Wednesday, August 31, 2005
create your own visited country map
or check our Venice travel guide
In The U.S.:
create your own personalized map of the USA
or check out ourCalifornia travel guide
create your personalized map of europe
or check out our Barcelona travel guide
I found this site while surfing. Why not make maps for yourself?
If not for my four years of servitude in The USN, I would not be much of a world traveller. I have the Carribean pretty well well covered. The same can be said for the North Atlantic, Europe and a pretty good mark on the Mediterranean as well.
Stateside, as you see can see, my shadow hasn't fallen west of the Mississippi many times.
It'll be interesting to see the places everyone else has been.
Sometimes events are just too funny to be true. Yet, there are things that happen that are so outlandish they can only be true. If you happen to witness any of these occurrences, you find it difficult to find anyone who will believe you.
So it is with this story you are about to read. If I had witnessed any of the following, I probably wouldn't believe them either. You might read this and come away with a whole new perspective about your grandparents.
Although I didn't know it at the time, it all started about two months ago. For those who didn't know, I work in Elderly Services. We provide assistance to the senior citizens in several surrounding communities. The agency I work for has about fifty employees who visit these sometimes forgotten folks. We provide such needs as bathing help, shopping, cleaning, companionship, preparing meals, etc.
I visit one gentleman, 85 years-old, who lives on the ninth floor of a building that serves as housing for senior citizens. I clean his kitchen, the bathroom, vacuum, sweep and mop his floors, make his bed and prepare a meal for him. He is a kindly likeable old man. I enjoy his company and am more than happy to help him.
One day while I was cleaning of his table, I came across a stack of correspondence and catalogs from Frederick's of Hollywood and Victoria's Secret. "You dirty old man," I said in jest to him. He laughed and pointed to his dresser. "Take a look in the bottom drawer," he said.
To my surprise it was nearly overflowing with sheer lacy sexy underwear of all colors and sizes. This was not a drawer full of his underwear, but women's' underthings. There were things I couldn't talk my wife into wearing, not even on our honeymoon. Indeed, there was stuff there I had never had the pleasure of seeing any female wear. Both out of curiosity and amusement, I help up several pieces of the "unmentionables." There were cupless bras and crotchless panties which had me looking back at him while shaking my head. When I was about to close the drawer, one article had me doing a double take. It was a pair of panties with what appeared to be a child's pacifier attached to the inside of the crotch. There was no doubt where the pacifier's business end went, but I had neither seen nor heard of such a thing before.
"The bulb has liquid in it," he offered. "There's a battery in the other end. It heats up and vibrates. The girls love it!" He was laughing. "Hold he phone. Hold it one minute!" I said. I know it's your business, but how would you know? What are you doing with all this stuff? Do you wear the stuff?"
I listened in disbelief as he explained that he had been ordering the stuff for years for several of the women in the building. It seems they were too embarrassed to order the items themselves. So he volunteered to do the ordering for them. He said that they eventually decided to keep them stored in his apartment, because the ladies didn't want their kids to discover them. I think I'd be full of questions too if I found stuff like this in my mother's effects. But it explained why he had them. It did not explain why little gray-haired women would want them. Did I really want to know?
"So when these old ladies want to dress up sexy," I suggested, "They knock on your door and say they want to use their "pacifier" panties or their undies with the cut-outs." I didn't want to think about their reasoning.
"Not exactly," he said. "They like to look sexy sometimes. They like to feel desirable. They want a man to look at them." I couldn't help but think, 'Who's going to find them ...Uh...Desirable? Most of them were widows. Do the ones with their husbands still alive, put on a show for them? And are those old men able to do anything other than watch. "By cracky, that's the prettiest wrinkled old ass I have ever seen! Shake that bootie for me, maw!"
