Posts Tagged ‘absurdity’

Last Day In An Almost Free Country

January 19th, 2017

Everybody is going to feel this one.

I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you. . .

Reality is shattered. Absurdistan is a term popularized in Eastern Europe back in the late 60’s and 70’s. Now here we are.

I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start my heart just rolled and flowed. . .

The gallows humorist in me keeps saying “last day. . . last day in free country.” It’s not a totally free country. An almost free country. It’s less free for others. I understand. But everybody is going to feel this one. No matter who you are, you will feel something terrible in the next four years.

“But Obama is a Muslim. He’s hiding it. Why won’t he salute the flag?”

Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump pauses during his campaign speech to hug the American flag Saturday, June 11, 2016, in Tampa, Fla. (AP Photo/Chris O’Meara)

 

We hug flags now. We’re a flag-hugging country. We are broken-brained and mental. Bi-polar and driven to the breaking point. I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start, my heart just rolled and flowed, I’ve seen where it goes. . .

 

Corporations have more rights than humans. The unborn have more rights than the already born. If a fetus could form a corporation, it would be the most protected entity in modern business. One day the robots will have enough sentience and they’ll have more rights then us too. One day we’ll elect a robot President. . . if it’s not a female robot.

 

You are not alone, though you may feel alone at times. I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start, my heart just rolled and flowed. I’ve seen where it goes. Still somehow my love for you grows.” I’m impressed with those words. “I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you. . . I don’t want to need you but I think I do. I don’t want to need you because if I admit that I need you then I’m giving into you and I know you can’t give yourself to me. You can’t have me need you and neither can I because if I need you then I can’t function without you. I know I can’t. Because I need you.

 

 

The woman who wrote this song was Judee Sill who died in the late ’70s. She put out a few albums that are stellar, and her version of this song is on her first self-titled album. I’ve listened to both her and the Turtles’ version of this song hundreds of times over a weekend. I feel like Brian Wilson sitting in a dark room listening to the intro to “Be My Baby” over and over. I tried to figure out WHY. . . why did this song grip me so much? I listened to the song until I figured it out. I let the song love me. Because you can’t love me and be with me. Because I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you.

 

I think that sometimes a song sums up a feeling that we can’t sum ourselves. It encapsulates all the strange emotions we have and the shifting tides. My soul is on fire as we live in uncertain times. Everybody is going to feel it. Last day in an almost-free country. Life can be so nice.

 

So on my heels I’ll grow wings, gonna ride silver strings but I’ll see you in my holiest dreams. . .

Donald (Or The Decline Of Amerika’s Empire)

January 2nd, 2017

 

I think it’s probably time for somebody to do a companion album to The Kinks’ Arthur album from 1969.

 

A nostalgic tone for an America that once was. I guess that’s why the red caps said “Make America Great AGAIN”. Must have been a message for the pre-Gen X’ers. It certainly wasn’t a message for my generation or the one afterward. Divisiveness, resentment, it’s a tragedy because look where we are now.

 

Historians see patterns that other people miss. You break it, you bought it. Baby, I’m ready to go. I’m not here. This isn’t happening.

 

What is mainstream now? What is politically correct? Yes sir, no sir. I will not be moved. I’ve had my heart broken a million times, that’s not new. My brain is broken now. What do I do about this? Reality is too dark and twisted. I’ll never get over this. I feel like half the country would have me burned at the stake just for a cheap laugh.

 

Disharmony leads to anarchy. Do I have that right? The Purge. The civil war. Internment camps. The parts of the country we don’t like are suffixed -stan. Disconnected synapses.

 

Get in the head of a Trump voter and then beg like hell to be let out once you’ve been in there long enough. Could be just a few minutes, long enough to hear the wind echoing in the corridors.

 

 

 

My Attempt To Join The Borg

November 27th, 2016

Did you know you can apply for a position in the Trump administration? Folks, it’s a new era in America. It’s mo(u)rning in America and as Ronald Reagan once said, facts are stupid things. So with that in mind, I went to greatagain.gov and I applied for a job in the Trump administration as White House press secretary.

