Ram-a-lamb-a-ding-dong

Mary had a little lamb,
It's father was a sheep.
This was revenge on Farmer Tom,
Who preferred him to Bo Peep.


.......................................................................Anonymous

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Pocket Pool

I was adjusting my balls the other day when I caught the eye of a very pretty young lady. When I saw she was heading my way, I figured she was looking for an explanation for my boorish behavior so, in the time it took her to cross the bar room and since I had to explain anyway, I figured I had a free one coming. So I reached into my pants and adjusted my balls again.

"Mmmm," she purred. "There must be something good in there."

"Well..." I extemporized, "I, uh, keep my Congressional Medal of Honor on a ribbon around my waist and occasionally the medal gets tangled up with my other junk."

"I see." she said, looking me straight in the eyes.. "I keep a pot of medal polish in a cave in my pants."

"Mmmm," I purred. "Maybe a little spit and elbow grease, too?"

"Mmmm," she replied in my ear.

When I opened my eyes, she and my wallet were gone.

Which got me to thinking about whose hands I'd rather have in my pockets...



SONNET #43, FROM THE POLISH

With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the height and narrowness and depth
My arm can reach, when feeling for the remote
Under the cushions and end tables of life.
I love thee to the length of my arm
During my quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right (or Left);
I love thee purely, as they turn from prying eyes.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old briefs, and with my childhood's hands.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my tight jeans---I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after dark.

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Open Containers

I have always been a little squeamish around women during live childbirth and other open containers. That is why I'm a pretty good cook. I had to learn how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch... because I can't stand to look into an open jar of Prego.

A while back, while I was on the lecture circuit, I found myself sharing a taxi with a decidedly pregnant young woman.

I was sitting at a traffic light listening to the cabbie's music; it was either a cat being disemboweled in some cave in Afghanistan or someone who could not carry a tune on the bagpipes. From the turban on the driver, I'd say it was the former. Just when I had checked to see if my ears were bleeding for the third time, the back door opened and a pretty face said, "Do you mind?"

"It's not my music." I replied.

"No. I mean... do you mind if we share a cab?" The pretty, young woman asked.

"Oh." I sat a little straighter for some reason. "Please, be my guest."

She handed me a little suitcase, backed awkwardly into the seat, and it wasn't until she had turned her legs so that she was sitting forward that I realized she was very pregnant. I don't know why but I am always slightly embarrassed when encountering a pregnant woman. Maybe it's because she is a total stranger and I am suddenly forced to share very intimate details of her life. It is as if she were wearing a sign around her neck that declares "I AM SEXUALLY ACTIVE". I wonder if pregnant women feel that way around their parents?

The cabbie looked over his shoulder and the pre-natal nymph asked to go to the hospital. "And hurry!" she added.

"But I was going the other way." I protested.

"Not any more." said the cabbie with a lilting yet somehow ironic accent.

As I settled back, the strange suitcase on my lap, I closed my eyes and found myself wishing the smells of cooked camel, incense, and body odor would go away and just let me listen to the Suicidal Sitars or whatever they called themselves. It wasn't to be.

I suddenly found my right arm in a vice-like grip. "Hey!" I said ineffectually. I turned to my seat mate and saw that her face had gone white and that she was gripping my arm and, with her other hand, the door's armrest with equal fervor. Suddenly the armrest broke from the door. I looked fearfully at my helpless arm and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Could you ask him to change the channel?" she squeezed out between gasps of pain. As I leaned forward to say something to the cabbie she tightened her death grip on my arm and said, "I'm kidding, you idiot. In case you haven't noticed, I'm in labor."

Except for one final item, that was the last funny thing that happened in that car. All I remember is the woman wailing in pain, then moaning, then stiffening, then a lot of heavy breathing, then some name calling, then more wailing, then more heavy breathing... and sweating... and moaning... and... Say, isn't that how she got into this condition?

Anyway, there was a point during the birthing ceremony, of which I found myself high priest de facto, while she was laying flat on the seat, my back door was open (her panties were on the floor of the taxi) and I was leaning in between her opened legs, trying to get a better view, when a policeman walked up behind me and asked, "How far apart are they?"

"About 90 degrees," I said without pausing. "...this seat back won't let them go any wider."

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The Comedy Nominator

I saw today that Barack Obama renominated Ben Bernanke as Chairman of the Federal Reserve. This is the guy who, since he has been chairman, has overseen the worst economy since the Great Depression and the worst deficit since the necessary spending during World War II.

This nomination came from the same president who campaigned against deficit spending and has claimed that any new spending must be paid for with either budget savings or new taxes... and has recently promoted the idea that the only way to save our economy is to go several more trillion dollars in debt by socializing our health care system.

