Mixed Signals

I was driving on the perimeter road around our local mall, today, and came to a stop sign. Mounted under the traditional red, octagonal sign was another sign that read - 15 MPH. On the same sign post!

My first thought was make up your mind.

My second thought was which one should I obey?

My third thought was I'd love to hear this one played out in traffic court.

My fourth thought was about sex in order to fulfill my Guy Contract that states that all men think about sex every 37.2 seconds.

But back to the confusing signpost. What was I to make of this sign? Was I to come to a complete stop, then slightly floor it? Or, was I to consider 15 MPH as having fulfilled my complete stop obligation?

And what about the cars around me? Were they all going to make the same decision I was expected to? Which, I still had to wonder, was what exactly?

Was my decision to be based on traffic conditions? Such as how you can make a right turn on red? Or was it more like the Motor Voter laws, which I assumed allowed drive through voting? I took my driving test over 40 years ago and I am pretty sure a lot of things have changed. Like how it's O.K. for illegal aliens to drive without a license and have no I.D. but upstanding Americans better have their shit together.

Then I thought that maybe the confusing signpost was a prank. Then I got paranoid and thought maybe they made it purposely vague so that they could pull you over no matter what you did. Instant probable cause.

So what did I do? Well, just before the intersection was the entrance to a McDonalds. I turned right, pulled in there, circled the building and parked facing the access road. After observing the situation for several minutes, I saw many cars slow down and stop before proceeding safely on. I also saw a number of cars slow slightly and continue through the intersection. They weren't any freaking help at all!

So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I turned left out of McDonalds and went three quarters of the way around the mall in the wrong direction to avoid the intersection.

I can assure you, this is not over. I plan on sending a strongly worded letter to the Mall Management Office.

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The Hanging Tree

Ever since I have moved, I have a different view from my back deck. It took me a while to come to terms with this unintended consequence but I pride myself on my ability to adapt. That being said, I have in my back yard what can only be described as a hanging tree. It is a fifty foot tall oak with a large horizontal branch about fifteen feet up. Often times, late in the afternoon, I will sit on my deck, sipping the major export of Scotland while enjoying a fine Dominican cigar. I like to contemplate how people in different parts of the world are toiling away at their tedious little lives so that I can while away a pleasant summer evening. I also, on occasion, think about the hanging tree.

I can picture a cowboy, on horseback, throwing a noosed rope over the branch and tying the other end off to a nearby tree. I can see three more horses moving through the cornfield, slowly approaching the tree. As I hold this mental image I lean back in my deck chair and I hear it creak slightly under my weight...


... the worn leather creaked slightly as I involuntarily leaned back in my saddle, away from the dangling noose. "You boys aren't serious about this, are you?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

"Serious as blisters, Johnny."

As Jubal moved his horse closer to me, he reached for the dangling noose and my horse skittered sideways, away from the sudden movement. I saw this as probably my only chance to do anything before they got that rope around my neck. Since my hands were tied behind my back, I reared back, grabbing onto the back edge of my saddle for better balance and brought my leg up to try to kick Jubal from his mount.

But Doc was behind me, grabbing a bunch of my shirt at the nape of my neck and jammed the barrel of his .44 under my jawline. "This ain't our first rodeo. Now settle down." he whispered in my ear. My horse was jumpy but was boxed in by the others and calmed down. As if obeying Doc's command.

Jubal snatched my hat from my head, tossing it to Lucas. "Luke, you need a hat?"

The hat hit Lucas' shoulder and fell to the ground. His eyes were hidden in shadow beneath the brim of his range hat. His mouth was an angry slash across the bottom half of his face. Sitting motionless in his saddle, he let his eyes roam the treeline, looking for intruders. "Get on with it." he finally responded, ignoring my hat on the ground.

With a quick movement, Jubal looped the noose over my bare head and his gloved hands tightened the knot, cinching the rough hemp against my throat. "Now if this here were a proper hangin'," he explained, "with a gallows and all, you would drop down and your weight would snap your neck and it would all be over real quick like." Jubal always did like the sound of his own voice. "But... we don't have no fancy gallows. All we got is this here hangin' tree. So when we whack your pony here, he's going to ride off without you and you're just going to dangle like and then you're going to slowly strangle and you're feet'll kick and you'll try'in use your arms but they'll be tied behind yer back and for a little bit you'll look like yer dancin' on air. Then the fight'll go outta you. But you still won't be dead. You're face'll turn red and then it'll turn purple. Yer eyes'll bug out and yer lungs'll feel like they're gonna bust. But still you won't be dead. You'll just be hanging there all still like but yer brain'll still be workin'."

