Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Distaff And Datstaff 2

There are many stories in the Naked City - but who cares? You are more interested in those who are naked in the city, aren't you?

This is the second installment in a series of anecdotal tales of the desperate and the not so desperate, of the lucky and the not so lucky, and of the memorable and not so memorable exploits of real barflies.

What tale of sordid goings-on would be complete without the involvement of one of law enforcement's finest? Here we begin with a tale that could only be called ....

The Batman
Tom was a patrol officer with fifteen years of experience on the force. Like any veteran cop, he knew his way around the seedy dives that lay hidden in the back streets and alleys of Boston. Many of us know about those special "secret" dins of iniquity, and have a favorite of our own. The story begins in one such hidden jewel in the Financial District of downtown Boston. Its motif was that of early bathroom. Its walls were decorated with enlarged photos of regular denizens framed in toilet seats. The walls were often referred to as the "Hall of Shame," and sometimes the less flattering sobriquet "Hall of Assholes" was used. (The author will admit to be a card carrying member of that exclusive club.)
....Sgt. Tom also had his picture up there, but his had center stage over the bar. This night he took a fancy to a pretty young thing seated at the end of the bar by herself. She had rebuffed all earlier attempts by several men to join her. Tom was undaunted and walked over to where she sat. Maybe because she recognized him from his likeness on the wall, or maybe he actually charmed her, for he soon sat next to her engaged in conversation. The bartender said he probably flashed his badge to break the ice. After only twenty minutes or so, the two of them got up and left the bar together. Jim, an officer from the same precinct shook his head and said, "Damn, we'll be hearing about this all morning down at the station. I wouldn't doubt it if he already knew her and made arrangements to meet her here."
....The rest of the story was pieced together by Jim and a couple of other cops from the same precinct as they told us at the bar soon after that night. After a short cab ride to her home, a second-floor flat in a quiet neighborhood on the South Side, he knew how his night would end. It turns out that our femme fatale was into foreplay that consisted of wearing costumes. Tom had no problem with kinky sex. She handed him a box and told him to change in the bathroom while she changed there in the bedroom. Soon she was decked out in a slinky black leather cat costume, complete with an eared cowl and a tail. She propped herself up on some pillows in a provocative pose waiting for Tom.
....When door opened, there stood - Batman! He was naked except for a one-piece cape and cowl with large pointed ears. Although he had no utility belt, he was obviously armed to do battle with the Cat Woman. His weapon was aimed at her as advanced on the bed. Presumably at her request, he climbed upon her dresser and stood there with his fists clinched on his hips. Then he launched himself from the dresser, diving headlong at her.
....His trajectory, however, did not allow for a ceiling fan. The cape caught on one of the spinning blades. Even with the addition of his weight, the fan did not fall from the ceiling. Before he had a chance to react, the cape began to wrap around his neck. He landed on his knees at the foot of the bed. He was starting to have difficuly breathing as he struggled to loosen the cape from his neck. There was a smell of smoke as the fan's motor began to over heat. Just then the fan blade snapped in half. The sudden slack caused him to fall backward and his head struck hard against the dresser.
....Cat Woman tried in vain to awaken him. He had been knocked unconscious. Anxiety set in as she picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. She told the dispatcher she thought the man was dead. In fifteen minutes two cruisers pulled up in front of the house. Five minutes later an ambulance and a fire truck arrived. In the meantime, she had managed to free him from the cape and cowl. He was moaning and coming to when the officers entered the room. He was dazed and didn't recognize his brethren cops, but they knew who he was right away, they were from the same station house as he.
....Insisting he was okay and refusing to go the hospital, the firemen and the EMTs left. The two policemen remained to get statements from Batman and Cat Woman. Tom, as it turned out, was none the worse for wear. He did have some curious welts on his neck, which we learned later that he explained were the result of a scuffle with some hood. He called in sick for a couple of days with a sore throat and a cold.
....When he showed up for work, he was his usual cocky self as he strolled into the locker room. There was a growing crowd of his fellow officers gathering at the end of the row of lockers. They roared with laughter when he opened the locker to discover a complete Batman costume hanging there. From somewhere behind, someone was playing a recording of the Batman theme from the television show.
....He took quite a ribbing for two weeks or so. They weren't going to let him live it down until they'd had their fun. One day when he went to the car pool to get the car he had been assigned, he had to laugh himself when he found a large replica of the bat chest emblem taped across the drivers side door.
....No one knows if he ever tangled with Cat Woman again, if he did he never said. He had learned one thing though, to always look before you leap.
....Thus ends another tale from the "Distaff and Datstaff" files. Stay tuned to the same Bat Blog for another tale of the naked in the Naked City.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Santa Got Creamed By Our Spaceship

Santa got creamed by our spaceship
Driving home DUI, he refused to yield.
You can say there's no such thing as UFOs,
As for Santa, he was stuck to our windshield.

He'd been drinking too much Capt. Morgan,
And didn't check his Global Position.
It seems he forgot about the blizzard,
He knew better than to drive in that condition.

When they found him Christmas morning,
At the scene of the big crash
He had Nacelle prints on his forehead
And some serious burns on his moustache.


After we scraped him from our window,
He was making quite a racket.
We drove off in our flying saucer,
It's a shame he was fitted for a straight jacket.

It's not Christmas without Santa,
And all the elves are looking for his sack.
And we on Rigel can't help but wonder
Should we open up those gifts or send them back?


Now the earth moon is in eclipse,
And his story about the UFO is famous.
But they're all laughing at Santa,
And say his head must've been up his anus.

I've told all the aliens and the spacemen
If it's to Earth you'd like to run,
Watch out for Santa and his sleigh
Cause he drives like he owns the sky and sun.

Sing it Chewbacca!



Monday, November 28, 2005

Carol Conversations

It's getting to be that time of year when Christmas carols will be careening around inside our skulls. Somewhere along the way, besieged by the onslaught of these jingles, is when I start talking back to them. You might call them "carol conversations."

For example, at about the umpteenth time I hear one of these songs, the exchanges will go something like:

Carol: Rudolph the red nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose. And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows.
Pointmeister: He got loose in Santa's radioactive dump site again?

Carol: It came upon the midnight clear...
Pointmeister: Yep, thats about the time the heartburn woke me up.

Carol: It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas ...
Pointmeister: You had to remind me, didn't you?

Carol: Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...
Pointmeister: Next time, don't stand so close to the fire, Chet!

Carol: Silver bells, silver bells ... it's Christmas time in the city. Ring-a-ling, hear them ring ...
Pointmeister: Blasted Salvation Army bell ringers...

Carol: Walking in a winter wonderland ...
Pointmeister: I wonder why I'm out here in this crap!

Carol: Pretty paper, pretty ribbons ...
Pointmeister: Do you know how many trees it takes to make that wrapping paper?

Carol: I'll have a blue, blue Christmas ...
Pointmeister: It'll be blue when you get your first Master Charge statement.

Carol: Santa Claus is coming to town ...
Pointmeister: Step up the border patrol and call Immigration.

Carol: All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth...
Pointmeister: Aim higher, kid. You should score an X-Box.

Carol: I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus ...
Pointmeister: Seems she forgot about the cam-corder I got last Christmas.