 

The way I see it, my job as WH press sec. will come with two objectives: (1) avoid saying anything truthful about the President-elect’s intentions while in office and (2) verbally abuse the assembled reporters for my own amusement. Objective #2 will be incredibly easy as my respect for the mainstream media is at an all-time low.

 

Really, media? All the stuff that’s coming out about the President-elect now could have come out at any time in the previous few months and you could have reported. But nooooo, you had to play along with the FBI’s ginned-up Hillary e-mail story. Between the Russians, the FBI and the media, no kidding we’re in this position. Now you guys are being called to Trump Tower to be yelled at off the record and you throw hosannas anytime the guy backs off from his most rabid campaign promises! “Oh, he promised not to throw Hillary in jail! Wonderful! It’s going to be a glorious Christmas! We’ll all eat the most succulent of goose meat!”

 

Anyway, here we go.

 

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Here I am, on the road again. Here I am, on the stage.

 

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This is the part where they say they’ll vet you lest there be “anything that might embarrass the President. . .”? I didn’t think that was possible.

 

Of course there’s some biographical info you always have to fill out. Name, address, whatnot. Then we get to the good stuff.

 

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You can’t read that so I’ll copy it for you.

Please describe why you hope to be a part of the President-elect’s administration:

Despite not agreeing with the President-elect on policy, I do share a seething contempt for the mainstream media. This is why I should be his Press Secretary.

 

This is my cover letter:

Mr. President-elect, you haunt my dreams. I cannot close my eyes without seeing your wretched face. Truly you are the bogeyman my grandmother warned me about. I now realize that the only people in America who will make good money will be the hustlers, the carnies and the lawyers. Honest work is for suckers. Even though I am a registered Democrat, that means nothing. Party allegiance and principle means nothing. You’ve proven that, sir. GFY.

 

Please describe any addition qualifications:

I am as qualified for this position as the President-elect is for his. Far less racist, though.

 

As I said, part of my job as Press Sec. would be evasion. A lot of questions will be asked by the cowardly press and I will have to field those questions. I’ve already prepared some stock answers which will be used liberally.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“I try to avoid the President.”

“You know, I wasn’t supposed to be here today.”

“You know as much as I do, buddy.”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Reality is subjective. Have you ever watched The Matrix?”

“The best Smashing Pumpkins non-single is ‘By Starlight’. End of story!”

“I’m not actually the Press Secretary.”

 

(The) Minoru Suzuki Rules

February 2nd, 2016

Wrestling fans know all about the impending WWE debut of Japanese wrestling star Shinsuke Nakamura. The self-proclaimed “King Of Strong Style” had his final match for New Japan Pro Wrestling near the end of January and will debut for WWE in early April around Wrestlemania weekend. Nakamura is talented, charismatic and has the potential to be successful.

 

But for my money he’s no Minoru Suzuki.

 

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This is Minoru Suzuki. He is 47 years old and wrestles full-time in Japan. With that hair”style”. Apparently, he went to the barber and said “Give me something that will make strangers want to poke fun of me so I can beat them to jelly with my fists.”

 

How many 47-year-old men wrestle a full-time schedule? Triple H is 46 and will probably have three matches this year, tops. Minoru Suzuki has had three matches in the time it takes me to type this paragraph. Triple H will main event Wrestlemania this April at Dallas Stadium in front of 90,000 fans or so. Minoru Suzuki would be happy wrestling in front of one paying attendee if he could do it 90,000 times in a row. Here, look at this guy again.

 

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What you don’t see in this photo is his opponent standing in a puddle of hot urine. Minoru Suzuki has looked the Grim Reaper in the eye and threatened to break its’ arm. This is a man who watches Godzilla movies where the monster comes out of the sea to destroy a city and thinks to himself “come on, I could do way more damage and I can’t even breathe fire”.

 

Minoru Suzuki will fight anyone. He is the ultimate egalitarian. He will fight men or women or even androids YES I SAID ANDROIDS.

 

 

These are the Minoru Suzuki rules.

