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I’m So Sorry/I love You

Now there’s a funny kinda title eh?  Two completely functional ideas that seem to go so poorly together…hence I split them.  But…

“I’m sorry”.  Interesting concept ain’t it; I feel sorrow for something.  Whether I did it, it just happened, or you did it, I feel sorrow that it happened.  Or that I felt a way that I felt, said something that snuck through the non-existent filter in my brain, or brought about some kind of genuine sorrow.  Interesting though; feeling sorrow doesn’t make it my fault now does it?

For instance:  Let’s say I step on your foot while reaching for the Tasty Puffs at the grocery store.  Once I’ve retrieved my size 12 from the top of your sneaker I’ll utter “Oh hey, so sorry”.  You’ll naturally look my way with a pleasant kinda smile and say “hey, no problem”.  That’s the ‘I’m sorry’ contract between humans; the acknowledgement that I made a boo-boo, and your acknowledgement that my brief sorrow has made up for said boo-boo.  But what if some other person, while reaching for the family sized jar of Jiffy peanut butter, steps on my daughter’s foot.  Am I obliged to give her a “hey, I’m sorry Two Ton Tessy over there pounded on your big toe”?  And if I do, certainly she feels no obligation to give me the “hey, it’s no biggie”.

And sorry can be big too…”hey, I’ve decided you’re a complete jerk and I’d like to never speak to you again” is a lot different than “hey, sorry to bother you but can you pass the mustard”.  One will get you a “no problem”, while the other might get you punched in the nose, or a half hour of yelling while tears stream.

The point of this exercise though; that being sorry for having done/said something wrong is held in such great taboo in this country.  To feel sorrow because YOU did/said something implies to some extent that you are fallible.  You are at fault.  You made a mistake.  You’re not perfect.  You don’t know everything.

I often think of Galileo.  When he spotted that the moons of Jupiter revolve around Jupiter, and not the Center of the Universe (Earth by Catholic standards), he must have felt like he’d taken humankind forward by a leap.  You can only imagine him running around with his telescope and having folks peer upwards (think of some idiot who’s always saying “look at this” while holding their cellphone up to your face) and chart with their eyes the movements of what we now call the Galileo Moons.  And his racing to the powers of the day, only to find out that the Catholic Church was certainly not interested in finding out that they were wrong.  Wrong.  They’d been teaching for centuries that everything revolved around the Big Blue planet; now some dude with a flimsy telescope was gonna prove ’em wrong!  And if he proved them wrong about this, did it create a situation where all the times they’d been right came under scrutiny?  Oh hell no; they couldn’t be wrong about this one little thing because to acknowledge so would have put the whole of the Catholic teachings under the microscope.  And that could change the balance of power, which was in some ways is mandated by the side that was always right.

And now back to “I’m sorry”.  Or even better, “I was wrong”.  Or the ever unpopular “I’m sorry, I was wrong”.  It works so well in a good ole tear jerking country song, but the reality is that to say “I’m sorry, I was wrong” seems completely painful to most of us.  In truth, it certainly did for me.  Relationships were founded on the principle that I was always right, and any inclination that the basis for the relationship might be in jeopardy put the relationship in peril.  To be wrong was most assuredly out of the question, and any thoughts that I’d be sorry for any decisions/actions/feeling I exhibited was an idea that got banished to the far reaches of Siberia.  Oh yes…like most of us humans with penis’s I intended to be the always right leader who ruled with an iron fist and harsh words.

And then it dawned on me…I was an ogre.  No one else in my house/realm/world was allowed to have opinions unless they concurred completely with mine.  If they differed…they were wrong, because only being always right gave me the power, and the power ladies and gentlemen is where it’s at ain’t it?  I paid the bills.  I fixed the toilet when it leaked.  I mowed the grass, shoveled the snow, fought off large spiders that gained entry into our home.

I was the leader, which I equated with always being right.

But the reality is that I’m quite fallible.  I screw-up dozens of times a day, and finding a way to firmly place blame on someone else doesn’t change the fact that I was the one who’d ultimately put my foot in it.  I (and only in recent years have I begun to truly realize this) sometimes have no earthly idea what I’m doing!  Sometimes…yes…other folks have better ideas?  Sometimes other folks breathing on my beautiful planet have feelings I just can’t seem to conjure up, and don’t have the same feelings I have when the lost puppy gets found.

I read a book called “Lead, For God’s Sake”.  If you haven’t read it yet, find a copy, get a coffee, and settle on in.  It’s not preachy, and you won’t feel like a complete ogre when your done.  What you will realize is that being wrong creates a world you’ll wanna be living in.  Having a gentle and kind disposition allows other to feel compelled, to feel free.  Empowered.  So instead of raising a house of people who zombie around feeling only the feelings you have, and expressing themselves only in ways you find acceptable, you’ll have a house of free-thinkers that’ll drive you crazy, but in that craziness you’ll find a peace.  You’ll be creating free-thinking human beings who can go forward with the knowledge of what it’s like to the right…or at least right with themselves.