And today the White House Budget Office has projected a 9 trillion dollar deficit over the next ten years.

Good job, Mr. President.

Maybe you should nominate Dr. Jack Kevorkian as Surgeon General while you are at.

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Bedtime for Bonzo

Sleeping has always been a chore for me. It probably started while I was a traveling salesman for a large metropolitan ink company. I spent seventeen years of my life in four different motels a week. One of my quirks is that I don't sleep well in a strange bed.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Do they make the holes in Cheerios with a smaller version of the tool they use to make donut holes? And is there some kind of hardening process that turns the Cheerio holes into Grapenuts? Those are both interesting questions but, please, pay attention.

Occasionally, I'd be lucky enough to get the same motel two nights in a row. That was when I found out that I could usually get to sleep the second night. I guess I just had to get used to the hardness of the bed... the extra flat pillows (one was not enough but two were too thick)... the light seeping in from the curtains that never completely closed... the drip in the sink or the toilet that ran all night... that unrecognizable smell or, worse yet, that recognizable smell... the sounds in the halls... the sounds in the next room... then again twenty minutes later (really?)... The big diesel truck in the parking lot that somebody left running all night (like, who forgets something like that?)... the - well you get the idea.

But I would spend four nights a week in four different motels and by the time I got home to my own bed it was a strange bed, too, and it usually wasn't until Saturday that I would get a good night's sleep. When little kids don't get enough sleep they get cranky. When adults don't get enough sleep they get to do the chores that have been piling up all week while they were gone.

Then I developed insomnia.

I literally went several years only sleeping one hour a night. I tried everything. I went to bed earlier... I went to bed later... I cut out caffeine after 6 PM... I ate lighter... I ate heavier... I tried to read myself to sleep but I can't sleep with a light on and I can't read in the dark... I tried laying on my back... then my left side... then my right side... then my stomach... then my left side... then my right side... then my back... then I had to get back up to straighten the covers... I tried sleeping with and without covers... then just the sheet... then with and without pajamas... then I did the cover thing with and without pajamas... then without the pajamas, without the covers, with the drapes open...

And that's how I found out I can't sleep in jail cells either.

While I was in jail I met a guy named Dooley. He was a chronic masturbater. He was always being locked up for that. (Apparently that's another thing you can't do in a school zone) And it seems that the guys in the others cells, though initially amused, eventually complained because it was affecting their sleep, as well. So the jailer hooked the guy up with some manacles and chains, arranged to keep Dooley's hands away from his crotch. Now Dooley was determined and, in his sex starved brain, thought he could woo the chains into being just a little bit longer. He would whisper promises to them... he would flatter them... he would tell lies to them... he would accuse them of being longer for shorter guys.

He even named them. The one that clinked around a lot he names Margie. And the fat, black one was Jasmine. (I think they were two of his ex-wives).

I was only in the slammer for one night but I still Tweet with several of the dealers I met there. Nice guys. They tell me that one day Dooley stopped talking to the chains. Later, when he was allowed to take a shower he just rubbed it long enough to get it clean. After he was released he was never arrested for jerking off in public again. In fact, they told me that Dooley became a politician and is now only jerking other people off.

But I digress.

Recently, I decided to start sleeping on the passenger side of my bed. I have a pillow top mattress that cannot be flipped over and where I usually sleep has gone from a shallow groove to a dip to, now, I have trouble rolling out of it in the morning. I have to get up on my elbows to see what time it is in the middle of the night. So I decided to move to the high ground on the other side of the bed.

Do you have any idea how hard it is for a left handed, anal retentive, insomniac to learn to sleep on the wrong side of the bed? I have to remember to look the other way to see what time it is... I have to hold my pills in my right hand and drink from my left... if I get to sleep, I have to remember to, unconsciously, sprawl the other direction... My ceiling fan is not centered over my bed and now the air flow is all wrong... the light seeping in from the kitchen window is at the wrong angle and now all of the shadows really do look like people...

Sometimes I miss the sound of someone breathing gently next to me... a soft snore interrupted by a warm body turning slightly during peaceful sleep... and sometimes, every now and then, on a warm summer evening, I even miss the sounds of Dooley cranking one out.

Man, I wish I could sleep.

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The preceding story was based upon actual internet rumors. Only the chains have been named.
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But... there must be some mistake!

SCREEEEEEEECH!!!! That is the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. By the way, do they still have chalk boards? I can see how O.S.H.A. may have banned them; what with the dust and all. What would that be called: White Lung Disease?

But I digress.

One of the things that annoys me more than fingernails on a chalkboard or stream of consciousness digressions is stupidly written headlines. I know they try to convey as much information in as few words as possible, and that sometimes they try to be cutesy with the wording but, damn it, at least get the big idea right!