  • A wrestling match that doesn’t have Minoru Suzuki automatically loses one star in ratings. That means the best rating any such can have (say Ric Flair vs. Ricky Steamboat) is four stars.
  • If a wrestling match has Minoru Suzuki in it, it gains a star in ratings. So, a five-star match (Suzuki vs. Tanahashi) becomes a six-star match.
  • Chuck Norris never pursued a wrestling career because Minoru Suzuki exists.
  • The Yakuza recognize that if they didn’t have guns, Minoru Suzuki would kill them all.
  • Only one match has attained a seven-star rating: Minoru Suzuki vs Mecha Mummy

Kissapachella!

October 13th, 2015

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Live From Burning Man

September 2nd, 2015

Hey guys. I haven’t posted lately. I’m at Burning Man. It’s great. I’m stoked to be here. Having a great time. I’m a bit dehydrated out here in the desert but other than that totally great.

 

I’m naked except for a cocksock and pair of strap-on bat wings. When I showed up to Nashville airport, they made me put some pants on and check the wings. Them’s the breaks.

 

My first day here, I got blown by a silver-painted dude. He was crying, telling me that Fred Schneider from the B-52’s just died and blowing me was the only way he knew to mourn. I felt bad for him so I let him do it, out of respect for Fred Schneider. Later on I found out that Fred Schneider had not died. Talk about the being the mark on the midway. You tricked me, Silver Sucker. Savor the flavor. Literally.

 

I’m thinking about going up to a college-age lady and telling her that Amanda Palmer just died, then offer to comfort her with oral sex. I think oral is the main currency at Burning Man. I bought a burrito for six handjobs. A burrito normally costs a blowjob but I haggled on the price. I’m beginning to think this place is a would-be utopia where sexuality is a fleeting concept out here, which is fine but I’d really prefer girls.

 

There’s a lot of nudity here. I see some people carrying umbrellas which seemed stupid as it doesn’t rain out here but sandstorms happen often and an umbrella would be useful for that. Also, I don’t have a place to stay. I’m sleeping out in the sand. I need a place to plug in my C-Pap for my sleep apnea. I haven’t slept in about three days. Delirium has set in. I have been offered a place to sleep that has running water and electricity. It will only cost me three blowjobs a day but I’m trying to get the guy to accept some Ambien. I’m also trying to get someone to supply with me some Ambien.

 

There’s some dance music going on here, too.

What ELSE Happens After You Drink A Coke

August 4th, 2015

I’ve seen this posted on Facebook called “What Happens To Your Body When You Drink A Coke”. I have not clicked or read this link, possibly because I assume nothing good happens to your body after you drink a Coke. What else happens to you beside the excess of sugar in your system that can’t be burned and get stored as fat? What else happens besides your tongue feeling weird and your taste buds dying by the millisecond? Maybe I should read that story.

 

In any event, I have compiled a list of what else happens after you drink a Coke. This also works for Pepsi and the diet variety of both brands. Mountain Dew? I have no idea what happens to you when you drink that. It doesn’t shrink your balls, I know that. I drank Mountain Dew for years. If I hadn’t, would my balls be the size of bowling balls? I hope it’s not true.

 

Five minutes after you drink a Coke. . . you feel good.

Seven minutes after you drink a Coke, you think you can sing that song by Aretha Franklin “I Say A Little Prayer”. You can only get as far as “Forever and ever, you’ll be in my heart” before you realize you don’t know the song very well because you’ve only heard Wayne Brady sing it in that Chappelle’s Show sketch where he breaks the cop’s neck at the traffic stop.

Ten minutes after you drink a Coke, you think to yourself “eh, that was a pretty good Coke” but you think you need a bottle of water now.

Fifteen minutes after you drink a Coke, an Abba song plays in your esophagus. I myself have heard “So Long” on occasion. Abba songs may vary.

Twenty minutes after you drink a Coke, you start to think you can dance really good but only for 25 seconds.

Twenty-seven minutes after you drink a Coke, your brain cells are so flustered you begin to consider investing in the stock market.

Thirty minutes after you drink a Coke, your pancreas says “This stuff you’re drinking eats the corrosion off battery pegs, guy. Might want to ease up and not put that stuff in here.” Your pancreas will call you “guy” whether you are male, female, trans, genderfluid or whatever other terms I’m missing. Your pancreas doesn’t know any better because it’s a pancreas.