Have you ever thought…no…bad sentence.  Let’s start again.  I used to think I was always wrong.  No matter what I did I should have done the opposite, and had I been a human with some sort of a brain I would have chosen easily the better course.  But I hadn’t.  Because quite simply: if someone else is always right, then you are always wrong.  And being always wrong brings about psychological issues that’ll keep a therapist in the newest Cadillac for a lifetime.  It’s the kind of enigma that fills prison cells with inmates, and homeless shelters.  It’s the kid in the back of the class that won’t speak up, or the geek gettin’ bullied out of their lunch money daily.  It’s the family that loves it when the “bossy” parent works a lot, and comes home ready to shower and bed down.  It’s dysfunction predicated completely on the Balance of Power, and the continuation of that power.

Saying “I’m sorry, I was wrong” won’t change the world.  Understanding and compassion may well do that, along with food, clothing, and medications.  But it will change your world.  Allowing others to be right is maybe the greatest gift you can give; and if all it takes is you acknowledging that you were wrong?  That you saw it from the wrong perspective?  That you made a decision based on an emotion?  That you’re fallible.

That moons can revolve around a planet…

 

I hate the expression “I Love You”!  Yes, I’m putting myself at risk of being drawn and quartered here…I realize that.  We have to holidays (Sweetest Day/Valentines Day) based on love.  The most used word in music titles is Love.  The truest human emotion to most folks is the idea of love, yet I have no idea what the word truly means.

Hear me out.  I love butterscotch on ice cream, the way the sun makes the sky red at twilight, and my wife.  And yet these three things are very different.  I also love strawberries on my ice cream, the greenness of the grass after it rains, and some chick I been foolin’ around with on the slide?  (Not really, just for comparisons sake you’all)

And yet someone eventually says it.  In a relationship that is: someone is gonna launch that red-tipped rocket into the verbal air (usually after a bedtime trist), and the other party is now forced to equate their feeling for this person with their emotions at having chocolate on their ice cream, a good thunderstorm, or the feeling they get when a really good song comes on the radio.  And they have to decide; is it similar to having an onion on their ice cream, mud on their pants after the thunderstorm, or horrible sex in the back of a trash truck.

Which emotion is it Sparky?

Is it the “love” that:

1) Go to work daily.

2) Clean the house.

3. Scoop up doggie-pooh when it’s been a while since anybody let ’em out.

4) Cook you lasagna.

5) Record your favorite television show.

6) Wipe your butt after the “incident” that broke both your arms.

7) Text you every two hours to let you know they “love u”.

8) Calls your mom “mom” and your papa “papa”.

9) Helps the kids with homework, and pre-soaks the stains on your jeans.

10. Still sleeps with you when you eat cabbage and have been a little constipated.

 

Or the “love” that makes a partner:

1) Stop working because you love them and therefore will take care of them?

2) Discontinue the art of cleaning because its not really all that dirty.

3) Let the doogie-pooh sit until it’s that grey dusty stuff because it stops smelling after a day or so.

4) Warms up left-over ramen noodles when you get home.

5) Thinks you really outta watch “Daisy and the Glorious Weekend” because football causes concussions.

6) Giggles when you ask who’s gonna wipe your butt after the broken arm incident.

7) Texts you to remind that the electric bills due, her Mama’s coming over tonight, and lets you know to pick up pizza because they really don’t feel like cooking.

8) Thinks your Mama’s a real bitch, and hasn’t talked to your Pa in ten years.

9) Tells ya to pick up a new pair of jeans, and shows the kids a site on U-Tube to help with their homework.

10) Hits the couch for the night when you mentioned having a little coleslaw on your hot dog at lunch.

 

“And if you love me you’ll understand.”

The “and if” part of love is the part that gets my blood boiling every time.  The ‘and if” makes you buys cars out of your price range, own chihuahua’s, enroll your daughter in ballet, enroll your son in ballet, give up baseball/football/drinking/darts/farting in public/really cool handshakes/onions/that trip to Branson/nose hair/a rusty truck/ole underwear/comfortable jeans/James Bond movies/that really groovy trick where you can make you nipples dance opposite each other/scotch/your best friend Earl.

So, I have an idea.  Henceforth and from now on:

LOVE HAS TO COME WITH TWO WORDS!!!!!!!!

