Monthly Archives: February 2016

I was asked. . .

. . .to go somewhere or I wouldn’t have been there. I’m standing there and this guy comes up to me and starts blathering on and giving him his resume. I couldn’t have been more unimpressed. He may have sensed that because he said,

“I’m an internet sensation.” I looked at him and smiled.

“So were two girls, one cup.”

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Winter Surprise

Proving I’m not that bright, I live in an area where, depending on the weather pattern, its cold and snowy from September to July. With August being a month full hundred plus degree days. With humidity. And cicada bugs.

At least that’s how I interpret it. I could be wrong about the actual cold months; and the correct temperatures; and the cicada bugs may just be ladybugs. But I’m sure of one thing, right now, it cold as hell out there. When I left for work this morning it was seventeen degrees. And that was going to be today’s high. Not taking into consideration the wind chill. I don’t know if you’ve ever experience wind chill. Wind chill is calculated by taking the temperature and telling you that’s the temperature you wished it could be. To experience it, take a cheese grater, rub it against your face, now salt your face.

Refreshing, huh?

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is having to be out in it shoveling snow. Snow, for those who live in more humane climates, is tiny little beads of wind chill who, when they get together, form vast mounds which must be moved out of the paths of humans. Last year I was shoveling a path for the oil guy (don’t ask me why. I was told to do it and, in winter, your brain ceases to function and only does what it is told. That’s why Nazi Germany was easily formed in winter) and the wind was so strong it knocked me over twice. The snow was thirty inches high, I was in the middle of an eighteen inch path and when the wind blew I could do nothing but topple over. It would have been funny.

If it was happening to someone else.

But today was not that windy. Just cold. The kind of cold that makes people watching you from a window, wearing robes and slippers sipping a hot cocoa, shiver. Its always so much fun when they smile, wave and do one of those ‘brrrr’ shakes sympathetically siding with you while wrapping their warm arms around their comfy bodies. I hate those people even more than those who see you out there, covered in snow and regret, pull up in their heated car, roll the window down the width of a dollar bill and say,

“Nasty out, huh?”

But I guess I need those people in my life. Because, while I’m out there, its only my hatred that’s keeping me warm.

So I’m out shoveling and its very quiet. If it wasn’t for the fact that my extremities have ceased to function it would actually be pleasant. There’s a crackling sound under your feet as you walk over a foot or so of snow. The mounds throw off an eerie blue/white glow. Then the plow comes down the street sounding like the hounds of hell turning all the mounds into gray/black piles of grit.

Nothing like reality to slap one back into focus.

I’m hoisting snow up and tossing it aside when I notice some rabbit tracks in the backyard. That’s one cool thing about new snow. You really get to see how much traffic trespasses over the night. I’m following this fresh set of tracks when I see that they stop. Then there’s a big indentation in the snow. Weird. I step up on a mound and look. I see that the tracks didn’t stop. They doubled back to where he came from.

But not before leaving a bunch of little rabbits shits in the indentation. Now I know rabbits shit, a lot. But I didn’t know they’d be huddled down in their space before saying to the assembled family and friends,

“Excuse me, everyone, I must evacuate my bowels.”

I don’t know why that bothered me so. Maybe because I’ve been petting dogs who, while looking me right in the eyes, squatted down to dump. I guess I expected less from an animal who didn’t have the creature comforts of an indoor life. Maybe its because, now that I know they’ll shit in the middle of a yard, I have no idea how much shit I’ve stepped in over the years. But maybe its because, as I continue to shovel, I’m worrying about where all the squirrel shit is.

Searching

I like to go on Yahoo and search for Google.

I’m sure it has to piss them off.

Someone asked. . .

“What did you get your girlfriend for Valentine’s Day?”

“I said ‘Happy Valentine’s day’ to her.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it? I write greeting cards for a living. That sentiment alone is probably worth a couple hundred dollars to the right company.”

“I’m mad happy.”

Someone says to me.

“Then you should see a psychiatrist.”

“Why?”

“Because that sounds bipolar to me.”

I Bring It Out In Them

A woman was trying to explain the benefits of her fetish. How come so many conversations with me involved start off so normal, “Why yes,” I say. “I would like a beer.” only to go to places I didn’t expect earlier in the day?

She explained that, at first, she liked to be spanked. But how, over the years, she’s evolved. Through therapy she discovered it was because her father, who was the main disciplinarian, actually only had contact with her when she was getting spanked. I mulled that over a bit before saying,

“I got the shit kicked out of me when I was a kid. My father was dead so I think my mother tried to make up for it by proving that a woman could do anything a man could do. So I’m pretty sure if she was kicking my ass and I popped a boner she’d have called in back up to help beat my ass.”

Years ago I’d heard there was an underground sex club around the corner from where I lived. That’s nice, was my only thought. One night I’m walking down a dark side street in the business section of town. The only things open around were a couple of bars. The street I’m walking down was completely closed.

In the distance four or five pierced, leathered and whatevered people were walking toward me. I didn’t think anything of it until they stopped at an obviously closed furniture store. I’m walking past and see them pulling at the door. I thought nothing of it. Although they may have looked the part of thugs they weren’t. Everything was just too shiny and perfect. No respectable B&E man I know would dress up to pull a job.

I didn’t give it a second thought as I continued on my journey. It wasn’t until later that night, drinking at a bar with a cop friend, he told me about a raid they pulled the night before. It turns out that very same furniture store had a very successful, and unlicensed, dungeon in its basement. It had been running for years and wasn’t discovered until an inspection of the building was done by the city.

On a hunch I asked, “The basement of a furniture store?” The cop glances sideways at me. I laugh. “I just walked past there and ran into a few unhappy customers.”

Other than my lack of desire for pain, I’d have to say the real reason I couldn’t get into a fetish is I’m not a big accouterment guy. I carry as little with me as possible; most jobs I do I pretty much walk in, use what’s there and get right to it. No belts, no hats, no tools. And pretty much sex is like that. Stick it in, wiggle it around and, depending on my mood, sleep.

I’m just afraid if I did get into some fetish I’d end up disappointed too much of the time.

“Aw shit!” I know I’d say.

“What’s the matter?” My girlfriend would inquire.

“We can’t have sex tonight.”

“Why? Did you forget condoms?”

“No! My toolbox. You know I can’t perform without my pliers.”