Forty minutes after you drink a Coke, you get so mad at Rickie Lee Jones you send her a hateful e-mail.

Forty-six minutes after you drink a Coke, you urinate. Your urine burns. Unnaturally so.

Fifty minutes after you drink a Coke, you think “I don’t even know Rickie Lee Jones. Why am I so mad at her?”

Fifty-five minutes after you drink a Coke, you start a Twitter account.

Sixty minutes after you drink a Coke, you die.

My One And Only Attempt At Fan Fic

July 29th, 2015

The four members of the rock band Queen converge for a meeting. FREDDIE is the singer, BRIAN plays lead guitar, JOHN plays bass guitar, and ROGER drums. FREDDIE appears to be leading the discussion.

 

FREDDIE: Now don’t forget tomorrow. We have to meet the Raccoon Lady at the train tracks at noon. Now we can’t be late or else. . .

 

BRIAN: (interrupting) Can we all wear our vests tomorrow?

 

FREDDIE: You can wear a vest if you want. I was going to wear a cape.

 

BRIAN: Don’t do that. Wear a vest, not a cape.

 

ROGER: We’re all wearing vests tomorrow, Fred. You’ll be left out.

 

FREDDIE: I don’t care if you wear them. That’s alright by me. But I don’t like how I look in a vest.

 

BRIAN: You used to wear them all the time in the 70’s!

 

FREDDIE: When did I ever wear a vest?

 

BRIAN: You did!

 

FREDDIE: I never did.

 

BRIAN:You did, you did, you did. “Bohemian Rhapsody” video. What was that you were wearing? That ugly white thing with the wings on the sleeves.

 

FREDDIE: Oh my god! First of all, that was part of a whole ensemble. (looks to John for help) I mean, have you ever seen me wear an actual vest? Besides formal occasions.

 

JOHN: (thinking) I don’t remember. (pause) Can we talk about the mum jeans, please?

 

ROGER: Good call! Gotta have mum jeans tomorrow.

 

BRIAN: No, no, no. No mum jeans. Not doing it. Forget it.

 

JOHN: But we’ve got to wear mum jeans!

 

ROGER: Everybody has to wear mum jeans and a vest tomorrow.

 

JOHN: It’s synergy.

 

BRIAN: Yes, yes to the vest. No to mum jeans. We all agree on the vest thing.

 

FREDDIE: I don’t agree. And I don’t know what the hell these mum jeans are supposed to be.

 

ROGER: You don’t know. . . oh, you wouldn’t, would you?

 

JOHN: No, he wouldn’t know.

 

FREDDIE: (feeling insecure) What do you mean?

 

ROGER: You don’t have any children.

 

JOHN: Ya, it’s a parent thing. Your mum buys you the jeans.

 

ROGER: No she doesn’t! Your wife buys them. . . I think she does.

 

JOHN: You don’t know.

 

ROGER: (thinking) No. I actually don’t know.

 

JOHN: You have no earthly idea, do you? How do you really think they get there?

 

ROGER: They just show up one day. They show up on the dresser. The wife says “Dear I forget to tell you there’s a new pair of jeans showed up for you to wear.” I never questioned it.

 

JOHN: You are daft. Everybody knows you get them from your mum when you start to have children of your own. It’s like an heirloom except you get new jeans.

 

ROGER: They can’t possibly do it like that.

 

JOHN: Yes, they can. It’s like a heirloom except you don’t pass the same pair down from generation to generation. Although you probably could if everybody in the family had the same measurements.

 

ROGER: My dad and I share the same length, but he’s more stout. Bigger waist. I’d have to gain weight to fit in them.

 

JOHN: Maybe you get some suspenders to hold ’em up. If the waist is bigger than they’ll really bunch up on you.

 

ROGER: I like that. And then I can wear a vest to cover the suspenders.

 

JOHN: Why not? I’ve done it a million times. Never onstage, of course.

 

ROGER: I just realized I’m not gonna be able to get a pair of my dad’s jeans on a day’s notice. He’ll want to know what I’m doing with them. “Gonna go to the train tracks and see the Raccoon Lady, dad.” He won’t understand.

 

FREDDIE: (to Brian) What are they fucking talking about?

