..... fill in the blank. What no one gives ......
Duh,... the answer is 'a shit'.
If you answered correctly, please step forward and collect your prize... a fabulous Led Zeppelin mirror.
I like chopped onions on my hot dog.
I enjoy watching a yellow traffic signal turn to red mere seconds before I pass under it.
There is no ketchup on my table, yet, hot sauce will suffice.
Gas prices just dropped three cents.
My daughter got married.
Hikers in Iran are on a hunger strike.
President Obama is part Irish.
Your pants feel just a teensy bit looser.
These are but examples of what no one gives ......
Or, maybe they do... or maybe you do ...
Or maybe I don't, or maybe I do ....
But, I'm just you ... except for the daughter thing ...
But, then again ...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Jesus Loves The Little Children ... 'Cept a Few...
"UUUUUUUUUUUUugggggggggggggggggggggHHHHHHHHHHHH"
"pppppppppppppppfffffffffTTTT..... HeHeHeHe..."
"OhOhOhOhOh... UGGGGGhhhhhhhhUUUgggHHhhhHHhhGGG"
*Splurt*
"Wah Wah Wah, Blah, Blah. Blah"
A baby is born.
And that's the way it was, and that's the way it pretty much sounds.... well, minus the sound of an accompanying, spiraling turd being laid on the sheets as the final push to the finish line produces the result of a moment of drunken sex. Oh, for the good 'ol days when sounds of gratitude emanated from the lungs of one created during that moment of drunken love.
Quite honestly, I can better remember the sound of my child's mother's LaMaze breathing and subsequent turd-laying in the bed as my daughter was being hatched as I can the last words my daughter said to me before she dismissed me as a father.
Quite sad, you might say. Not so much, I reply. Let me elaborate. Stay with me, laugh with me, cry with me, cry for me, hate me, if you must.
You see, today I learned that my daughter married someone. I have no idea who the 'someone' is. I've never met him. I learned that she also has graduated from hair-cutting school. I know, there's a term for hair-cutting school, but I don't know what it is... suffice it to say, she's a hair'ologist.
Most might dismiss these revelations as 'yeah, so what?' events. High Five and Fist Bumps, bros. Me too.
Sounds harsh, but I'm not too shocked.
I'll be chastised and reprimanded out the ass for what I'm about to say but I'm a bit fond of ass play so here we go ...
To my daughter ... it won't last. Sure, a father is supposed to say, "I wish you happiness and a long life together... yada yada yada"... Nah, ain't gonna happen. Of course I wish you happiness, sorta. The same happiuness you wish upon those you love... Welcome to life, my daughter, I hope it finds you well ... hehe. You're 20 years old. You have no clue who you are, no less what you need. Shame on those who allowed you to be married.... which brings me to...
Satan.....
You weren't dismissed and abandoned without good reason... by the way, I found your missing Mercedes key.... I'm selling it on eBay. I'll trade it for the 19 years we were married. In any case...
You know, I wasn't as stung by the notice of my daughter's wedding as I thought I might be. Sure, every father dreams of walking his daughter down the aisle on her wedding day... I'm no exception.
Yet, I'm also now immune to hurt and unnecessary pummeling by those who continually wish to extol vindication upon me for my actions that allowed me to express my individuality. I'm like a chicken pox virus in a pediatric ward ... full of bumps and pain but held at bay by a shot of medicine ... You, my children, are my medicine...
you, and your pox of a mother ....
I do wish my daughter well... I really do... just as I know she wishes me well.... and just as I know she wishes her grandparents well.... ....
Yeah, like that ....
I'm nothing if not reciprocal ...
"pppppppppppppppfffffffffTTTT..... HeHeHeHe..."
"OhOhOhOhOh... UGGGGGhhhhhhhhUUUgggHHhhhHHhhGGG"
*Splurt*
"Wah Wah Wah, Blah, Blah. Blah"
A baby is born.
And that's the way it was, and that's the way it pretty much sounds.... well, minus the sound of an accompanying, spiraling turd being laid on the sheets as the final push to the finish line produces the result of a moment of drunken sex. Oh, for the good 'ol days when sounds of gratitude emanated from the lungs of one created during that moment of drunken love.
Quite honestly, I can better remember the sound of my child's mother's LaMaze breathing and subsequent turd-laying in the bed as my daughter was being hatched as I can the last words my daughter said to me before she dismissed me as a father.
Quite sad, you might say. Not so much, I reply. Let me elaborate. Stay with me, laugh with me, cry with me, cry for me, hate me, if you must.
