tell me what I'm allowed to do with my own body.

Some people go to church on Sunday. Some people drink beer and watch football. Some people spend their evenings posting pictures of their supper.

I sell my underwear.

We all got hobbies.

And I ain't saying everybody's gotta approve of mine.

You don't have to look at anything you don't wanna look at. That's the beauty of having your own two eyes and a finger that knows how to hit the back button.

But I do find it funny when somebody goes looking through your stuff, finds exactly what they're looking for, and then tells you that you shouldn't have put it there.

He is a good example of what I was talkin about when I wrote about not liking people all of the time.

Buddy, you pushed the buttons.

I didn't come over to your house and hang a picture of my ass on your refrigerator.

Anyway, I wrote the fella back and thanked him for looking out for me.

No hard feelings.

He seemed like a decent enough guy.

And he was right about one thing.

Ain't nothin like fishing.

— Joe

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What Jerking Off Has Taught Me About Self-Control

Well here's something I never thought I'd be writing about.

Jerking off.

But considering I've already told half the damn internet I sell my used underwear, I guess we're past the point of pretending I'm some respectable member of society.

Anyway.

I've been thinking about something.

When I was a younger man, jerking off was pretty straightforward.

Get the job done and get on with whatever the hell I was doing.

Didn't see much reason to complicate things.

I wasn't trying to discover myself. I wasn't looking for some great life lesson.

I was just horny.

Pretty simple.

But somewhere along the way I figured out that being in such a damn hurry to get what you want sometimes takes half the fun out of it.

That's how I discovered edging.

And before somebody asks, no, it doesn't involve a lawn mower.

It's basically learning to slow your ass down instead of always rushing straight to the finish line.

Turns out I've got a pretty impressive amount of patience when I've got the right motivation.

Wish I could say the same thing when I'm standing behind somebody at Walmart trying to figure out how to use the self-checkout.

But I got to thinking about it.

I've spent most of my adult life working construction.

When I was younger, I wanted to get everything done as fast as possible.

Finish the job. Get paid. Move on.

Took me a while to figure out that rushing through shit usually means you're gonna end up doing some of it twice.

Same thing with fishing.

You can sit there getting pissed off because nothing's biting or you can enjoy having a few hours where nobody's bothering the hell out of you.

Sometimes the waiting is part of it.

Apparently that's true for more than fishing.

Who knew?

Now I'm not saying everybody needs to start jerking off for personal development.

Although I suppose there are worse hobbies.

I'm just saying I've learned there's something to be said for not being in such a goddamn hurry all the time.

Sometimes you gotta slow down.

Enjoy yourself.

Quit worrying about getting to the end of everything.

And if you happen to learn a little self-control while you've got your dick in your hand, well hell.

At least you accomplished something today.

Don't know if any of this makes sense.

Started writing about masturbation and somehow ended up talking about construction and fishing.

Probably tells you everything you need to know about me.

Anyway.

That's what jerking off has taught me about self-control.

Grandma Arlene would probably knock me upside the head if she knew I was writing this shit.

And Tucker better not read it.

I've embarrassed that kid enough this week.

See some tools that may help you learn to edge and gain self control.

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I Like People. Just Not All the Damn Time.

I don't know if it's something that happens when you get older or if I've always been this way.

But I like being left the hell alone sometimes.

Don't get me wrong. I like people.

Most people anyway.

I spend all week dealing with customers, suppliers, other contractors and whoever else happens to need something from me.

By the time I get home, sometimes I don't wanna talk to anybody.

I just wanna sit down.

Maybe have a beer.

Maybe go fishing if there's still enough daylight.

Sometimes I'll sit outside for an hour and not do a damn thing.

And I'm perfectly happy doing it.

Tucker doesn't understand that.

He'll ask me what I'm doing.

Nothing.

"Why?"

Because I want to.

Apparently that's not a good enough answer.

Seems like everybody thinks you gotta be doing something all the time anymore.

Going somewhere. Meeting somebody. Making plans.