He reached up and tilted his hat back with his thumb and grinned his tobacco stained teeth at me. "Hell, if'n I keep the noose loose enough, you might swing fer half an hour before you die." He looked around to Doc and Lucas. "Ain't that right, boys?"

Lucas scratch a match on his britches and slowly lit a cheroot. Then he growled again, "Get on with it!"

I wanted to reason with them. But the noose was so tight I could only manage an inarticulate croak. Now I began to desperately scan the treeline. Hoping for help... for someone to stop this insanity. Hoping for anything to give me more time. The day was cool for this time of year but my shirt was soaked with my own sweat. I twisted to the left to look at Jubal and to the right to see what Doc was doing. Lucas' horse huffed and I twisted that direction.

This couldn't be happening! What the hell had I done that was so wrong, anyway? Jubal moved away to sit next to Lucas. I twisted desperately around to see what Doc was doing. While I was distracted, Lucas drew his pistol and fired into the air, spooking my horse. He reared up and for just a moment I teetered on the edge of eternity, my weight still in the saddle, my booted feet trying to grip the metal stirrups through the leather soles, my toes curling in vain. Then the horse was galloping off through the cornfield as I looked on in surprise and shock...


"What are you thinking about?" she asked from the other side of the table.

"Huh?" I asked, coming back to reality.

"What are you thinking about? You had a funny look on your face."

"Oh... nothing really. I was just wondering how old that tree was."

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Guys and Dolls

I saw a guy in drag the other day. Heeshee was waiting in line at the Walmart pharmacy. My first thought was, I wonder what Heeshee has caught. Then I wondered what Heeshee was spreading. Then, the salesman in me wondered who made ladies shoes in that size and if there was much of a market for them.

So I walked past this human side show in my never ending quest for Buckwheats cereal. It was discontinued sometime in the mid 70's and I keep hoping they'll bring it back. I really liked that cereal.

Later I saw the hopelessly confused dragmeister in the produce isle inspecting the cucumbers and carrots. Then, I made a mental note to stick to the Dole's Very Veggie Mix and leave the tubers to the professionals. While I was ruminating, Heeshee was joined by two other members of the Boys are Girls Club of America. Then I began wondering how you pee standing up if you are wearing pantyhose.

After a moment, I noticed them notice me noticing them. Not wanting to be known as the guy who was forced into white slavery by three angry men in dresses, I pushed my shopping cart on past them. But not before I nodded politely and said, "Gentlemen."

Which brings me to the actual meat of this story. I have a lady friend who absolutely hates to be called a guy. At first blush, you wouldn't think this would be much of a problem. She is curvy, and soft, and pink, and... and... you'd never mistake her, in a million years, for a guy. But if she is in a room of men and women and someone comes in and addresses them as, "Hi guys!", she will immediately say, "I'm not a guy."

Which brings me back to the trans-sexuals. Just as my lady friend is adamant about her sexual identity, these misfits if science are insisting on new categories. What was considered sick and perverse just 50 years ago (shortly before Buckwheats mysteriously disappeared), is now mainstream.

But morality aside, I was wondering about something else. By my last count (I'm making these numbers up) there are cataloged 73 separate, distinct sexual positions and, according to the new government health laws, there are seven, legally recognized, sexual gender categories. So I'm wondering two things: A) Why seven? With two original sexes, and all of the slice and dice variations, wouldn't you think it would always end up with an even number? And 3) Are the 73 separate and distinct sexual positions factoring in the seven legally recognized, sexual gender categories or do they now become a multiplier? Making it 511 possible sexual positions.

I, personally, have only ever completely mastered four of them. Well, five if you want to count that thing with the cat.

I guess what I am saying is that that is way too much sex for just seven, legally recognized, sexual gender categories. When does anybody get any work done? Maybe the recession has hit at a good time for America, sexually speaking. What with all the enforced free time, and all. It gives more people time to explore their sexuality and question their gender choices. Maybe this was the CHANGE everybody voted for in the last election.

One of the interns here at the International Escape Velocity Headquarters was just giving me a neck rub and was reading over my shoulder when she asked, "Did you ever think that you're not secure in your own masculinity?" Which got me to thinking. Maybe that's my lady friend's "guy" problem. As pretty, and sexy, and lovely, and curvy, and pink as she is... maybe she's not secure in her femininity. Maybe she has some trans-gender leaning that she is secretly ashamed of and, therefore, for the sake of her own psyche she has an overwhelming need to point out to everyone who will listen that she is "not a guy".




