"Step right up and don't be shy, because you will not believe your eyes. She's right here behind the glass and you're gonna like her, 'cause she's got class." The Tubes from "She's A Beauty"
Here at the Asylum the worse time, is the night time. Right after the nurse comes in and hand feeds me those mind numbing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star pills, the ones that make you think Horton Hears a Who is a documentary, there's a span of time that allows the mind to drift before slumber overtakes you. It was during this transitional clock turn that I planned my escape. For one night I was going to be on the outside. With the dexterity of Harry Houdini I left the incarcerating walls behind me and ended up in the strangest of places.
South Carolina is subversively kinky. There's something brewing just under the surface, ready to break through in a Old Faithful style fountain of perversion. It's something you can smell. I holds true for all small town communities. Lives are lived with secret rendezvous and peculiar fetishes of all sorts of debauchery. And it was on display for me to witness last night.
I was suffering from a brutal attack of the Nits* (The Nits can only be described as an unwavering need to get out of wherever you are). The cure was to bomb up to a local watering hole, sip a beer, and listen to the locals. What I got was a show that Spielberg couldn't have directed any better.
The bar was the same as every small bar in the greater US of A. Photos of the regulars on the wall, a tough no nonsense broad handing out plastic cups of semi-cold ale, a game of the TV that no one cared about. But the seat that I occupied offered me a chance to over hear the scintillating commentary of those waiting for their drinks. The first of these, as Tyler Durden would refer to them, single serving friends was Brian. A 22 year old transplant who left his small town life in Indiana to be part of the thriving Metropolis that is Rock Hill, SC. Our ideas of "Big City" were obviously way different. He informed me, with little build up, that he needed to find him some ass. And there was a gal in the pool room he could get with, but he wasn't sure if he could afford to pony up her fee. This is Jack's Total Shock. I inquired as to which femme fatale was the alleged Heidi Fleiss of the Piedmont. He pointed out a very attractive girl, early 20's, great body, missing two fingers, but who's looking for perfection in a prostitute? I was transfixed on her now. This place rocked. Brian got his beer and left. He would never know how he had made my evening.
As I watched the Simpson’s fingered gal work the room I had to say I was impressed. She was very friendly with everyone, men and women. And at the rate she was moving, I knew I would be on her radar before too long. Single man, out of shape, firing down cancer stick one after another, staring at her, yeah, I wanted to talk to this one.
My next two friends where the A girls. Not in the sense of good grades, no. Names were Angie and Anna. They were attractive enough to not have to pay for a drink if they so chose, but they weren’t looking for easy marks this night. I’m not sure which one said the statement that opened my eyes wider than an IHOP pancake, but I had a new fascination. The gals were looking for the cream to their Oreo cookie, the PB&J to their bread, the trois in their menage. I offered my services only to be shot down like a wayward spy satellite. Hey, you don’t step up to the plate, you don’t hit home-runs, am I right? They were kind to me as they left, so I didn’t have any resonating hatred towards them.
A mere second after their departure, the original object of my curiosity paunched. Her name was Ashley. Does anyone’s name not start with a fucking A in this place? We chatted for ten minutes. She didn’t know me, hadn’t seen me around, and I guessed that she had been way around. I told her that I had recently moved form Hell-A. This started her on a tangent about Disneyland, Hollywood and Vine, LA Ink, and how she wanted to go so badly. I told her that Santa Monica Blvd would be her kind of place. (It’s an area known for it’s adult entertainers). I was waiting for the big moment. The sales pitch. And she delivered with a hand creeping creepily up my thigh. $50. Reasonable, I thought. There was no way I was doing it, I just thought that she was priced to move, so to speak. I kindly declined, much to her dismay. She mumbled something and took off like a bat out of hell.
I paid my check and left. Satisfied that my new home state certainly had it’s share of kink.
Ever run across an evening like this? Ever been propositioned by a sex worker? Did I make the right decision, I mean, $50!?
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Blame the Music Industry for 5 Years of War
"War, good God y'all, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing." Edwin Starr from "War"
The so-called musicians of today give me a nagging sensation like having a piece of peanut stuck between a lateral incisor and a molar. The more you pick at it the more irritating it becomes, like Rush Limbaugh. Now, considering that American Idol has done it's best to take the music out of the musician, focus being on good looks, the ability to sing songs that are no longer relevant, and the talent to wedge ones self into the dubious dark space between the cheeks of any or all of the three extraneous magistrates of the weekly horror show, it's a wonder anyone picks up a guitar in protest anymore.