A current example came in today's batch of internet headlines:

Retail Sales are Down, But Inflation Expected to Remain Low

My problem with this particular headline is the "but". People don't normally raise prices on things they can't sell. The word "but" is supposed to be used to introduce a contrasting thought to the discussion. Such as "Her eyes were huge but her butt was bigger". But in today's example, low sales and low inflation are complimentary ideas. Such as "Her breasts were magnificent".

A lot of blog writers get almost all of their daily information from a quick scan of the headlines. If headline writers don't start using words correctly, what will happen to all of the pinheads who only read blogs for their info?

Before long people will begin believing all kinds of crazy things. Ideas like, that the better than 50% of the people opposed to Health Care Reform aren't representative of America. It might even force elected officials like Arlen Specter to actually look "representative" up in a dictionary. Maybe the headline writers will get a kick out of how the people who don't represent America used the poll booth to tell Specter and his colleagues that they weren't representing America.

It might read something like:

Government Take Over Defeated, But Democracy Wins



But I digress.

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Providentially Speaking

Rhode Island is closer to changing the state's name over slavery. The country's smallest state has the longest official name: "State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations."

A push to drop "Providence Plantations" from that name advanced farther than ever on Thursday when House lawmakers voted 70-3 to let residents decide whether to shorten the state's name. It's an encouraging sign for those who believe the formal name conjures up images of slavery.

Opponents to the bill think the new name: "State of Rhode Island and..." would just be silly. One high ranking state official was quoted as saying, "Just removing "Providence Plantations" is not enough. Obviously we have more work to do."

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Small Talk

I was on the deck, outside the resort's dance hall, this weekend. A light drizzle was pattering off the leaves of some nearby trees but the breeze was still warm. Through the double doors into the club I could see several dozen couples swaying to Etta James' At Last.

Davey walked out, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. I flicked open my Zippo and lit it for him.

"Where's your girl?" I asked, looking past him at a tight little behind I hadn't noticed before.

"Oh... we, uh, broke up." He said quietly.

"Really? I thought she was a keeper."

"Well, we had a communication problem. I mean, I couldn't say anything without her misunderstanding me."

"Maybe you mumble." I suggested.

"I don't mumble." he said.

"What?"

"I said I don't... Ah, shut up Johnny."

"Jeeze," I replied. "Maybe that's why she left you."

"She didn't leave me, I left her!"

" 'Cause I heard you don't communicate so good. You know what I mean?"

Davey just stared at me for a couple of heartbeats. Then he continued his story. "A good example of her not understanding me was our last phone conversation."

Go ahead, I nodded telepathically.

"I swear, she was like Gracie Allen. We were going 'round and 'round about something when, finally, I'd had enough. So I said to her, 'Listen, we're breaking up.' She was quiet for a second or two and then she said real loud, 'Can you hear me NOW?' "

When we both stopped laughing, he flicked his butt over the rail and into a puddle. The song inside had changed and he said, "Later." and went in.

A moment after that, Frank walked out. Frank is a day trader and is always talking finances. "I think my ARM is getting ready to readjust." he said morosely.

"Have you tried using shorter strokes?" I asked.

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Click to Enlarge

The Interweb made me laugh this morning. I was having my morning cup of coffee, looking at my Daily 5 on Match.com. These are the sweet things that The Great and Powerful Oz (the man behind the curtain) chooses for me each night while I am sleeping.

Today's batch was entertaining.

First there was the lady with NO baggage at all. It seems that she was jilted by a fellow from Easton, PA, who is a former Marine, a control freak, and who takes his gifts back when he leaves. She claims she spent too much time on this jerk and was warning the other ladies that "he's out there." My guess is that, by now, about 25% of the women are breaking up with their former marine boyfriends, 17% are breaking up with their control freak boyfriends, 12% are hiding their gifts, and the rest are looking for this guy's profile, convinced that they can change him.

Next, it is very rare for my Daily 5 to not include some blind dates. These are women who have chosen not to post a picture. These women are problematic to me. Now, I would like to think that I am not so superficial that looks are everything. In fact, I even talked to one of the Blond Bombshells about this and she said she wasn't posting her pictures in order to weed out the shallow jerks. When I asked her how that was working out, she started to describe some of the losers who showed up: a) because they had not posted a picture either b) because if they had posted a picture they would have never gotten a date with my friend and c) because they made dates with girls without pictures figuring they couldn't get any of the girls who were "pretty enough" to post a picture. My friend now post pictures.

Another problem with the ladies who don't post pictures is their profiles. Every now and then, one of them will list "skinny dipping" as a turn on. This suits me fine because I live at a nudist resort. And, quite honestly, where I live tends to weed out a number of potential dates. So, running across a profile that calls skinny dipping a turn on usually catches my eye.