Which brings me back to the guy in drag at Walmart. I mean, it's not like I don't have empathy for the poor miserable slob. Because I, myself, am a man who very much wants to be in the body of a woman... I just want to get in there the traditional way.

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Another Spring Forward

The Creepy Funeral Guy Story

So, the Brown-haired Beauty and I were canoodling on her couch the other day when she made an astounding observation. "You have a smart ass comment for everything, don't you?"

"Not to that I don't," I replied. All forward shields at maximum.

"No... but I can tell you're thinking of one."

"Or three," I answered honestly.

"I'm not criticizing you." she elaborated. "Sometimes you're almost entertaining."

"Gee... I..."

"Gotcha!" she laughed. "But really, you do seem to have a pretty funny punch line for everything."

"It's my super-power," I admitted. "I was bitten by a radioactive bed-bug while on a school field trip. Now I have the proportionate craziness of one."

"Well, I have a story that doesn't have a funny punch line." she said. "And I doubt even you will be able to come up with one."

"Oh. A challenge."

"Let's make it a bet. Winner chooses the prize."

"You're on." I said with out hesitation.

"O.K., but you have to make me really laugh."

"No problem."

She settled back against the leather cushions of the couch and began her story:

"I was thirty years old at the time. It was late in the year and my mother had died several weeks earlier. It was her desire to have her body left to science."

"Which science," I asked, "astronomy?"

"No, and that doesn't count. I'm not done with the story."

"Sorry. I was just warming up."

"Anyway, when a person leaves their body to science, the body is still handled by the funeral home on it's way to the university or medical school. The funeral home charges $400 for transportation and doing the paperwork.

"I was sitting at work several weeks after my mother died when I got a phone call from the funeral home. The man on the phone told me that they had some documentation that needed to be returned to me and that they normally mail it out, but he said he was going to be near my work address and he wanted to know if he could drop it off in person. I said O.K. and we set a time.

"Later on I got a call that there was someone to see me in the lobby. When I got there I met a kind of creepy older guy in a dark suit. He was going bald, had a scraggly mustache and brown, crooked teeth. And dandruff. He introduced himself and instead of just handing me the papers and leaving, he just kept talking in a raspy smokers voice. He just wouldn't stop.

"Finally, I interrupted long enough to tell him I had to get back. He looked a little hurt or put out or something and then he asked, "Look, I've really enjoyed meeting you and since it's kind of the holidays, I was wondering if you'd give me a kiss." My first thought was, "Ewww!" Then I thought how horrible it was that this creepy jerk was trying to take advantage of me during my time of grief.

"I'm not really sure what I said. I guess I mumbled some kind of excuse, clutched the papers to my chest and hurried from the lobby.

The Brown-haired Beauty sat there on the couch for a minute obviously reliving the revulsion of that moment. Then she looked up and met my steady gaze. "Well?"

"Well," I repeated, "If I were you I would have told him "Gee, we just met. Maybe we should wait a little longer. Why don't we wait until my father dies?" "



I won't tell you what my prize was. Let's just say I wasn't treated like a creepy funeral director.


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...Mouths of Babes...

Get your minds out of the gutter. The blog title refers to a Biblical quote that is often misunderstood to mean that "out of the mouths of babes (children)" comes wisdom. Regardless of the original intent, the inference remains.

I had occasion to return to my home town after many years absence and was surprised at my reaction and my welcome. I left Butler in the very early '80's and occasionally returned for the odd holiday or wedding or funeral. This was the first time I had been back since my divorce.

I admit to having had some trepidation about returning. It had been, by my reckoning, about 7 or 8 years since my last visit. During that time I lost my job, had to retire for health reasons, lost my home, and eventually lost my wife. Not exactly the stuff of a "Hail the conquering hero" homecoming. Quite frankly, I was too embarrassed to return home.

But, for some reason, I was in the right frame of mind when I received an invitation to my niece Stephanie's wedding. So I accepted.

When I got to my sister's house I was welcomed with open arms. Nobody asked me a lot of awkward questions and, more than anything, I was happy to be there. I had fun with my nieces and nephews and I honestly think they had fun with me. It was a beautiful wedding and a really fun reception. I got to reconnect with cousins and old friends that I hadn't seen in too many years.

