Tag Archives: bound and gags

It’s Perfect

It’s nearing the end of August and it’s an awesome day. It’s 85 degrees, little humidity, I’m waiting for the bus. Okay, so maybe it’s only a good day. But there I am standing at a bus stop checking out my surroundings. It’s been awhile since I’ve taken this many busses but it’s good to see much hasn’t changed.

There’s still a woman in 85 degree weather with a bulky sweater on; a couple of drunk old guys trying to get into a conversation with anyone who walks past; a couple of pill heads barking at invisible shadows; and me. I don’t know what that says about me and, frankly, I don’t want to know.

I’m just standing there taking looking around at the collected mess when something catches my eye. It’s not something you’d expect to see on a hot August night. It’s a woman (okay, you’d expect to see that) with a cart filled to the brim with Christmas decorations. Plastic Santa’s, boxes of reindeer, a singing Christmas tree, decorations upon decorations. Incongruous at best I’d say.

I’ve been in stores and, even with the way things are going, I haven’t seen Christmas displays yet. None of the stuff looks store fresh anyway. I start to wonder what the urgency of having to transport these off-season items is when something else the woman is carrying caught my eye.

It’s a boxed item called the ‘Perfect Bacon Bowl’. Oh sure, some of that makes sense. Bacon is, after all, perfect. But a bowl of it? Coming from a box? More oddities from this woman’s cart. I stare at the box, transfixed, forgetting all about my earlier Christmas conundrum. This is now the oddest thing I’ve seen today.

The back of the box is visible so I can’t see the smiling bacon themed mascot but I bet he’s a cutie called something like ‘Peter Porker’. I could see what I infer is the slogan though: Everything tastes better in a BACON BOWL! There’s nothing to refute that and, because they screamed it at you, it has to be true. Having never seen a bacon bowl myself I’m just going to take their word for it that they did their due diligence before being thusly crowned.

There was an array of photos showing that the ‘Perfect Bacon Bowl’ would be just, well, perfect for so many items. But I had my questions. Some of the pictured items, I must admit, seemed somewhat less than perfect. I mean, yes, eating Mac N’ Cheese out of a bowl is standard but a bowl made of bacon? I don’t know how daintily you chow down on M’NC but that bacon bowl would crumbled faster than the Washington Capitals come playoff time.

Next pictured was the totally unworkable burger. The bacon bowl, itself, may be perfect but their box design team needs to step up their game to keep pace. I mean, I don’t know how big your ‘Perfect Bacon Bowl’ would be but having one that you could fit a burger into has to render it impossible to shove down your gullet. It would make it the size of a softball with a coating hard and sharp enough to slice up your awaiting face.

The next one made sense, on the outside. The next item offered up as perfect for the ‘Perfect Bacon Bowl’ was a BLT. Oh yeah, I know what you’re thinking, one third of that gifted sandwich is right in the title how can it not be perfect? But it has the same bowl to mouth issues as the burger. Even if you found a way to get it into mouth I have issues with the sustainability of the gnawed upon bowl itself. Structurally the moment you break down one side of the bowl a fission would occur across the entire surface causing it to become untenable as an edible bowl. I think in this scenario all you’d end up with is a table full of bacon bowl bits and a lap full of the BLT itself.

But it was the fourth and final suggestion that caused me to pause the most. Mainly because I’ve never considered the combination of bacon (bowl form or other) and dessert to be a suitable combination. Don’t get me wrong, I love bacon. I’d punch a pig in the face for holding out on me. But I’ve never tied it in with my post dinner repast.

But there it was, a picture of a perfect ice cream sundae happily plopped into a ‘Perfect Bacon Bowl’. It had to be stunt food because I know the amount of lighting it takes to shoot an advertising photo and in two minutes that entire situation would be a soupy mess.

Considering the meltability factor (who likes soggy bacon? Terrorists, that’s who) the thought of eating a butterscotch sundae then topping that off with a congealed container of moist, limp bacon can hold no appeal to any discerning palate. But, bless our artery clogging hearts, if you are among the multitude who find this not only appealing but appealing enough to get off your lazy asses, right there on some randomly frightening grocery store shelf are lined up rows and rows of what I am lead to believe is the ‘Perfect Bacon Bowl’.

To quote Yakov Smirnoff in the only quotable quote he’s ever quoted, “What a country!”

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It’s just advice

I’m talking to a guy who is known to be loud during football games. It’s one reason he prefers to watch the games at his house. See? Polite guy.
 
His wife doesn’t see it that way. She heads down to the basement to remind him that, the house may be empty, but they do have neighbors. It’s an ongoing struggle for the both of them.
 