Carol: Up on the rooftop ...
Pointmeister: You call 9-1-1. I'll get the shotgun.

Carol: Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...
Pointmeister: You like snow? Then move to Alaska!

Carol: Dominick the Italian Christmas donkey?
Pointmeister: Now there's an ass I wanna kick!

I am not really a "Bah-Humbug-Scrooge" type of person. My local oldies station started playing Christmas carols 24-hours a day, 7 days a week the day after Halloween. Those stores that pipe music over their public address system have also started playing Christmas music. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against festive holiday songs. I love chocolate cake and Klondike Bars too, but I can't survive on a steady diet of them.
....I like sex, but I can't ... Well, let us not go there, you get my drift.

Shameless Promotion Department

Please refer to the previous post, "Vote For Me," for the details.

How else can one promote oneself? How about printing your own newspaper? It works for me. I had to make up my own headlines and sub-headlines. I even gave myself a by-line. Since the AP or New York Times showed no interest, I even had to write the article myself!

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Seriously though, I checked out the other two sites and it doesn't look good so far. There is a lot of support for the opposition , even at this early stage.

So as not to appear to be prostituting myself, I could grovel and beg, I suppose. Maybe I could barter? I seem to remember that Scnoodlepooh could use some Honey-Do work at her place. Perhaps someone needs their driveway shoveled during the up-coming winter? Need your house painted? Transmission rebuilt?

I must admit to calling upon the highest authority in attempt to gather some votes. I know he is busy this time of the year, but at least I won't be taxing his work force. My request will not affect his product output or deplete his resources in any way. To little Johnny on his lap "Ho-Ho! Yes, you can have an X-Box. Just tell your parents to vote for The Pointmeister."


Sunday, November 27, 2005

Vote For Me


It is always pleasant to read the comments that readers have left on my posts. It is the first thing I do every time I come on line. While reading the four comments left on my latest post, "Christmas Cards From The Edge," you can imagine my surprise to find the following comment:

At 8:00 AM, Motherdear said…
Congratulations, Michael! Your site has been nominated for the Best Comedic Blogsite award for November at the Order of Brilliant Bloggers (, a grassroots organization dedicated to the recognition of excellent blogging.
.... Please encourage your loyal readers to come to The Order and cast a vote for you between December 1st and December 5th at 11:59:59 PM EST, and to nominate other posts and sites in the many recognized categories! We are pleased at your nomination, and wish you luck in the voting! And thank you for your contributions to excellent blogging and photojournalism!
I wish to extend to special thanks to Miss Cellania for her nomination of my site for this honor.


The following clip is the announcement from the site of the Order of Brilliant Bloggers:

Monday, November 07, 2005

Nominations - November's Best Comedic Post and Blogsite

Best Comedic Post is for any humourous post created from November 1st to November 30th. Nominations end November 30th at 11:590:59 PM EST.Best Comedic Blogsite must contain at least one post during the month of November to qualify. (Otherwise, nominate in Best Historical Site, please.)Same Rules and Protocol apply as always - up to three nominations per post and blogsite in each category, and you cannot nominate yourself!!!Voting will begin December 1st through 11:59:59PM EST on December 5th. You have three votes per category but can only vote for the same post or site once. And yes, you can vote for yourself, if you like.As always, have fun and GOOD LUCK!!

Best Comedic Post:Fantob - Voodoo Innuendo: Nitwit Tidbit From Pundit Review Radio
Bobby - Verbal Vomit: Let it snow, let it snow, let it…oh screw it.

Best Comedic Blogsite
Unnamed - The Intellectual Comedy Salon
jamwall- Banana Blograma
Michael Ashley - It Occurred To Me

posted by Motherdear @ 11/07/2005 11:53:00 AM

Of course, this means I have to hit the camapign trail. I won't promise four drumsticks on a chicken. I won't promise no new taxes - read my lips! I'll have to kiss babes, and I will not limit it to the diaper variety either. (I have been known to slip the tongue to certain babes.) I will promise to post my brand of humor, after all it did garner me this nomination.
....Don't be surprised to see a pitch in my posts between now, and starting in earnest from Dec. 1 through Dec. 5. You may well see shameless plugs left as comments on your posts also.

I have checked out the opposition. That reconnaissance has led me to believe that they can be had! The Intellectual Comedy Salon is mostly a politically slanted comedy site with a heavy use of photos and some clever captioning. Banana Blograma also uses photos, and while politics is part of the theme, the site also deals with the current news. Patricularly funny is the Thanksgiving Day post: "Two Men Attacked By Slutty Parade Balloon."

I'll be seeing you on the campaign trail with the support of the two Sams. Uncle Sam and, of course, Yosemite Sam.

Get out there and vote! For me, please?


Saturday, November 26, 2005

Christmas Cards From The Edge

(This posting is with kudos to Monty for giving me the idea, if even unknowingly. In Feb. 2005, I posted "A Second Language," about receiving a letter. I have retrieved the original posting and in turn have revamped it to reflect receiving a Christmas card. For your approval I submit: " Christmas Cards From The Edge.")

The other day when I came home from work, my wife handed me an envelope. Incredibly, upon it there was actual hand writing and a stamp had been applied in the corner of it. My name and address, as well as those of the sender, had actually been placed upon the envelope manually with a pen! It had been many years since I had seen anything like it. For as long as I can remember, what physical mail we did receive, mostly bills and statements, had been neatly printed mechanically with metered postage. This was no bill. This was no statement.
....Hefting it in my hand testing its weight, I marveled at the relic. Possibly, this unique item should be saved as a potential collectible. I held it up the light trying to peer inside at the contents. What mysteries might this paper enclosure hold? The sheer simplicity of the small rectangular object left me to wonder why anyone would go to such lengths to send me something through the U.S. Postal Service. What would possess them to take on the expense of purchasing a stamp?
....The advent of the personal computer as a household appliance had rendered letters virtually obsolete. Indeed, as a species, the mail-carrier was nearly extinct. This archaic form of communication had come to be known as snail mail. Forsaking stationery, pens, and postage stamps, we turned in droves to the promises of high speed electronic mail. Even us Baby Boomers, who were hesitant to buy into the technology, have ultimately embraced e-mail and instant messaging. To the surprise of no one, we even figured out that chatting live could actually save us money on long distance phone calls. It was not lost on us either that there was the added bonus of no postage.
....I felt like a kid opening a birthday present, anticipating the treasure about to be unearthed. As I turned the envelope over in my hand exposing the sealed flap on the reverse side, I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. I realized there must have been some urgency in the sender's reasoning for contacting me in such an odd manner.
....The antique letter opener sliced through the paper methodically, like a knife through a frozen margarine quarter. The contents, a colorful object, appeared to be made of some kind of stiff paper. Ah, a rare document? Closer inspection, however, revealed the paper to be an ancient greeting card, albeit rarely seen in this day and age. Unfolding the pages, I slowly began to scan them. I don't know if at that moment I was quite prepared for what I would find.
....It was indeed a greeting card. I was stunned to see structured complete sentences. Some were pre-printed in a form of a rhyme, and you're not going to believe this, others were actually written in long hand with a pen. Amazingly, everyone of those sentences began with a capital letter! There was an incredible array of punctuation. I guess what impressed me most, was that all of the text was comprised of words, and believe it or not, spelled correctly. I considered looking for double negatives or dangling participles, but judging from everything else, that would have probably proven fruitless.
....Having bridged the gap from the dark ages of remoteless television sets to the current era of high-tech wizardry, I was fortunate. Others might have had to hire an etymologist, and maybe even an anthropologist, to assist them in their attempts at translation.
....Imagine their chagrin to discover that the cryptic "How are you," would be unraveled to be the more familiar "How R U." Not unlike the Egyptologists, who thanks to the Rosetta Stone, were able to decipher the hieroglyphics, I slowly translated what could become a sought after relic. I made a mental note to look up the Smithsonian's telephone number. In olden times, they actually used massive tomes that contained the listings of telephone numbers. They had to literally dial those numbers on an analog phone.
....I know, because I remember those crude devices. I had read and written documents like the one I was holding. As I continued to scan and translate the passages, I was almost stumped when I came across "anyone." Eventually, and then only by taking it in context, was I able to arrive at "NE1." I'll bet many a jaw dropped out there on that one. Mine surely did.
....Suffice it to say, I did eventually complete the translation of the document. I have decided not to contact the Smithsonian Institute after all. This relic, instead will grace a wall in my study. It will become an heirloom that I will pass on to my daughter for her to pass along to her children.
....Until that day comes, however, I will take pride in having it. As will I also be proud to be one of a few who can claim to be multi-lingual. I have a second language. In addition to cyberese, I am fluent in English - written English.