Unfortunately, a blind date at a nudist resort is like a thousand times worse than a blind date at the local diner. To get here my date has to pass through a security check point, then register at the office, where my name is announced over the loudspeaker to come to the office to meet my guest, and then I have to run the gauntlet of questions as I walk to the office. Not exactly a secret process. Then, if we don't hit it off, it's not a quick cup of coffee, a piece of pie and a "see you later." It is pretty much of a commitment and by that point she is "meeting my friends." Which I think is the modern equivalent of meeting the family back in the pre-war days.

So, I usually skip over the ones with no picture posted.

Today, I was given four choices in my Daily 5. I figure that either means that out of about 750,000,000 gazillion women, The Great and Powerful Oz could only find four to match my unique criteria or one of the four were, like, DOUBLE good.

I didn't have to look far to find the double good one... and she wasn't twins... although, how cool would that be? She did, however, look like she weighed about the same as two large twins... after a big meal... say if they ate another set of twins.

But the thing that cracked me up this morning was the little hyperlink under her photo that said: Click to Enlarge. My first thought was that I would need a bigger monitor. Then I wondered if it would be a satellite picture? Then I began wondering how many other people have already clicked on her and if that was her problem? Which all seems a little unfair.

It is unfair that the first girl had so much baggage and no destination.

It is unfair to the ex-marine with gifts to give.

It is unfair to the poor girls without photos who are going to miss out on all the men with discernment.

It is unfair to the poor girl who has Clicking Causes Enlargement Syndrome.

It is unfair to the poor guys who have to download Google Earth to view the Double Mint Twin.

And it is unfair to me. How can they only give me four choices for my Daily 5?

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The Death Car

When I was about five or six years old, I saw something horrible. We lived in Rocky River, Ohio at the time. It was probably late in 1957. Back when kids walked everywhere.

My brother, Frankie, 5 years my senior, and I were walking across the bridge into Cleveland to go see the Saturday matinee at one of the old movie houses. If I am remembering my time frame correctly, my mother was probably pregnant with my sister, Susan, and my dad was working, making hand poured peanut brittle in a little candy shop in downtown Cleveland.

I have seen pictures of myself from that time and, I swear to God, I looked like Beaver Cleaver and Frankie looked like Wally. So, in my mind's eye, I sort of picture that day as Frankie walking slightly ahead of me, wanting to get to the movie and me lagging behind, goofing around. I was probably bouncing a ball or kicking a stone or something. Or walking in a lurching gait, one foot on the sidewalk the other in the gutter. Sort of bouncing with every other step. I can almost hear the Toy Parade playing in the background.

As we came around a slight curve on the bridge, we could tell there was something going on up ahead. At first, our view was blocked by several cars parked on our side of the road. As we got closer, there were several men and women standing around an old dark green coupe from the late forties, doing that kind of out loud whispering reserved for funeral homes or adult talk after the kids were in bed.

I heard words like, "all dead", "drunk", "blood everywhere", and "middle of the night". My brother and I were able to walk up to the car pretty much unnoticed. The first thing I remember was that the front wheel was up on the sidewalk, the white wall tire was flat. As we made our way around the front fender I could see splotches of blood(?) on the inside of the split windshield. The side windows were rolled down and I could see more blood on the cloth upholstery. There were several empty bottles on the seats.

But the thing I will never forget was the smell. I know that I have never smelled that exact combination of odors since then, but when I concentrate on it, I can recall them clearly. It was a mix of some kind of cheap but strong booze, blood, perfume and burnt rubber or hot engine or something. Every now and then, I will get a strong whiff of just one of those scents and it is enough to send me back to that morning.

The other thing was the unreasoning fear that I felt. I knew that something very wrong and bad had happened. And that maybe it would somehow follow me home. When I started to cry, Frankie took me by the hand and pulled me away from the smell and the whispering people.

I don't remember if we went on to see the movie that day or not. And I don't remember talking to my parents about what I had seen. Maybe my brother did. I never found out what happened in that car, either. Was it somehow a drunken party gone horribly wrong? Was it a mob hit? A jealous spouse? An accident? And where were the police? And the bodies? Did anyone survive? I never found out any of that stuff.

I was just a kid and nobody talked to kids back then. But what I saw on the bridge that day had an affect on my life. It introduced me to a part of life I had never known about. A place where even adults can get into trouble. Where fun can become dangerous. And a knowledge that, just outside my bedroom window, things were going on... in the dark.

It's funny not being able to forget something I knew so little about. All I ever really knew for sure was that something very wrong and bad had happened and, as I had feared, it had somehow followed me home.

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