He dropped another bomb on me! "I sit here in my chair and they wear them for me," he said matter of factly. "And I do find them sexy and desirable. I let them know it too." I really didn't want to ask, but what pleasure could that give an eighty-five year-old man? I began to wonder that if I were alive at eighty-five, would I find wrinkled and sagging female bodies ... desirable?
"Let me guess, Catalog Casanova," I said. "How do you keep these women from finding out about each other? What is it ... Monday is for Mary, Tuesday is Elizabeth's day, and so forth?" He grinned rather sheepishly, "They know about each other. They've been here two or three at a time!" He wasn't going to stop surprising me.
"Let me get this straight," I said. "You sometimes have three women parading around in front of you wearing next to nothing - see-throughs- cutouts - while you sit in that chair watching them?" I meant it as a joke when I added, "I suppose you are wearing a Spiderman outfit or something?" He laughed again, "Don't be preposterous! I have my elephant underwear on."
He must have anticipated my next question, for he stood up and dropped his pajama bottoms. There it was! Unbelievable! A gray thong with ears, and an elephant face with a trunk dangling. "I suspect one or two of them will be here around eight o:clock. Just had myself ready." I couldn't help it! In spite of myself, all that I had seen and heard hit me and I broke out into hearty laughter. He was unfazed as I was laughing. I acted like I didn't hear his next remark.
"The little darling dears try to see if they can get a rise out of the trunk. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't." the only thing I could think of to say was, "Oh my God, an honest to goodness "Octogenarian Orgy!"
That was two months ago, and except for honoring my promise to keep their secret, the subject had never come up again. Not until tonight, that is. Every Tuesday evening at about 4:30pm, I pay a visit to the old boy, and tonight was no exception. Because of security, I have to buzz his apartment and wait for him to release the door. Looking back, I didn't notice that the door clicked open almost immediately. He's a little slow and it usually takes him a minute or two to get to the door button. He must have been near the button when I buzzed. As I do every Tuesday, I rode the elevator to the ninth floor, walked the hall to his door, and let myself in through the unlocked apartment door. I set down my cleaning equipment and headed in the direction of the bedroom.
Disclaimer: What follows is graphic in nature and may be too sexually explicit for some. You may wish to stop reading now. If you are under the age of 18, you should log-off and go watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer reruns. If you have weak stomach you might want to go take so Maalox or Milk of Magnesia before continuing.
I stopped in my tracks. He was propped up against a pillow, half-laying, half-sitting. His mouth was full of only a small part of a very large breast, which was attached to a very naked elderly woman who was straddling his very naked lap. Articles of sheer lacy things were scattered on the floor beside his discarded elephant thong. I was very thankful that I hadn't eaten in four or five hours.
I do not subscribe to the practice of voyeurism, But if I were to, I certainly wouldn't have chosen this couple. I turned away thinking he must have wanted me to walk in and see them. Otherwise why would he have buzzed me in and then assume that uncompromising position? I called out with a loud "Hello," to announce my arrival. I also said that I would start working on the other side of the apartment. I guess it was only about five minutes before he came strutting out, proud as a peacock, wearing only his slippers and his elephant. I chuckled. I couldn't help it, but his appearance was so comical.
God bless him, I thought. I couldn't help but notice that the rise she had given his trunk was still in effect. I shook my head and continued cleaning the kitchen counter. If I was eighty-five at that moment, I might have been jealous. But I wasn't and I wasn't.
Next she came out, dressed, well almost dressed. As long as I breathe I don't think I could ever describe an eighty-ish woman in crotchless panties and a bra with cut outs! If I were to try now, I would have to add another disclaimer. I thought to myself, "Why the designers bothered to make that underwear sheer in the first place, I'll never know."
She showed no shame in being essentially naked in the presence of a strange man. She walked past me to get a drink from the refrigerator. One of her breasts, purposely I think, dragged against my chest as she returned from the refrigerator. I could almost swear that due to the contact, some more of her breast joined the nipple and was passing through the cut out. Yuck!