I will reveal part of what I read on that card, but to avoid trouble with the Politically Correct Police Force, it will be brief. I caution you to please not to gasp aloud, lest you draw the attention of the PCPF.
....The card wishes me a "Merry Christmas" - please, I asked you not to gasp aloud. Shh! I know, and you know, that we must refer to it as "Holiday," nowadays.
....Aren't we all part of an undergroud movement to keep traditions alive? To most of us, it will always be a Christmas tree - not a holiday tree. Most of us still remember the true meaning of this time of the year. Despite what their sermons preach, I will not pray to "Our Lord, Wal-Mart." Dare I say that their sermons used to be called commercials? 'Tis blasphemy, I know, I know. I still believe that The Magi were three kings from the East, and not those three monkeys who cover respectively their ears, eyes and mouth.
....Perhaps a pipe dream, I hope not, we can all gather the courage to send Christmas cards to our friends and relatives. Perhaps the one I have received will not be a relic or a collectible item.


Left Afters

Left Afters - What's left after you've eaten the left overs.

I trust that you turkeys had a nice day. I mean, I trust you had a nice turkey day.
....I must admit to a little plagiarism for the opening line of this post. The term "left afters" was featured in Johnny Hart's comic strip B.C., in a segment where the main character reads from Wiley's Dictionary. I have been inspired several times by that strip, to incorporate them in some way into my posts.

It is apropos to talk about the left overs. Thanksgiving more than likely, generates more uneaten food than any other holiday. I base this is on a scientific study which was performed only this morning when I opened my refrigerator door. The identical experiment no doubt was acted out in countless kitchens from Sheboygan to Alberquerque and everywhere between.

As the cattle above and their conversation suggests, I know I am by no means the first or the only blogger to mention left over Thanksgiving food today. That's okay, because that is not the theme of this blog. That subject was used as an attention-getter along with the picture of the bantering bovines to lure some readers.

The left afters of which I am choosing to write are those articles in newspapers that are used to fill in the blank spots on a page of newsprint that are left after everything else has been type set. These fillers usually deal with bizarre events from around the world that are otherwise deemed un-newsworthy at most of the desks of reputable editors.

Garbage Gourmets
This story could herein be titled "Speaking of Left Overs." If you have just eaten, or if you are about to eat, you may not want to read this until later. If you have a weak stomach or are squeamish, you may not want to read this at all! From an Associated Press release, this article is written about some New York City residents who have devised a way to eat healthy and for free.
....A group of friends at a well-appointed Greenwich Village apartment shared a dinner featuring eggplant Parmesan with a salad of mixed greens and avocado dressing. The guests had already snacked on on hors d'oeurves of smoked mozzarella and crackers. Not bad, considering the diners find their food by digging through garbage. The group call themselves "freegans," a play on the words "vegan" - vegetarians who avoid all animal products, including dairy - and "free." In their rejection of consumer waste, they only eat food that has been discarded. In New York City, at least, they never go hungry.
...."We find more food than we could ever possibly eat," said Adam Weissman. Just 24 hours before the dinner party, he found a healthy stash outside a Manhattan gourmet supermarket: bags of salad nearing the sell-by date, dozens of sandwiches, boxes of Ritz crackers and some nice-looking squash.
....A 10-year study by the University of Arizona, concluded that this country wastes 40 to 50 percent of its food. A 1997 U.S. Department of Agriculture study put the loss at 27 percent of the total U.S. food production, or 96 billion pounds of food.
....Could it be that the freegans are on to something? I, for one, am wondering what they may be catching.
Avery Beverages in New Britain, Conn., has bottled some disgusting new soda. That's the point of the three new flavors - Swamp Juice, Toxic Slime and Dog Drool. The labels say they are "Sodasgusting."
....From their red-hued barn, Avery has been bottling pop for the past 101 years. They launched the gross flavors in July to rave reviews from its target audience: 10-year-old children. Truth be told, it was the little tykes who invented the new brews.
During tours of the old-fashioned soda factory, kids get the chance to use six of the more traditional soda flavors - strawberry, lemon, pineapple, orange, blue raspberry and kiwi - to create their own carbonated concoctions.
....When one small visitor mixed all six flavors together, it produced an inky-green drink that an adult in the group suggested should be called Swamp Juice. "The name stuck, and people kept telling us that we should market the drink," said Rob Metz, manager of the soda factory. It wasn't long before the factory was rolling out 'Dog Drool," a whitish pink-hued drink made from orange and lemon, and "Toxic Slime," a light-blue soda combining blue raspberry and lemon.
....The company has sold more than 400 cases since July.
I'm thinking already. What concoctions could we come up if we added a jigger of .......
There you have it, a few left afters for you to mull over.

Friday, November 25, 2005

First In First Out

What's worse than over eating on Thanksgiving?

You have gorged yourself on three helpings of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, squash and all the other trimmings. You have already unsnapped your pants and loosened your belt two or three notches. You have taken up station on the couch for some football. You have performed the act of remoting, the station and volume set. Your upright posture has given way to a more comfortable angle for optimum viewing. You were thinking "It doesn't get any better than this!"

Now, how can over eating on Thanksgiving be bad?

One thing comes to mind. In Accounting, they sometimes use the FIFO method. First In First Out means that the first order in is the first to be processed. So it is with the food we ingest. You remember that your last meal yesterday consisted of three chili dogs and a dish of nachos. They had decided to overstay their welcome as it was. Something has got to give!

With your nap interrupted by that primal call of the wild, you are driven to seek a haven where you can purge your system. In that Fortress of Solitude, you contemplate the desserts that have been gathering at the table where once the main entrees had resided. You are salivating thinking of those culinary delights awaiting to tickle your palate. The involuntary processes are at play as you patiently rule that domain from your throne.