During this preseason she was watching games with him and she mentioned how it was nice to see that he can watch the game like a civilized man. He reminds her that it’s pre-season so he doesn’t feel as if he’s in full yelling strength.
 
But even during the preseason he can get riled up as he did during a boneheaded play during the last tune-up game. His wife stands up, gets in front of him and says, “They can’t hear you, you know?”
 
Of course he understands that. But it’s at that moment it’s the reaction he has. It’s like making a guttural sound when something amazing happens during (your favorite team or program here) for you.
 
I asked him if his wife liked romantic movies, he said yes. I asked her if she has ever cried during one of those said movies, he said yes.
 
“Then next time she cries during a movie stand in front of her and say, ‘They can’t hear you, you know?'”
 
I’m going to be the cause of someone’s divorce some day.

The Journey – Part 3

If you need a refresher click here parts 1 & 2.

I slowly saunter back down the stairs I moments ago hurried up. I’m heading to the food court. Specifically, this one bar there.

I’ve never been in this one before but I’ve been in it’s sister bar in the city. To all the hip, happening people in the know it’s called TITS. Because when you put the full title of the bar into initials it spells tits. Good enough a place to drink I’ve heard from many a child.

I now have fifty minutes to kill. A cold beer and a warm ball game and I’ll be just fine. My girlfriend who is going to meet me in a bar on the other side will sooner or later figure out I missed the bus. She’s good like that. I pull up a chair, order a beer and proceed to attempt to forget the last hour of my life.

I’m sitting there watching the ballgame when a guy sits next to me. He’s making so much noise I know he wants to get a conversation going. Hey, Starshine, go talk to someone without a homicidal hair-trigger. You’ll thank me later. He asks for the beer menu then proceeds to read it for five, six, seven minutes. I’ve been tracking tight seconds for so long I’m starting to sweat thinking about how much time he’s wasting.

He motions the bartender over to make his choice. They’re out. Sort of funny. He and the bartender go back and forth. He finally picks another. Damn! This is getting funnier. Strike two. The bartender begins rattling off the beers they do have but he goes it on his own with his third choice. Boy is my mood elevated right now. I’ll admit to being a little tweaked when I missed the bus. But this guy’s utter failure to pick a beer is cheering me up.

Thanks smelly hippie!

After a short time a woman sits to my right. I don’t engage her, she doesn’t engage me. My most successful transaction of the day. She orders two drinks and the bartender questions her. She explains that her husband is on the way. I sit there silently while three time beer picker loser boy pulls what looks like leaves and roots out of plastic bags. They are all meticulously handled so they must have meaning to him. Which he desperately wants to explain to me as he shakes and holds the plastic bags aloft. Ah, back off, pinecone, I don’t have time for another cult.

After one beer he left. I asked the woman if she said her husband was coming. She said that she did so I moved over. I would have moved over without saying anything but I didn’t want her to think she smelled. That’s what a gentleman would do.

Her husband arrives and he is psyched. He has some amazing news and he just can’t wait to lay it on her.

“I made some reservations for our vacation.”

“Where?” His wife enthusiastically replies.

“At camp sites all over the place.”

“Why would think I’d like that?”

“It’ll be great!”

And for the entire time I sat there he tried to explain to his bride how great it would be to camp out. And for the entire time I sat there she pretty much told him it was a stupid idea and that he should just go shit in his hat.

I never met these people and, even without her objections, I knew it was a terrible idea. Every time she’d ask a good question like, “What are we going to do for a tent?” His response was,

“Borrow it from so and so.”

“Stove?”

“Borrow it from so and so.”

“Sleeping bags?”

“Borrow it from so and so.”

Not a man of the wild I take it.

I chuckled as I paid my tab knowing if that outdoor adventure every materialized she would spend the rest of their lives together reminding him just how horrible it was.

After an hours wait I’m finally on the bus. In ninety minutes or so I’ll be where I’m supposed to be and my weekend will begin. I’ll walk into the bar, say hi to my girlfriend who will tell me she’s starving, I’ll say hi to the bartender who will return the greeting but his will be better because he will have a beer in his hands for me, then, if I’m lucky, I’ll have to associate with few people after.

What I’m really looking forward to is getting home, seeing the cat and opening up a beer and relax for the first time today. My girlfriend, who has been down there all week, said she’d have some beer in the house waiting for me. Now that’s the way to start a day off. I put on my MP3 player, turn that sucker on and sit back and enjoy the ride.

We get to the destination without incident. I jump off the bus and start walking back from whence I came because, a few minutes ago, we drove by the bar I’m meeting my girlfriend in. Don’t even ask, they won’t think about letting me off there. I’ve asked a few times.