"Oh dear," I heard her say. "Your trunk is slipping." I watched her guide him, her hand pulling him by the trunk, back into the bedroom. The next thing I saw was the elephant thongs in flight from the bedroom.
When my time was up I yelled out, "Goodnight, Jumbo! See you next week. Have fun." I was out of there.
When I got home I decided not to mention my little adventure with my Lothario client and nice lady friend. When I found out what supper had been prepared, I suddenly didn't have much of an appetite. For some reason I couldn't get excited about Sloppy Joes!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
(With appologies to Johnny Rivers, this post was inspired as a theme song for the previous posting, Honey-Doings: Reprise. )
I had to ask myself! Can't I be Honey-Don't this weekend?
I have been dragging my knuckles since last weekend. Why me, Lord? When does it all end? This past Saturday was supposed to be my day. That'll be the day! It was two in the afternoon and I had just settled down in front of the computer. There's a lot of blogs to catch up on. I wanted to study my Fantasy Football teams. I wanted to catch up on my e-mail. And I wanted to get back to work on my short story, "The Quill and the Quire."
....Lately, no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to get on-line before 8pm on any given night. This week I was still a little tired and sore for the Soiree of last weekend - my daughter's wedding shower. It went well too, better than we expected. But it took up the better part of both weekend days. So this weekend was supposed to be free. Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, was a line from Me and Bobby McGee, written by Kris Kristofferson for Janis Joplin.
That just wouldn't do would it?
Those words sent chills up my spine. With the kitchen sink involved there is a garbage disposal, a trap, and the piping into the main soil trunk. Hello clog, goodbye blog!
This wasn't boding well for my weekend all of a sudden. I crossed my fingers that it was something caught in the disposal. Please, don't let it be in the pipes! The disposal was working. I opened the trap and the sink emptied in to the bucket I had placed beneath it. Closing the trap, I went for the litmus test. The sink didn't drain as I ran water from the faucet. The sink didn't drain when I turned on the disposal. I came to a monumental conclusion:
After dropping the entire run of the drain pipes across the basement into the main soil pipe, I finally isolated the clog. It was in the worst possible spot. If I were a clogged pipe and didn't want to be bothered, that was where I would pitch my tent; where else but in a section of pipe behind the outside wall of the kitchen!
Several attempts with a snake and a garden hose all failed to loosen it. I had two courses of action, and neither ripping out the cabinets nor by-passing the blocked area was going to happen that evening. The next day this was confirmed with futile help from my future son-in-law. We would be without a kitchen sink until next weekend. In no way does my wife want the cabinets ripped out.
So next weekend is going to be another chapter in the continuing Honey-Do Chronicles. Planning, measuring and coming up with a list of materials will be mandatory between now and the weekend. (Paying a plumber, by the way was not considered.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 28, 2005
When I think of ghost writers, I think of some nondescript person who just had their 15 minutes of fame. That person is usually not he sharpest knife in the drawer. More than likely he/she cannot put more than five words together to form an intelligent sentence, which by the way contains no words of three or more syllables. That is where the ghost writer comes in.
I have come to the conclusion that unemployed ghost writers work as temps and fill those positions bearing such titles as "Technical Advisor" or "Technical Support Associate." I do believe I just recently received help from one of these "techs."
I had just finished deleting and marking mail as spam in my AOL mail box. After those 278 items were zapped, I was about to read the onerous list of 5 legitimate e-mails from my two sisters and my daughter. When all of a sudden a screen-filling pop-up filled the screen. It was an oficial-looking AOL message. It read in a manner to make me think that their techs behind the scenes had detected an unusual amount of deletions from my AOL mail box. As a service and in order to provide a secure environment for my private mail, they were reinstating those deletions and would remove what appeared to be an erroneous spam tag.