And then I was introduced to the granddaughter of my second cousin. She was only 5 or 6 years old but we had a very memorable conversation. I had stopped, during the reception, to ask her if she was having fun. She said "uh huh" then asked me a question.

"Why don't you live here anymore?"

I thought about it a second and answered, "Well, I moved away because of my job."

"Do you still have that job?" she asked.

"No." I replied. "No. I don't"

"So why don't you live here now?" she asked.

I looked around the room at my sister and my extended family and said, "I really don't know, honey. I really don't know"

During the non-wedding related time of my trip, I had had occasion to wander around Butler county and visit my old haunts. I went past the house I grew up in, and the grade school I went to (now an apartment building). I drove past my old junior and senior high schools... through several neighborhoods where we had lived and began raising our children... past churches we used to attend... and past a number of old girlfriend's houses.

Many things had changed but many remained virtually the same. But the most important thing that had remained the same was the friendship of old friends, the closeness of community and the love of and for my family. Some things never change.

So why was I living close to 300 miles away from my home and family? At first I would have said I was following my career. But I'm retired, now. Then I would have said I was raising my family. But the boys are raising their own families in Ohio and Texas. Next I would have said that this is where my wife works and has her career. But we are divorced. So why am I still here?

My number one reason for remaining here has been the friendships I've made. I have met some truly wonderful, interesting and fun people over the past decade. Some of whom I will never forget and others that I expect will remain my friends wherever I may go.

But in another sense, I feel that, though I have washed up on the shores of a seemingly tropical paradise, like Robinson Crusoe, my soul longs for home. I have been marking time, trying to figure out what is next.

And I really did not know what that might be until a little girl asked me, "Why don't you live here anymore?" When she asked me that, I did not know how to answer her. Now I do.

I have a lot of logistics to work out, but screw Tom Wolfe, I'm going home.

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Mixed Metaphors

I write my own jokes. Some might even call it humor. I like to attribute it to my smart-ass gene. I've been told that I get this from my great, great, grand step- uncle Tex Bonus. Or maybe it was my uncle's niece on my mother's side, Daisy, the Grand Duchess of Portland, Maine. No one really knows.

A lot of people (3) have asked me where I get my ideas. I usually reply, "I dunno. Maybe it was something I ate."

More than likely, I'm just repeating the shit I hear the voices say.

Over the past several months, a lot of my friends (6) have heard me say the following snippets. I call them snippets because "one liners" doesn't apply. (Mostly because they're more than one line.)

There is one good thing I have to say about my ex-wife - she was into anal. No matter how clean I wanted the house, she'd go along with it.

I read that Pillsbury just bought the Trojan company. Their first new product is a self rising condom.

Politics is one of the few endeavors to allow us Absolute Certainty with Virtually No Information… …Religion and Meteorology are the other two.

I was wondering, if AA has a 12 step program, does AAA have an 18 step program?

You know how high heels can tighten a girl's calves and make her ass look great? Well, I once saw a lady who was so ugly her ass made her shoes look bad.

A lot of people think only tight, hard bodies go to nudist resorts. Actually, a lot of women go because they can't go to regular beaches. I mean, where would they even find a 10 piece bikini?

The other day a friend told me she bought a puppy on the internet. I just stared at her a second, then said, "Wow. What kind of printer do you have?

Several years ago I got a hot tub for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made.

Mommy, what's a mixed metaphor? Your daddy is. Why, Mommy? Because he is hung like Einstein and is as smart as a horse.

So that's what a metaphor is!

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You Are Here

I was strolling through the mall with the Blond Bombshell the other day when I decided to test the degree of her blondness. As we approached one if the big maps I said, "I want to show you something."

We stood gazing at the map for a few moments when she squealed, "Oh, look! They have a Claire's Boutique!" The squeal was accompanied by a squeeze of my hand.

"Yeah, that's great. We'll go there in a little bit." I said somewhat distractedly. "But first I want you to look at something."

She stood there looking at the map a few more seconds and finally asked, "What?"

"See the red dot that says -YOU ARE HERE-?"

"Yeah?"

"Now follow me." I said and I took off at a brisk pace for the center of the mall. When we got to the next big map I said, "Now, look at that."

"What am I looking at?"

"The red dot." I answered.

"Yeah?"

"It now says I am here." I said, trying to sound a little exasperated.

"Yeah... well, you are." She said as if to a little boy.