 

These words can be before love, after it, or it can place love in a “meaning” sandwich.  Yes, let’s play with this…

  1. Great Sex Love (If you can’t figure this one out please see “I’m Stupido Lovo”).
  2. Cuddle Bunny Love (You’re kinda like the gay partner, only you get to pay for everything).
  3. Love Seeing You (Because my life is so meaningless I can’t breathe, fart, or digest food without you).
  4. Love Potion 9 (Strap it on Gertrude, you ’bouta go for a ride).
  5. Broken Sink Love (I just wanna see you butt crack whilst you fix it).
  6. I’m Stupido Lovo (The shocking surprise to everyone is that I found some else who can at least fake loving me as well as you.  I’m destined to have forty-seven cats and be on ‘Hoarders’ eventually).
  7. Dysfunctional Love Kinda (I can vary between loving and hating you so fast…and many times it has no bearing on your level of love for me.  I blame it on hormones mostly, but you’re gonna either need a large box of condoms or a set of eight ounce boxing gloves for tonight.  Your guess is good as mine Snuckums…).
  8. Rub My Love (I’m feeling like a cat that done found the catnip salt shaker.  Feet, calves, thighs, back, shoulders…then repeat).
  9. Love Me Back (I’m completely dependent on this relationship, and just because I met you ten minutes ago in the self checkout lane at Walmart doesn’t change that.  I’ve been waiting my whole life for you…).
  10. Meet My Love (Yes, meet my twelve ex-boyfriends, and my Mama, and Papa, and sister Charleen, and cousin Jeffrey (who’s in a wheelchair since the Black Friday at J. C. Penney accostation), and Reverend Talbert Hurter, and my dogs Rex, Charles, Spot, Bartholomew, and Snoopy.  And kitty Maltese, Dominic, and Yvonne.  And my curling iron, and ashtray, and turd I forgot to flush down the toilet, and hair ball in the shower drain, and leftovers in the fridge ’cause I love to cook).

I believe the initial party in the “I love You” conversation has an obligation to begin living, at that moment, with the object of their fondest affections.  Yupper, just move some of your shit on in and begin the process of finding fault until the friggin’ “love” bug passes.  First time he Crop Dusts you after a heavy meal complete with refried beans outta just about do it…or when you see the inexpensive toupee his toilet purchased just behind the rim.  When you realize his shower has no soap, his milk is considered a solid, and he eats Count Chocula because that’s what Mama used to get ’em.  Man oh man but won’t the vaginal fluids dry up like a small oasis in the Sahara after the dry season.

 

Hows about we go to “I miss you”?  I like that one a whole lot better, and it’s not quite so free to take on its very own meaning.  I guess you could miss them to various degrees, but at least when you don’t miss them anymore there’s none of that “falling outta missing” bullshit.

 

 

 

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The Underdog

I don’t know about you but when I’m watching any sporting event where I don’t have a vested interest I tend to root for the underdog.  Seriously, and as I search my heart for a reason I come up quite empty.  Truly I don’t know…the favorite may be more dedicated; may have done more push-ups and laps, and yet?  Yeah, maybe it’s the Rocky Complex at work.  Little guy does good at the dedication part, gives his full body to the exercise, and overcomes a tremendous mountain.  Yet…Rocky still lost?  He did.  And so they made another one where he won and Apollo Creed lost.  Then they made one where he lost again halfway through, but with hard work and rededication he beat Clubber Lang.  And eventually he trains the kid of the guy who once beat him, lost to him, lost to Clubber Lang (I think, it’s getting a little fuzzy here), and died at the hands of a nasty Russian dude.

But let’s get back to the part where his future wife was butt-ugly and he lost.

My son Grant was watching Venom the other day.  Now in all honesty I have no need to watch Venom.  I’m sure the cinematography is outstanding, the girlfriend is super hot, and the character is one I’ll sympathize with as I brush my teeth later.  But I did kinda watch it while rolling change, cleaning out the lint filter in the dryer, ungunking my water faucet, and trimming those pesky toe hairs that intertwine in my sock ends.  And guess what?  The bad guy is like super bad (wants to destroy the human race or some bullcrap), and he is enormous.  And Venom, although not an altogether nice fella himself (the anti-villain I suppose) has no shot at saving the human race.  And the mortal of the story (protagonist) loses his girlfriend because he’s a schmucko.  Now the bad guy (antagonist) realizes he can’t possibly lose to the good guy (Venom), which kinda proves to be his undoing.  Venom wins, the human race survives…roll credits.

It was like the same thing when the rabbit raced the turtle.

We collectively tend to root for the underdog.  Some psychologist somewhere is spouting off some crap about the Underdog Complex…the idea that the Underdog lives in all of us, and when the underdog wins we feel a sense that we too could actually win.  We could marry up, career up, looks up, and eventually be deserving of the up place we’ve climbed too.  Then of course, we’ll wanna up again.

So what’s up with all the Superhero movies in the last twenty years or so?  Is Hollywood truly out of ideas?  Right now Venom is all the rage, with every woman in America waiting with fantasies intact for the arrival of Aquaman.  And the idea that two rival comic book producers are behind all this…with the cash register as the big winner.  Here’s five movies I wanna see Hollywood produce:

Madam Termite-Woman (eating wood with a vengeance)

Captain Pine Cone Returns (from hard to soft in time)

Sir Platypus of Pompay (evolution smevolution…he’ll kick your ass!)