What's worse than over eating on Thanksgiving? To your horror, you discover there is something! You have discovered too late there is no toilet paper on the roll! Anxiety begins to set in as you helplessly look around for a spare roll. There is none to be found! I am talking emergency here! There is that ray of hope that springs eternal as you reach for the waste bucket. There must be some discarded tissues or pieces of paper. There is none! Someone must have emptied the bucket. You curse their efficiency. For a fleeting moment your eyes fall upon the clean face cloth and towels hanging by the sink. Wisely, you decide that is not a viable option.

To bide time, you try flexing and unflexing certain muscles in hopes of calling forth more output. Perhaps a second wave might be cleaner? You admonish yourself for thinking of such a stupid idea. Your eyes suddenly widen as if you had made a monumental discovery that would benefit all of mankind. You have just had an epiphany. There should be some magazines in there somewhere. Most desirable would be a section from a newspaper, as it has more absorbent properties and is more malleable. A page from a Readers Digest would work, not the shiny pages, but one or two of the pulp ones. Once again your hopes are dashed. There is not a single magazine to be had. What kind of library is it that has no reading material, you think.

The dilemma you are facing is worsened by the fact that you are not in your own home. This is not your throne room. If you were at home, it would be an easy obstacle to overcome. You would simply hike your pants up partway and then penguin waddle out of the bathroom. You could even grab a napkin from the table if you wanted. You could make a beeline for the nearest box of facial tissue. Kleenex! You grapple behind you, there must be something serviceable on top of the tank lid! Once again you strike out, for save a couple of hair brushes, nothing is there. Nah! There is no way you are going to consider one of those brushes.

You are starting to wonder how long you have been taking up residence in your hosts' toilet. It wouldn't be long before they sent out a search party, or worse yet, someone else would want to use the facilities. Desperation is beginning to set in. Once again you are considering the face cloth. Your business had been finished for several minutes. Hardly a piece of artwork is it that you have left, but even artists have to clean up after their masterpieces have been completed. The aroma, which has become increasingly unpleasant, has began wafting around the small confines in which you are imprisoned.

You are about to resort to the Final Option. You will have to pull up your underpants and give yourself a wedgie before pulling up your outer pants. You are committed and start to rise, when there is a knock at the door. It must be an advance scout for the main body of the search party. "Just a minute. I'll be right out. Sorry," You manage to reply.

The voice on the other side announces, "I just realized that we forgot to replace the toilet paper in there." A second load has been removed, this time from your shoulders. You respond as if in surprise, "Oh? Oh yes, I see. I didn't notice there wasn't any. I wasn't ready for it yet." Whether he believed you or not wasn't important. You release a sigh of gratitude as he says, "I'll set it on the floor next to the door. You can reach out for it."

Although you had received salvation, you think about the not so pleasant bouquet that will invade the next person's olfactory senses when they enter that bathroom. Aha, sure enough there is a can of air freshener on a shelf. Dumbfounded, you stare at the rectangular container next to the spray. It is a full box of facial tissues. It had been there all the time, out of your direct line of sight, but there just the same. Your ordeal is almost over as your start to use the air freshener - nothing happens! The damn thing is empty! You do the only thing you know, you stroll out leaving the door slightly ajar. With a little luck, it will have all dissipated by the time another visitor enters.

Now it is time for your just desserts. You have successfully managed to create quite a vacancy. It wouldn't be long before Mr. Apple Pie and his friend Ala Mode would be checking out the accommodations.

The moral of the story: On Thanksgiving Day eat all you want, but always remember to first check the dispenser for toilet paper!


Thursday, November 24, 2005

Happy Thanksgiving

This famous painting by Norman Rockwell I think, says it all.

I have fond memories of those Thanksgiving celebrations of my youth. My Grandparents' farm was located in the rolling hills of Roane County in Appalachia. There, they had raised sixteen children during the depression, that farm providing most of the essentials they needed to survive. Years later those children would return annually to the old homestead with children of their own.
....Not that I really need my memory of those simpler times to be jogged, but there are several songs that transport me back to there and then. Originally a Thanksgiving song, but now heard more during Christmas time, Over The Hills and Through The Woods is sure to put me in a reminiscent mood. Anyone who has spent more than a passing visit to the hills of West Virginia, knows of what I speak. John Denver was quoted as saying he'd never set foot in West Virginia, but you'd never know it when you listen to the lyrics of his Country Roads. The one song that really tugs at my heart strings however, is a little known number by Joe South, Don't It Make You Want To Go Home.

....Once the meal was ready and the tables had been set, there was an almost ritualistic parade of adults and children to the tables. The large dining room table was reserved for the grownups only. While they were taking their places and nestling to the hypnotic aromas of an enormous turkey and all the fixings, we the children were herded into the kitchen, pantry, and even a hallway depending on how many had made the trek for the holiday.
....In those days, children weren't permitted to sit in on or to listen to adult conversations, especially at family gatherings such as Thanksgiving. There was even a pecking order when it came to the kids' tables. We were always seated with our cousins of the same age group. So it was, and through the years there was an almost Darwinian process of evolution as we each aged, moved to the next table, and eagerly dreamt of that special day - the day we moved to the adult table.
....To say that it was a rite of passage to be promoted from one table to the next would be an accurate enough statement. Much was made of these transitions. My Grandmother actually announced the event after everyone had been seated. There was no red carpet, but it didn't matter for the honored one walked on air as he or she arose from their old station to take on the new one.
....It so happened that my elevation to "adult status" occurred during one of those Thanksgiving reunions. No one knew it at the time, but it was the last and only time that I would ever sit at the adult table. Before the next Thanksgiving, I would be serving Uncle Sam somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean in his Navy, both my Grandfather and Grandmother would pass away, and the family homestead would be siezed by Imminent Domain to make way for Interstate 77. If you are familiar with that Joe South song, you will realize how uncanny that song is to me.
The Adult Table
It was a special time of the year
When we migrated to that place.
Families from both far and near
Reuniting at that old rustic farm.
As we prepared to bow in grace,
Wishing all in the world no harm,
Midst the aromas of the hot meal
Wafting thru the house as if proof
'Twas no dream, no it was so real.
"Son, come join us at the big table,
'Cause today and under this roof
You are grown and you are able
To dine as a proud young man."
To be among the first to be served
Was always a part of a kid's plan.
But I thought of those left behind,
Although my move was deserved
I couldn't help think it so unkind,
To be so labeled and thus classed
And it weighed heavy on my heart.
I'd awaited this day and I'd passed;
But now with a family of my own,
We all sit together and never apart,
We have rituals in our own home.
To all who happen to drop by, have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family and friends. Drive carefully and stay safe. May God bless and watch over you and yours.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Parallel Porking

These are thoughts about getting the shaft. You know, getting it where the sun don't shine! Having it driven down the Hershey Highway - the Expressway to your fart!

Just ask Timmy the Turkey about the red-hot poker!

Then there is parallel porking, getting it from both ends! You might ask the residents of New Orleans who lost their homes and jobs how they feel about Starbucks being one of the first businesses to reopen in the wake of Katrina. Now they can worry about getting their lives back together while they pay $5 for a cup of coffee again.

Suppose there was an uprising, and in a reversal of fortunes, those millions of Thanksgiving turkeys "turned the tables!"