You see, today I learned that my daughter married someone. I have no idea who the 'someone' is. I've never met him. I learned that she also has graduated from hair-cutting school. I know, there's a term for hair-cutting school, but I don't know what it is... suffice it to say, she's a hair'ologist.
Most might dismiss these revelations as 'yeah, so what?' events. High Five and Fist Bumps, bros. Me too.
Sounds harsh, but I'm not too shocked.
I'll be chastised and reprimanded out the ass for what I'm about to say but I'm a bit fond of ass play so here we go ...
To my daughter ... it won't last. Sure, a father is supposed to say, "I wish you happiness and a long life together... yada yada yada"... Nah, ain't gonna happen. Of course I wish you happiness, sorta. The same happiuness you wish upon those you love... Welcome to life, my daughter, I hope it finds you well ... hehe. You're 20 years old. You have no clue who you are, no less what you need. Shame on those who allowed you to be married.... which brings me to...
Satan.....
You weren't dismissed and abandoned without good reason... by the way, I found your missing Mercedes key.... I'm selling it on eBay. I'll trade it for the 19 years we were married. In any case...
You know, I wasn't as stung by the notice of my daughter's wedding as I thought I might be. Sure, every father dreams of walking his daughter down the aisle on her wedding day... I'm no exception.
Yet, I'm also now immune to hurt and unnecessary pummeling by those who continually wish to extol vindication upon me for my actions that allowed me to express my individuality. I'm like a chicken pox virus in a pediatric ward ... full of bumps and pain but held at bay by a shot of medicine ... You, my children, are my medicine...
you, and your pox of a mother ....
I do wish my daughter well... I really do... just as I know she wishes me well.... and just as I know she wishes her grandparents well.... ....
Yeah, like that ....
I'm nothing if not reciprocal ...
Oh, I Hope One Person In Particular Reads This, Part 1
We live in a world of uncertainties. There are no guarantees of love, life, happiness or success. There is no contract attached to the umbilical cord holding a clause giving a guarantee of acceptance. Just being born doesn't give one a fast pass to unconditional love. Yeah, we might all emerge from the thickets of our mother's forest of love slathered in mayonnaise and swinging from a fleshy vine but that doesn't mean that we all are all pork roll sandwich material.
This is the story of a girl. No ordinary girl, mind you, but a girl who was born a disappointment. A girl who was meant to be a boy. This is the story of a child, the third-born, the last in a series of ovary-bearing children in which the third was meant to be holding balls and a garden snake.
For sake of anonymity, let's dub this third-born lady, 'Billie' .... a child holding the hopes of a family lineage in her hands, or loins.
Billie forged ahead throughout childhood knowing that she'd never live up to the standards of her father's hopes and dreams of having a son to follow in his footsteps as a 'company man', a provider, a 'nose to the grindstone' man after his own heart.
Little did daddy know that 'Billie' felt the disappointment in daddy's heart and that Billie would ultimately be the ruthless son that he never had.
For years, Billie languished and toiled in the corporate environment in order to please daddy. During those years, Billie also managed to marry and produce offspring... foragers of future wealth for daddy's pride. Billie was a happy little product of daddy's disappointing approval until, one day, there was a glitch in the plan.
Billie's support system collapsed. The middle rung to Billie's corporate ladder shook loose during a particularly heavy footfall and Billie suffered a scraped kneecap on the ladder to egotistical success.
Whoopsies.
Daddy wasn't too happy. Daddy's daughter-who-was-meant-to-be-a-son failed for the first time. Not in business, no. Business success is a given for the offspring of hypocrisy.... No, this was a failure on a personal level.... a relationship. Billie had been rejected and called to the mat for being an unscrupulous matrimonial partner. Foul relational business practices are afoot and have been duly noted.
So, the middle rung departed Billie's ladder, leaving Billie to either accept a leap of faith to the next rung or place blame on the missing run for her inability to please her daddy. Guess which option dear Billie chose ...
The story doesn't end with Billie's poor choice... you see, Billie and her 'rung' had little 'step-ladders' who also inherited Billie's desire for daddy's love..... This is where the real story begins to take take a life of it's own, as Billie's story begins and ends with her sad story of desparate search for acceptance ....
To be continued....
This is the story of a girl. No ordinary girl, mind you, but a girl who was born a disappointment. A girl who was meant to be a boy. This is the story of a child, the third-born, the last in a series of ovary-bearing children in which the third was meant to be holding balls and a garden snake.
For sake of anonymity, let's dub this third-born lady, 'Billie' .... a child holding the hopes of a family lineage in her hands, or loins.