Shrew and the half-eaten worm (he knows it keep growing anyway)

Licking Puppy Hordes (the bad guy’ll be giggling too much to kill off mankind)

There was Superman…then another Superman.  Then…like Batman, Cat Woman, Spiderman, Captain America, another Spiderman, another Batman, Deadpool, Fifty Shades of Grey, Ant Woman, Wonder Woman, Batman versus Superman, The Fantastic Four, Obamacare, Legion of Doom, another Deadpool, Justice League, another Spiderman, Venom, another Spiderman, and then Aquaman.  If the world was in this type of dire need…I mean really needed saving this f’ing much…wouldn’t it have made CNN?  Fox News?  The View?

Ah shit…I forgot the Green Hornet…

What if the underdog is the underdog because they can’t pass by a McDonald’s drive-thru without at least a cheeseburger and fries?  Seriously…what if they spend their time watching U-Tube videos about cats that dance, dogs that prance, Granny’s who fence, and weddings where they never commence?  What if they skip the work-out part because Hulu is having a binge weekend, and this weekend it’s re-runs of Friends?  What if they’re just not good enough to beat out the favorite?  Seriously…there was no way Rocky Balboa was gonna beat Apollo Creed.  No way that kid on the raft was gonna beat out the shark in Jaws.  No way Spiderman was gonna beat out the dude on the hovercraft with that green shit that was awesome sauce!!!

Crap…The Incredible Hulk…

Someone asked me the other day who my favorite superhero was, and I think they actually thought we were going to have a compare and contrast discussion on the strengths and weaknesses of said superheroes.  They really did.  When I said my dog because he learned to stop shitting on the floor and humping the baby they wandered off to more intelligent conversations.

Here’s my five favorite movies of all time:

  1. Shawshank Redemption
  2. All Quiet on the Western Front.
  3. Silence of the Lambs.
  4. Much Ado About Nothing
  5. Jaws.

Sleepless in Seattle, The Birdcage, The Lincoln Lawyer, and All the President’s Men get honorable mention.

Here’s five movies I regret having suffered through:

  1. Fifty First Dates
  2. The Notebook
  3. Water For Elephants
  4. Waterworld
  5. French Kiss

Have a great end of December and enjoy the end of 2018!!!

 

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Christmas, Merry

I love Christmas.  In truth I suspect a lot of folks love Christmas, though I am quite aware the poor souls who find this season depressing, overwhelming, commercialized, and just downright crappy.  But I love it!

Do you remember when you were a kid?  Oh the joy of decorations in and out of the house; the gentle nature of all the Ebenezer Scrooges’s of the world?  When the strand of light bulbs that’d worked so majestically last year turn to electronic ‘poop’ this year and no one’s overly upset about it?  The beauty of the snow, the joy of the unending feast?  Oh yes, the candies, and rum cake, and peppermint chewies, and chocolate snowmen, and carameled popcorn, and turkey…

And the presents under the tree!  Little sticker that’d announce your name on top of Santa Claus wrapping that was so colorful it almost hurt your eyes?  And another sticker announcing that the gift wasn’t to be opened until “December 25th”?  And you’d count them along with your sibling to ensure we all get about the same number…and Mama doing economic cartwheels to fulfill the evenness necessity?  Then the jolly fat man coming behind his smelly reindeer and sneaking into you house like a very tactful burglar to leave you more presents!  It was an absolute mountain of an event…one that was looked forward too with unbelievable anticipation!  Tears streaming down my youthful face as I realize I’ve already got what I wanted this year…and there were more!  More!  MORE!

And then you grew up didn’t cha Sparky?  Oh yeah, and when the object of your affections was as infatuated (or drunk, high, fulfill a bet, deranged, hard-up, or bankrupt) with you as you were with them you tied the matrimonial knot.  Good for you…set ya back a few thousand didn’t it now?  But that’s okay ’cause American Express has a special package for weddings, and Visa will allow you to borrow cash right off the card!  Feel good about it Beatrice…you’re building your credit as you pay off that $300.00 cake that he smashed in your face so hard it pushed a booger into your eye socket…

And a few years later you sit with the object of your affections (whom you only want to kill 32% of the time, which means you have a 68% happy marriage) and realize that Christmas is now your responsibility?  How the hell did this happen?  Doesn’t the Jolly Fat Elf realize that you’re already financially tapped out (tapped out being a kind word for it.  More like strained, mortgages to the hilt, broke as a Mo—- Fu—-)?  Strain lines quite evident is your lover’s face you head to the store with the newest ‘not maxed out’ card in hand, and visions of the Christmas you’ll be creating dancing like Sugar Plum Fairies in your head.