Vietnam sparked a fire of change from the streets up. For this latest American incursion to a foreign land the flames are dying like a two month old Bic lighter. Where is the John Lennon, the Joan Baez, the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and sometimes Young? Where are the songs about getting the troops home? Where are the protests? What's wrong with these people. Imagine there was no "Imagine". No "We Gotta Get Out of this Place". No "Ohio". Instead of songs of real social change we get to listen to Justin Timberlake and Madonna get together for "Whorefest 2008".
There are some that try to make a difference. Pearl Jam's "Glorified G" is an excellent example of a song that no one seemed to know was about the CEO of America. Bright Eyes wrote the most fantastic jab called "When The President Talks To God" A sample of the lyrical content: When the president talks to God, Do they drink near beer and go play golf, While they pick which countries to invade,Which Muslim souls still can be saved? I guess god just calls a spade a spade, When the president talks to God". Okay, I'm down with that. But it wasn't a radio smash. It wasn't played on the stations that I listen to, granted I listen to the radio about as much as I eat Moon Pies on a bed of nails, but it certainly wasn't making the rounds.
Do you know some songs that I have totally overlooked? Are you annoyed by the Music Industries overall indifference to the war? Is there no one that can use music to change the world?
The so-called musicians of today give me a nagging sensation like having a piece of peanut stuck between a lateral incisor and a molar. The more you pick at it the more irritating it becomes, like Rush Limbaugh. Now, considering that American Idol has done it's best to take the music out of the musician, focus being on good looks, the ability to sing songs that are no longer relevant, and the talent to wedge ones self into the dubious dark space between the cheeks of any or all of the three extraneous magistrates of the weekly horror show, it's a wonder anyone picks up a guitar in protest anymore.
Vietnam sparked a fire of change from the streets up. For this latest American incursion to a foreign land the flames are dying like a two month old Bic lighter. Where is the John Lennon, the Joan Baez, the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and sometimes Young? Where are the songs about getting the troops home? Where are the protests? What's wrong with these people. Imagine there was no "Imagine". No "We Gotta Get Out of this Place". No "Ohio". Instead of songs of real social change we get to listen to Justin Timberlake and Madonna get together for "Whorefest 2008".
There are some that try to make a difference. Pearl Jam's "Glorified G" is an excellent example of a song that no one seemed to know was about the CEO of America. Bright Eyes wrote the most fantastic jab called "When The President Talks To God" A sample of the lyrical content: When the president talks to God, Do they drink near beer and go play golf, While they pick which countries to invade,Which Muslim souls still can be saved? I guess god just calls a spade a spade, When the president talks to God". Okay, I'm down with that. But it wasn't a radio smash. It wasn't played on the stations that I listen to, granted I listen to the radio about as much as I eat Moon Pies on a bed of nails, but it certainly wasn't making the rounds.
Do you know some songs that I have totally overlooked? Are you annoyed by the Music Industries overall indifference to the war? Is there no one that can use music to change the world?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Getting a Tattooine
"See, my name is Boba Fett, I know my shit is tight. Start not actin' right, you're frozen in carbonite"MC Chris from "Fett's Vette"
The nurse got sent home for letting a nipple slip out of her Jimmy Dean sausage casing tightuniform, so I am left teathered to the bed, unmedicated, head clear, watching Star Wars Episode 1 - The Acting Menace. Thankfully, with much mercy, the local news channelinterrupts the hell spawned transmission with news of a protest. A Star Wars protest. Willmy nightmare never end?
I don't look at Star Wars, Empire, and Jedi as the "Holy Trilogy". Much to the chagrin of my comic book toting, action figure collecting, movie line quoting pals, Star Wars means about as much to me as Annie Hall means to most of them. Good movie, classic even, but I can't see forming a religion around it. This malaise towards the "Franchise" has cost me some of my geek credibility. My 8th Level Halfling Magic User begs to differ, but lets get back to the Million Man-Child March.
