Monthly Archives: December 2012

Well, They Do

A guy is talking about his family. I don’t know why. Maybe he’s one of those people who likes them. Whatever his problem, it’s weird.

“My mother’s birthday is June 16th.” Yeefuckinghaa, Spunky. It’s not like I’m going to get the old bag anything. Why, in the world of meaningless shit that hits my ear on a daily basis, is this of any relevance to me?

“As is mine, my sister, AND my cousin.” He states emphatically.

“Huh,” I say doing my best to feign interest. “Looks like your family sure likes to fuck in the middle of September.”

Running Into People

Do you know how it is to run into someone you’ve known for a long time but haven’t seen or talked to for awhile? It’s an odd feeling. It’s as if you feel pressured to say something amazing has happened in your life.

The fact is nothing amazing has happened in your life. You go to work, come home and do it all over again. Day after atrophying day.

I’m luckier than most because I can point them here and they can catch up with the myriad of reasons why they haven’t seen me in quite some time.

But, you know me, sometimes something just slips out. Maybe it’s performance anxiety. I feel as if I have to give them something to take away in their old kit bag.

For some reason, it never quite turns out all that well.

“So,” I’m asked. “What’s new?”

Nothing! Nothing! Nothing’s fucking new! What’s new with you? Nothing! Then why are you asking me? Fuck off!

Is what I think.

“Oh, ah, I’m gonna be a dad.”

“Really?” The guy says.

“Yeah, after eighteen years the bastard finally found me.”

Kennedy Center Honors

Yesterday someone asked if I watched it. I said yes. She said.

“Didn’t you love the Zeppelin performances? The Wilson sisters, Sid and Nancy, did a great job with. . .why are you laughing?” She asks me.

Is it just me. . .

. . .or does this read like an ad for a busy serial killer looking to make a few extra bucks?

“I am looking for a crime writer to pen a “True Crime” blog. Each 500-word blog entry will center on a current, horrific murder. I would like a new blog entry every one to two weeks.”

To those without cats. . .

. . .please be advised, this is not comedy, this is a documentary:

A guy was. . .

. . .bragging to me about taking some classes. But it didn’t sound like he was either getting it or he was listening to the class going on in the next room. The problem is it’s a subject I know some things about and he’s not even pronouncing some of the words correctly. During a pause I could interject a question.

“Where are you talking these classes? At the Boston Center For Adult Special Education?”

Christmas Traditions

I’ve heard that some Christmas traditions have been passed down from generation to generation for more than twenty and, in a case I heard about recently, over forty years!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, ‘It’s A Charlie Brown Christmas’ turned forty-seven this year. I didn’t even know they had TV way back then.

What’d they have to do? Rub a resistor and transistor together and hope it sparked up the cable?

However they did it I’m sure you can see we need new traditions that move past such barbaric times.

The ideas those old timey people had prove we should set-up traditions of our own. It’s time for us to say,

“Hey, Grandma, put down that friggin’ puddin’, put it down, Grandma. That’s Good. Now, down this shot of Jager. Down it! That’s a good girl. Ya feelin’ it, Grandma? Good. Now, unzip your pants and flash Fred your titty.”

Okay, so some of the finer points may have to be worked out but you get the drift.

Who wants friggin’ puddin’ anyway? What? It’s figgy pudding? What the hell is that? Damn, if you’re not kidding and that’s the ‘tradition’ I’d rather see granny’s nipple.

We at Bound & Gags spent a literal minute coming up with a sampling of updated traditions that speak to us in this time of our lives.

First, we think the songs are stupid. Not cute; not festive; stupid. Fa la la la la, la la la la? That’s a lyric? I’ve been to the desert on a horse with no name. THAT’S a lyric. But it has nothing to do with Christmas unless you’re a Bedouin but I don’t think they celebrate Christmas so we should move on.

From now on ‘Fa la la la la, la la la la’ is to be updated to

Friggin’ Line Are Long
Why buy these gifts?

Although we may have messed with the ‘traditional’ feel of the verse I think we captured the existential angst we feel at bring herded into flocks to be fleeced into purchasing crap for people who, if you look even of the surface of your heart, you’d rather stick in the eye with a bough of holly.

Speaking of boughs of holly, what are they and why do we want them decking our halls? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for hall decking. I just think it needs a little updating. So, from this point on, instead of boughs of holly we’ll be decking our halls with border collies.

It puts you in the same festive mood but with an added playfulness of a moist nose in your crotch and it also adds quite an effective deterrent to robbery. That’s just what we need in these on the go times, multitasking decorations.