But the realization comes harshly doesn’t it?  It’s not just presents?  When the neighbor’s down the lane do their house up in outside lights like they got a few shares of stock in the electric company you gotta get lights.  And ribbon for the railing, and a spotlight that depicts Santa coming across the front of your homestead eh?  And you just gotta have the welcome mat with the three wise men on it, and a wreath for the door, and a chime for the inside of the door, and two Christmas trees (one for the cat to destroy).  And you need knick-knacks for your end tables, and candy, and little Santa Claus shaped chocolates that have marshmallow inside.

How did this terrible thing fall up you.  Well, Pater Pan was right Gertrude…never grow up!

Estimated costs of phrased uttered at Christmas:

  1. $15.00  “I think one of —— would look so nice here.”
  2. $17.50  “That damn cat…he tore up the —–.”
  3. $20.00  “Your Mother called, Dad says since he doesn’t really need anything this year you can just get him a —–.”
  4. $22.50  “They didn’t have —–at Walmart, so I hadda go to the mall.”
  5. $25.00  “The wind blew over my starfish angel outside, so I had to replace it.”
  6. $30.00  “Nancy down the street, you know, the one with the fat butt and the little girl who’ always picking her snoz at Church…her hubby got her a —– for her table.”
  7. $50.00  “My Mama always used to —– for Christmas.”
  8. $100.00 “When I was a little boy/girl I always wanted to do —– for Christmas.”
  9. $200.00  “We should go shopping as a family.”
  10. $500.00  “If you really love me you’ll get me/do this—– for Christmas.

(if number 10 seems on the verge of being spoken I suggest you place your heel squarely on the small toe of the voice about to utter it.  Prior to the actual asking; place 86% of your weight on said heel while reaching to hug the uttering voice.  In this way you can end the uttering of said request while having the fall back position of stating this occurred only because you are so in love that you required a hug.)

When going into Saint Patrick’s Day do 42% of the stations on you FM dial go to Irish Music?  Around the middle of June does your #3 pick on the little do-hickie that you push to change stations begin belting out Lee Greenwood’s “God bless the U. S. A.” every fifteen minutes?  And, as Arbor Day approaches I’ve never heard “Trees” by Rush.

I swear to Goodness, if I hear Brenda Lee singing about “Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree” one more time someone’s gonna get throat punched!  “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby might be the best selling song of all time, but after the thousandth time of hearing it this year?  Now to be honest, when I hear “Blue Christmas” by Elvis my blood pressure only goes up 12%, and any song by the Carpenters is always welcome.  But that stupid SONG ABOUT GRANDMA GETTING SQUASHED BY A REINDEER!!!  Oh my Ghod, and they made a television version?!?!  What kind of hill-jacked, toothless, inbreed, carp-fishin’, rusty-truck, McNugget eatin’, uneducated, three legged antelope, spineless jellyfish, goat humpin’, Crimson Tide rootin’, gettin’ beat up by your wife/sister, cross-eyed, can’t masturbate ’cause you got 90% of your fingers chopped off in a mud-wrestling incident, unicycle ridin’, Busch drinkin’, tree huggin’ (only way to ummm, well, without 90% of your fingers), trampoline jumpin’, tobacco spittin’, brain-dead guppy gathers the fam around the old black and white and watches this crap.

“Hey Sissy, you’uns best be fur gettin’ har quick like…it’s dog-gone ’bout to start.”

(Brief interlude here my fine reader.  In the story of Grandma’s demise at the hands of a Caribou from the Arctic Circle, she’d going to find herself trampled on Christmas Eve.  The title of this incredibly artistic work is also the plot structure.)

And now back to our regularly scheduled program…

And the little beings you’ve created during occasional occasions when you and the “object of your affections” could garner five minutes (and 13 seconds) alone!   Those little shits…

5 REASONS SHOTGUN SHELLS SHOULD ALWAYS BE KEPT A DISTANCE FROM SAID SHOTGUN

  1. “Last year I got —–, so this year I should get—-.”
  2. “My friend Marcy, you know, from Algebra Class (refer at this point to section number 4 of the pamphlet you received at the beginning of the school year.  Turn to the section titled: People I consider my friends this week.)  Well, anyway, can you pass the mashed potatoes please?  Her Dad and Mom split up last year, and her Dad, who’s like the hottest Father I’ve ever seen (appropriate lowering of eyebrow from Mother)…I mean he’s a real DILF (DILF is a branch-off of the commonly used MILF.  Though not used with much regularity in the female word, it is sure to get a startled reaction from any parent)!  Well, anyway, he’s getting Marcy a whole package done at Mary’s Overpriced Face Emporium at the mall, and then he’s…can I see the gravy please…sending her and her sister on a trip to the Bahamas!  (The exclamation at this point is akin to the spokesperson on The Price is Right when the announce “NEW CAR”).  Can you believe it, and all I want this year is a new phone, X-Box (with year long gaming package), two pair of shoes, three pair of yoga pants (so tight the camels of the Sahara are giving condescending looks), and a new toothbrush.
  3. I’ll take a used car instead…
  4. How much does it cost to room and board a horse?
  5. I’ll just take money…