A group calling themselves, ready for this geeks, "The 501st" named for the fictional battalion has called for and organized a boycott of all films from the Weinstein Company. Are you twisting my dipstick? I can only hope that the script that I sent to my consortium of advisers and consultants will one day be snatched up and produced by the Weinstein Company. I'm like a gentile Yentl "Harvey, Can You Hear Me?". The man is brilliant. Done. But this conglomerate of acne, baldness, and virginity has a problem with Harvey's treatment of the film "Fanboys". A film about some rabid Star Wars fans break into Lucasfilm to watch the cringe inducing Episode 1. The films been around a while, before it's stars, Jay Baruchel, Kristen Bell, Seth Rogen and Dan Folger were members of the Apatow Nerd Herd. And I've been interested in seeing it. That's it, interested, because it looked like a funny flick. I don't worship the unseen. Not Jesus, not films (unless they are directed by Martin Scorsese and star Leonardo DiCaprio, in that case you have me at hello). Maybe what Harvey wants to do to the film will improve it's appeal to a wider audience. You know, the large segment of society that doesn't go to Comic-Con. (Sorry Atomic).
If the man is capable of building Miramax into a yearly Oscar competitor, who then ditches it because the Mouse has a problem with some of the content, and then starts another company that is on the track to being a major player, don't you think he might have some inkling about what he's doing? Even if you don't like Harvey Scissorhands, you have to respect the people around him. I mean, the company only champions, let's see, Tarantino, Smith, and Rodriguez on a regular basis. He must be an idiot. Or maybe, just maybe, he has more on his plate than wondering if the right outfit to wear to the convention, the one that will capture Lucas' eye, is the Storm Tropper or the Jawa. You Star Wars nits are so homoerotic with Lucas.
The bone of contention between the Weinsteins and the film makers revolve around a cancer subplot that sends the uber-fans on their quest. Darth Weinstein, as the crackpot queer ducks are now calling him, doesn't feel that a cancer ridden character in a comedy that has nothing to do with cancer is appropriate. The man is clearly insane, no? Just because he paid for a product, he thinks he can do whatever he wants with it. What's next? Get over it people. It's just a character point. I've cut entire characters from each and every script I've ever written. They seem funny but they mostly bog the story down like Barack Obama's Pastor at a Klan rally. Thankfully I have a team of readers willing to tell me the hard truth. Maybe that's what Harvey is doing here. Maybe not. But fighting the man who is supposed to release your film might mean one thing and one thing only, straight to DVD. That would be a bigger shame than losing a minor plot point.
And the 501st All Pocket Protector Battalion has a right to voice their discouragement. Boycotting is as American as Erik Estrada. It's a fantastic and powerful thing when done for the right reason. But where we these people after the Godfather III was released? Think of the pain they might have saved us all. Not having to sit through the unbearableness that is the Sofia Coppola Acting Experience. For that protest I'd stand in front of oncoming limo's enroute to the premiere like a Hollywood Tiananman Square. But I would wait for the film to open, see it, form my hate filled opinion, and preach it like Billy Graham on Easter sunday.
You got a position? Let me hear it.
The nurse got sent home for letting a nipple slip out of her Jimmy Dean sausage casing tightuniform, so I am left teathered to the bed, unmedicated, head clear, watching Star Wars Episode 1 - The Acting Menace. Thankfully, with much mercy, the local news channelinterrupts the hell spawned transmission with news of a protest. A Star Wars protest. Willmy nightmare never end?
I don't look at Star Wars, Empire, and Jedi as the "Holy Trilogy". Much to the chagrin of my comic book toting, action figure collecting, movie line quoting pals, Star Wars means about as much to me as Annie Hall means to most of them. Good movie, classic even, but I can't see forming a religion around it. This malaise towards the "Franchise" has cost me some of my geek credibility. My 8th Level Halfling Magic User begs to differ, but lets get back to the Million Man-Child March.
A group calling themselves, ready for this geeks, "The 501st" named for the fictional battalion has called for and organized a boycott of all films from the Weinstein Company. Are you twisting my dipstick? I can only hope that the script that I sent to my consortium of advisers and consultants will one day be snatched up and produced by the Weinstein Company. I'm like a gentile Yentl "Harvey, Can You Hear Me?". The man is brilliant. Done. But this conglomerate of acne, baldness, and virginity has a problem with Harvey's treatment of the film "Fanboys". A film about some rabid Star Wars fans break into Lucasfilm to watch the cringe inducing Episode 1. The films been around a while, before it's stars, Jay Baruchel, Kristen Bell, Seth Rogen and Dan Folger were members of the Apatow Nerd Herd. And I've been interested in seeing it. That's it, interested, because it looked like a funny flick. I don't worship the unseen. Not Jesus, not films (unless they are directed by Martin Scorsese and star Leonardo DiCaprio, in that case you have me at hello). Maybe what Harvey wants to do to the film will improve it's appeal to a wider audience. You know, the large segment of society that doesn't go to Comic-Con. (Sorry Atomic).