Talk about efficient, I didn't even even have time to close the window because it disappeared from my screen. As the message had said, there I was, the proud recipient of 283 pieces of mail in the new mail file. I refreshed the page and what do I see? Another pop-up window, this one telling me there was another 174 messages that been deleted in error three days earlier. Do I have to tell you, or did you guess already? Poof! I now had 457 pieces of new mail.
Sometimes when we are angry we say and do things we would not normally do. Actually trying to call Technical Support is one of those things. After listening to a medley of Yani and Zamfir hits and about 15 interruptions of a recording telling me how much they value me as a satisfied customer, a live human voice identifying herself as Michelle spoke, "America On Line Assistance, how may I help you?" I hoped she could I answered. But when I relayed my predicament, the angel turned out to be quite the opposite. "Oh, we at AOL would never do such a thing. You must be having trouble with your servor," she pontificated. Before I could protest she said, "Have a nice day. Thank you for calling AOL On Line Assistance," and with that she broke the connection.
I really must buy an updated edition of American Dictionary of Slang because in the following few minutes I used up all the those kinds of words I knew. To make a short story longer, I proceeded to once again to tackle my e-mail.
I wonder, when the need for ghost writers picks up, which Michelle gets to write for the "Runaway Bride," or Michael Jackson's victims, I mean accusers? Devil or angel? (Sounds like a good song title.)
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Sometimes I write what I think is a pretty good piece. Pretty good to me refers to humor. I like to think that humor is my niche. But sometimes, he who laughs last didn't get he joke! It is then that the joke appears to be on me. (Tough crowd in here last night!) If all the world is a stage, it must then hold true that tomatoes grow abundantly in front of it.
It's the old virtuous battle of quantity vs. quality. It's prolificacy vs. proficiency.
My last two postings seem to illustrate that battle. Being prolific, one would think, gives me the ability to exhibit a wider range of material as well as more of it. Is this ambiguity working against me? If I write more, don't I have a better chance of catching lightning in a bottle? Or will it come up ambsaces? If I am indeed writing too much it would follow that there is too much to read.
My posting of "A Taste of Honey," was one of those pieces that I thought was quite good. I was looking forward to reading the comments. I had anticipated some readers "being had" until the last few lines. At first, I was going to open with a warning prolegomenon in the form of a disclaimer. "Reader, don't stop reading. Read on, everything is not always what it appears to be." Way back in February I posted "Affair Remembered," No.38, which began with such a prologue. As was the case back then, I was afraid it would spoil the surprise.
After "A Taste of Honey" was posted I noticed that my visit counter was about to hit 4000. That prompted me to rush up the posting "Pete, Ty And Me." It was a combination of a pat on the back and a thank you to those visitors. It because of that posting after "Taste" that inspired this current posting. I am beginning to think that a lot of readers land on the most recent post and then move on. If all I have to write about is self-edification, why should a visitor surf through my site? He/she could easily think that the final post was an indication of anything else posted previously.
I was convinced that "A Taste of Honey" was not being read at all. The one I wanted to be read, the one I was anxious to read the comments, the one I thought was pretty good, why it was skipped completely!
But along comes Old Hoss, like the Calvary, to the rescue. He had read it but made his comment on the last posting. As everyone knows, his comments can be and often are an extension of his postings and are quite funny.
I just have to resign myself to the fact that not everyone leaves comments whether they like what they read or not. I myself do not always leave a comment on every blog I visit. But if I enjoyed what I read, I make it a point to let the author know.
I'll just have to be proliferous and proficient at the same time.
Pete Rose and Ty Cobb - are the only two men in baseball to collect 4000 hits. Well move over boys!
You have company! The Pointmeister might not have played baseball, but it didn't stop him from getting hits.
Pete, you gambled and lost. Ty, you stole and got away with it! I Blogged and got lucky.
But my hits will keep coming, guys.
I'd be remiss if I didn't credit the real stars, you the visitors! Thank you. Mucho Gracias! Mercy Beau Cups!