Billie forged ahead throughout childhood knowing that she'd never live up to the standards of her father's hopes and dreams of having a son to follow in his footsteps as a 'company man', a provider, a 'nose to the grindstone' man after his own heart.
Little did daddy know that 'Billie' felt the disappointment in daddy's heart and that Billie would ultimately be the ruthless son that he never had.
For years, Billie languished and toiled in the corporate environment in order to please daddy. During those years, Billie also managed to marry and produce offspring... foragers of future wealth for daddy's pride. Billie was a happy little product of daddy's disappointing approval until, one day, there was a glitch in the plan.
Billie's support system collapsed. The middle rung to Billie's corporate ladder shook loose during a particularly heavy footfall and Billie suffered a scraped kneecap on the ladder to egotistical success.
Whoopsies.
Daddy wasn't too happy. Daddy's daughter-who-was-meant-to-be-a-son failed for the first time. Not in business, no. Business success is a given for the offspring of hypocrisy.... No, this was a failure on a personal level.... a relationship. Billie had been rejected and called to the mat for being an unscrupulous matrimonial partner. Foul relational business practices are afoot and have been duly noted.
So, the middle rung departed Billie's ladder, leaving Billie to either accept a leap of faith to the next rung or place blame on the missing run for her inability to please her daddy. Guess which option dear Billie chose ...
The story doesn't end with Billie's poor choice... you see, Billie and her 'rung' had little 'step-ladders' who also inherited Billie's desire for daddy's love..... This is where the real story begins to take take a life of it's own, as Billie's story begins and ends with her sad story of desparate search for acceptance ....
To be continued....
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Tick Tock
T-minus 48 hours .....
That's what's left for humankind to experience life and love and hopefully gratifying oral sex on this planet before the 'Big Guy' kills us off like termites under the Orkin man's spray bottle.
Or, so says a certain end-of-days minister claiming that May 21st is the end-all day for humankind.
Now, I'm no fuddy-duddy.. I'm just a duddy... but, I think Mr. Christian is a bit off base in his thinkin'.
However, I'm not adverse to taking advantage of irrational thinking. I take advantage of my own irrational thinking on a daily basis.
On may 21st, I'll be working... bartending. Most likely, at the moment of innhialation, I'll be drawing a Guinness from the tap while ESPN blares the latest baseball scores. How fitting it would be if the world ended as a man sipped a beer at peace as irrelevant sports facts were scrolled on the bottom of a sceen for the masses to care less about.
Eh, not so much.
Pfffffffffffffft .... who really cares what happens if the world ends? Sounds harsh, I know. But, what does it matter who wins games or awards or other meaningless shit?
Believe it or not, I gave a thought to this today. Yes, me of uncaring mind ( take that, children o' mine). I know, my thinking is a bit off the wall but my wall is in a raquetball court, so bouncing around is the norm.
Yeah, I know, everyone gives a thought to what they'd do if tomorrow was the last day of life... yada, yada, yada.... I'm not trying to claim anything new and novel here. We've all been there and done that ..
.... "I'd spend the day with my kids...."
...." I'd take the day off and play golf...."
.... "I'd whip a midget and masturbate to Kasey Kasem's hits of the 60's..."
Yeah, all those and more...
My life ends each day when I close my eyes. My life begins each day when I open my eyes. And, in the time in between those times, my life ends and begins in succession hundred of times.
Bring on the hurricanes, earthquakes and atom bombs ... they are all but major disruptions to the minor disruptions that matter each day.
I looked at the love of my life tonight as she hugged a body pillow and drooled upon it.
I have no money because of the greed and vindictiveness of an ex who hates me
My dog licked my face after licking his ass
I found gray hairs on my feet
Yet, I'm ready to die a horrific death as a result of God's Wrath on May 21sr if that's what 's meant to happen.
Why? Because this is my life and this is my happiness. I accept who I am and where I am am what I have. I have found what I need... I have found unconditional love. I don't need a belief in anything other that that to know that if May 21st brings total destruction I have all I need to make it to where I need to be.
As for semantics, May 21st still falls within National Masturbation month. The Big Bang is but a whack job in God's plan ... maybe we'll go out with a 'bang' in a good way....
For me, I'm hitting the yard sales of those 'end-time' fanatics... plenty of good porn to be found....
That's what's left for humankind to experience life and love and hopefully gratifying oral sex on this planet before the 'Big Guy' kills us off like termites under the Orkin man's spray bottle.
Or, so says a certain end-of-days minister claiming that May 21st is the end-all day for humankind.
Now, I'm no fuddy-duddy.. I'm just a duddy... but, I think Mr. Christian is a bit off base in his thinkin'.