If the man is capable of building Miramax into a yearly Oscar competitor, who then ditches it because the Mouse has a problem with some of the content, and then starts another company that is on the track to being a major player, don't you think he might have some inkling about what he's doing? Even if you don't like Harvey Scissorhands, you have to respect the people around him. I mean, the company only champions, let's see, Tarantino, Smith, and Rodriguez on a regular basis. He must be an idiot. Or maybe, just maybe, he has more on his plate than wondering if the right outfit to wear to the convention, the one that will capture Lucas' eye, is the Storm Tropper or the Jawa. You Star Wars nits are so homoerotic with Lucas.
The bone of contention between the Weinsteins and the film makers revolve around a cancer subplot that sends the uber-fans on their quest. Darth Weinstein, as the crackpot queer ducks are now calling him, doesn't feel that a cancer ridden character in a comedy that has nothing to do with cancer is appropriate. The man is clearly insane, no? Just because he paid for a product, he thinks he can do whatever he wants with it. What's next? Get over it people. It's just a character point. I've cut entire characters from each and every script I've ever written. They seem funny but they mostly bog the story down like Barack Obama's Pastor at a Klan rally. Thankfully I have a team of readers willing to tell me the hard truth. Maybe that's what Harvey is doing here. Maybe not. But fighting the man who is supposed to release your film might mean one thing and one thing only, straight to DVD. That would be a bigger shame than losing a minor plot point.
And the 501st All Pocket Protector Battalion has a right to voice their discouragement. Boycotting is as American as Erik Estrada. It's a fantastic and powerful thing when done for the right reason. But where we these people after the Godfather III was released? Think of the pain they might have saved us all. Not having to sit through the unbearableness that is the Sofia Coppola Acting Experience. For that protest I'd stand in front of oncoming limo's enroute to the premiere like a Hollywood Tiananman Square. But I would wait for the film to open, see it, form my hate filled opinion, and preach it like Billy Graham on Easter sunday.
You got a position? Let me hear it.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A Place at the Table
"Cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower cause I'm waiting for the dinner bell to do the bell thing " They Might Be Giants from "Dinner Bell"
The pills have taken effect easing my mind through a colorful dreamscape of random images. Sounds are muffled as if my ear canal has been packed with cotton candy. I can barely make out the sound of the nurse talking to someone in the sanitary hallway. She's yammering on about a dinner party or an orgy, I can't make a distinction. But it gets me thinking about who I would like to share a meal with and what they would bring to the table.
First off, someone would have to brings meds. An assortment of uppers and downer, lefters and righters. Hallucinogens and Zombie Makers. Peyote, Mescaline, and Absinthe. Wacky Tobaccy, Peruvian Marching Pouwder, and The Dragon. Opium, Lithium, and other joys that end with um. Beer, booze, Moonshine, and the finest mixers that money could buy. Just as important as the substances would be the persons ability to entertain and wax poetic while in a murky state. Only one man capable of this Herculean feat. Hunter S. Thompson. Dead or alive, he's the right man for the job.
We would need someone capable of telling sordid tales like Dr. Suess with tourettes. Someone with a rich and tumultuous life from which to draw the proverbial bong water. At first I imagined this guest to be a wonderfully corrupt politico like Huey Long, but as I continued to channel surf through my cranial matter it occurred to me that a Star Bellied Sneech was needed. Someone everyman enough to fit in, but a star brighter than Alpha Centauri. A few names swirl over my head like neon signs in a bad film noir. Nicholson, Fonda, Hopper, Pacino, DeNiro, but none of them would bring as much class as Francis Albert Sinatra. Two seats were now filled.
With meds and chit chat covered my brain drifted to the music. Though Sinatra would be there and at the ready, he would have enough on his plate. Can't invite Keith Richards, cause the meds would have to feed the whole group. Lennon would be hip, but Yoko would bring the room down. McCartney couldn't afford the air fare after giving up an arm and a leg to Heather, I heard that her media whore lawyer, Gloria Allred, got the arm, but I bet Heather keeps the leg. Brian Wilson wouldn't leave his house, so the spot goes to Bobby Dylan. It'll be fun to watch him try and eat around that harmonica holder anyway.