 

BRIAN: (explaining) Mum jeans are just jean slacks that you wear high and they get all bunchy around the pelvic area.

 

FREDDIE: But why do they call them mum-

 

BRIAN: (interrupting) Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t wear them. Not your style.

 

FREDDIE: But neither are vests.

 

BRIAN: I’ll loan you a vest.

 

FREDDIE: That’s not the point! I’ve got vests. And you and I don’t even have the same body type.

 

BRIAN: Then just pick a vest. And you have arms! You have a torso. That’s all you need to wear a vest.

 

FREDDIE: I’m keenly aware of what it takes to wear a vest. Thank you.

 

JOHN: Where do we stand on all this? The vests and the mum jeans.

 

BRIAN: I don’t think we all need to wear the same type of vests. Whatever vest you like will be fine. We’d look stupid if we all wore the same kind.

 

FREDDIE: (curtly) Fine. I’ll wear a vest.

 

BRIAN: Thank you.

 

FREDDIE: John, can I borrow a pair of mum jeans?

 

JOHN: Absolutely.

 

BRIAN: No! Don’t do it.

 

FREDDIE: (to Brian) You’re not the boss of me.

 

BRIAN: You’re not going to like them, I promise.

 

ROGER: Why are you borrowing from John? I’ve got plenty of jeans you can wear.

 

FREDDIE: I’m looking at John and I can see we’re the same height. Probably about the same pant size. It’s nothing personal.

 

ROGER: Well, I take it quite personal.

 

FREDDIE: I will gladly wear anybody’s mum trousers if I don’t have to wear a vest.

 

BRIAN: I promise you you would rather wear a vest. If you had to choose between the two. . .

 

FREDDIE: Apparently it’s mandatory. I don’t get to choose.

 

BRIAN: (sarcastically) Oh, poor Fred. He doesn’t get to choose this one time.

 

FREDDIE: I’m not telling you what to do. I’m simply advocating that I do what I want to do.

 

JOHN: “Radio Ga Ga”.

 

FREDDIE: What about “Radio Ga Ga”?

 

JOHN: You wore a vest in that video, too.

 

FREDDIE: Again, a costume. I didn’t wear it in my personal life.

 

ROGER: It can’t be this difficult to figure out. Remember when we did the video for “I Want To Break Free” and I said we should dress up like scary looking women and nobody told said anything against it. In fact, everybody thought it was a good idea. As it turned out, not a good idea at all. But we didn’t fight about it like this.

 

BRIAN: Okay, let’s all agree once and for all that when we go to see the Raccoon Lady tomorrow at the train tracks, mum jeans and vest wear are voluntary. You can wear them if you so please and you don’t have to if you don’t want to.

 

JOHN: Works for me.

 

ROGER: Fine

 

FREDDIE: Excellent.

 

BRIAN: Except for vests.

 

FREDDIE: What about a cape?

 

BRIAN: No capes.

 

FREDDIE: You’re a cunt, you know that?

 

Breakthru

 

 

An Erotic Story I Wish Were True

October 28th, 2014

Here’s a story I’ve never told anyone, mostly because it never happened. This story, which I made up, took place around 2001/2002. Or it would have, had it actually happened. I stress the fiction part of this because it involves a celebrity. I’m afraid my writing will be so good that you’ll believe that this obviously fake story were true. Now you’ll know that it isn’t, but you’ll wish it were. I certainly do.

 

I moved to Los Angeles a few days before 9/11/2001. I only knew one guy in the whole town. Any one I meant in L.A. at first I met through my one friend. I was really nervous to meet anyone, especially girls. Part of is was culture shock, me being a Kentucky would-be hipster. Another part of it was after 9/11, I felt less social and began to withdraw from social situations.

 

I realize now that I blame 9/11 in part for my inability to talk to women. Let’s move on.

 

In spite of my lack of social skills with the fairer sex, I managed to score the occasional piece of ass. The first (of few) was an older woman who I kept seeing around my apartment complex. I finally spoke to her while going to get the mail. She was sitting on the landlord’s stoop. She looked like she wanted to look like the model Jerry Hall but couldn’t quite pull it off.  I would reckon she was in her early 50’s. I was twenty-three in 2001. Normally, I wouldn’t have sex with a woman over twice my age but 9/11 really did a number on the country and we all had to try to get back to normal whatever way we could.