"O.K. Let's do this one more time." I declared. With that I grabbed her hand and headed off for the far end of the mall. When we eventually got there she had begun complaining about her shoes. Or, more accurately, her feet. So when we arrived in front of the final big map I needed to refocus her.

I pointed at the map and said, "Well?"

She looked at the mall layout depicted before her and said, "I still don't get it."

"I don't either." I admitted. "I mean, how does it know?"

"Know what?"

"Where I am!" I exclaimed. "Obviously this thing is tracking me somehow." I paused a moment and said as if in deep thought, "Maybe it's reading the GPS in my cell phone."

She was quiet for several seconds then asked, "What if you left your cell phone in the car?"

"Well... I guess I'd have to ask someone where I am." I said slowly.

We just stood there, staring at the mysterious red dot declaring -YOU ARE HERE-, presumably deep in thought. Finally, I said, "Do me a favor. You stay here and I'm going to walk down there a ways. Let know if the dot moves."

"O.K." she answered, seriously.

I set off, retracing my steps past several store fronts before I turned around and mimed "well?".

She looked at the map and back at me and back at the map again. Then she started towards me on those sexy little heels. When she got to me she was a little out of breath. "I think I have it figured out!" she exclaimed.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yep." she nodded with a big grin. "When you walked over here the dot didn't move!"

"So?"

"Well, it's obvious, silly. The map is tracking me!"




The moral of the story is: I never know when the Blond Bombshell is messing with me.

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Group Life Insurance

I received a piece of bulk mail from AAA today. They were offering up to $200,000 of group term life insurance (for just pennies per minute). Now, I'm not really in the market for life insurance because I have always viewed death as a last chance to be a burden on my family. But even still, something intrigued me about this offer.

So, being the troublemaker, er... wiseguy, er... thorough person that I am, I read the fine print.

It turns out that in order to collect on group term life insurance, the entire group must die at the same time. So, figuring, "what are the odds of that?" I decided that anyone who signed up for group term life insurance would be stupid to die before the rest of the group so, demographically, it must be a pretty safe group.

So I signed up.

There are a couple of codicils, however. The policy is voided in the event of group suicide. But it does pay double indemnity in case of group accidental death. So, if we all decided, as a group, to kill ourselves, we would have to make it look like an accident. Like a tragic group bowling accident... or, say, we were all in a giant rowboat during a tornado. Or maybe a group hunting accident.

All in all, it was a pretty good mail day.

I will, however, have to re-think that age old question my mother used to ask me, "If everybody jumped off a bridge..."

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Fathers and Sons

I was talking with my friend Jonesy the other day when I couldn't help but ask him what was wrong. We were sitting at my tiki bar drinking Dr. Pepper on shaved ice with crushed cherries. The sun was hot. There was no breeze.

"Oh, I'm having trouble with my younger son." he answered. "He's having trouble dealing with my divorce and he absolutely hates that I live at a nudist resort." He stirred the ice with his finger. When he lifted the glass, the beaded moisture left a ring on the bar. I'd wipe it up later.

(Note to self: put the coasters on the tiki bar.)

"What's he been doing?" I asked.

He put the drink back down near the ring.

(Couldn't he at least hit the same spot each time?)

He gave me a wry smile, "Every time we talk he feels like he has to beat me up about living here. He won't give it a rest. He thinks it's wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies."

"I thought the orgy thing was a secret?" I feigned incredulity. "Have you told him that people around here look like people you meet anywhere?"

A nudist resort does not automatically attract beautiful, hard bodies. In fact, just the opposite is true. Most good looking young people enjoy the dress up, the clubs and the sexy flirtations. The people who come here skew older and, as an act of gross rationalization, claim complete body acceptance. This allows them to be over weight and out of shape - without embarrassment. In fact, most of the people here would not go to a clothed beach because of how bad they would look in a bathing suit.

"Yeah. But he doesn't believe me. I even snuck a picture of Adele." He pulled a photo out of his pocket. Adele was a very sweet but large lady of our mutual acquaintance. Picture taking at the resort was mostly forbidden. We also knew that Adele was a free spirit and that she wouldn't mind.

He handed it over to me and said, "I was going to send it to him with the caption:

.............................See Son, It's not all about sex!

I glanced at it and handed it back to him. "Cute." I said. "Adele's husband, Roy, might object."

Jonesy took the photo back and looked at it again. "Oh, wait! This is Roy!" He tucked the photo away then picked up his glass and sloshed a little as he turned on his stool.