She marveled in anticipation as she prepared to remove that which enclosed it. She had already been fondling it, running her fingers up and down its length. Clad as it was, it still filled her with excitement. Experience, however, had taught her that only a brief moment of teasing could be tolerated.
...She hastily tore at its confines and reaching inside hungrily pulled it out. Exposed, she sighed in near ecstasy as she ran her eyes along the length of its rigid shaft-like form. To her it had always reminded her of a piece of field artillery. Her tongue gently, sensually began to travel across her lips. To her glee she saw that at its tip dew-like droplets had formed.
....She could wait no longer. Her lips closed slightly and slid easily onto it. She lingered at the tip, her tongue rapidly flicking there. Suddenly she drew it in deeper. In one delightful moment it disappeared into the depths of her mouth. She was rewarded with the release of its juices. She slowly began to move back and forth, the force of the suction enough to draw forth the excess juices.
....There was a gentle popping sound as it emerged from between her lips. Its entire length glistened from the tender caresses her tongue had been supplying. She was shifting it in her hand, moving it so that she could view it from all angles. Why was this glorious cannon ever hidden from view? It was created to be kissed, licked and suckled. Her only disappointment in life was that she couldn't savor all of them.
....Was she being too promiscuous for one her age? It was not something she dared to dwell on. If so, so be it. Morning, noon or night, any time one of these majestic shafts of pleasure was available, she was going to pay homage to it. The juiciness and the wonderful taste of them was too irresistible for her to ignore. She giggled at the thought of a line of them as far as she could see, bared and standing proud anticipating her lips upon them.
....She was going down on it again, alternating between rapid frantic thrusts and slow but long draws upon it. While it was still rigid, she could sense that it was becoming softer and that the sweetness of the juices was abating.
....Before this day she had only suckled one at a time. Today was different, for today she was going to have seconds. She leaned back and propped herself on her elbows. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She had never been so contented. Her yawn was not so much an expression of boredom, but more of an attempt to stretch the muscles that would be employed again in a few moments.
....She was pulling he other one out into the open air. She grinned impishly as she noted it was already glistening. It was beginning to ooze its juices before she had even inserted it into her waiting mouth. How marvelous, she thought that they came in pairs. They were twins. How lucky she was that she could have them both, one after the other.
....In all of her six years, she had never dreamed that her mother would allow her to perform these acts. She was going into the first grade soon and she wondered if the other little girls had experienced this pleasure.
....The second one was just as delicious and satisfying as the first had been. She giggled as she opened her lips to take in the other half of the Popsicle.
....She heard giggles on the other side of her mother's bedroom door. It sure sounded like daddy was sharing his Popsicle with mommy.
Friday, August 26, 2005
In Karyn's posting of 8/20/05, Blog Analysis, she asks of us "What's your blogging personality?" I sat back and gave it some thought and decided that it was a much too difficult question to answer without some serious forethought.
My original approach to this blogging thing was clouded in anonymity by first creating a pseudonym - Hale McKay. The information that I provided for the profile was entered only in the required fields. My age, real name and hometown were omitted. Later on this was fixed because I realized that I wasn't ashamed of my age, name or background.
In the end though, I may have made myself a little more enigmatic than I had originally intended. For I ended up with not one, not two, but three distinct identities. (Makes note to self: This is not the right time for Cybil jokes.) It is all three of those personalities that reflect "the me." There is, of course, my real name Mike, my pen name of Hale McKay, and bringing up the rear is The Pointmeister.
Mike is the brains of the triumvirate, the weaver of the ideas. It is his daily observations that become the fodder for a potential blog. The Pointmeister is the one who injects the humor, satire and or irony into Mike's experiences and memories. Hale then stirs the batter provided by Mike and the flavoring that The Pointmeister adds to the mixture. It is Hale who who bakes the concoction and sets the table with the feast for the guests to digest.