Hell, I spend five or six days a week doing things I have to do.

Why can't I spend one doing absolutely nothing?

I don't need to be entertained every five minutes either.

I don't even own a TV.

People think that's weird.

Maybe it is.

I got a phone. I got music. I got a fishing pole. Got plenty of shit around the house that needs fixed if I get bored enough.

Usually I don't.

And before somebody tells me I need to get out and meet people, I meet plenty of people.

That's part of the problem.

I just don't need to be around them every waking minute.

Anyway.

It's Saturday night.

I'm sitting here writing this when I could be out doing something.

Think I'm gonna go sit outside for a while.

And do absolutely nothing.

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Everybody Knows a Guy Who Can Do It Cheaper

Been doing construction long enough to know how this conversation usually goes.

Somebody calls me about building a deck.

I go look at it. Take measurements. Figure out what they want. Spend some time putting together a price.

Then comes the part I love.

"My cousin knows a guy who can do it for half that."

Well hell.

Call him.

I'm not saying that to be a smartass either.

If somebody can do the same job for half the money and do it right, you ought to hire him.

But there's usually a reason something costs what it costs.

Lumber ain't free. Neither is gas. Neither is my time.

And I don't know about your cousin's buddy, but I kinda like getting paid for working.

I've had people call me back six months later because the cheaper guy disappeared halfway through the job.

Or the deck looks like something somebody built during a drinking contest.

Then they want me to come fix it.

Which I can usually do.

But now you're paying me to take apart somebody else's bullshit before I can even start doing what you wanted done in the first place.

I don't blame anybody for trying to save money.

Hell, I do it myself.

I just think there's a difference between getting a good deal and getting exactly what you paid for.

And before somebody gets mad, I'm not saying every cheap contractor does bad work.

Some guys do great work and don't charge nearly enough for it.

Usually because they haven't figured out what their time is worth yet.

Took me a while to figure that out myself.

Anyway.

If your cousin's buddy can build that deck for half my price, give him a call.

Just keep my number.

You might need it.

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I Don't Understand Why Everything Needs an App

Maybe I'm just getting old.

Stopped to get coffee the other day and the girl asked if I had their app.

No.

I got five dollars and I want coffee.

Why the hell do I need to download something?

Seems like everything needs an app anymore.

Want a discount on something? Download the app.

Want to park somewhere? Download the app.

Want to order a damn sandwich? Download the app.

Pretty soon I'll need to download something to take a piss.

And don't even get me started on passwords.

I got so many passwords now I don't know what the hell half of them go to.

Then you finally remember the password and they tell you it needs a capital letter, a number, a special character and apparently the blood of your firstborn child.

Tucker thinks this shit is funny.

Kid can figure out anything on a phone in about three seconds.

Meanwhile I'm sitting there trying to remember which email address I used to sign up for something I didn't even want in the first place.

And why does every damn place want my email address?

I'm buying a pair of socks.

You don't need to know where I live, when my birthday is and what I had for breakfast.

Just let me buy the socks.

I know somebody's gonna tell me all this stuff is supposed to make life easier.

Maybe it does.

I just don't understand how needing six different apps to do something I used to do with a twenty-dollar bill is easier.

Anyway.

I'm gonna go make some coffee.

At least the coffee pot doesn't ask me to create an account.

Yet.

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Meet My Grandma

Her name was Arlene.

I've been thinking about her a lot the last couple days.

If you saw what I wrote about the older lady I met at the restaurant the other day, I guess this is her fault.

She helped me read my bill, held my hand for a minute and gave me a cookie before she left.

Wasn't anything big.

But for some reason I kept thinking about it.

Then it finally hit me.

She reminded me of my grandma.

Didn't look like her or anything. It was just the way she did something nice for me and didn't make a big deal about it.

That was kinda how Grandma was.

So this morning I did something I haven't done in years.

I went out to the cemetery.

Took Tucker with me.

Grandma was buried back home in Pennsylvania where she grew up. I've still got family ties up that way and quite a few people I do construction work for. I'm up there pretty regularly.