However, I'm not adverse to taking advantage of irrational thinking. I take advantage of my own irrational thinking on a daily basis.
On may 21st, I'll be working... bartending. Most likely, at the moment of innhialation, I'll be drawing a Guinness from the tap while ESPN blares the latest baseball scores. How fitting it would be if the world ended as a man sipped a beer at peace as irrelevant sports facts were scrolled on the bottom of a sceen for the masses to care less about.
Eh, not so much.
Pfffffffffffffft .... who really cares what happens if the world ends? Sounds harsh, I know. But, what does it matter who wins games or awards or other meaningless shit?
Believe it or not, I gave a thought to this today. Yes, me of uncaring mind ( take that, children o' mine). I know, my thinking is a bit off the wall but my wall is in a raquetball court, so bouncing around is the norm.
Yeah, I know, everyone gives a thought to what they'd do if tomorrow was the last day of life... yada, yada, yada.... I'm not trying to claim anything new and novel here. We've all been there and done that ..
.... "I'd spend the day with my kids...."
...." I'd take the day off and play golf...."
.... "I'd whip a midget and masturbate to Kasey Kasem's hits of the 60's..."
Yeah, all those and more...
My life ends each day when I close my eyes. My life begins each day when I open my eyes. And, in the time in between those times, my life ends and begins in succession hundred of times.
Bring on the hurricanes, earthquakes and atom bombs ... they are all but major disruptions to the minor disruptions that matter each day.
I looked at the love of my life tonight as she hugged a body pillow and drooled upon it.
I have no money because of the greed and vindictiveness of an ex who hates me
My dog licked my face after licking his ass
I found gray hairs on my feet
Yet, I'm ready to die a horrific death as a result of God's Wrath on May 21sr if that's what 's meant to happen.
Why? Because this is my life and this is my happiness. I accept who I am and where I am am what I have. I have found what I need... I have found unconditional love. I don't need a belief in anything other that that to know that if May 21st brings total destruction I have all I need to make it to where I need to be.
As for semantics, May 21st still falls within National Masturbation month. The Big Bang is but a whack job in God's plan ... maybe we'll go out with a 'bang' in a good way....
For me, I'm hitting the yard sales of those 'end-time' fanatics... plenty of good porn to be found....
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Welcome to Drunken Love ...
I consider myself young at heart.
I might be way off base, but I can still relate to those in their teens through those in their thirties as well as my own generation, 40's, which I elect to refer to as 'matured' ... like a banana. A bit browned, ripe and ready to enjoy. My banana skin is easy to peel and the fruit is ripe and tasty .... (Robin, imagine a clam... (( for my best lesbian friend)) ) Now, please direct your attentions away from my abnormally large manhood ... (Yeah, I had to elaborate). ...
I recently re-entered the workforce as a provider of vice. Although I'd like to say I am now a gigolo commanding top dollar for my services, I must fess up and admit that I am no more than a humble bartender ... liqouring up patrons for my own benefit through my superior service and wit .,.. yes, I'm a whore, prospering from the inebriated masses .... Got a prblem with that? No? Good... Yes? Then move on ... hypocrite.
Yet, I'm able to see myself in those I serve .... the weaknesses, the fears, the hurts. I am able to see the inner workings of my own psyche with every drink I pour. For example... the young woman who returns to the bar asking for wine... smiling broadly as she tries to cover her tears when she asks for another glass of wine... no one sees her inner beauty in her eyes...
The man in his sixties who drinks scotch in order to bring a reaction to his wife's face ... reclaiming a moment of uninhibited laughter as a song touches a memory ... she stares at her shoes.
The young man who believes that his uninhibited actions will bring him love and lust, despite his mismatched clothing and awkward gazes ...
Nothing escapes me. I'm sober now, sorta ... I'm on the un-lit end of the wick. Guess what.... I kinda like it. No, I don't necessarily enjoy seeing you making a fool of yourself on the dancefloor. Yeah, I do. Duh.
What I do enjoy is seeing you make a fool of yourself on the dancefloor. I love it. I live for it.
It's not the inebriated side of you that I admire, it's the side of you that the inebriation exposes. I once thought that I couldn't relate to 'normal' people unless I brought myself down a notch through substances ... I still have that belief, to an extent... hell, there are some dumb fuckin' people out there... but, I have grown a bit, learned some things and accepted some truths.
I imagine that my thoughts and beliefs are right in line for a good bartender. I don't know ... but, I'll tell you this ... if I can't remember what liquors make up your requested drink, I'll tell you. But, if you tell me your name, I'll remember. Every vice has a face and every face has a name ...