 

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She had platinum blonde hair, had on sunglasses, and wore a low-cut top showing off her cleavage. Every time I saw her, she had dressed shabby. Like maybe she was a good twenty years past the glory days but she wouldn’t let go and put on adult clothes. On my way to and back from the mailbox, I did not attempt to hide my gawking at it. I was really not subtle about it.

 

“Take a picture, honey. It’ll last longer,” she barked at me.

 

I apologized. Stammered something about not seeing something like that every day.

 

“What are you, fresh off the turnip truck?”

“Naw, they don’t grow a lotta turnips in Kentucky.”

For some reason, she softened up on me. It must have been the Kentucky thing. She asked me where in Kentucky I was from, and we talked Kentucky stuff for a bit. She told me her name was Joan. We talked a bit more then she invited me into her apartment. Actually, it wasn’t her apartment, it was her son’s. Her son was the property manager of the building and he has his own apartment but he wasn’t home at the moment. This is very important to remember later.

 

So we had a nice chat and Joan brought me a cold pop from the fridge to be nice. I swear this all sounds like Penthouse Forum kinda of stuff but I was sincerely checking her out the whole time. Only this time I was trying to be more subtle about it. What I was not subtle about was wondering how old she was, because I asked her straight up.

 

“How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I. . .uh, um afraid to say. I’m afraid I might get it wrong.”

“You’re not going to offend me.”

 

It would have been impossible to guess. Her teeth were pearly white like in a commercial. She seemed to have had some work done but I couldn’t be sure how far it had gone. I decided to miss by a mile rather than a yard.

 

“If I had to guess, I’d say. . . thirty-two?”

 

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She laughed hard at that one, “you are funny”, and then leaned in and kissed me a little. Then she pulled back, then she leaned again and kissed me some more. Then she pulled back again one more time.

 

“You were staring at my tits, weren’t you?”

“Uhh. . .”

“Oh come on, you’ve been staring at them the whole time.”

“Yeah. I have.”

“Bet you think I’ve had implants, don’t you?”

 

I would not have been surprised. They were very large breasts, and her top was doing time-and-a-half keeping them in. At least they were until she pulled it up to reveal her giant hangers. “You see any surgical scars on these? Go on, take your time. Have a look.” I looked. I looked for a long time. She let me feel them to make sure. They were natural titties of an indeterminate age, at least to me. Obviously, she knew how old she was but she wouldn’t tell me. A gentleman never asks, they say. I’m not a gentleman, or at least I wasn’t at twenty-three.

 

I tried a weak joke, “Hold on, I’m giving you a mammogram.” It was then that she decided to check me over the pants for testicular cancer. She found nothing.

 

Let me rephrase that. She found no signs of testicular cancer over my pants.

 

We fooled around a little bit but before I could get her to touch my dick under the pants, she panicked. “We can’t do this here. Can we go back to your apartment?” I grunted that we could, so we composed ourselves. I told her what apartment I lived in and she would knock on the door a few minutes after I left, to avoid any suspicious looks from any nosey neighbors in the complex.

 

I told you that this woman turned out to be the property manager’s son. I did not know this at the time. I did not know her relationship to the property manager. Relative, girlfriend, what have you, had no clue. I would never have guessed “mother”. Back to the story.

 

She came over and I took her into my room. No one was home. My friend was at work and I didn’t have a job yet. We shared a room, or I slept in my friend’s room in a cot on the floor. The few minutes I had before she came over, I stashed the cot out of sight just so I wouldn’t look like a drifter. I took her into the bedroom and laid her in my friend’s bed.

 

She wouldn’t give me a blowjob because she had just had her teeth cleaned and didn’t want to ruin it with dickmouth. Not exactly how she said it, but I’m the one telling the story here. She offered to give me a titty-fuck instead, which I took happily. I’d never had one before, not even for April Fool’s Day (April 1st is less commonly known as World Tittay Fuck Day). It was pretty cool. Better than a handjob, although not as good as a blowjob. Rimjob continues to be unranked.