Had some work to take care of in PA this week anyway, so I took Tucker along. Figured while we were up there we'd go see Grandma.

She died when I was 17 so she never got to meet him. That's bothered me from time to time over the years. With her already being on my mind I figured it was as good a time as any to take him out there.

I'm not really into all that sentimental stuff.

We probably stayed five minutes.

I stood there for a little bit. Tucker took a picture of me by her stone and then we left.

That was it.

But I've still been thinking about her all day.

Just random stuff.

Her cornbread.

Those damn potatoes.

Fishing.

Her yelling at me.

Stuff I haven't thought about in years.

So I figured I'd write some of it down.

I'm not much of a writer so I don't really know where this is going.

My grandma's name was Arlene Durst. She was my dad's mom.

My grandpa died when I was pretty young. I remember him a little bit. Not much. Just little pieces of stuff.

Most of what I remember is Grandma being by herself.

She didn't have much money.

I didn't know that when I was a kid. Or maybe I knew it but didn't really understand what it meant.

Kids don't think about that shit.

I just knew sometimes I'd ask for something and I didn't get it.

I used to ask her to make me a pie.

She'd make cornbread.

I hated that damn cornbread.

Not even sure I really hated the cornbread. I think I was just pissed because I asked for pie and got cornbread.

She made it all the time.

I understand that now.

Cornbread was cheap. She knew how to make it and it filled you up.

Pie cost more money.

Pretty simple when you're 43.

Wasn't so simple when you're a kid and you want pie.

Funny part is I'd give about anything to eat some of that cornbread now.

She grew potatoes too.

A lot of potatoes from what I remember.

She'd make home fries in the morning.

I don't really remember her sitting down and eating breakfast with me much. Maybe she did and I just don't remember it.

Mostly I remember me eating and her doing something.

That woman was always doing something.

Outside. In the garden. Cleaning. Working around the house.

She worked all the damn time.

Probably where I got some of that from.

She could be mean too.

And I'm not gonna pretend she couldn't just because she's dead.

Grandma could be mean as hell.

She'd yell at me. Didn't have much patience. Definitely wasn't interested in hearing me feel sorry for myself.

There were times when I was a kid I wasn't even sure she liked me.

That's the truth.

She wasn't somebody who walked around telling you she loved you all the time either.

At least that's not what I remember.

I don't remember a bunch of hugs and all that stuff.

I remember breakfast.

I remember cornbread.

I remember watching her work.

And I remember fishing.

Grandma was the first person who ever took me fishing.

I don't remember everything about the first time. Wish I did.

I just remember going with her.

Back then it was just fishing.

Never thought about the fact that she had plenty of shit to do at home and she took me anyway.

I still fish all the time.

Never really thought much about the fact that she's probably the reason I started.

Like I said, she died when I was 17.

She never knew me as a grown man.

Never got to see me become a dad.

Never met Tucker.

I guess that's probably why I wanted him to go with me this morning.

Don't know what she would've thought about me now.

She'd probably tell me I need a haircut.

Probably tell me to quit smoking too.

Then she'd find something that needed fixed.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say with all this.

Guess I understand her better now than I did when she was alive.

When I was a kid I thought because she didn't say stuff maybe she didn't care.

Looking back, that was probably pretty stupid.

Nobody gets up and makes breakfast for a kid every morning because they don't care about him.

Nobody takes a kid fishing when they've got a hundred other things they could be doing because they don't care.

Even the damn cornbread makes sense now.

I wanted pie.

She probably couldn't afford pie.

But she could make cornbread.

So she made me cornbread.

Took me a long time to figure some of this stuff out.

Wish I could tell her I finally did.

Didn't mean to write this much.

Anyway.

That's my grandma.

Arlene.

---

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What I Learned From Selling My Underwear on the Internet

I'm 43 years old. I build decks for a living.

I've spent most of my adult life working with lumber, tools, trucks, homeowners and occasionally people who probably shouldn't be allowed to own a tape measure.