Lastly, me and guys need some cavity causing eye candy. In order to make Frank comfortable we opt to deny anyone he ever had the pleasure of. This leaves us with a incredibly shallow jury pool. Charlie Sheen calls with a few options, but nobdy wants to pay that much for ass, we thank him and pass the numbers on to Eliot Spitzer. Keira is too skinny. Even Hunter thinks Anna Nicole is too crazy. Jolie would try to adopt Dylan cause he talks like he's from a third world country. Then the bell rings, debate over. Scarlett is on the guest list.
The table is set. Bring on the meds.
Who would you have at your dinner party? Why? Dead or alive, doesn't matter.
Dixie Cup of Love: Jon Favreau for Dinner for Five
The pills have taken effect easing my mind through a colorful dreamscape of random images. Sounds are muffled as if my ear canal has been packed with cotton candy. I can barely make out the sound of the nurse talking to someone in the sanitary hallway. She's yammering on about a dinner party or an orgy, I can't make a distinction. But it gets me thinking about who I would like to share a meal with and what they would bring to the table.
First off, someone would have to brings meds. An assortment of uppers and downer, lefters and righters. Hallucinogens and Zombie Makers. Peyote, Mescaline, and Absinthe. Wacky Tobaccy, Peruvian Marching Pouwder, and The Dragon. Opium, Lithium, and other joys that end with um. Beer, booze, Moonshine, and the finest mixers that money could buy. Just as important as the substances would be the persons ability to entertain and wax poetic while in a murky state. Only one man capable of this Herculean feat. Hunter S. Thompson. Dead or alive, he's the right man for the job.
We would need someone capable of telling sordid tales like Dr. Suess with tourettes. Someone with a rich and tumultuous life from which to draw the proverbial bong water. At first I imagined this guest to be a wonderfully corrupt politico like Huey Long, but as I continued to channel surf through my cranial matter it occurred to me that a Star Bellied Sneech was needed. Someone everyman enough to fit in, but a star brighter than Alpha Centauri. A few names swirl over my head like neon signs in a bad film noir. Nicholson, Fonda, Hopper, Pacino, DeNiro, but none of them would bring as much class as Francis Albert Sinatra. Two seats were now filled.
With meds and chit chat covered my brain drifted to the music. Though Sinatra would be there and at the ready, he would have enough on his plate. Can't invite Keith Richards, cause the meds would have to feed the whole group. Lennon would be hip, but Yoko would bring the room down. McCartney couldn't afford the air fare after giving up an arm and a leg to Heather, I heard that her media whore lawyer, Gloria Allred, got the arm, but I bet Heather keeps the leg. Brian Wilson wouldn't leave his house, so the spot goes to Bobby Dylan. It'll be fun to watch him try and eat around that harmonica holder anyway.
Lastly, me and guys need some cavity causing eye candy. In order to make Frank comfortable we opt to deny anyone he ever had the pleasure of. This leaves us with a incredibly shallow jury pool. Charlie Sheen calls with a few options, but nobdy wants to pay that much for ass, we thank him and pass the numbers on to Eliot Spitzer. Keira is too skinny. Even Hunter thinks Anna Nicole is too crazy. Jolie would try to adopt Dylan cause he talks like he's from a third world country. Then the bell rings, debate over. Scarlett is on the guest list.
The table is set. Bring on the meds.
Who would you have at your dinner party? Why? Dead or alive, doesn't matter.
Dixie Cup of Love: Jon Favreau for Dinner for Five
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Getting to Second Base
"Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes;
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride." John Fogerty from "Centerfield".
When the nurse arrived for my pre dawn sponging and not very happy ending, I noticed that her left nostril was not exactly clear of debris. At the time I wasn’t sure if it was residue from a nasty head cold or the fossilized remnants of her weekend with the Indoor Aspen Lift Lines. But when I mentioned the nose boulder, poor little Miss White shoes turned a shade of red that would rival the Rising Sun on the Japanese kamikaze planes. It got me thinking of my own most embarrassing moment.