Sony had a nasty DRM software installed on certain music CDs. If you were one those who were unfortunate enough to have played one of those discs on your PC, you were struck with a painful disturbance in your "compost pile." This software was installing a program in your system that allows hackers and virus writers access to your computer through certain malicious codes. There was no warning until it was too late.
....It kind of makes you feel sorry for the people who bought the new Celine Dione album .... Nah!

Here's another poke in the brown eye! Saddam Hussein has decided he wants to write his memoirs. He asked his guard for a stenographer. The guard came back with a laptop computer instead.
...."No thanks," Hussein said, "I'm a dictator!"

I was placed in an uncomfortable position of having to defend President George W. Bush to a Pakistani owner of a Seven Eleven convenience store. Perish the thought, you must be thinking. How could I allow myself to fall into that trap? Well, it had to do with the accuracy of his facts. I mean if you are going to bash the President of the United States of America, you should at least have your facts straight. Am I right?
....Well the first thing he said was "George Bush ... He blows dead dogs!"
....I had to come to our Commander-In-Chief's defense on that crack. I said, "That's not true. I saw a dog get up and walk away just the other day!"
....Then he said, "George Bush ... He eats shit sandwiches!"
....Again, I had to stand up for our President's honor. I replied, "That's not true either. He does not like bread!"
....Not to be deterred, the man came back with, "Your President ... He is a liar!"
....What can I say? After all, two out of three ain't bad!

....Dubya, you're own your own on that one.

....You might say you got parallel porked!


Ain't She Purty

It was a work in progress. It was a labor of love. She hadn't had many chances lately to doll herself up nice and fancy. Sure, she would dress up for Wednesday night bingo, but this night was special. She was going to go the whole nine yards. She hoped.

She stood in front of the full length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. She primped and looked at her reflection, changing poses to find her best side. Her alabaster skin was in stark contrast to the dark towel wrapped around her torso. The towel had been too small to cover her breasts, and as such, the gelatinous hillocks hung well below her waist. They appeared to roll like beach balls with her every movement. She tried to cup them, one in each hand, so that her large nipples and aereolae would be pointing straight ahead like they had once done ages ago. Their mass however was too great for but one hand and they spilled forward and downward, victims of age and gravity. Unrelented, she used two hands on the left one to acheive the desired effect. She chuckled and said alound, "It takes two hands to handle one of these whoppers!"

She loosened the towel to let it fall to the floor. It fell only from her rear and her hips. It hung in place in the front, pinned to her abdomen by her breasts. She sighed and pulled at the towel until it finally slipped free from the vise-like grip. The dark patch of hair, which she could only see with the aid of a mirror, looked almost out of place against the backdrop of milky flesh. "I guess that wasn't such a good idea after all," she said as she looked over at the mascarra brush on vanity table. She mused, "Darn it, the damned carpet don't match the curtains." Her eyes were looking at the hair atop her head. It was light gray with a bluish tint. "That old bastard won't be able to see 'em both at the same time anyway."

Once again she begin to primp, turning left and right, looking herself over from head to toe. Although her rump was still wrinkled from the bath she said, "It's not a bad ass for a grandmother." She placed her hands on her hips and added, "Yes Gertie, you look purty good, as ol' Ben used to say."

Back in her bedroom she reached for the jar that contained her face. "This stuff is mine and Tammy Fae's secret," she said. It would have probably been easier if she'd used a putty knife, but she dilligently used a small pad to apply the paste-like substance to her, neck and breasts. Next she dabbed it onto her arms and legs to cover the liver spots. She had one more task to perform before she would start dressing, and grabbing the large plastic container of talcum powder she began to sprinkle it on herself from head to toe. When she was done, she shuffled her large slippered feet over to the bed, a cloud of white dust rising from the floor with each step. Another cloud arose from the sheets as she plopped herself down onto the edge of the bed. She carefully unfolded her sexiest nightwear which had been stashed beneath her girdles for as long as she could remember. There were two pieces, powder-blue with white lace frills and decorated with green satin ribbons and a matching bow. The pants piece slipped up and over her hips and rear end easily enough. She had to struggle, however, to get into the top. When finally she had yanked and tugged hard enough, if felt like it a perfect fit. "Like a nine foot into a size seven shoe," she thought to herself.

She shuffled back to the bathroom to model herself in the full-lenght mirror. Even that far from the bed, whisps of talcum clouds trailed in her wake. She studied herself for several moments and grinned. "Pamela Anderson, eat your heart out!" She knew she probably looked more like Anna Niclole Smith before she lost the weight. Then she became sullen, "Bah. I look more like the departing end of a Clydesdale, who am I kidding?" The reflection looking back at her was showing that the "sexy" top was straining at the seams. There was more of her breasts exposed than covered, separated by the chasm of five or more inches of cleavage.

She was startled by a knock at the door to her apartment. Her spirits were uplifted. "Well, I'll be. Ben is early. He must really be looking forward to our date." She felt like she was walking on air as she traipsed,as best a woman in her 70s could traipse, to the door. "I hope he remembered to bring that bottle of Boone's Farm, coz this old lady is thirsty!"

To her dismay, when the door was opened, there stood Tillie and Sarah, the two sisters who lived down the hall. "Yes?" she said to them, and stepping aside she bid them admittance.

"Oh, we can't stay, Gertie," Sarah stated in her gravelly voice. "We just came to ask if you heard the news?"

Gertie knew all too well that these two biddies were the gossip whores of the building. If there was something that you didn't want anyone to know, it was their mission to make sure everyone did know. "No, I don't think I have. Who got locked out of their apartment this time?"

It was Tillie who spoke next, "Ah ... No, that's not it. Another neighbor of ours left this world today." She paused before she asked a question to which she already knew the answer, "Did you know old Ben Smythe?" She didn't wait for Gertie's reply, but lowered the boom, "Well he died in his sleep about an hour ago."

If it was at all possible, she grew ashen and gasped. She didn't hear, she didn't want to hear anymore as Sarah began to speak again. "May I say, Gertie that you look pretty today. Are you expecting company?"

Even as Gertie was shutting the door in their faces, Tillie, as she was wont to do was attempting to get in the last word, "Yes, ain't she purty?"

Suddenly she felt tired. She needed to take a nap. As she shuffled over to he bedroom she said aloud, "If that isn't just like a man to up and die before our date. You'd think the son of a bitch would've waited until after the date." She lowered her head, and although no one was around to see her, she wiped a tear that had
formed in the corner of her eye. "The old fool probably wouldn't have been able to get it up, anyway!"

She stood before the bed for a moment before removing her "sexy" aparrel. Naked, she lay atop the sheets and stared at the ceiling. She was praying that God would take her, like he had taken Ben, while she was sleeping. In another thought, she cancelled that wish. "Tillie and Sarah have had enough gossip for one day. I'll be damned if I want to be a part of the same gossip with Ben." She sighed deeply, "Ben, you old coot!" Like her, Ben had no living family. Her breathing was uneven as she fought the battle between grief and anger.

Gertrude Smythe joined her ex-husband Ben that afternoon.

Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door,
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?


Tuesday, November 22, 2005

This Blog Is From Mars

It certainly isn't Venusian!