(Oh, look! You missed a spot.)

I changed the subject and asked, "What's your son do?"

"Besides bitch at me like we're married?"

"That's rhetorical, right?" I always have to check after that incident with the traffic cop.

He nodded, then said. "He's a teacher in Ohio."

"Oh!" I answered, trying to sound impressed. "He must be real bright."

"He is. if you're impressed with night lights. He was recently turned down by Mensa Lite. He spelled his name wrong on the application. I asked him how that could happen and he claimed it was a union thing. The teacher's union is very strong in Ohio."

I never know when Jonesy is messing with me. "What's Mensa Lite?" I prodded.

"Mensa Lite is for pseudo-intellectuals. People who talk about their degrees rather than their accomplishments. People who talk about the book reviews they read, rather than the books they have read. People who think Al Gore is an intellectual."

"So, why're you so down on him?" I wondered.

"Maybe it's because he won't let up on me. Maybe it's because when his mom left me he never once asked me what had happened or even how I was doing." He paused and picked a piece of cherry out of his drink, dripping across the bar and onto the deck.

Then he seemed to rouse himself, remembering that he was supposed to be making a joke or something. That was Jonesy's coping mechanism. Mine was wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies.

"You know," he said, "I remember the night he was conceived and, I gotta tell you, the sex wasn't that great."

There's the old Jonesy I know!

He sat a little straighter in his chair and I could see the gleam in his eye. He was getting ready to be on a roll. I picked up my drink and sloshed a little on the bar by way of encouragement.

"I kid around about his mother being unfaithful but I am almost 100% certain I am his father."

"How so?" I played the straight man.

"When he was born he had my last name." I smiled and he continued, "Did I ever tell you why we named him P.J.?"

"Uh, uh."

"Because his mother had called dibs on B.J."

"Cute." I said. I began to fondly remember Jonesy's ex-wife but he wasn't done yet.

"Isn't it ironic," he asked, "that being an actual bastard is passed on through the mother?"

I had to laugh.

"And why isn't there a specific name for illegitimate females? I think bitch would have been a great choice. But it was already handily taken by adult women." Jonesy has been a little bitter since the break up.

I sucked on some ice, tasting the cherry juice.

"I am wondering one thing, though."

"What's that?" I mumbled through the ice.

"Even though I am as certain as a guy can be that his sons are legitimate, does my recent divorce make them Bastards by Proxy?"

.

The Golden Age of Fornication

"Birth control pill for men still a way off"

Really? Birth control pills for men?

That headline leaped off of my news reader this morning and struck me like a ton of condoms. I mean, say it isn't so!

It reminds me of the southerner who, after a vasectomy, had sex in a tuxedo. He told his wife, "If I'm going to be impotent, then I'm going to dress impo'tant!"

The only viable reason I can think of for a man to need a male birth control pill is because she is too blond to remember to take hers. But, then again, if we can figure out how to slip a roofie into her Cosmo I'm pretty damn sure we can manage to hide a birth control pill in her Big Mac or a morning after pill in her omelette.

Is it because women are too lazy? Or maybe it's just the opposite. Is she so intent upon wanting it all (the Career, the sporty car, the house, the 2.3 kids, and the sex without consequences) that remembering to take the pill is just one thing too many. Let the man do it.

I grew up in an era when there were larger families; 4.7 children on average. Back then, women ovulated and men ejaculated. It was uncomplicated. Maybe a little messy... but who cared. Men didn't do the laundry.

Being a .7 child (I was a little puny back then) I got to view life in what I call the Golden Age of Fornication. Back when every man a woman slept with truly believed he was her first. Back when the back seat of the car wasn't filled with car seats and flat screen DVD players but was made for laying down and moving around a little. When condoms were birth control and if she got pregnant... Well, he didn't really believe he was her first, did he?

But now we have fifty different styles of condoms, some kind of vaginal O-ring thingy, defoliant foam, birth control pills, morning after pills, 5-day after pills and legal abortions. The odds are that if you weren't born before 1973, you probably won't be.

If I were tackling this problem from a practical point of view I would look at what I am up against. (No pun intended.) Women make one egg a month. A man can generate 1,000 sperm a second. It's like trying to control the Mexican border. Wouldn't it be easier to just get rid of the Americans?

But really, all seriousness aside. Men already have vasectomies available to us. Right? So, why not add another layer of protection into the mix? Why not make a pill for men that kills our sperm production, day-by-day, on a pill-by-pill basis? And leave the important stuff to the women.