I preface this anecdote with a few details about my adolescents. My incredibly wonderful mother was a single woman with an 8,5, and 4 year old in 1974. She worked two gigs just to keep us ion Tough Skins and Frenkenberries. Any extra dough was, oh who am I kidding, there was never any extra coin. But at the age of 7, by the by I was the 5 year old in the previous number sequence, she managed to get me some cleats, a mitt, and signed me up for Little League. Being the second boy in the "Heir to the Foil Crown" lineage, I got my brothers baseball pants which he had out grown. Didn’t matter, I was dressed and ready to play.
Seeing is that the matriarch was always working I lived a mostly unsupervised latch key existence. I rode my Schwinn BMX with super boss knobby tires everywhere. To school, home, even baseball practice. It was the last great time to be a free wheeling youth in this country. The other boys on the team were Jolly Green Giant green with envy of my freedom.
our genius of a coach determined that I should play second base because of my redwood like dexterity and Musnster-esque footwork. He was the coaching equivalent of the Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da lad fro Life Goes On. Anyway, I’m in the middle of the third game of the season, doing my natural first basemen best to cover the second bag when a worm burning grounder scutters off to my glove side. I have no chance at netting the ball in traditional fashion so I improvise a risky leg save. It works to near perfection. I say near because after throwing the batter out to a ruckus hail of praise from the crowd, I look down to see my athletic cup on the ground.
Upon further analysis of the situation I would be completely mortified to find my wee seven year old cock and undropped sack on display for a good portion of the East Whittier Little League Division 1 faithful. There was some gasps of shock, a few chuckles, and at least one "Look at that!" Placing the mitt over my as yet undeveloped junk, I hustled like Pete Rose to the bench for the remainder of the game. But it’s not over. Super Mom dashed to car like Wally West, bringing me back a mildew ridden towel to wrap myself up in. We can’t go get me new trousers because, as luck would have it, my brother had a game starting right after the conclusion of my semi-erotic showcase of a game. I spent the better part of the day walking amongst my team and classmates in a cotton hula skirt.
After that I never played second base again.
Do you have an embarrassing moment you care to share? Maybe a story about someone else? Change the names to protect the innocent if you have to.
Dixie Cup of Love: This ones for Mom
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride." John Fogerty from "Centerfield".
When the nurse arrived for my pre dawn sponging and not very happy ending, I noticed that her left nostril was not exactly clear of debris. At the time I wasn’t sure if it was residue from a nasty head cold or the fossilized remnants of her weekend with the Indoor Aspen Lift Lines. But when I mentioned the nose boulder, poor little Miss White shoes turned a shade of red that would rival the Rising Sun on the Japanese kamikaze planes. It got me thinking of my own most embarrassing moment.
I preface this anecdote with a few details about my adolescents. My incredibly wonderful mother was a single woman with an 8,5, and 4 year old in 1974. She worked two gigs just to keep us ion Tough Skins and Frenkenberries. Any extra dough was, oh who am I kidding, there was never any extra coin. But at the age of 7, by the by I was the 5 year old in the previous number sequence, she managed to get me some cleats, a mitt, and signed me up for Little League. Being the second boy in the "Heir to the Foil Crown" lineage, I got my brothers baseball pants which he had out grown. Didn’t matter, I was dressed and ready to play.
Seeing is that the matriarch was always working I lived a mostly unsupervised latch key existence. I rode my Schwinn BMX with super boss knobby tires everywhere. To school, home, even baseball practice. It was the last great time to be a free wheeling youth in this country. The other boys on the team were Jolly Green Giant green with envy of my freedom.
our genius of a coach determined that I should play second base because of my redwood like dexterity and Musnster-esque footwork. He was the coaching equivalent of the Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da lad fro Life Goes On. Anyway, I’m in the middle of the third game of the season, doing my natural first basemen best to cover the second bag when a worm burning grounder scutters off to my glove side. I have no chance at netting the ball in traditional fashion so I improvise a risky leg save. It works to near perfection. I say near because after throwing the batter out to a ruckus hail of praise from the crowd, I look down to see my athletic cup on the ground.
Upon further analysis of the situation I would be completely mortified to find my wee seven year old cock and undropped sack on display for a good portion of the East Whittier Little League Division 1 faithful. There was some gasps of shock, a few chuckles, and at least one "Look at that!" Placing the mitt over my as yet undeveloped junk, I hustled like Pete Rose to the bench for the remainder of the game. But it’s not over. Super Mom dashed to car like Wally West, bringing me back a mildew ridden towel to wrap myself up in. We can’t go get me new trousers because, as luck would have it, my brother had a game starting right after the conclusion of my semi-erotic showcase of a game. I spent the better part of the day walking amongst my team and classmates in a cotton hula skirt.