And now for my political rant…

‘Baby it’s cold outside’?  Ummmm, I see the Me Too movements point.  Young man trying to get the girl to stay because of the cold out there.  Getting her more cocktails (pun intended) in an attempt to have her guard relax a bit?  You can just imagine him leaning on the door as he speaks, wolf-like.  Okay, maybe it doesn’t belong in the same place as “White Christmas”.

And shush up you old foggies, they ain’t playin’ no rap trash on the Christmas station either.  But, be very cautious here.  Censorship is a double-edged blade.

Anyway, that’s certainly enough of my thoughts on this wonderful season.  May yours be blessed…

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Erectile…ummmm…dysfunction?

I like words.  Truly I do, they convey meaning amongst intelligent souls on the green Earth.  Okay, blue Earth with a little green then, and the occasional white, brown, and…well you get the picture.

Dolphins communicate with clicks and whistles.  “Hey, there’s a shitload of tuna up here and their fat as seals”, or “wanna make a baby dolphin you flat tailed beauty?”  Yea, that’s it, and I’m sure dolphins spend a certain amount of time trying the teach porpoises how to be civilized in their language.  I wonder sometimes if porpoises aren’t the derelicts of the sea…you know…the ones who go around cursing and bullying the small dolphins?  Bastards.

We humans live on many different societal levels; that’s what makes us so damn interesting.  One woman’s rap music is another woman’s crap music.  Rock and roll to many is Elvis Presley, while to many others it’s Led Zeppelin.  And a few think Motley Crue, Ratt, and Metallica fall into that category.  So we create genres to disassociate unlike music; 80’s rock, heavy metal, rap, blues, pop, contemporary…

Yes, different terminology helps us understand the meaning of words.  And we teach the young humans how to get across the meaning of words without sounding like derelict porpoises in the upright world.  When a child says “supposebly” we kindly tell little Jane that supposedly doesn’t have a B in it.  Library is another word that needs attention on occasion…I like to tell little ones that no one ever made a “liberry pie”.  “Pasgetti” for some reason rolls off a young tongue with less effort than spaghetti.  Yes, and if you’re an adult who still supposebly looks up pasgetti on the liberry’s computer you’re a porpoise destine to get caught up in a tuna net…

I love made up words too.  Oh certainly I do, and when it’s the seller of a product informing you of a condition you didn’t know existed, and without their product you can’t possibly eradicate the condition you never knew existed…now that’s true marketing!  I mean really, who ever heard of gingivitus before Listerine helped prevent it.  Think of it…for centuries people walked around with that plague build-up;  that bacterial entity eating (munching, biting, scraping, eroding, gaining nutrition) from their very gums!  Oh the humanity…

Erectile Dysfunction.  What a beautiful combination of words, let it roll off your tongue people.  Slowly at first…Errrreeeccctillle Dyyysssfuntttion.  Then speed it up, like a rhyme…say it back to back quickly Erectile Dysfunction, Erectile Dysfunction, Erectile Dysfunction.  Now make it like a child’s game: Eric Dillon has Erectile Dysfunction, Eric Dillon has Erectile Dysfunction, Eric Dillon has Erectile Dysfunction.  See if you and the other members of your family can say it five times without messing it up!  Do it at the dinner table while you wait for the stew to cool.  Bonding folks…weed out the porpoises!

If my Santa Claus hat (red with a while ball on the top and black trim) continuously flops down into my eyes is that “Stocking Cap Dysfunction”?  A tire going flat beside the highway, is that “White Wall Dysfunction”?  And if the woman I’ve been hitting on at the bar turns me down is that “Ego Dysfunction”?

And yet, in the last few years we’ve begun to hear about this horrible abnormality known as ED (the abbreviation ruining a perfectly good set of words).  Fortunately for those wishing to procreate, there’s a cure!  A wonderful cure for a gentleman’s inability to get a hard P—-.  Ahhh crap.

This is that age of political correctness, and this is a family blog.  I don’t feel entirely comfortable saying the word P—-.  I could use C—, D—, Wein–, Do–, or Wil–?  No, they hit to near the actual entity swinging between a man’s legs; that little fella who’s destine to get at least one line shot that takes a funny bounce every baseball season.

Noodle.  There it is, a happy little synonym for P—-.  I don’t think “hard” is a bad word, so we’ll got with hard noodle or soft noddle.  Okay then (while wiping the cold sweat from my brow), we may continue…

So, let’s say you and your lady…ahhh crap again!  Dammit, this was going along so swimmingly, and now it gone completely to shi-!