Neither praise nor criticism can be or should be doled out to the entity that sits before the keyboard. That is but the shell that houses "the me." If you don't like, are offended, or disagree with a particular posting, it is The Pointmeister you should chastise. Now if it is mundane, not well written, or not structured properly, you can blame Hale. Lastly, if you are brought to a chuckle, a giggle, a laugh or a ROFLMAO, it is Mike you should lay the praise upon! But please, don't applaud. Throw money!
In summary, I guess you could say that my blogging personality is the amalgamation of the three. Mike is the Depository. Hale is the Librarian. Alas, that makes The Pointmeister the Suppository.
(Here's a factoid that can be filed under: "I did not know that!" Impress your friends with this amazing fact. Did you know that bell peppers contain more Vitamin C than oranges? Well, now you know.) -The Pointmeister
I happen to like Spam. Alas, I have to qualify that statement. I like Spiced Ham. I hate e-mail spam. I loathe comment spam!
I'm just a blogger (Little Ol' Blogger Me) like so many others out there. Blogging relaxes me and gives me a chance to express in some measure, some the creative juices that have been sloshing around in my cranial cavity for decades. I resigned myself years ago to the fact that my poetry will never get me nominated for Poet Lauriet. I don't think I ever came close to convincing myself that I would someday write the "Great American Novel." To date neither have Spielberg nor Bogdonavich approached me for the movie rights to anything I have penned.
I ran a search (using Yahoo search) and on the first screen of the results out of ten, only one was in reference to the Hormel product. All nine of the rest were concerned with electronic spam. All of the Hormel Spam products pictures here came from the Official Spam site.
When the brand name of a product becomes more widely known as a coined phrase than for the product itself, I think it is safe to say that there is a problem. Did the pencil-necked geek who chose to give the name "spam" to electronic intrusion, ever eat the product? If so, he must have not liked it. He could have chosen "weed," but he didn't want to insult pot smokers? Was he afraid there might be a "Friends of Poison Ivy" association out there? Here's one he could haved picked: "Geek."
Suppose theater lovers stayed away in droves if they thought that "Monty Python's Spamalot" was about computer spam. When that geek coined spam as the moniker for this malady, was his little heart beating in triumph under his pocket protector?
...."Hey, Eugene. I've got it! We can call it spam!" He calls out to his acne faced friend with the coke-bottle-bottom glasses and polka-dot bow tie. Why I don't know, but the two of them confirm the discovery with a calculator and slide rule.
...."Boys, it's almost time for bed. Take out the trash, put out the cat and get ready for bed," yells Montague's mother from downstairs.
....Suppose they had chosen "weed" as the sobriquet instead. "Hey, Eugene. I've some weed." Mother, hearing the conversation thinks her son is getting garbage on his computer, goes about her housework and dismisses it. Meanwhile, Eugene and Monty are sharing tokes and getting stoned out of their skulls. Had they chose "weed," the sixties may have lasted longer. And the aroma? "Oh, the smell, Mom? That's my computer. It's been clocking a lot lately."
Now I ask you, does computer spam have a recipe book? I doubt it! Can you fry it? Bake it? Broil it? Can you grill it? And of course, can you eat it?
In any event, I have been forced to change my comments settings on my site as many of you have. I don't like it. I thought the idea was to encourage the readers to leave comments and not to do drive-by-readings.
Had they had computers back then Willie Shakes would have wrote it this way: "Out Damn Spam!" "Or Something is rotten in Spam-mark." "Spam, Spam. My Kingdom for Spam." "To Spam or not to Spam. That is the question."
Thursday, August 25, 2005
The last thing a college student needs is distractions!
For this posting I thought I would take some time to give something to some of my blogger friends. In such an open forum as this, there will be witnesses and posting dates and times. Why are those important? Well, after today they won't be able to ask what have you done for me lately? (Not that they would anyway.)
For Scnoodlepooh: I give you - oodles of schnoodles
For Aral: I give you-
For John: A classic Limerick
A fly and a flea in a flue
They were trapped, what could they do?
