Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Tuscany 1954

If you go back and research it, there was a strange series of groundhog attacks in 1954 in Tuscany. One case stands out. An old man with a dog came upon a luxury car in the middle of the road. The doors were open. One shoe lay in the dirt. There was blood on the back seat. Giant holes were all around the scene
Detectives theorized this was a ground hog attack. They found a cummerbund, a silk scarf, bra and high end knee socks a short distance away. Evidently, a ground hog had lay across the road, pretending to be dead. The driver stopped the car, got out and attempted to move it, whereupon a gang of these beasts burst out of the bushes and quickly dragged both man and woman off to some cave where they were devoured.
In the glove compartment they found identification papers. This was Nick Santori and his wife Geraldine, rumored to have Mafia connections.
Perhaps these ground hogs were contract killers for a rival family. Nothing was out of the question.
Italian media outlets were all over this story. They made certain to mention the bra was a 38C.


Warren thought hard about what he would do with his lottery winnings. A high end inflatable doll was a possibility. He was a single man with no friends. Loneliness haunted him.
Then he remembered hearing about a man in the next town, a man who could do magical things for a price. He realized what he must try to do with his winnings.
He knocked on the fellow's door and the short, rather rumpled man who answered was wary at first. But Warren held out a fistful of cash and the mood swiftly changed.
He was led inside to a back room and told to lie on a soft bed. The man gave him a pill to knock him out. He was confident this man could make his dream come true.
When he awoke he was no longer in that room. He found himself seated in an office cubicle. A short, bald, bespectacled man holding a giant coffee cup walked past mumbling wise cracks. Another bespectacled man wearing a tie that curled up towards his chin seemed clueless. A woman with dark hair stacked high glared fiercely at everyone. A man, bald in the center, with two steeples of hair on the sides seemed to be the boss and completely in over his head.
Other characters came and went. Warren was overjoyed. His dream had come true. He was now part of Dilbert's world.
Now he had friends, co-workers and a purpose.

School Yard Bully

Mo, can we talk about this?
There's nothing to talk about. Give me your lunch or I flatten you.
Sister Rosita said I shouldn't let anyone bully me.
What are you gonna do about it, you little ferret?
You're in the sixth grade and I'm in the fourth. This is wrong.
Welcome to real life, altar boy. Now hand it over.
It's just chicken salad with loads of mayo. You hate mayo.
I'm hungry. That is all you need to know.
Can I keep the Saltine crackers?
Keep them. Better be a damn pickle included.
Oh, here comes Sister Rosita.
Hello, Sister. Isn't this a great day?
Yes it is, Maurice. How are you today, Joey?
Just fine, Sister. I was about to share my lunch with Maurice.
Christ loves you, Joey.

Five Lines

Five Lines, each shorter than the previous one
1. Putin's impulse to remove his shirt in public is evidence of hubris that embarrasses all of Russia.
2.He is said to be worth $40 billion, much of it hidden in Swiss bank accounts.
3.He has no regard for the UN, Obama, The European Union or the Ukraine.
4.While taking his daily shirtless horseback ride he frequently climaxes.
5. Squirt.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Eat the Pain

I am sick of spitting out my emotional pain. Flinging it away and pretending it never existed is counter productive.
From now on I am going to eat that pain. If I eat it, I own it and if I own it I can control it.
I will swallow every snub, insult, every damning comment. Let them enter my esophagus, gurgle their silly inanities, then slide into my tummy where the digestive juices of my confidence will dissolve them into squishy fluid my small intestine can handle. Then onto my large intestine, where it will be further broken down and sent to my colon. I will expel this poison into the atmosphere in the form of a perfect fart.
Now let's discuss this shoulder pain. If you have long, strong, massaging fingers and can assuage my bursitis, you can disparage me  any way you wish. And I promise I won't pass wind during the process.

Feeling Invisible

When I lead a discussion group I am in charge. All attention is focused on me. My posture is superb, I speak in complete sentences using a deep, resonant voice. I make serious eye contact.
However, when it comes to dancing, I am invisible. I cannot dance. At various events that include this activity I stand alone in dark corners, a ghost. Sometimes someone will take pity on me and lead me to the dance floor. This leads to  severe embarrassment.
I have screwed up line dancing so bad I am barred from those events for life. You name it. Salsa, rumba, samba, marimba, all those dances ending in letter A,  I desecrate them. Latinos will not speak to me. The cha cha frightens me, flamenco causes sweaty palms, break dancing is down right dangerous, and that robotic stuff is dehumanizing.
Don't get me started on Fandango Failure.
All my erudition and education does not help.
Perhaps I should attempt Chinese fan dancing. The footwork is minimal.

Inflatable Expectations

People tell me I'm cheap, but I call it being thrifty.  I ordered an inflatable doll online for $59.95, a damn good price. Warren's Inflatable Companions.
I asked for the Lauren Bacall model and when it arrived I was a bit dissapointed. It looked more like Marlene Dietrich, who never did much for me.
I am used to pumping up my air mattress, but this was so much more exciting.
Well, to make a long story short, Lauren/Marlene suffered a slow leak in the left hip after our first passionate session. No amount of masking tape could solve the problem. It was still under warranty, but even in a slightly damaged condition she was still good company, someone to discuss my thoughts on Hillary Clinton with.
Plus, we could still cuddle.
I'm considering doing diligent research before ordering any more. I'll probably ask for the Wendy Williams model.