We’ll close this episode of ‘Throwing Out The Old’ with a look at that roasted chestnut, kissing under the mistletoe. Huh? What’s that about? How convenient is that? Blocking a doorway from people with armfuls of gifts so you can get a smooch from some tipsy and over perfumed aunt? Yeah, that sounds appealing.

Like most traditions this one had to be started by a guy drinking heavily at a tree lot. Our research points to a guy around twenty years ago in Massachusetts named Michael Fortier.

It seems during some down time Mike was cleaning the lot and wondered if he could slap some ribbon on the crap he was sweeping and sell it to the saps who entered his lot.

Hence the ‘tradition’ was born.

Pretty smart, Mike, but not smart enough to get past us! From now on we’re going with a no cost and plentiful alternative to mistletoe.

Camel toe. It’s everywhere, you’ll finally enjoy a holiday tradition, and you won’t block any gift givers entrance. So many benefits to the new!

Tune in next week when we tackle the fruit cake controversy by telling you to cut out the middleman. Forget the cake, just give us the bottle of rum.

What? This is our last episode because today is Christmas? Damn, I’d better get shopping. I’ve got to go get some tight pants for a certain beautiful loved one.

No, Grandma! I’m not telling you who!

I hope you all have a great Christmas and all those other holidays they cram into this time of year. You’d think holiday planners would better schedule their things during the other eleven months. I’m going to have to find one of them and have them give me their reason. And it better be a good one.

We hope you have a great holiday season and thanks for encouraging our behavior.

You know how. . .

. . .we all get odd searches that get to our sites? I’m sure you can imagine what a site called Bound & Gags gets. After a while it gets pretty standard.

“Oh, another tattooed severed penis floating in a peanut butter jar inquiry.”

But today’s even had me scratching my head:

women in spandex who fart good

Tat Stories

Tattoos are everywhere. You can’t get your groceries bagged without the kid showing off the latest he worked two weeks to pay for after spending sixteen weeks agonizing over his original design. I’ve overheard a mother comparing tats with her kids nanny. It seems as if you can’t shake a COO without a tat popping out.

I’m fine with that. Go deep with your individuality just like everyone else!

I’ve been around tatted folk my entire life. Way before it was hip. Back then a tramp stamp was the mark a father made across his promiscuous daughters face.  It was an outsiders demarcation. It wasn’t for the faint of heart.

And, outside of some military people, you’d be hard pressed to get a reason why they got the tat out of them.

Unlike today.

And THAT I’m not fine with.

Why do you have to show me every tat you’ve purchased then tell me a long winded story about each one? Do you honestly think anyone cares? Okay, let’s say you do, let me help you with that?

You are delusional.

I’m not even going to get into the art factor. If you think it’s good, awesome. My opinion shouldn’t matter. Even if I think that memorial tat makes the deceased look like Gollum so I doubt they’d be happy to be memorialized in that fashion.

I have to cut this woman a break because 1) she didn’t know my feelings about tat stories and 2) didn’t know who or what I really am. Not that I’m happy about cutting her slack but, for the betterment of society, do.

All of the stories, over a dozen by my benumbed recollection, were long, involved, and heart-warming. Which is totally the opposite of how I actually like stories which is, short, simple, and funny (or disturbing. Yeah, I’m a man of many levels).

Just so you don’t think I brought this upon myself, I didn’t ask about any of her tats, I didn’t look at any of her tats, as a matter of fact, I didn’t even know she was there. My back was to her. I was watching the game. She poked the monster and began.

It was unexpected, unwanted, and uncalled for. Yes, I was a victim of ear rape.

After contorting into various shapes so she could show me each tat, she begins to tell me the locations of future tats (note to her loved ones: DON’T DIE! HOLD OUT! She only has so much skin area so scratch off that DNR and ask for super-heroic measures to keep you alive). Let me tell you, she’s put more thought into this than she did her SAT’s!

Ah, that’s a joke. She didn’t take the SAT’s!

After listening to her deeply touching stories of love, lost, hope and tetanus she asks if I have any tats. I tell her that I have one but it’s not in a place that’s easily accessible in a public location. She says he understands but, wanting to hear my story of human will, asks if I could find it in my to reveal my deeply emotional story.

“Yes,” I say wiping away a tear (yes, I had a tear. I am only human so can only hold in laughter for so long before something gives. She’s lucky this time it was only a tear). “I have a tat that will always remind me never to trust my drunken, stupid ass friends.”

Hey! She didn’t even hang around long enough for me to describe it. I listened to all her stories! Why don’t I get the same courtesy?

I guess sometimes life’s not fair.

Maybe I should tat about that?

Tough To Sleep

A gregarious guy uses the line loud guys tend to,

“I live each day like it’s my last!”

I, a less gregarious guy, used a line guys like me tend to,

“That must make it nerve-wracking each night before you go to sleep.”