I don’t mind the walk. I get to be truly alone for the first time all day. I’m not surrounded by the sounds and smells and silly schemes of people. It’s just me and the sidewalk. I turn the corner and see the bar. I pack up my MP3 player and get ready to make my entrance.

When you open the door people can clearly see you enter but you can’t see them. It’s that dark a bar. So imagine my surprise (and dismay) when I hear,

“Who the fuck said you could come in my bar?”

It is the face of someone I haven’t spoken to in over a decade (with reason) next to her husband I haven’t spoken to in six years (no real reason – except she’s usually with him). They’re not bad people just annoying as fuck. And what do I truly need after this adventure? That’s right! Someone I avoid at home because she’s as annoying as fuck.

I can feel my body slumping as I walk in the bar. The woman jumps up and gives me the usual big hug and kiss. I wave at my girlfriend as this is happening. She gives me a look that’s half ‘I feel your pain’ and half ‘fuck you! I’ve been putting up with this for almost two hours now.’ I feel her pain.

I chat with the guy with the wife talking over us the whole time. I’m on autopilot. Trust me, it can seem like I’m there, engaged, witty, conversational, but the reality is I’m home with a cat and a beer wishing I had my own helicopter. And bar.

After who knows how long they exit to go to dinner. An invitation we declined due to a previously planned arrangement (I mentioned cat and beer right?). They make us swear we’ll meet them back here tomorrow night for some more cheerful bonhomie. I sincerely lie and say I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my few hours off during a week.

I finally get to chat with my girlfriend (who tells me she’s starving. You’ve been down all week. What did you do? Wait for me to get down here to eat?), tell her a cliffsnote version of this story (she is not a fan of my work) and we go get something to eat. The entire time, in the back of my head, all I’m thinking is, “Soon I get to go home for cat and beer.” That’s enough to get me through this journey.

After dinner we head home and the first thing I do is play with the cat for a moment. Give him some food. Scoop his shit. You know, bonding. I take off my shoes before heading to the refrigerator for the time in this journey I’ve been looking most forward too.

She forgot to buy beer.

So I create a immediate option B for the start of my weekend by putting this journey behind me and go to bed.

The End

Beach Balls

It’s a beautiful day and we’re spending it on the beach. That’s nice but it’s not awesome if you’re me. Don’t get me wrong, I like being on the beach but I get sunburned shoveling snow in January. My shaved head is lathered and has a baseball cap on it. I have a Julia Child basting a chicken amount of SPF 4000 on my entire body. I have an entourage of three each carrying an over-sized umbrella to cast a shadow twenty feet around me. And I have a cabana boy fanning the sand in front of me to cool it down before my arrival.

So, yeah, I love the beach.

My girlfriend likes to toss around the Frisbee. She also has this habit of tossing it seven kilometers away from me so she can watch my gazelle like countenance dart across the sand. Of course, that was then. Now that I’m old, it’s more like a Zell like unformed shape a cracking and a popping and a huffing and a puffing across a tiny swath of sand hoping not to sweat off one dollop of sunscreen.

We’re just hanging out, breaking a law or two, having a fun beach day. One of the things we like to do is, of course, people watch. You see all sorts on the beach. Some you wish you hadn’t but that’s part of the fun. I was once on a tropical island when this Buddy Hackett looking guy came up to me and asked me a question. My eyes were closed as he approached so I hope you can imagine my surprise to first see his dick. Now I didn’t expect that on a clear Monday morning. Later that same day I walked into a beach bar and saw two women sitting on the same normal sized chair and they weren’t touching. They were so thin they had to be tethered to the bar so they didn’t blow away in the gentle breeze.

My girl and I are walking down the beach talking about current events.

“Did you see the bathing suit on that woman?” My girlfriend asked about a woman inappropriately wearing a Junior Miss one piece.

“Yeah.” I said.

You can’t get more current than that.

During our walk we happened upon a guy sleeping on a beach chair. He looked rather comfortable except for one minor detail.

“Are that guy’s balls hanging out?” I inquire.

At this my girlfriend stopped. Being a medical professional she had to assess the situation. Once she did her intake she responded with a rousing,

“Yes.” Then we went on our merry way.

What else could we do? Sure I could have approached the dude but how do I broach this subject?

“Excuse me, fine sir, but while strolling down the beach just now I couldn’t help but notice at least one of your testicles has become, how does one say? Unmoored.”

I’ve done a lot of things but this one was a little outside my area of expertise. I’ve told friends things have been untoward with their personal vessel but walking up to a stranger and saying,

“Dude, your balls are going to look like fried meatballs if you don’t jam ’em back in your shorts.”