I might be way off base, but I can still relate to those in their teens through those in their thirties as well as my own generation, 40's, which I elect to refer to as 'matured' ... like a banana. A bit browned, ripe and ready to enjoy. My banana skin is easy to peel and the fruit is ripe and tasty .... (Robin, imagine a clam... (( for my best lesbian friend)) ) Now, please direct your attentions away from my abnormally large manhood ... (Yeah, I had to elaborate). ...
I recently re-entered the workforce as a provider of vice. Although I'd like to say I am now a gigolo commanding top dollar for my services, I must fess up and admit that I am no more than a humble bartender ... liqouring up patrons for my own benefit through my superior service and wit .,.. yes, I'm a whore, prospering from the inebriated masses .... Got a prblem with that? No? Good... Yes? Then move on ... hypocrite.
Yet, I'm able to see myself in those I serve .... the weaknesses, the fears, the hurts. I am able to see the inner workings of my own psyche with every drink I pour. For example... the young woman who returns to the bar asking for wine... smiling broadly as she tries to cover her tears when she asks for another glass of wine... no one sees her inner beauty in her eyes...
The man in his sixties who drinks scotch in order to bring a reaction to his wife's face ... reclaiming a moment of uninhibited laughter as a song touches a memory ... she stares at her shoes.
The young man who believes that his uninhibited actions will bring him love and lust, despite his mismatched clothing and awkward gazes ...
Nothing escapes me. I'm sober now, sorta ... I'm on the un-lit end of the wick. Guess what.... I kinda like it. No, I don't necessarily enjoy seeing you making a fool of yourself on the dancefloor. Yeah, I do. Duh.
What I do enjoy is seeing you make a fool of yourself on the dancefloor. I love it. I live for it.
It's not the inebriated side of you that I admire, it's the side of you that the inebriation exposes. I once thought that I couldn't relate to 'normal' people unless I brought myself down a notch through substances ... I still have that belief, to an extent... hell, there are some dumb fuckin' people out there... but, I have grown a bit, learned some things and accepted some truths.
I imagine that my thoughts and beliefs are right in line for a good bartender. I don't know ... but, I'll tell you this ... if I can't remember what liquors make up your requested drink, I'll tell you. But, if you tell me your name, I'll remember. Every vice has a face and every face has a name ...
Monday, May 16, 2011
A short conversation...
Pssst....
Shhh...
Shut up, the dumb fucker is gonna hear you. .....
Ya know, no he won't... he's way to gone to understand what he's thinkin'
Uh, nope... he's maybe a bit slow but he's not dumb.
Lemme tell you what I know... your mind is really fucked
So you say
Yeah, I say
Here's the thing ...
Tell me...
Wait, let me tell you...
Not now, 'World's Dumbest' is on truTV ...
I'll make popcorn ...
I love my friends in my head ... you guys rock.
Shut up... dick.
Shhh...
Shut up, the dumb fucker is gonna hear you. .....
Ya know, no he won't... he's way to gone to understand what he's thinkin'
Uh, nope... he's maybe a bit slow but he's not dumb.
Lemme tell you what I know... your mind is really fucked
So you say
Yeah, I say
Here's the thing ...
Tell me...
Wait, let me tell you...
Not now, 'World's Dumbest' is on truTV ...
I'll make popcorn ...
I love my friends in my head ... you guys rock.
Shut up... dick.
I Have Bacon Bits In My Vanilla Ice Cream
Spank my stump and suck my toes, there are some mind-bending sexual fetishists running amok amongst us. It is fittingly appropriate to delve into the dark, furry underbelly of fetishes during the month of May, given that May is National Masturbation month. Let’s have a show of ‘hand’ from those who agree …
Most everyone with a praline or two in their plain vanilla sex lives has at least heard of bondage, tickling, golden showers and, thanks to Rex Ryan, coach of the New York Jets, foot worship. However, even those of us with a twisted mind and penchant for all things bizarre have never considered covering our nether regions with ants and crickets for a quick spurt of love. Neither have we entertained the thought of pumping the tailpipe of a 1987 Buick LeSabre. Yet, in all seriousness, there are those who entertain those thoughts and then act on those thoughts.
There is a sexual thrill to be derived from nearly anything imaginable. From amputees to vampires, from chicken suits to balloons, from feet to trees. Oh, lest we forget midgets. For many, if not most, there are no limits when it comes to boner enhancement and the elusive ‘O’.