 

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I had sex with her after that. I won’t describe that. Have you ever had sex? It was like that. I’ve already written too much as it is. I know that this woman was a good twenty years older than me, perhaps even more so. But we had a nice time. We laid back after it was over. Kept talking. She laid in my arms. Two boats meeting in the harbor. She started telling me about Rock Hudson. At first I thought it was a story, but it turned out to be an anecdote and she was in the tale. I perked up.

 

“You knew Rock Hudson?”

“Knew him? Oh, I knew him. Dated him. Made love to him, too.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” I knew that Hudson had died in 1985 from AIDS.

“I sure did. You remind me a little bit of him, how jittery you are. How eager you were to get to the end. It’s sex. You should enjoy it!”

I sat up and groaned. Now I had to go get an HIV test. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong? Why are you upset? Oh, I did it with Rock years ago. They didn’t even have AIDS back then. This was in the fifties, you know.”

I looked at her. “How fucking old are you, really?”

“How old do you think I am?

“I thought you were in your early fifties but now I don’t know.”

Joan smiled. “I’m older than that, dear.”

“How old?”

 

It was then that my friend came home from work and walked into the bedroom and saw me and Joan in his bed. Before he could say anything, I looked at him and yelled, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”

 

Later on, after the dressing up and the goodbyes and the leaving and the putting of my friend’s bed sheets into the washer and apologizing, he actually congratulated me. Then again, my friend would have fucked Barbara Bush just for the hell of it. W’s mom, the former First Lady.

 

I ended up fucking Joan one more time. It was not as good the second time, and still no blowjob. Oh well.

 

Me and my friend got evicted from the building because I fucked Joan. One day the property manager came over and wanted to talk to me. He gave me the third degree.

 

“Do you know who you had sex with? Don’t act like you don’t know? You had sex with my mother!” I freaked out. Mother?

 

“My mother has dated some of the biggest stars in Hollywood! Steve McQueen! Elvis Presley! Bob Evans! Who the fuck are you?”

“I don’t know what. . . what you mean.”

“You are not a star. My mother dates stars. You are a piece of shit. YOU DIMINISH THE VALUE OF MY MOTHER EVERY TIME YOU FUCK HER!” Ah, he thought his mom was slumming it. I thought we both were.

 

After we moved into a new place, we looked Mamie Van Doren on the Internet. As it turns out, “Joan” was her birth name. She had in fact had affairs with Steve McQueen as well as Tom Jones, Joe Namath, Robert Evans, Elvis, and Howard Hughes. Howard Hughes. I fucked a woman who fucked Howard Hughes.

 

And she was seventy years old when I had sex with her. I had guess her age too conservatively. She is still alive at the age of eighty-three. You can look at pictures of her on her website, and she has turned out well for an elderly woman. She doesn’t look eighty-three years old. I would have guessed at least twenty years younger, but that’s why I don’t work at the carnival.

 

When we found out how old she was, my friend began mocking me. Bastard.

 

Mormon Acid Funk

October 7th, 2014

 

We should talk about this because although this came out years before I was born, it’s never too late to talk about the Osmonds.

 

Sean Cannon has a show on WFPK in Louisville where he plays various odd things of interest. On his Twitter he teased playing an Osmonds song. Knowing the nature of “WFPK After Dark” and its’ (what could be ascertained to be a) playlist, I assumed he would playing a track from The Plan, the 1972 album where the Osmonds attempt to explain their Mormon faith through the power of progressive pop rock. I mean, what else is he gonna play? “One Bad Apple”?

 

Rather, Mr. Cannon decided to play “Crazy Horses”, a song that preceded The Plan. It can only be described as “Mormon acid funk”. Donny Osmond is playing the Electro-Theremin. The lyrics are about gas guzzlers causing air pollution. Despite the lack of Donny on lead vocals, the Osmonds were of such commercial esteem that this very weird and fun song cracked the Top Twenty in the United States.

 

It’s amazing how the Osmonds started as little kids singing barbershop and then became adolescents doing bubblegum pop and then got into their late teens wanting to rock out and sing about saving the environment. After this, they made The Plan, which is mind boggling for most listeners even if you’ve listened to Zappa and the Residents half your life.