Has many potential outcomes but not one I could imagine coming out fine for me.

So we walked on figuring a friend would come back from the water and toss a towel over him or, after taking a few pictures, wake him to let him know. Or maybe someone around him would make sounds to wake him so he can gently take care of business.

I also gave thought to some of the sunburns I’ve had and did shiver thinking what would have happened if any of them contained my balls. I don’t think the medical profession advises one to tear a layer of skin off ones scrotum. Would be an interesting story though.

About twenty minutes later we’re heading back. Now I know you may find this hard to believe but I almost forgot to check on ball boy. I know, if it was you you’d be able to think of nothing else for the next week. But weird shit happens around me all the time and this was just another one.

But, at the last minute, I did remember so shot him a quick glance.

He is going to be one unhappy camper tonight.

Dueling Grandfathers

A guy is chatting about his grandfather. He tells me his grandfather’s glass eye used to freak him out.
 
Without thinking I said, “That’s nothing, my grandfather had a glass leg and wooden eye.”

A Day At The Beach

We were at one of those beach side bars enjoying the day as we often do on our days off. The sun was rippling off the water causing diamond like glitters throughout. A smooth and cool breeze caused the high shimmering sun to brush gently off my face. We were far enough away from the water so the splashing waves seemed like comforting murmuring conversation. A couple of kids ran down the street excited that they’re sure they saw a shark.

I know if you close your eyes you can transport there and enjoy the moment. Nice, isn’t it?

But if you do, I’ll have to add one more piece to the summertime puzzle.

And their names were Bethany and Madison who were also enjoying this pleasant summer day by ruining it for everyone within a fifty yard radius.

Sadly for me I was at ground zero for the onslaught. At first, because they were sitting next to us, people turning around to give them the stink eye thought there was a possibility we were with this backing up dump truck of a duo. They were ‘ON VACATION!’ and they sure as hell going to let everyone know. Every member of the wait staff who walked past tried to make a subtle, laid back attempt to take the bewailing to a level more befitting this serene scene.

But even the manager walking over and, still gently, chiding them to chill they let him know this was their well-earned vacation and they were going to express themselves freely. They were young, dumb and, potentially later that evening, full of strangers cum and they wanted everyone to know it. They were here to strut their stuff and Rupaul would have nothing on them. I was keeping an eye on them because of the level of activity going on.

They were going through their bags pulling everything out slamming it on the bar. One of them (sorry, they looked so much alike I couldn’t tell which one was Bethany and which one was Madison) made sure to slap down a platinum credit card so the staff could see her father was someone who wanted her out so much he’d give her a ‘go anywhere’ card. And I know it was from him because I could read her name and the company was named Michael The Same Last Name As Bethany, Inc. Paying attention (or as some people would call it snooping) is a vital skill in my world.

Finally the manager knew he had to do something. How did he finally know? A four-top and two other couples pretty much got up at the same time to leave. Even he knows four middle aged customers are going to spend more than a pair of Bethany’s and Madison’s. He walks up to them, puts his hands on the bar, leans in gently and says nothing because Bethany jumped right in with a full blown,

“What the fuck do you want?” The manager just stands there. I guess that’s a reaction new to him. But she’s not done. “If we’re bothering you so much we’ll just fucking leave this piece of shit and never come back.” The manager is still standing there probably thrilled that they themselves were actually going to bounce themselves out of his establishment. Bethany picks up her 75% full  frozen beverage and starts pounding it.

And it was as frightening as you’d expect.

Fluid was dribbling down both sides of her cheeks. Gobs from each side caught up and puddled in her deep suprasternal notch. It was like watching a dog trying to drink water that’s sprayed from a hose. Without taking a breath she polished off the icy contents. I figured she wouldn’t get a frozen headache because that malady erupts in brains and she’s showed no evidence of having formed one of those.

“Good enough for you?” She sneers as ice particles melt off her face and drip to the floor. While this was going on the fast thinking bartender grabbed daddy’s credit card and swiped it to hasten this journey.

She stands up as the bartender comes back with a few napkins and the credit card bill. Bethany sneers at the bill as if their mishandling of this situation is the cause of her self-inflicted consternation. She quickly doodled on the check ignoring the napkins as a dollop of beverage fell where the ‘t’ should have been in her name.

She looks at her face in the mirror and sees that it’s not only wet it’s streaked the color of her drink. She looks at the bartender, still holding napkins, then the manager before turning her head and wiping her cheeks and mouth on the sleeve of my t-shirt.