Granted, some of these fetishes are repulsive, many are simply odd and a handful beyond comprehension. There is no doubt that some of the more bizarre fetishists amongst us are clearly worthy of psychological evaluation. Yet, who are we to judge? Hell, most all of us are poster-children for the benefits of electroshock therapy. But unless unprotected sex with a LeSabre creates a baby VW Bug and no crime is committed or person or animal harmed in the name of Splooge then why not go with the flow and allow everyone their diapered fun.
Yet, as one considers practicing one or more of these sexual thrillrides, keep this in mind ...
When it comes to sex, folks are bizarre.
Just ask the guy who’s humping his car.
But whatever you do, please don’t forget:
The video will end up on the Internet.
Now, excuse me, I must take my leave. May is now half over and I have a lot more celebrating to do.
Most everyone with a praline or two in their plain vanilla sex lives has at least heard of bondage, tickling, golden showers and, thanks to Rex Ryan, coach of the New York Jets, foot worship. However, even those of us with a twisted mind and penchant for all things bizarre have never considered covering our nether regions with ants and crickets for a quick spurt of love. Neither have we entertained the thought of pumping the tailpipe of a 1987 Buick LeSabre. Yet, in all seriousness, there are those who entertain those thoughts and then act on those thoughts.
There is a sexual thrill to be derived from nearly anything imaginable. From amputees to vampires, from chicken suits to balloons, from feet to trees. Oh, lest we forget midgets. For many, if not most, there are no limits when it comes to boner enhancement and the elusive ‘O’.
Granted, some of these fetishes are repulsive, many are simply odd and a handful beyond comprehension. There is no doubt that some of the more bizarre fetishists amongst us are clearly worthy of psychological evaluation. Yet, who are we to judge? Hell, most all of us are poster-children for the benefits of electroshock therapy. But unless unprotected sex with a LeSabre creates a baby VW Bug and no crime is committed or person or animal harmed in the name of Splooge then why not go with the flow and allow everyone their diapered fun.
Yet, as one considers practicing one or more of these sexual thrillrides, keep this in mind ...
When it comes to sex, folks are bizarre.
Just ask the guy who’s humping his car.
But whatever you do, please don’t forget:
The video will end up on the Internet.
Now, excuse me, I must take my leave. May is now half over and I have a lot more celebrating to do.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
A Friendly Note
Friends. That was a wonderful TV series. A plethora of wonderful fads were born as a result of those six beautiful people. Hell, I myself wore 'the Rachel' haircut for a week or so until it interfered with my ability to eat grilled cheese sandwiches.
Friends. A word we all relish. We all can hear our parents telling us at a very young age that 'you can never have too many' of them. Or in my case, 'you can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose'.... Love ya mom.
Yet, what is a friend, really? Let me inject my opinion....
Fuck if I know. Yeah, I don't know what a friend is.
You see, I grew up in a simple time... a time when friends stabbed you in the back then took a bullet for you later because they felt guilty for stabbing you in the back. A time when a friend would blame you for killing a neighbor's cat, even though you didn't do it because he knew that you'd be loyal as a friend, just like he was loyal when he fibbed about you feeling up his sister on the family camping trip.
Yeah, just like that... friendship.
No more, my friends. That type of friendship is non-existent. You want to be a friend now, you'd better be prepared to pay up later. Unconditional friendship is like sex between two midgets using king-sized condoms and latex.
No, I have no connection between the two, they just seemed fanciful to me. You get the idea. Friendship now is all take, take, take. Or, depending on which side you're on, it's give, give give. You get my point, there's not banter between give and take.
I'll be honest, I'm ne of those who readily spews without regard. Yet, I'm always available to collect a friends sputem with a Hefty bag, if necessary.
We all want friends... we all want someone who will listen to our inane rants, be there for us when we are hopeless, listen to us when we make no sense. The tricky part is being there for others who consider us a friend when they are as disturbed as we are. No one's problems are ever as fucky as yours when you need someone. Heh.... Yeah, right....
Want to be a firend? You don't have to hug and offer encouragement. Sure, a blowjob might help, but it isn't necessary... Wanna be a friend? Just say, "I'm here ... "...That's it. Two words. You don't necessarily wanna hear all of my daily shit any mkore than I wanna hear yours, but I'll tell you this, If you need me,. as a friend, I'll listen... I'm here.
Right after the replay of 'The young and The Restless' at 7:00... otherwise.....
Friends. A word we all relish. We all can hear our parents telling us at a very young age that 'you can never have too many' of them. Or in my case, 'you can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose'.... Love ya mom.
Yet, what is a friend, really? Let me inject my opinion....