You and your partner, that’s the ticket.  You and whoever are in the bedroom, on the living room couch, backseat, forested area, gravel driveway, hotel room, Granny’s house, Harley Davidson, baby’s crib (only acceptable if your both midgets), darkened basketball court, basement ( best in a tornado warning alert), Mayor’s back yard, Mama’s bed (you sick bastard!), garage, 3rd story of a Convent, McDonald’s bathroom.  And you and your “partner” are boiling up some water, but the water never gets quite hot enough to…ahhh crap again!   I don’t wanna soften up the noodle, I wanna make it rock hard!  Yes, hard as a brick, concrete, Oak board, algebra, diamond!

I can’t use the noodle synonym then…it died right there as the steam rose.

So you have the Soft Noodle Syndrome eh?  There we go, the Soft Noodle Syndrome, and with this pill your noodle can get hard again?

Relax Bob, we can do this…

Erectile Dysfunction.  What if you’re in the shower with your “partner”, yes, and let’s say while you’re trying to copulate a piece of the shower wall falls into the stall while you noodle rises not at all?  Is that Tile Dysfunction in conjunction with Erectile Dysfunction?  And if you begin to cry, is that Smile Dysfunction in conjunction with Tile Dysfunction whilst suffering Erectile Dysfunction?

(Said to the tune of Dr. Suess)

“Do you copulate, masturbate, procreate, or swing like a ape?”

“I would not copulate in a bog.  I will not masturbate on a log.  I cannot procreate with Shelly Bellog,  My noodle is as limp as the fog…

 

Okay, let’s get serious now.  Please realize, there’s a difference between Erectile Dysfunction (the inability to get an erect noodle), and Testosterone Deficiency (loss of the male hormone).  With Testosterone Deficiency your noddle may be stiff as Donald Trump’s bangs, but you just don’t care.  You’re no longer the Manly Man you used to be (able to not satisfy in a single bound (pump)).  You need a totally different pill for Testosterone Deficiency.

 

Okay, the point of all this was simple, and her it is:

THE GUIDE TO SEX IN THE 21ST CENTURY

(for men over 50)

  1.  Take your Testosterone Deficiency pill around the noon hour.
  2. Call the intended recipient of you affections (henceforth called victim) around 2 o’clock to tell them you’re thinking of how wonderful they are.
  3. Shower, crap, re-shower, brush teeth (flossing too Mister!), use Listerine to fight Gingervitus.  Shave face, nose hairs, eye brows.  Trim hair coming out of ears, trim hair on top of ears, trim two long hairs coming from under individual earlobes.
  4. Put on matching socks, non-holey underwear, recently washed pants, and a shirt with an actual collar.
  5. Make sure you have checked balance on your Credit Card prior to embarrassing scene at restaurant.
  6. Print out copy of “Pre-Sexual Agreement” (form 69-AH) to be signed by the object of your affections prior to introduction of “noodle”.
  7. Text victim at 5 o’clock to insure they know you’re still thinking about them.  Use smile emoji often.
  8. Clean up doggie crap because you’ve been so busy you forgot to let Fido out.
  9. Place hypoallergenic gloves on hands prior to filling trash bag with refuse from you vehicle.  Fumigate said vehicle with Lysol Family Sized bottle of disinfectant.  Hang Pine Tree from rearview mirror.
  10. Text victim to let them know you are on your way.  Also; reiterate how much you’re looking forward to seeing them.  Find “Sunshine Emoji”.  Use liberally.
  11. Take Erectile Dysfunction pill on ride.  Try to remove Mountain Dew stain from  front of your collared shirt where you hit crater sized pothole whilst taking your noodle inflator.
  12. Once back at scene of noodle insertion insure you have placed “mix-CD of 80’s rock love songs” in player.  Using the “clap on/clap off” technique to douse the lights will add to the ambiance of the moment.
  13. Get form 69-AH signed in blue ink, insuring that the victims signature was forceful enough to go through all three copies.
  14. Apologize to victim for the short duration of noodle insertion, but while cuddling inform said victim that another “stiff noodle” will be along quite shortly thanks to modern medicine.
  15. Have secondary 69-AH signed prior to every noodle insertion.
  16. Always remember that if you have a hard noodle for longer than four hours you are to alert you doctor after attempting numerous insertions to see if it’ll soften over time.