After that I never played second base again.
Do you have an embarrassing moment you care to share? Maybe a story about someone else? Change the names to protect the innocent if you have to.
Dixie Cup of Love: This ones for Mom
Monday, March 24, 2008
Fat Bottom Girls
"Are you gonna take me home tonight? Ooh, down beside that red firelight; Are you gonna let it all hang out? Fat bottomed girls, You make the rockin' world go round." Queen from "Fat Bottom Girls
Every once in a while the nurse allows us pill popping sociopaths some time to surf the net like Kelly Slater. With waves of impertinent information washing over me like the North Shore at high tide I came across something that triggered my rage reflex.
What I found was a story, and it wasn't the story itself that had me feeling like Bruce Banner on a gamma ray bender, it was the torrent of comments attached to it.
It seems that a sixteen year old girl from Surrey, England has made it to the finals of the Miss England competition. She is attractive, has a slightly crooked smile as one would stereotype someone from The Isle to have, but that's not the objection that the small minded commentors had with the young lass. What had them up in arms, spewing ugly comment after hideous comment was the fact that she is the first woman to ever make it to the finals who is, I don't even know how to say this without wanting to set all those ignorant tiny brain on fire, she's a size 16.
According to page after page of posts this is the worst thing to happen to beauty pageants since the addition of the Q and A portion. The neophytes couldn't imagine how a woman of substance could be considered beautiful. I'm ashamed for all of them. One of the sexiest woman to grace this physically obsessed planet was Marilyn Monroe. Any objections? Didn't think so. If it was good enough for the Kennedys, it's good enough for the rest of us. Oh yeah, PS, Marilyn Monroe was a size 14.
I would prefer to keep these rantings as homocidally humorous as possible, but my ass is on fire over this display of group hatred. This harmless lovely girl may happen across this website Den of Plastic Worshipping Idiots, and it would be a horrible disservice to all men if she actually believed any of the things she read.
So what about you out there in the Blog World? Does size have anything to do with beauty? Is there any reason to think a bigger woman can't be a sexual object? Are women only supposed to look like the retarded Hilton Girl to be considered beautiful?
You can check out the story, without the comments, here.
Dixie Cup of Love: Chloe Marshall for being beautiful.
Every once in a while the nurse allows us pill popping sociopaths some time to surf the net like Kelly Slater. With waves of impertinent information washing over me like the North Shore at high tide I came across something that triggered my rage reflex.
What I found was a story, and it wasn't the story itself that had me feeling like Bruce Banner on a gamma ray bender, it was the torrent of comments attached to it.
It seems that a sixteen year old girl from Surrey, England has made it to the finals of the Miss England competition. She is attractive, has a slightly crooked smile as one would stereotype someone from The Isle to have, but that's not the objection that the small minded commentors had with the young lass. What had them up in arms, spewing ugly comment after hideous comment was the fact that she is the first woman to ever make it to the finals who is, I don't even know how to say this without wanting to set all those ignorant tiny brain on fire, she's a size 16.
According to page after page of posts this is the worst thing to happen to beauty pageants since the addition of the Q and A portion. The neophytes couldn't imagine how a woman of substance could be considered beautiful. I'm ashamed for all of them. One of the sexiest woman to grace this physically obsessed planet was Marilyn Monroe. Any objections? Didn't think so. If it was good enough for the Kennedys, it's good enough for the rest of us. Oh yeah, PS, Marilyn Monroe was a size 14.
I would prefer to keep these rantings as homocidally humorous as possible, but my ass is on fire over this display of group hatred. This harmless lovely girl may happen across this website Den of Plastic Worshipping Idiots, and it would be a horrible disservice to all men if she actually believed any of the things she read.
So what about you out there in the Blog World? Does size have anything to do with beauty? Is there any reason to think a bigger woman can't be a sexual object? Are women only supposed to look like the retarded Hilton Girl to be considered beautiful?
You can check out the story, without the comments, here.
Dixie Cup of Love: Chloe Marshall for being beautiful.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Orange Parade
"We were liars in love and we danced, swept away for a moment by chance, and we danced" The Hooters from "And We Danced.