Let us fly said the flea
Said the fly let us flee
So they flew thru a flaw in the flue.
For Karyn: Nice Boobs - A hint to revisit that subject on Sex Fridays!
For Hoss: A thank you Diploma for some great Bl**ging.
Another Karyn: For you to consider:
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
When his eyes are wide in wonderment, when he is wearing an ear-to-ear grin, and when she can detect the smallest trickles of of saliva at the corners of his mouth, those are the times that he is most content. For his woman those are signs seen only a few other times. She has seen that look when she prepares his favorite meals and desserts. The only other times he wears such a look is when she is wearing little or nothing.
....She can understand the pleasure and joy that he displays when she prepares those special meals. She is pleased that her body pleases him. Yet, she can only feel pangs of jealousy when she sees him in such a state of euphoria outside of the house. He is in an almost drug-like trance as she falls behind his wake as they enter the store.
....She has turned her man loose in a hardware store! Only in the tool department of Sears had she ever seen him in this state. She is thankful that in public she is wearing clothing, certain that the animal in him would throw caution, modesty and decency to the wind. Here, in this Mecca she is but an afterthought as he disappears down one aisle only to emerge from another several yards away.
....They were there because they needed a new toilet seat. No sooner she had mentioned that need, that she was reminded of the cartoon character, the Tasmanian devil. So swift, so frenzied was his movements that he was finishing dressing at the same moment he turned the ignition key in his vehicle in the driveway.
He is like a little kid prancing and it looks like he is actually skipping through the aisles! He reminds her a young boy pressing his face against the glass of the display case in a candy store. That $5 off coupon he is clutching is not unlike the $1 bill clinched in that kid's fist while his other hand traces a path over the gold mine of confectionery delights. He is older now and it is a different kind of candy that excites him now.
She has already given up any thought that the coupon might be applied to the purchase of the toilet seat. She didn't have the heart to deny him his moments of treasure hunting. Besides, when they paid for the seat and whatever treasure he chose, they would be on the same sales slip. The $5 would come off the total purchase in the end. She might as well let him think that it was his item that was responsible for their savings. Why not?
When he was a kid he had once been faced with the cruelest of dilemmas. It was a difficult decision for a kid to make. Like a pirate's booty spread before him, each nugget gleamed and sparkled. Should he choose quality and spend his dollar bill on his favorite morsels? Or should he go the bulk route instead and score big in quantity. Ultimately he chose the the bigger haul. He knew that despite the fact that if was his dollar bill, he would be made to share.
....In his youth, growing up in the fifties, one dollar would buy a helluva lot of bulk candy! They no longer called it penny candy, indeed there is nothing you can buy for a penny these days. The price of one candy bar today would have garnered fifteen of them back then and they would have been larger.
She is surprised when next she sees him. She is stunned to see him approaching carrying a toilet seat. Was there nothing he wanted to buy? No tools? No nuts, bolts, screws or nails? Were there no frivolous gadgets like a screwdriver with a built-in AM-FM radio?
....Then he says, "It's a good thing we had this coupon when we needed a new toilet seat, huh?"
....She can only nod in silence. She begins to feel guilty, but she couldn't help but wonder what he was up to. Of course, if he is up to something, he wouldn't give it away. She is left to puzzle over his ulterior motives. Could it be that he is sincere? Maybe he deserves some credit. Maybe he has earned a nice supper. And maybe later she would....?
Can it be that our hero is in for a good night? Can it be that he is still that kid in the candy store? Will there be Southern fried chicken with mashed potatoes topped with a light brown milk and flour gravy? He smiles as if his face were pressed against the glass in that candy store. Maybe, just maybe she will make some home-made biscuits too.
Will she be in an amorous mood tonight? But then again, why is she being so generous today? What's she up to? What does she want?
Tuesday, August 23, 2005