Fuck if I know. Yeah, I don't know what a friend is.
You see, I grew up in a simple time... a time when friends stabbed you in the back then took a bullet for you later because they felt guilty for stabbing you in the back. A time when a friend would blame you for killing a neighbor's cat, even though you didn't do it because he knew that you'd be loyal as a friend, just like he was loyal when he fibbed about you feeling up his sister on the family camping trip.
Yeah, just like that... friendship.
No more, my friends. That type of friendship is non-existent. You want to be a friend now, you'd better be prepared to pay up later. Unconditional friendship is like sex between two midgets using king-sized condoms and latex.
No, I have no connection between the two, they just seemed fanciful to me. You get the idea. Friendship now is all take, take, take. Or, depending on which side you're on, it's give, give give. You get my point, there's not banter between give and take.
I'll be honest, I'm ne of those who readily spews without regard. Yet, I'm always available to collect a friends sputem with a Hefty bag, if necessary.
We all want friends... we all want someone who will listen to our inane rants, be there for us when we are hopeless, listen to us when we make no sense. The tricky part is being there for others who consider us a friend when they are as disturbed as we are. No one's problems are ever as fucky as yours when you need someone. Heh.... Yeah, right....
Want to be a firend? You don't have to hug and offer encouragement. Sure, a blowjob might help, but it isn't necessary... Wanna be a friend? Just say, "I'm here ... "...That's it. Two words. You don't necessarily wanna hear all of my daily shit any mkore than I wanna hear yours, but I'll tell you this, If you need me,. as a friend, I'll listen... I'm here.
Right after the replay of 'The young and The Restless' at 7:00... otherwise.....
Allow Me to Piss You Off....
"A horse is a horse, of course of course, and no one can talk to a horse of course, that is of course, unless the horse, Is the famous Mister Ed!
Go right to the source and ask the horse. He'll give you the answer that you'll endorse. He's always on a steady course. Talk to Mister Ed......"
These are, most likely (at least in my mind), the last english-spoken words heard in the bin Laden home before the theme to "S.W.A.T" richocheted throughout the sand-filled living room in the Bud Abbottsbad townhome of the most reviled man in the world. So yeah, I live vicariously through music...
You see, there was no cable TV... no internet... no hi-def connection to the latest Hollywood,secular devil fare available to the most-wanted. hate and devious being ever to walk the planet.. aside from Mel Gibson, of course. This is Pakistan, after all. In Pakistan, high speed internet is heard with audible screeches resembling frogs in heat on a warm spring evening ... dial-up modems in a tandem chorus.
Bada Boom, Bada Bing, Blam Blam Deep Six Ya Sam ... Drop the popcorn and count the virgins, Mr. Ed isn't the only big-lipped mouthpiecs that was silenced by network censors...
I ramble about the bin Laden killing because, well, it means nothing to me. Nada. I'll even venture to say that to most of those with a brain able to reach beyond the surface, the killing was inconsequential.
Here's how I see it ... Obie is sitting at home with his wives, tub of unbuttered popcorn on his lap, about to watch the third season of Mr. Ed on VHS. Obie's men have sent smoke signals, luckily intercepted by our CIA experts, claiming that his NetFlix shipment of 'American Pie' videos are en route ...
Obie loosens his turban, hits the play button on the VHS when suddenly, *knock knock", a rap at the door.
"Yes?"
"NetFlix" ... is the reply.. "Delivery for Fred Phelps Jr."...
As shuffle here, a scuttle there ... "ka blam, ka boom"... instant peace and retribution for a country scorned.
Read between my lines and you get a tongue in cheek rehash of the bin Laden killing. As you might surmise, I'm not impressed. Why, you ask? Let me elaborate...
Bin Laden brought fear to most through a network of extermists who touched the lives of few. Face it, al Queda is a pussy organization on the scale of Fred Phelps hate-mongering. We can either choose to listen and fear or ignore and live. Suuure, this man orchestrated a horrendous crime which not only killed thousands of Americans but also instilled fear into the hearts of those who believed in the safety and security of being residents of America.
Gut check.
Osama bin Laden is not our terrorist enemy. Yeah, he was a bad guy... we all need a bad guy to focus on... a face to equate with evil... I often put my ex-wife in a turban and white beard ... but hey, does that make it any more real? Maybe, at least for me ... but for America? Nah...
If you want to eliminate terrorism in America, storm the homes of the big bankers and oil men... I want to see the SEALS bringing justice to the real terrorists who are bringing America to it's knees. Storm the homes of Bank of America execs... big oil chairmen, Wall Street financiers...