Then again, I thought chemical castration was for criminals.


P.S.: There is no such thing as safe sex. There are still about twenty other things that can go wrong.


P.P.S.: The reason men don't need birth control pills is that they can't get pregnant. It would be like a woman getting a vasectomy. Science might get it to work, but our hearts wouldn't be in it.


P.P.P.S.: Why do we need all these different kinds of contraception, anyway? Hasn't anyone ever heard of a blow job?


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I Feel Like I've Been Jacked Around

Two ground breaking TV shows ended this week. Lost and 24. Many positive things have already been written about these shows but I am not going to be another gushing fanboy. What I am concerned with here are the messages these two shows left with us. And why I disagree.

I'll bet Jack Bauer wishes he had ten more minutes in his most recent 24 hour day... so that he could wake up in Bobby Ewing's shower (Dallas)... or wake up with Susanne Pleshette (Newhart)... or find out he was a part of an autistic child's snow globe daydream (Saint Elsewhere).

Is it possible for an entire season to jump the shark (Happy Days)?

The season painfully ground to a halt in pursuit of an ephemeral and mis-guided peace treaty that never caught any traction with the viewers. Who cares if a liberal president is disgraced through their own corrupt machinations? We can get that on the 20 minute news cycle.

Nor does it matter if the president did the right thing in the end. In her position as the leader of the free world she should have been doing the right thing step by step. Her only reason for coming to her senses was that she got caught... and that Jack shamed her into it.

Then we were able to witness the First Bitch of an imaginary mid-east country transform herself from an unreasonable shrew into an Arab Mother Theresa while her daughter goes from selling out her father and country in order to sleep with a guy to becoming a super-patriot of her country.

Apparently, these three women prove that it doesn't matter how venal or corrupt they are if they think the means justifies the end.

Then we were supposed to believe that Chloe, Jack's biggest cheer leader, started the day out as a temp brought in to help CTU and was made Director of the agency before the end of the day.

I wrote a blog several years ago that was called "The Women of 24". I still stand by my premise that, if you eliminated all the time wasted in the sub-plots involving all of the wrong thinking women in the show, it would have been called 3 or maybe 4 at tops.

In the end of 24, Jack found a kind of redemption or vindication and we were left with another blurring of the lines between the good guys and the bad guys. The president ordered Jack freed but sent him on the run, out of the country, for his life. Meanwhile, all of the bad guys kept getting full presidential pardons. She couldn't have done that for Jack? At the end of the day, apparently, the message we're supposed to take from the show was that the "good guys" can kill, maim and lie as long as they are better than the really bad "bad guys".

If, in the real world, our American president and hierarchy were this corrupt and self-serving then there is no hope for... O, never mind. We already have one of thOse.




Which brings me to Lost.

It turns out that all 6 seasons were about the other Jack working out his personal redemption before he died shortly after the plane crash in the first episode. We know this because the final scenes, after Jack stumbles out of the bamboo and dies, were of the wreckage strewn beach devoid of people when, at that point in the pilot, the survivors were wandering all over the beach.

Which is what the writers denied was going on for six years. But I guess if they had admitted to it in the beginning nobody would have tuned in nor would they have been able to waste all of that (our) time building up to the cheesy Twilight Zone ending.

(This might explain, however, how Hurley never lost any weight stranded on a desert Island.)

I know everyone got all gushy at the final episode's hopeful message of personal redemption. The problem with this premise is that, like all other liberal, feel-good theologies, it is nonsense.

If we don't, through our faith, good deeds and relationships, work out our redemption throughout the course of our lives - it is too late after the plane crashes.

The flaw in religions that deny a specific God, offer easy gimmicks for salvation and that do not teach a punishment for evil, is that the seekers gain a false sense of hope and security that will not serve them well in the end. Mankind is not well served by TV shows and a culture that denies these things.

We need to be taught, and believe, that there is a very specific God who requires our faith and commitment to Him and that there is good and evil in this world that demands of us to choose. This is the true test of righteousness. When we choose. People who deny this are unwilling to face up to the responsibility and consequences of their own actions and choices. Unfortunately, they are making their choice in their denial.

That would have been a better message... and ending.

So much for ground breaking TV.