 

 

Or you could just watch Sportscenter and go to sleep early…

 

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Food

I like food. Hell, been eatin’ since before I can remember, thanks Ma. Fried, and baked, and flaked, and baked…all food is good food. Unless it’s squash…I never eat food that is also an adjective.
I hate being invited to dinner. Hate it. There’s a built-in assumption when one goes to someone else’s house for dinner; namely that you’re forced to like it. It’s like opening a really lousy Christmas gift and putting on the ‘lousy Christmas present’ smile with hugs included. I once got a waffle iron…I don’t eat waffles. But I smiled and marveled that some engineer in some far off land was able to create all those groovy grooves with precision. This took the discussion into the realm of pancakes versus waffles (waffles eventually won), and ended up with most expressing their preferences for crepe fillings.
I love crepes and if I can get my power sander to work properly I’ll be grinding down those waffle ridge things and have a new crepe maker…
What if I hate the chow their serving? Seriously…what if they live in that world where the add sugar to their spaghetti sauce (cardinal sin number 563), believe all meat should be cooked to the consistency of beef jerky, or have a place setting for Fido (the super f’ing dog) next to the table? Am I to truly put on the fake smile and bare it? What if they use jarred gravy…am I forced to put it upon the lumpy mashed spuds?
And my favorite pastime is trying to figure out what time we’re going to eat? See, in my world when the host says 5 is dinner time I assume I’ll be dipping my fork into some cuisine and sipping a mediocre wine at 5? But I’d be wrong in so many instances…5 is the start time of the meal. As my stomach does culinary cartwheels along with a sugar plunge I am forced to watch as “Egbert the Chef Wanna-Be” peels the spuds, shells the peas, and wrings the neck of a layer that just stopped being productive. Oh hell yeah, and to the chef it’s like a cooking show on the tube where he has like twelve minutes to put together a four course meal complete with barf bag and Alka-seltzer.
“The best part of the meal is watching it being created,” he’ll say as his brow drips sweat into the lemon paste and he scorches the butter/cream sauce.
I hate going to dinner…
I love going to Subway. Seriously, not only are the subs delicious, but the aura of anticipation is like wondering if my new deodorant is turning on my super hot date when I put my arm around her at the dollar movies. I just never know, and it’s the kind of deodorant where the ad says she’ll be shedding her clothes in my 1997 Buick on the ride home. Good times…
The kid behind the Subway counter (and you just know they were hoping you’d walk up…they get paid by the sub right?) will ask the appropriate questions (what type of bread, what type of cheese, etc…?) as I stare at the menu board while wiping the drool off my chin.
But that’s not the best part…
“Would you like double meat”, pimple face will ask as my eyes come back down. I’ll delicately decline. About this time the skinny grandmother with the fatso grandkid will come up behind me and the other ‘Sub-Specialists’ will don the clear gloves and pretend they hadn’t hoped the kid with the balloons on a long string hadn’t asked Grandma to go to McDonalds.
Getting to the best part…
“Would you like your sub toasted?”
I try to act like I missed it… like English isn’t my first language. I pretend fatso the grandkid just touched my derriere with his blue balloon. I’ve been known to fake deafness at this point…
“Sir, would you like it toasted?”
“Ummmm, sure,” I’ll give out quite noncommittal, though at a place deep within my soul the hormone sensor is belting out ounces at an unprecedented rate. Because ladies and gentlemen…this is the kill shot! This is the best fifteen seconds of my whole week…
This is the best part!!!
The metal ladle/paddle thingie is placed under the plastic thingie with my sub above and then launched into the oven-thingie. With a hand well versed in the art of sub making the teenager will push a button and 15 magical seconds will appear on the LED above. 15, but then before you know it it’s 14, and you realize some incredible heat is being forced into the air around your sub. My sub…my precious.
13…12…11
20 seconds is too long, I just don’t have that kind of attention span folks. The kid behind me will surely sneeze one of those wet ones, or grandma will fart and act like it was the little hoodlum with the blue balloons. The loudspeaker will go off, or the other sub gourmet will drop the other sub on the floor. It’ll be burnt at 20 and I just know it…curling little edges of my garlic bread scorched like paper in a fire.
10…9…8
10 seconds is too short…hell the bread won’t even get warmed up. Few things in life worthwhile happen in 10 seconds or less.
“Would you like yours toasted,” the sweet voice will ask Granny behind me, which only adds to the allure of the whole thing. My sub is being toasted to 15 second perfection in front of an audience!
7…6…5
My sub-artist will now reach up and place her non-gloved hand on the railing of the door panel…she’d anticipating too! In 5 seconds the dingie is going to chime the joy of my whole world and as she spins the paddle in her hand I see it as being the same pose the guy with the heavy gas can at the Daytona 500 holds in anticipation.
4…3…2
Now it’s the anticipation of the bell thingie that draws my eyes over her beefy shoulder to the LED…it’s nearly time! 15 beautiful seconds to perfection, and in 1 second she’s going to swing that paddle up expertly, slide it under the plastic tray with my sub on top, and with the precision of a well-rested brain surgeon fling it onto the white plastic in front of the veggies and look up to me for direction.
1…
I’ve been asked to leave Subway on more than one occasion…