Never once did I think I'd add "selling my used underwear on the internet" to the list.

But apparently that's where we're at.

This whole thing started because I made a Facebook page.

Nothing complicated. I posted some pictures, talked some shit, made a few jokes and started talking to people in the comments. Somehow people started following me.

A lot more people than I expected.

Then somebody asked if I'd sell him a pair of my underwear.

I thought he was fucking with me.

Turns out he wasn't.

I don't remember exactly what went through my head, but it was probably something along the lines of, "You wanna pay me HOW MUCH for underwear I've already worn?"

I've done harder jobs for less money.

So I sold them.

Then somebody else wanted a pair.

Then somebody asked about my socks.

That's about the time I realized the internet is a much stranger place than I gave it credit for.

The Underwear Ain't Really What They're Buying

This is the part that surprised me.

You can walk into Walmart and buy brand-new underwear for a hell of a lot less than what somebody paid me for mine.

They're cleaner.

They come in a package.

They haven't spent eight hours underneath a pair of work jeans.

Objectively, they're a much better deal.

But nobody buying mine gives a shit about that.

They're buying them because they're mine.

That was weird for me to understand at first.

These are people who've been following me. They've seen my pictures. They've laughed at something stupid I said. We've probably gone back and forth in the comments.

Somehow an ordinary thing becomes different when there's a person and a story attached to it.

I guess people have always done that.

Somebody will pay $20 for a baseball. Put a famous player's name on it and suddenly it's worth hundreds.

I'm definitely not a famous baseball player.

I'm just a contractor from Tennessee mailing his drawers to strangers.

But apparently the same basic idea applies.

People Like Real More Than Perfect

Something else I've learned from all this is that people seem to be pretty damn tired of perfect.

Perfect pictures.

Perfect houses.

Perfect bodies.

Perfect vacations.

Perfect lives.

Everything online looks like somebody spent three hours getting ready to pretend they weren't trying.

I don't have much interest in doing that.

I'm not a model. I'm not an influencer. Half the time I don't even know what the hell I'm doing with social media.

I work.

I fish.

I screw around.

I say things I probably shouldn't.

Sometimes I look good in a picture and sometimes I look like a guy who's been working outside all damn day.

That's life.

And weirdly enough, I think that's part of why people have stuck around.

They don't expect me to be perfect.

Good thing, because they'd be disappointed as hell.

The Internet Will Humble You

There's also something humbling about realizing strangers know things about you.

You'll mention something once and three days later somebody remembers it.

People notice what shirt you're wearing.

They notice your truck.

They notice your hands.

And apparently some of them notice your underwear.

Especially your underwear.

I'm still getting used to that one.

But I've also met some genuinely funny and decent people through this whole ridiculous experiment.

People I never would've crossed paths with otherwise.

That's probably the part I didn't expect.

I figured social media was mostly people yelling at each other about politics and showing everybody what they ate for dinner.

Turns out sometimes it's just a bunch of strangers laughing together.

I can get behind that.

Never Say "I'd Never Do That"

This might be the biggest thing I've learned.

I've spent plenty of my life saying:

"I'd never do that."

Then life comes along and says, "You sure about that?"

Apparently I'm not.

Would I have told somebody a year ago that I'd have people following me online?

Nope.

Would I have told them I'd make a website?

Hell no.

Would I have told them I'd sit down and write something like this?

Definitely not.

And I sure as hell wouldn't have predicted I'd be standing at the post office trying to figure out how to ship my underwear to somebody.

Yet every one of those things happened.

Maybe getting older is partly realizing you don't have yourself figured out quite as well as you thought you did.

Sometimes something weird comes along.

You can worry about whether it's something you're "supposed" to do.

Or you can laugh and see where the hell it goes.

So that's what I'm doing.

I still build things.

I still fish.

I still drive my truck.

And every once in a while, apparently, I sell my underwear.

Life's weird.

Might as well have a sense of humor about it.

— Joe

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I'm a contractor, a dad, a fisherman and apparently a guy who writes shit on the internet now.

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