I mean, if it is so that men are from Mars and women are from Venus, then it follows that this blog is Martian! Venus, the Goddess of Love vs. Mars, the God War - it is the eternal battle beween the sexes.

Funny, I never did see it as a war, or a battle - a skirmish maybe.

Amoebas at the start were not complex;
they tore themselves apart and started sex.
- Arthur Guiterman

The big difference between sex for money and sex for free is that sex for money usually costs a lot less. - Brendan Francis

The only unnatural sexual behaviour is none at all. - Freud

A word that should be in the dictionary: Cabitchulate - to give up or to cede to the will of one who nags.

Sex ought to be a wholly satisfying link between two affectionate people from which they emerge unanxious, rewarded, and ready for more. - Alex Comfort

Of all sexual aberrations, perhaps the most peculiar is chastity. - Remy de Gourmont

In the art of loving someone you arm them against you. - Anonymous

People who throw kisses are hopelessly lazy. - Bob Hope

It's not that I love everything about you, it's that everthing about you is love. - Mike Ashley (just now)

It's ironic that everything that is different between a man and a woman are the same things that both attract us and repel us. Honor me that I might honor you. Caress me that I might caress you.

Fight with me that I might fight you. Excuse that line, it was just to get your attention and to show how easily one emotion can progress to another.

My friends I put it to you, what is easier, to love or to be loved?

By adding only punctuation, can you make a sentence that makes sense from the following five words?

Love loves loves love love


Distaff And Datstaff

There are many stories in the Naked City - but who cares? You are more interested in those who are naked in the city, aren't you?

Distaff And Datstaff - Displace And Datplace was the working title for a possible book which will probably never be published. I had made notes over the years from the sights and sounds that I had observed and heard perched upon a bar stool. The notes were anecdotes of the adventures and misadventures of the human animal, on the prowl before closing time.

From an all but forgotten cigar box, I began to study them the other day. Inspired by the subject matter of several blogs of late, namely drinking, I thought that since they never made it to manuscript, maybe I could post them here. As I was sorting through them, I realized that some of those stories were just too funny to be stashed away. Some of them have been scrawled onto napkins, scraps of paper, and the margins of some newspaper.

This will be the first in a series of anecdotal tales of the desperate and the not so desperate, of the lucky and the not so lucky, and of the memorable and not so memorable exploits of real barflies. In part from memory and in part from these notes, I will try to entertain you with their stories as they were related to and/or witnessed by this author.

The names and places, of course, have been changed to protect the guilty. The innocent have been left hanging out to dry because it is they who had divulged most of the secrets about to appear before your eyes. As such, I may or may not be so innocent myself. I am at least guilty of telling, and if I have anything to do with the kissing parts, I might even be counted among the protected guilty. That's my position and I am sticking to it. It is always possible that any one or more of them might someday stumble across this site and this posting.

Wuzzy Fuzzy?
John was not anxious to fly to New York for a weekend Dividend Convention. He had tried to beg out in lieu of someone else, but to no avail. His wife was pregnant with their third child and he didn't relish leaving her to deal with the two and four-year-olds in her condition. Quite a few of us in the office, however, were well aware of his propensity after work to seek out some "strange." I don't think he was prepared for the upcoming strange weekend.
....Although the events of that weekend and the "dividend" he received are hearsay, there was a certain amount of physical evidence that put any doubt to rest. He gave the juicy details of his adventure that weekend to the closest of his office friends, who had sworn to secrecy. They kept that pact until a gathering at a favorite watering hole that same evening.
....It seems that he met a blonde bimbette (an under 21 bimbo) from Brooklyn at the convention. Their chat led to lunch, which led to drinks, which finally led him to her place, a flat just across the river from the Wall Street convention. He spent all of his free time with her. When he brought up the subject of the one striking feature he admired about her, she promptly asked him if he would like the honors. You see, blondie liked the comfort of a close shave. He must have been thinking "Wait till those guys back in Boston hear about this!" She laid back and allowed him to lather and to shave the fresh stubble. (I must say, she sure had some courage to allow him near such a sensitive area with a shaving razor.)
....Why, I don't know, and I'll bet he didn't know either at the time, but she convinced him to allow her to return the favor. She began with his chest and abdomen before shaving his arms and armpits. She then used the razor like a lawn mower over the entirety of his legs. He told his buddies that she was withholding all sexual activity until she was finished. He claimed that he was both too drunk and too horny at the same time and was unable to refuse her demands.
....He said that he was erect all the while she was lathering and shaving the areas of his groin. (I must say, he showed a lot of courage to allow her near such a sensitive area with a shaving razor.) Save his head, his body was completely defoliated as he turned his attention to the more pressing matters at hand. He claims it was the wildest and best sex he had experienced in a long time.
....Perhaps not wanting to appear that he did not rule the roost at home, it was only later, again with his closest buddies, that he discussed the difficult time he had to hide his new "smooth body." He had to dress and undress away from his wife's eyes. The fact that she was far enough long in her pregnancy, provided him with a built-in excuse to avoid contact with her.
....I don't know how he did it, if in fact he did manage to pull it off. The physical evidence mentioned above, was confirmed by his bare arms and chest, and as far as I know no one asked for any more proof.
....For several months, John had to endure the sobriquet "Fuzzy Wuzzy," because he wasn't very fuzzy was he?
This ends the first installment of these hormonal anecdotes. I counted at least 24 notes from that cigar box. That means there are many more to come in future posts. But as a teaser, here are some of the scheduled possible titles: Bat Man, The Park Bench,
The Robe, Smokin' In The Boy's Room, Window Sill Thrill, I Feel a Draft, The Coat Hanger, and Puppy Love.
....Hmm, I have an idea. Why not let you readers pick which title(s) you would like to be included in the next post of this series? If there is enough interest, I will gladly comply. Otherwise I'll choose them myself. (Blows raspberry!)
Disclaimer: Please don't think that I condone the activities of these individuals. Those showing despicable traits such as John above, are to be considered understood. The fact that they may be bastards and bitches is not the purpose for these postings, but rather just my attempt to uncover the humor even at the expense of the inculpable.


Monday, November 21, 2005

'Tis A Better Place

Sometimes it is so much easier to know what to say than it is to find the words to say it.
I often think that there must be better words than those I can bring to mind to convey it.

I am sure that Webster has many words in his tome that would express it much better,
That have just the right sound, the right amount of syllables, and a perfect pentameter;

But it matters not what words I choose, for in the end it matters only how it is expressed,
That it is heartfelt in the most sincere words I know in a prayer to ask that you be blessed.

'Tis a better place beyond what we are able to see; and 'tis a better place where your loss
Will reside, yea to watch o'er you until the day it is written that you join your love, Hoss.

Hoss, I know I am only one among the many others who frequent your site. I feel safe in saying that they echo my sentiments, as I echo them. Our prayers will reflect our shared grief for you and yours.