Yes, homicide was the first thought that passed my mind. I searched the bar for a nearby weapon. It must have been pretty obvious to anyone looking at me, excluding the clueless Bethany, of course, because the manager grabbed my elbow and started wiping my shoulder fairly vigorously. While holding down my arm with some force. I looked at him and nodded. He knew I wasn’t going to disembowel her with a lobster cracker. But I could have easily placed my hand on one. The bartender continued to move all objects off the bar as Bethany and Madison exited the bar complaining about how THEIR VACATION was now ruined.

With my target off my radar I calmed down quickly. The manager is still wiping my shoulder but I waved him off. Worse things have been wiped on me, believe me. After a few seconds of sitting there silently the entire place started laughing. Which allowed everyone a chance to ease the tension and slowly go back to enjoying this beautiful day.

Buy And Sell You

That’s an interesting concept. Let’s forget about the whole ‘ain’t that slavery?’ part of the equation because that would just make this exercise ugly. Let’s concentrate on the what brought us to someone saying to someone else,

“I could buy and sell you.”

It’s never a good situation. It’s never a situation when you’ve run out into the street to save their tottering grandchild who escaped during a moment of distraction from their mother. You never hear,

“I will buy you out of your current work-a-day life and sell you to the highest bidder so as you will live in a heretofore unimagned life of luxury. And, if I find not a suitable purchaser, I will retain you for my own even if I have to sell my own children and rent out my grandchildren to a lesser god to make sure your all dreams and wishes are fulfilled.”

It’s always some pumped up braggart who isn’t getting the attention he (and come to think of it, I’ve never heard a woman say it) feels he deserves. It happened to me recently. I was out with some people and it was a night of warm conversation and other boring platitudes. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice. But who wants to hear people talk about their jobs? And that’s what they’re going to talk about. Most people hate their jobs so what kind of story is going to come out of that?

“And then Brenda said, ‘Capital idea, Mr. Smythengen. Only a great, wise and noble gentleman, such as yourself, could have conceived of such a brilliant plan.’ What an ass kisser she is. And she’s not in the department that now has double the workload. I hate my job. And Brenda.”

After sixty or seventy seconds of that I’m ready to kill the messenger.

I never get into work discussions (unless the story is hilarious). I always say, “Good. Nothing new.” I even said that on the day I had to physically restrain a drug-induced psychotic woman so she’d stop bothering another customer. And I said customer not patient because I don’t work in a ‘go restrain this person’ field. Generally.

After everyone has barfed up their hating work stories someone asked me to tell a specific story. It was a story I’ve told many times including here. It’s a funny story and I don’t mind telling it but I hate to be called upon to unexpectedly perform. It’s not part of the flow of the conversation. Add to that the ‘tell us a story, Chris’ part of it is off-putting. I mean, yeah, I know I can tell this story in a funny manner but, it’s not a story for everyone.

Necrophilia and coming out of a men’s room with a strange woman isn’t a story for everyone.

But, I tell it. Mainly because I didn’t want to hear one more Brenda story. I get laughs where I should and dismay in the correct places. After I finish people are reacting then one person said,

“Ah, you think you’re all that.” I just told a necrophiliac/men’s room with a strange woman story. I obviously don’t think I’m above much. “I could buy and sell you.”

“How much?”

“What?” I can already feel his buyers remorse.

“How much? What’s the going price? I mean, I could give up my current life if someone was willing to put up some cake. What’s the going price for a stud like myself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just said you could buy and sell me. To do that, first, you’d have to buy me. So I’m just wondering what that price would be?”

“Are you nuts? It’s just an expression.”

“No,” I redirect him. “It’s not. It’s a statement that monetizes my worth in regards to your perceived worth. Which, as stated, you are worth so much more than I you are willing to pay to make me your property. So, what am I worth to you? I know my girlfriend would like to walk out of here with cash sans me. So what’s the opening bid?”

“You’re insane.”

“Me? You’re the one willing to illegally, in a public place, purchase another human being.”

By now the guy is flustered so I know I have mere seconds to get this to a close.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll set the price.” I stop and think for a second. I can see his flee instinct pushing him. “Seven hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred twenty-seven dollars and thirty-nine cents.”

Everyone is quiet. I smile and look around. “Okay, anyone want to top that bid?” No one says a word. I know some of them want to say something but they’re going to stall their eagerness to jump in to see how this ends.

“Huh.” I say to my new owner as I slide closer to him. “The buying part is easy. But the selling, well, the selling is a bitch for such a rare commodity as I.”

I look him in the face. He pissed. I’m happy. Funny how often those two things intersect in my life. “Guess I’m yours now.” I lean closer. “And you’re fucked because I drink a shitload of Heineken.”