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This Explains a Lot

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Elegy for a Kitten

I was on my way to the store the other day when I saw the carcass of a dead cat frozen stiff by the side of the road. I immediately thought of my ex-wife. Then I started wondering how I made that connection. So I retraced my train of thought (which isn't easy): some of the tracks don't line up quite right, the transformer is a little quirky, one of the boxcars is missing a wheel and I haven't been able to find my engine in years.

Anyway... I was on my way to the store to see if I could find some left-over Valentine's candy. I figured the stores probably over-estimated how many men would try buying their way out of trouble with a cheap box of chocolate. I just hoped I could get there before all of the fat chicks cleaned it out.

In case you haven't figured it out - I have always been a hopeless romantic. So I have to admit that the irony of my divorce coming so close to Valentine's Day is not lost on me. But the divorce is FINAL and, as a result, I feel I have learned some valuable lessons:

One, is that if divorce wasn't so expensive and difficult, women probably wouldn't want one.
Two, is the reason divorce is so expensive is that it is worth it.
And three, is that divorce is probably the last time you can completely satisfy your wife.


It also let's you finally see your partner without those rose colored glasses.

petty
adjective
1 petty regulations: TRIVIAL, trifling, minor, small, unimportant, insignificant, inconsequential, inconsiderable, negligible, paltry, footling, pettifogging; informal piffling, piddling, fiddling. ANTONYMS important, serious.
2 a petty form of revenge:SMALL-MINDED, mean, ungenerous, shabby, spiteful. ANTONYMS magnanimous.

Since it took two years after the separation for her to agree to the details of the divorce, I'm thinking #2 is the one I'm looking for. Oddly enough, the process also smells like number two.







Divorce also makes you aware of how people change. I remember, when we were young, how she used to be my playful little Kitten . That was my pet name for her. Kitten. Years later, after the kids were grown and my health and earning capacities were failing me, she wasn't so much "playful" as she was "playing me". And I came to realize that the cat that the kitten became had the morals of an alley cat. Not long after that she turned feral.


In the end, now that she has her own place, she has at least one cat that I know of and is probably well on her way towards becoming a crazy cat lady.




Did I mention that I am allergic to cats? I could go on but I don't want to be accused of beating a dead pussy.

But all of this does help explain how, in the constant conversation between the voices in my head, one of them could say, "Speaking of a dead pussy... have I ever told you about my ex-wife?"

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Is it MyFace or SpaceBook?

About a year ago, during an incoherent moment, I joined one of those social networking groups. I think it's name was MyFace or SpaceBook or SpaceFace or MyBook or something. Anyway, I signed up because several people were pestering the hell out of me to do so. They were all acting like this was the answer to all of our social problems. So I signed up and created a profile.

What I discovered was Nirvana for losers. Let me put it this way, I retired when I was 51. So, basically, I have the rest of my life to do nothing. If I took all of that free time, it would not be enough to answer all of my friend requests, heart requests, puppy requests, frog requests, answer "this question" requests, etc. And I don't even work the site.

I thought it might be a cool way to keep up with with my friends activities or parties or something useful. What I found was a lot of specious requests to waste my time.

specious
adjective
specious reasoning: misleading, deceptive, false, fallacious, unsound, spurious, casuistic, sophistic.

Apparently I have a "wall" where new communications are posted. This is as opposed to some other area where my "friends" can, for lack of a better word, blather. I get to hear about work schedules, dogs, kids, diets, girlfriends, boyfriends, job interviews, polls on anything and everything (nothing interesting), and very little of any interest to normal people.

So I stayed active for about 30 seconds and forgot about it. Time went by. The seasons changed. Brett Favre came out of retirement, a bunch of other stuff happened and Kurt Warner retired. So, now I'm noodling around on my computer and I find a link to F-Space or FaceTube and I think, "Oh yeah. I haven't been on there for a while." So I click on the link. My computer dutifully remembered the user name and password and I was in. I looked around for several seconds and re-realized, "Oh yeah, losers." and signed out. Total time: 18 seconds.

Since then I have been inundated with friend requests and messages on my "wall".

So I'm trying to figure out if this is some kind of computer robotic activity trying to stimulate a false sense of community by matching everyone in my address book with everyone on SpaceFace or MyTube or whatever - OR, if everyone I know has been signed on and waiting for the last 11 months until I logged in again to post their friend requests? I mean, I occasionally see some of these people and they seem normal enough. (But, then again, I'm judging them by my standards.)

I may never know.

Because (as I understand it) the first rule of TubeFace is you don't TALK about Tubeface.

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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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