-Mike Ashley
Nov. 11, 2005


Sunday, November 20, 2005

Blogging Under The Influence

The challenge has been declared. The pressure has been applied. I have to step up to the plate. The gauntlet has been laid before me. I need to answer the bell, go with the flow, get with the program, and above all I must ... Punt!
....Although paraphrased, the question was asked, "What would happen if we were to blog while drunk?" That was the challenge evoked by "Let's Make a Deal Monty !
....I must admit it is indeed a compelling idea. In fact, she turned in a journeyman effort worthy of a gold medal. She has set the bar high right out of the gate. It's not going to be easy to top a Full Monty.
....I am sure there have been those under the influence who attempted to be creative at one time or another, but that was a direct result of the drinking - a by-product. Now to actually plan to get drunk while blogging and to capture the evolving stages from sobriety to a stupor, is a challenge that cannot be ignored by this blogger.
....I'm afraid I'll have to tackle this with a significant handicap. Before anyone cries foul, a handicap such as the one I am employing is by no means an advantage. For you see, I won't be inebriated, in fact I won't even be drinking! Hear me out, please. I no longer drink alcoholic beverages, and with only a triad of exceptions, I have not since July of 1995. (Those exceptions occurred at three recent weddings in the last 18 months, most notable of which saw me walking my daughter down the aisle last month.)
....Thus, I can only draw upon my past experiences. Trust me, there is much from which to draw; there is a considerable body of work and countless brain cells that forfeited their lives for the excess of my carousing. Therein lies the seemingly insurmountable obstacle in my path. I am forced to don the mask of the person I used to be, to devolve myself into a drunk. Slurred speech can only be simulated upon the screen, but the disconnected thoughts of one who has been imbibing are only a few key strokes away.
....I like the way the Romans used to get the attention of the bar tender, "Nunc est bibendum!" Somehow, that sounds more sophisticated than the English translation: "It is time to drink."
...."Whew! That lash one had hair on it! Karbeep, gimme adother nouble."
....You know, drinking can make you think. I have decided that I should upgrade my music library to CD. But, first I gotta upgrade it from 8-Track to cassette.
....Do crazy people insult each other when they say, "Man, you're sane!"
...."Shay babe, my name's Derrick. Howsh 'bout me drilling for shum earl on your personal property?"
....Sometimes I like to quote famous people. How's this one? "I'm taking viagara and drinking prune juice - I don't know if I'm coming or going." -(Rodney Dangerfield) Oh, don't go away, I have another one. "When a man is all wrapped up in himself, it makes for a small package." -(Mike Ditka)
...."Yo Pour Master. Howsh 'bout redreshing my frink!"
....Yep, I sometimes get to thinking about some pretty heady stuff. Have you ever wondered what a rubber hamburger tastes like to your dog? I'll bet if Rover or Fifi could talk, they'd say it tastes just like a rubber chicken.
....To be a successful barfly, ya gotta have some killer pick up lines. You have to be part flipper, er philosopher, part castanets, er Casanova, and at least party sober, I mean partly sober. Then again, party sober works too.
....You gotta be a go-getter early, coz there isn't much to get got at closing time.
...."Z-z-z-z-z-z! Huh? No. No, I washn't shleeping. I was jush contemplating her navel."
...."Uh oh! Will you look who just walked in. Yep, I left with her last night. Honest to goodness I charmed her when I told her I wanted to get into her pants. Later at her place, man oh man was she ever pissed when she caught putting on her panties!"
....You know, ish kinda funny, but when I get a few in me, I shtart to talk like one of my favorite comics - Norm Crosby. Norm is the master of the malaprop. I shumtimes find myself spouting malapropisms. Shince they are drunk too, they usually don't notice.
....Said the pants girl, "That's funny, last night I thought I was going to get a few in me - all I got was a missing pair of panties. I want them back!"
...."Aha! That's why I couldn't find the opening in my drawers all day long."

Anyway, like Norm Crosby, I sometimes use the wrong word when I am drinking. I tend to talk from my diagram and drink decapitated coffee. It makes me consecrate better. When I was on contemporary jurisprudence duty, we were deciding the fate of a man who was pledged of sexually defaulting a woman. When the prostitution arrested its case, he was ventilated. It turns out the woman purchased herself.
....Norm has a good quote too. It goes, "When you go into into court you are putting your fate into the hands of 12 people who weren't smart enough to get out of jury duty."
....It isn't long before the malaprops give way to Yogi-isms, like: "Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded." Another one is: "It's deja vu all over again."

Now, if I pretend to write this while I am pretending to be drunk, I will find myself pretending to leave flattering comments on a few choice sites, but in actuality I'll be trying to hit on that blogger.
....Hmm, maybe Monty is still a little tipsy?
You see, when I drink I tend to ramble, become amorous and ready for bed - to sleep, if even alone. Alas, it is usually the latter.

Sign this post: Drunkless In Boston


Saturday, November 19, 2005

Captain Eclectic

This afternoon I was reading Jules' blog about an exclusive entente known as the League of Super Bloggers. (Cues up a cacophonous theme, yet to be written by John Williams; until then you can choose from either "Superman," "Star Wars," or "Raiders of the Lost Ark.") By the time I had finished reading, I was very excited.

So it is, I have decided to throw my tights into the ring. Hey, if nothing else my entrance to retrieve them will be a memorable one! I want to be a Super Blogger too, Jules. I can beg or bribe references from two of the existing members of the LSB: Super Bitch, aka Monty and OBA, dba Old Hoss .

In creating my super alter-ego, I initially tried start with a name and then take it from there. That idea, however, proved to be an onerous task. While I may be a strange being, I am not from a distant planet. None of my friends or enemies have 'L.L.' as their initials.

I have in the past applied for membership, but was rejected by both the Justice League and the Justice Society. My image and powers were not considered representative of the JLA and JSA teams. I was granted an interview with the Mighty Heroes, but they had decided go the same route as Mighty Mouse and be Super Heroes for the children of the world.

The first name that I considered was phonetically similar to another established hero. While the powers of Inspect Her Gadget are very impressive, there would be the risk of confusing the little kids. My Super Power? You could say I was a Pocket Rocket Scientist with the ability to design, modify, improve and repair damaged and malfunctioning vibrators - and I would make home calls 24-7!

Since the exploits of a Super Hero would be covered extensively by the media, the alternative name of Dildo Man would ultimately draw the ire of jealous significant others. Just think of the trouble and anything else I could get into! Not good press for a Super Hero!

In the end, I decided to establish my Super Hero identity based upon my existing powers. My blogs are meant to be so humorous that evil-doers are overcome with laughter and thus easily defeated. While I sometimes post some serious material, my ability to find humor in nearly any subject makes me feel confident that I could live up to the codes of ethic and conduct by which every member of the LSB is sworn to uphold.

Webster defines eclectic as: selected or composed of material from various systems, doctrines or sources. Thus is born Captain Eclectic ! Able to leap over conventional wisdom! Faster than a deleted expletive! ...And who disguised as the mild-mannered Pointmeister, writes comedic versions of truth, justice and the American way!

I even come complete with my Rogues Gallery of villains. There is Whistler's Aunt, sister of she who sat in rocking chairs, who had the despicable power to whistle annoying classical music while eating saltine crackers. Remember, The Thigh-Master, that obese woman who wore satin pants? When walking, her fat satin-clad thighs would generate powerful bolts of electricity. I made her laugh so hard she peed her pants and short circuited. Then there was The Phantom Pooper - what a smelly case that was. I managed to procure some of Monty's "No Shit" and was able to flush him out.