Let the bullets fly without fear of reprisal. After all, these are the fuckers who are killing our people. Not some bearded man who is a figurehead for an ideal. Religious ideals will never be eradicated. Nor will greed. Yet, greed will always triumph.
Jeezus, Jeff, you sound like you're preachin'...
Me? Never. I just call 'em as I see 'em. And, as I see 'em, I'm a red-blooded American who sees a reason for those not financially fortunate to understand the hatred of others towards people just like me.
I'm not afraid of al Queda or any other extremist group... not in the least.
I fear the majority. And that majority sits under a dome in our nation's capitol. That majority is the terrorist group who holds me, and you hostage. I'm not un-American, I'm just realistic. Bin Laden could never withhold my healthcare benefits ... just sayin'...
'A horse is a horse, of course of course,
and no one can talk to a horse of course,
that is of course, unless the horse,
Is the famous Mister Ed! ........"
Go right to the source and ask the horse. He'll give you the answer that you'll endorse. He's always on a steady course. Talk to Mister Ed......"
These are, most likely (at least in my mind), the last english-spoken words heard in the bin Laden home before the theme to "S.W.A.T" richocheted throughout the sand-filled living room in the Bud Abbottsbad townhome of the most reviled man in the world. So yeah, I live vicariously through music...
You see, there was no cable TV... no internet... no hi-def connection to the latest Hollywood,secular devil fare available to the most-wanted. hate and devious being ever to walk the planet.. aside from Mel Gibson, of course. This is Pakistan, after all. In Pakistan, high speed internet is heard with audible screeches resembling frogs in heat on a warm spring evening ... dial-up modems in a tandem chorus.
Bada Boom, Bada Bing, Blam Blam Deep Six Ya Sam ... Drop the popcorn and count the virgins, Mr. Ed isn't the only big-lipped mouthpiecs that was silenced by network censors...
I ramble about the bin Laden killing because, well, it means nothing to me. Nada. I'll even venture to say that to most of those with a brain able to reach beyond the surface, the killing was inconsequential.
Here's how I see it ... Obie is sitting at home with his wives, tub of unbuttered popcorn on his lap, about to watch the third season of Mr. Ed on VHS. Obie's men have sent smoke signals, luckily intercepted by our CIA experts, claiming that his NetFlix shipment of 'American Pie' videos are en route ...
Obie loosens his turban, hits the play button on the VHS when suddenly, *knock knock", a rap at the door.
"Yes?"
"NetFlix" ... is the reply.. "Delivery for Fred Phelps Jr."...
As shuffle here, a scuttle there ... "ka blam, ka boom"... instant peace and retribution for a country scorned.
Read between my lines and you get a tongue in cheek rehash of the bin Laden killing. As you might surmise, I'm not impressed. Why, you ask? Let me elaborate...
Bin Laden brought fear to most through a network of extermists who touched the lives of few. Face it, al Queda is a pussy organization on the scale of Fred Phelps hate-mongering. We can either choose to listen and fear or ignore and live. Suuure, this man orchestrated a horrendous crime which not only killed thousands of Americans but also instilled fear into the hearts of those who believed in the safety and security of being residents of America.
Gut check.
Osama bin Laden is not our terrorist enemy. Yeah, he was a bad guy... we all need a bad guy to focus on... a face to equate with evil... I often put my ex-wife in a turban and white beard ... but hey, does that make it any more real? Maybe, at least for me ... but for America? Nah...
If you want to eliminate terrorism in America, storm the homes of the big bankers and oil men... I want to see the SEALS bringing justice to the real terrorists who are bringing America to it's knees. Storm the homes of Bank of America execs... big oil chairmen, Wall Street financiers...
Let the bullets fly without fear of reprisal. After all, these are the fuckers who are killing our people. Not some bearded man who is a figurehead for an ideal. Religious ideals will never be eradicated. Nor will greed. Yet, greed will always triumph.
Jeezus, Jeff, you sound like you're preachin'...
Me? Never. I just call 'em as I see 'em. And, as I see 'em, I'm a red-blooded American who sees a reason for those not financially fortunate to understand the hatred of others towards people just like me.
I'm not afraid of al Queda or any other extremist group... not in the least.
I fear the majority. And that majority sits under a dome in our nation's capitol. That majority is the terrorist group who holds me, and you hostage. I'm not un-American, I'm just realistic. Bin Laden could never withhold my healthcare benefits ... just sayin'...
'A horse is a horse, of course of course,
and no one can talk to a horse of course,
that is of course, unless the horse,
Is the famous Mister Ed! ........"
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