The nurse is off today in celebration of the pagan holiday. This leaves me medication free and wondering about the world outside my wire mesh covered window. The world that drove me to insanity on a short bus. The world filled with strange behaviors on mass scales.
One of these behavioral oddities is on display daily at the unlikliest of places, a franchise eatery. One with top heavy honeys in physics defying hosery and orange shorts the size of a Tic Tac. You know the place.
Upon entering the local owl disguised jiggly room, a fresh faced Southern girl, complete with "Hey Y’All" accent, helps herself to aa seat at the table. This is too make my accomplice and I feel like we are more than just 20% tippers, we are flirt worthy. Her mandated kindness must be on a stop watch timer, since she wastes precious little time chatting before procuring our drink order. As she scurries off into what we imagine to be a secret back room pillow fight for our affections, our server is sure of two things. We are watching her ass as she hustles off and we are now taking inventory of which girls station we wish we had taken up residency.
REturning with our "Man-Sized" vats of gorg she queries our readiness to order some of their meatless chicken wings. Where are the AShley Olsen thin chickens being raised, I wonder. And what’s the point of being King Kamehameha of the food chain if the lower orders are all PETA friendly? We pass on the wings and decide on burgers just as the floor show begins. This is where the creepy factor really comes into play.
The gals line up like a jaundiced can-can and dance a particularly bouncy jig. You want to look, to stare, but since the poor gilr was just sitting at your table and has a look in her eyes like a bored fuck doll, you can’t watch. You check the score on the Women’s hoops game that you care nothing about or you find something on the table so mesmerizing it requires your full attention. Thank Jeebus the song is faded out faster than a five dollar lap dance and you are free to ogle once again, shame free.
But the damage is done. She is no longer the pop tart with the great rack, now she is "Poor Demeaned Sally". It’s all about the warp speed exodus after that. The tip is bigger than you anticipate, enlarged by guilt and sympathy. And as you walk out, the next set of suckers stroll in pie-eyed with enthusiasm. It’s all a scam.
So I ask you. Is this a subversive way of getting back at men? Do you women out there think less of a gal for working there? What sneaky way do you use guilt on the opposite sex?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hookers, for doing the whole job without all the guilt.
Leave your comments and heaps of kudos below.
The nurse is off today in celebration of the pagan holiday. This leaves me medication free and wondering about the world outside my wire mesh covered window. The world that drove me to insanity on a short bus. The world filled with strange behaviors on mass scales.
One of these behavioral oddities is on display daily at the unlikliest of places, a franchise eatery. One with top heavy honeys in physics defying hosery and orange shorts the size of a Tic Tac. You know the place.
Upon entering the local owl disguised jiggly room, a fresh faced Southern girl, complete with "Hey Y’All" accent, helps herself to aa seat at the table. This is too make my accomplice and I feel like we are more than just 20% tippers, we are flirt worthy. Her mandated kindness must be on a stop watch timer, since she wastes precious little time chatting before procuring our drink order. As she scurries off into what we imagine to be a secret back room pillow fight for our affections, our server is sure of two things. We are watching her ass as she hustles off and we are now taking inventory of which girls station we wish we had taken up residency.
REturning with our "Man-Sized" vats of gorg she queries our readiness to order some of their meatless chicken wings. Where are the AShley Olsen thin chickens being raised, I wonder. And what’s the point of being King Kamehameha of the food chain if the lower orders are all PETA friendly? We pass on the wings and decide on burgers just as the floor show begins. This is where the creepy factor really comes into play.
The gals line up like a jaundiced can-can and dance a particularly bouncy jig. You want to look, to stare, but since the poor gilr was just sitting at your table and has a look in her eyes like a bored fuck doll, you can’t watch. You check the score on the Women’s hoops game that you care nothing about or you find something on the table so mesmerizing it requires your full attention. Thank Jeebus the song is faded out faster than a five dollar lap dance and you are free to ogle once again, shame free.
But the damage is done. She is no longer the pop tart with the great rack, now she is "Poor Demeaned Sally". It’s all about the warp speed exodus after that. The tip is bigger than you anticipate, enlarged by guilt and sympathy. And as you walk out, the next set of suckers stroll in pie-eyed with enthusiasm. It’s all a scam.
So I ask you. Is this a subversive way of getting back at men? Do you women out there think less of a gal for working there? What sneaky way do you use guilt on the opposite sex?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hookers, for doing the whole job without all the guilt.
Leave your comments and heaps of kudos below.
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