There you have it, Jules! I have bared my ... er ... credentials. (Maybe I should put my tights back on, that is if you wish.) Steps forward and trips over the invisible foot of the Invisible Man, falls forward against OBA causing his modified hospital gown to turn backwards, and falls face first into the lap of Super Bitch. As if to teach me a lesson for being so awkward, she promptly holds me in place. She's trying to force me to give up? Just for spite and to show my strong will, I stubbornly refuse to fight back!

Trust me, if there is any humor to be found there, Captain Eclectic will find it! (Okay, so I am not the most powerful, but man, I sure can make blog!)


Friday, November 18, 2005

Message In A Bottle

Look over yonder,
What do you see?
A new day is arisin'
Most definitely.
-Tommy James & The Shondelles
(Cyrstal Blue Persuasion)

What do you see when you look at the bottle over yonder? As for me, I see at least 9 dolphins! (There may be more.)

Can you take your mind off of the carnal distractions long enough to find some dolphins? Now don't let the name "Flipper" give you any anatomical thoughts either.

How do you surprise that redneck man in your life? Why, you make him a redneck birthday cake of course!

Do you really want to know how Dairy Queen makes those curls on top of their ice cream cones?

Maybe, just maybe Coca Cola is taking the advertisement thing a little too far?


Thursday, November 17, 2005

I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight

While reading Windfall Woman's recent posts, her tribute to the film The Sound of Music, took me down memory lane. This movie is to date the only movie opening that I've ever attended. It is also the first 'real' date I'd ever had.
....Before that evening, all of my previous dates were of the "I'll meet you at the malt shop after school" variety. That date was the real thing, a real date, where I actually picked up a girl at her house and met her parents. It was the first time that I had ever been "interrogated."

If I had told her that I loved her,
She would've stayed till who knows when,
But I guess she couldn't understand it
When I said " I want to be your friend."

I never knew that the opening of a movie was such a big deal. Chicago, like other major cities across the country, certainly made a big deal of it! There was some kind of an affair in session involving VIPs, but my date and I were herded through a side entrance along with the other ordinary patrons.

....Because a friend would never doubt you
....Or ever put you uptight
And now I wonder what she's doing tonight.

We had a wonderful evening. We both enjoyed the movie. It was a great first date. Although we hit it off rather well, there were those nervous, awkward moments on her porch; while I was wondering if I should try to kiss her and she wondering if she should allow me that trespass. The decision on her part was made easy when the porch light snapped on.

Oh yes I wonder
What she's doing tonight.
Ohoh I wonder what she's doing

Melody (her real name) and I had already been seeing each other on campus. Both of us were Frosh at Aurora College in Aurora, Illinois about 40 miles west of Chicago. We had been sitting together at lunch, between classes, and when ever we had the chance. There was an instant attraction when we first met at the student union my very first day at the school only hours after I had gotten off the train from Chicago. Twelve hours earlier I had boarded another train in Charleston, W.Va., for the train ride that took me out of the Mountain State for the very first time. Melody was an off-campus student, living only ten minutes away by car.

We were so close, we should've been closer,
And it's making me so sad,
But I tell myself I didn't lose her
Because you can't lose a friend you never had.

Fate can play some cruel and unexpected tricks sometimes. I was on a sponsored scholarship to play basketball. I was a good high school cager, but because of my 5-foot-10, 140 pound frame, no big-time college scouts were knocking on my door. The next day after the night with Melody, was one of those "Pep-rally-meet-your-team" gatherings at the gym. It was my first meeting with those who'd be my team mates, the cheer leaders, and an audience in the stands. The reverence doled out to the team was not something I was familiar with at all. I might have been a good high school player, but we were never treated like celebrities.

(Come on now.)
Because a friend won't say it's over
And go out just for spite.
And now I wonder what she's doing tonight.

When the cheer leaders "paired up" with us basketball players after the rally for a "traditional party," I found myself whisked away without getting to speak to Melody who was in the stands with her best friend to whom she was going to introduce to me. I knew nothing about being a college "jock" before that day. I was at the same time shocked, flattered, and enamored to learn that I had been chosen by Pam, the cheer leader to be her "steady date" starting that night at the party. Apparently they had some sort of exclusive club wherein jocks dated cheer leaders and vice versa. I must admit that I remained enamored for the night. She certainly knew how to reward " enamored."

Oh yes I wonder
What she's doing tonight
OhOh I wonder what she's doing

The next few days were frustrating as Melody was becoming more and more too busy to meet like we had been doing before. I wasn't stupid, I knew why she had become aloof. All I wanted was at least a chance to apologize and to explain about the traditional party. When I saw her hand-in-hand with another guy one evening, I was crushed. I really liked Melody. Yes, Pam was quite attractive, more so than Melody, but she wasn't Melody.
....It was all over campus that Pam and I were an item. There was even a picture of us on the front page of the school paper with the caption, "Cheer Leader and Cager Inseparable." That part of me ruled by my libido reveled in the exposure. That same part of me also reveled in my private moments with Pam. She could do a lot more than shake pompons.
....Remember those cruel and unexpected tricks that fate sometimes plays? It was the warmups before the first basketball game of the season. We were playing a highly ranked Chicago Loyola team that night, that night that changed my life from then on. I had just gone up for a my fist warmup layup. When I first landed on the side of my foot there was no pain. It was only as I was running back to end of the line that I felt something pop. Back in the dressing room, I learned that I was going to miss much more than the game that night. I was out for the season!

(All right, Bobby)
Because a friend will always be there
If you're wrong or if you're right
And now I wonder what she's doing tonight.

One fractured ankle and some torn tendons will eventually heal, but a heart can suffer a lifetime. Although I was able to get around at first on crutches and later with a cane, my college life became a blur. I began to cut classes and didn't study much. You see, one day I received two letters which had been sent to my dormitory room. One was from Pam. The other was from Melody! It was not what I had hoped. She was sorry that I got hurt and couldn't play ball. She wished me well and hoped we would remain friends. It was signed, Melody. I was very curious why Pam sent me a letter. We had been together just the night before in her dorm room. It was eerie, but her letter was nearly a copy of the one from Melody. She too was sorry I couldn't play ball. She also wished me well. The line of all lines read: "I'll never forget our times together, but I am sure we will always be friends." You see, since I was an ex-jock, I was no longer elleigible to date a cheer leader, and apparently the vice versa was also true.

Oh yes I wonder
What she's doing tonight
OhOh I wonder what she's doing

I never saw or spoke to either one of them again. A week later I received another letter. You have to realize that this was 1967, the Vietnam Era. It seems that my performance with my studies had suddenly changed my draft status. On my birthday, the day I turned 18, Uncle Sam wrote to me just to say "Greetings."
....I served my military obligation with 4 years in the Navy. For all intensive purpose, I never returned to my West Virginia roots, settling in the Boston area. That ankle still acts from time to time, sometimes "sending" me back to Aurora to wonder how things might have been. More likely than not, the mere mention of "The Sound Of Music," will resurrect memories of Melody, the one that got away, the one I screwed up.
....There is a guaranteed way to really get me to think about what might have been; just play a certain song by Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart.

Oh yes I wonder
What she's doing tonight
OhOh I wonder what she's doing

Sha la la la la la li...........